#in other news my throat is sore from singing and my feet hurt from standing THE ENTIRE TIME
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sparks have left the building
#people were all waitin out there and were at one point like come back soon!!!#and ron from inside the car was like 'will do' 🫡#they didnt stop for anyone n just left SO i gave my letter to someone who gave it to someone who hopefully gets it to them. god#should i have listened to the universe trying to tell me NOT to give that letter. oh well#in other news my throat is sore from singing and my feet hurt from standing THE ENTIRE TIME#had i known id have been doing that i would have not worn the boots but oh well they made me a bit taller
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Feline Instincts
A Silco x Fem!Reader crack fic
Summary: Silco gets too close to a shimmer experiment
Warning: swearing and mentions of boobs
You walk down to Singed’s lab after you had been fetched by Sevika, who had given you no details as to what has happened to Silco.
The anxiety that is coursing through you leaves your breathless. Was he hurt? Was he unconscious? Would he even wake up? Did he lose another eye or a limb? Was he even alive?
Opening the doors, you rush down to Singed. You see him standing at a metal operating table with a various amount of tools with him. Grabbing a scalpel, you shove him into the sink and place the sharp object right against his throat. “I’m going to give you-“ you feel something brush against your legs and you look down, seeing a black cat. You look back to Singed and continue. “I’m going to give you ten seconds to tell me what the fuck you did to Silco!”
“Please, I assure you-“
“Ten.”
“He’s not dead.”
“Nine.”
“You just looked at him a moment ago.”
“Ei— what did you just say?” You look down to your feet and see the black cat looking up at you.
One blue and one dark eye with orange in the middle.
“Are you f-“
“Language. We had a simple… miscalculation in the process in testing a new version of Shimmer. One of the volunteers decided to take my injector and inject Silco’s blood stream. The volunteer thought it would’ve killed him, but instead…” you both look down at Silco’s fuzzy form and back up at each other “-it seems to have a different property.”
“So he’s…stuck like this?” You kneel down and Silco places a paw on your knee.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Only time will tell.” The paw on your knee is used as leverage to climb on your shoulders and you rise to full height. Turning to the scene of it all, you see Silco’s clothes pooled on the floor.
“Well, thank Janna you didn’t lose your fancy clothes.” You hear a huff from the little nose next to your ear. Of course, despite being a cat, he’s still snarky as always. “Sevika, put those in a bag for me, please. I guess we need to….go to the store.”
Once you’ve bought what you think you needed for Silco, you had the three of you driven back to the Last Drop.
You bring Silco inside and into his office, no doubt he wants to keep away from any prying eyes. You drop into his office chair and rest your head in one hand. “Gods above why does this happen?” You hear soft patters of paws on the desk and you look up at Silco. You can almost see the human scowl on his face. “Okay, I’m well aware you’re the one in the body of a cat. What am I supposed to do? I can’t run Zaun, I don’t know what I’m doing!” Both hands are now holding your face and you feel a lump in your throat. “Seriously Silco, what am I supposed to do? You have such an organized chain of command, you understand how to lead, you know how to deal with the Barons. You can’t even help me because you can’t even talk. You’re stuck like that, and I’m pretty much stuck without you. Yes, you’re still alive and here, but….you’re not able to be there; if that makes sense.” Fur rubs against your forearms and you pull your hands away from your face. Silco is purring softly and rubbing his little head on your arms. You take your hand and allow him to bump his head against it. “Even as a fur ball, you still know how to comfort me.” He sits and stays nestled in your hand. Feeling the urge, you press your lips on his furry little forehead. After the action, he starts at you for a moment and baps your hand. “Seriously?” Another loud bap and you roll your eyes.
Getting up, you head for the couch and lie on it. You feel a warm little body lie next to you on the couch. “I see, you don’t want me to kiss your head but you still want me. I’m going to get some sleep, it’s been…a day.” The warmth of Silco’s fur and purring helps you fall asleep very quickly.
Sore pain on your chest jolts you awake and you see Silco kneading your boobs with his paws. “Is this payback or are you just enjoying yourself?” Silco pauses for a moment and the continues. “Ouch! Even as a cat you’re still a perv! Stop, I’ll pick you up by your scruff.” He stops, but lies the the valley of your boobs. You can see that he’s pleased with himself and purrs loudly. “What am I going to do with you?”
And then you realize.
“Oh shit, Silco you want to eat?” Silco’s ears twitch and you take it as a yes. “Oh gods, what am I supposed to feed you? I know you won’t eat kibble, but theres stuff that you used to eat that will kill you now.” A little huff leaves his nose and you sigh as well.
—————
“Silco, please eat the fucking chicken.” Silco hisses and you groan. “I know it’s going to be dry and flavorless, but I can’t give you anything else.” He smacks it away with a paw and you rub your face with your hands. “My fucking husband who’s a cat is going to die in my care because I don’t know what to do.” Your head rests on the desk and you begin to sob. After a couple sobs, you hear small smacking noises. You look up and see Silco finally eating. “Thank you.”
—————
“I have to speak with Silco.”
“Sherif, I don’t know where he is.”
“If you think you can cover for him-“
“Marcus, I don’t know! Gods above, you think I want to be stuck in this position?!”
“No ma’am.”
“Then I suggest you stop accusing me for your conspiracy. I’m sure when my husband gets back, he will speak with you. In the mean-“ Silco’s body hop up on the desk and you sigh. Why is he trying to make it obvious?
“Is that your cat?”
“Yes, it’s a…stray.” Silco looks to you with unamused eyes and you scoop him up. “It’s a surprise for my husband.”
“Didn’t think he was a cat person.” You nervously laugh and stroke Silco’s fur.
“Yeah, me neither.” The sheriff shifts between feet and makes way for the door.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll maybe like it. It looks an awful lot like him.”
“Heh, that’s what I was… hoping for as well. Anyways, good day!” The door closes and you see your carrying Silco like a baby. “Yeah, look I don’t know why you made an appearance. Besides, this is actually nice.” You continue stroking his fur and you hear the faintest purr. “Glad you agree.”
———
Loud meowing is heard next to you as you read the clip board in front of you. It gets closer as Silco hops on the desk and practically sits on your arms. “Silco, come on, I have to read this.” A howling meow is given and you give up, putting the clipboard down. “Okay! Okay! You have my attention.” He grabs one of your hands and his teeth sink into it. “OW! Silco! If you’re going to bite, bite a toy not me!” You grab the ball on a string and shake it in front of him. His little pupils widen and he begins to hit the toy with his paws. You laugh as he becomes any ordinary cat and chanting “get it Silco! Get it!”
——
You slam open the doors and allow Silco to trot in first. “Okay Singed, three days is enough! I don’t need Jinx finding out her dad is a cat, I want my husband back because I can’t rule Zaun.” Silco jumps up the metal operating table and Singed looks at him for a moment.
“I have been thinking of a way to reverse it ever since you left. I think I may have a solution.”
“We’ll hurry up, things are going to go to shit if people realize Silco hasn’t been in charge.”
“I’m very aware. However, I must warn you there is a risk.” You turn to Silco and you realize what Singed is hinting at. “Take the time you need before we move on with the procedure.”
Slowly walking to Silco, you pull a metal chair with you and sit in front of the table. “I must say, I think this situation is a little dramatic.” You look at Silco’s feline eyes and you place your hand on the table. “I’m going to ignore the risk of you dying right now. Once your back to being human, I want you to never get this close to experiments again.” A paw rests on your hand, and you smile lightly. “I need you back, Jinx needs you, Zaun needs you. I can’t do this on my own.” You raise your hand and Silco presses his head against it. “You make an adorable cat, but I want my Silco.”
You hang your head and motion with your hand for Singed to do his work. Silco makes no fuss, and allows the needle to be injected.
———
You watch as Silco gasps for breath, and you wrap the blanket from bag you brought around him. “Shh hey, breathe! You’re okay.” Mismatched human eyes meet yours and you feel your heart flutter.
“Hello.” You pull him close and he wraps his arms around you, his nose in the crook of your neck.
“Thank Janna, I was seriously starting to worry that I had lost you.”
“Of course not, my lovely, I wouldn’t leave you to drown in such burdens by yourself.” You hold his face and inspect him, making sure he’s alright. “Darling, I feel fine. Please allow me to get back into my attire and we can head home.” You nod and hand him the bag, watching him awkwardly shuffle into the lab’s spare room.
Pouring a drink and handing him a cigar, you watch as he revels in his old habits. “Didn’t think I’d be able to drink or smoke again.”
“You do get a little cranky without a cigar.” He rolls his eyes and huffs out smoke with a laugh.
“Come here.” You walk to him and he grabs your elbow lightly, pulling you into sitting in his lap. “While I enjoyed being in your arms, I prefer it the other way.”
“I did see how pleased you were with being held like a baby…and crushing the shit out of my boobs.” To that, Silco gives a very amused chuckle and holds you closer to him.
“I apologize, I guess the… feline instincts kicked in.”
“You’re so gross.” He lets out another chuckle and kisses your forehead, holding you as he looks out the green pane window.
———
So, I am linesfromthepocket on AO3 but I figured I might as well start posting some of my work on here. It’s been a while since I’ve put my writing on tumblr, but I figured I’d make my appearance back on here.
I think I might be taking requests, but only for Silco and Jinx. (No j!lco and I will not write nsfw for jinx)
Anyways I’m glad to be back ❤️
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The Smile [Jeff The Killer X Victim!Reader] [PART 2]
Jeff the killer X Victim!
WARNING: Yandere. That's it. Yandere.
I finally decided how I would write part 2 to The Smile, which is my first and most popular post on my account so far. Anyone new who has come to read this, check out my other posts as well if you'd like. I'll post more like this. I also have a Quotev account with more fanfictions.
9/12/20, 3/4 days after the top part: God, AFTER SO LONG, I FINALLY DID IT! Took me days! I'm so sorry if this is a bit lazy, it is a tiny bit rushed by the end but how would you guys feel about a detailed part 3? I'll probably go as far as a part 3 or part 4 for the final part.
The vibrations in your brain felt warm and numbing - almost like when you have a horrible migraine and you can finally feel it subsiding with your eyes closed and your fingers gently holding down onto your eyelids as if you're holding your eyes into place to prevent them from bursting out of your skull. Upon waking up you can feel cold air settling into your skin. You haven't been awake 3 minutes and you already know what you're resting on; an extremely uncomfortable metal table. You've only seen them in movies but this was real.
The sound of a singsong voice just slightly echoing through what seemed like a moderately empty room. You groaned softly as you turned your head to your right, very slowly opening your eyes. Your vision blurred in and out, which, you wanted to rub to clear it out but as you went to lift your wrists, you felt pressure around them.
Something was holding your arms down. This catches your attention, blinking multiple times while turning your head back up straight and attempting to sit up. You were hardly successful with that, struggling while grunting under your breath to pull your hands from under what seemed to be a thick rope. As you pulled harder, you sucked in your stomach out of habit before immediately coming to a halt and choking up in pain.
This whole time you were ignoring the voice that was singing eerily nearby, "You and me, always forever~"
The voice was of a male. Scratchy, shaky. Familiar.
Familiar.
You could feel a string of your heart pop out of place as your breath stopped. That's when you knew something was wrong, but it just doesn't add up. You gulp while your eyeballs vigorously glance around to see where the source was coming from, only to see a figure in a corner. It was doubled over and it was sitting down on a simple wooden chair. Doubling over a...table? An average male figure, nothing unique. Although, the clothing style was unusual. At least what was on the clothes. He wore a fluffy white hoodie and what seemed to be black pants and black-and-white converse. The problem wasn't the outfit, no. His hoodie was spotted and had patterns upon patterns of darkened and more fresh-looking blood splatter. He had long black hair down to his shoulders. And luckily, his back was facing you.
You were dumbfounded. How did you get here, why are you restrained, and why is there a blood covered man near you? Is that even blood? Maybe it's paint or a design? Some people do wear clothes that have different kinds of blood splatter designs on them. Hm. Or he's an actual murderer about to gut you like a fish.
You wanted to speak. You wanted to speak so badly but you just couldn't. As you parted your lips, your throat went dry while your gaze stayed locked onto the bloody male that sat before you. The singing made you shiver as you tried so hard to remember where you could have heard or seen him. Why can't you remember?
The male then turned around to look at you. His singing had come to a gentle halt. Your mouth closed as he did so, your throat going completely dry and your whole body feeling like an ice cube. You were greeted with cold blue eyes. They looked hungry and bloodthirsty, yet they held a warm affection as they looked into your traumatized eyes. It was almost comforting until you saw the rest of his face. His skin was snow white and his lips looked dry. That's when more attention is drawn to his lower jaw. He's smiling. Too big for a normal person.
That's when you realize. He has a large smile carved into his cheeks going from ear to ear while his own lips were curled within a smile as well. And that's when it hits you.
And it hits you hard.
The memories of hours prior start brutally crashing into you, flooding back into your numb brain. All of the realization replaced itself with agonizing anxiety, your heart starting to race at speeds that felt impossible. You could pass out, but something inside you kept you awake. Something about him and about this whole situation was making you dizzy. The male slowly stands and turns his body all the way to face you. He seemed deranged, yet, he had a very relaxed stance and body language.
Uncomfortable silence loomed in the air.
He kept staring at you before slowly taking steps forward. You watch him carefully as your head feels like it's spinning, which you could notice your vision blurring a little bit here and there. The silence is suddenly disturbed with the male speaking up again, choking up in giggles. "Oh my sweet Y/N, you're awake~" He cooed, now standing over you. He leaned himself down and reached his hand to your cheek, gently brushing your skin with his surprisingly soft thumb. He leaned his face closer to yours. The smell of booze, blood, & smoke overwhelmed your nostrils. Yet it didn't seem to bother you that much.
His touch almost kind of made you feel...at ease. Your heart slowed itself and your breathing went back to pace. You felt fine, somewhat, but something in your stomach was still sore. The more you stare at him, the more memories come flooding back. The more memories flooding back, the easier you fit the puzzles together.
"M-my...stomach..--" You stutter out painfully.
In response to this, the male turned his head over to your abdomen and gently rested his other hand onto your bandaged stomach, applying very gentle pressure on it as to not hurt you. It was still slightly painful, causing you to groan under your breath.
"Oh, this...I'm sorry, my sweet butterfly. I had to make sure you wouldn't get away, and you didn't! Don't worry, Jack patched you up, so you'll be just fine!"
You remember now. You remember it all. The chase, your friend, the salty kiss before what you thought was your demise.
You naturally wondered as well; who's Jack?
"Wh-.." You weakly force air out of your throat again to speak, "why am I..tied-?"
"Oh, so you wouldn't be able to get away. I knew you would run away, or struggles, so I had to make sure you wouldn't do that!"
He was right. You would run away and struggle to get out of whatever the hell kind of place you're in. Well, knowing what he looks like. He DID stab you, after all. Who knows what this sicko wants.
He lifts his hand from your stomach and turns back to you, gently placing both of his hands at each side of your face. "You're so beautiful, Y/N. So sweet and so innocent. I couldn't keep letting the others eat you up like candy. You're mine and only mine. I need to protect you."
"Wh-who- are you?" You weren't really all too scared for some strange reason now. You were pretty calm. Probably from all of the energy this is draining.
"His name is Jeff." A deep and gruff voice cuts in.
The both of you turn your heads to the door of the room where a tall figure in all black stood. He was about 6"4 wearing heavy boots, black jeans, and a black hoodie. His hair was a dark brown though while he wore a mask. The mask was a dark blue with black goo oozing from the eyesockets. He was pretty intimidating even just by standing idly like a character waiting to be loaded in.
"And I'm Jack." He continued, "I'm the one who took care of your wound."
Jack stepped closer, soon standing at the other side of the table. He stood at the left as Jeff stood at the right.
"He wouldn't stop insisting I help."
You just blink, unknowing of what to respond with. He pursed his lips under his dark mask, in his own thought for a moment while staring down at you. You seemed calm enough, and your still pretty fresh injury was gonna hold you back anyway.
"[P]-[Pronoun]'s gonna-!" He attempts to blurt out, only to be stopped by you.
"I won't."
You were untied at your wrists and ankles, allowing yourself to pull your legs up and rest your feet at the top of the table, propping your knees up. It made your stomach feel weird, but it felt kind of nose and felt like it was easing the pain. You wrapped your arms around your knees, looking around the room more. "What is this place?" You ask.
"It's a medical room."
"Huh.." You shrug it off. Your anxiety levels had died down and the more you actually think about it, this isn't the worst thing that's happened. Your life has been pretty fucked up and you have damaged relationships everywhere. Honestly, being around new people and being far away from others sounds not too bad right now. Not like anyone would care anyway.
The next few hours, you're introduced to everyone else at the Mansion. They've been so...unique and honestly, you're surprised some people and beings like them even exist. They were all equally surprised with how little fear you showed.
You actually got along with most of them.
The others have taken a liking to you and hope you hang around longer. Alone in the living room, you, Jeff, Jack, and others sit at the couches and chairs in the living room, chatting away and getting to know them as they get to know you.
You feel Jeff wrap his arms around you and place a gentle kiss on your forehead, making your heart skip a beat.
You found out Jeff has been stalking you for months at a time. Watching your every move, eliminating anyone in the way. Huh, no wonder so many people in your life kept disappearing. You...couldn't bring yourself to be upset or scared, let alone even sad. You felt kind of at ease.
And far from uncomfortable. Someone loved you. Maybe more than they should, but they love you.
You didn't even feel upset at the fact Jeff had murdered that friend earlier. I mean, you just met the guy, so he wasn't even a 'friend'? So you paid no mind to it.
If anything, you really liked the thrill of someone being obsessed with you. A serial killer being so infatuated with you. He could be so protective of you and get rid of anyone you asked him to! There's is an advantage here. You knew he could snap and probably kill you intentionally or unintentionally, but you didn't mind. You really had no one else, technically speaking. No one that really cared. Not as much as he did.
Maybe he isn't so bad.
#Jeff the killer x reader#creepypasta#creepypasta x reader#part two#part 2#yandere#male yandere#creepypasta x y/n#creepypasta x you#gender neutral#jeff the killer x you#jeff the killer x y/n#small series
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Revelation
Breach Masterlist
Warnings: non/dubcon sex (series), general angst, some blood and anger this chapter.
This is dark!Winter Soldier/Bucky and explicit. 18+ only.
Note: SURPRISE! I somehow got this done this morning so voila!
I won’t demand but do ask for feedback; likes, reblogs, replies, comments, asks, especially on this series, but again, enjoy in your own way! <3 Love you!
A six-hour car ride and a brief flight saw you at a second safehouse; bigger and isolated from the world in a nest of trees. Steve accompanied you alone as Howard disappeared to ‘sort out business’. You watched and listened to it all, always keeping Luka close.
Your room was as big as one of the houses you’d lived in during your days in South America. Luka wanted to stay with you and you wouldn’t have let him sleep anywhere else. James, or Bucky, whoever he was those days, looked grim as he commented how nice it would be for you to have your privacy. You didn’t dare ask him to stay in the room though you wanted it. You had grown used to his presence.
You slept the first night soundly, waking only once or twice to look at the door. The usual shadow wasn’t there. That made you frown and run your fingers through Luka’s hair. You were safe now but that wouldn’t last, it never did.
You woke yawning, the hours of sleep reminding your body of its long-hewn fatigue. You could have slept for days. You peeked out into the hallway and Luka pushed past you, sprinting out the door. You followed him and called him back to you with a reprimand. He was excited about all the new places.
“Mishka, you stay close, we’re only going to get some breakfast,” you said as you took his hand.
“Mama, this place is so big! I wanna stay here forever,” he sang as he tugged on your arm.
“Why, so you can tear the walls down?” you tutted, “What has gotten into you?”
“Papa’s friend, Steve, he told me he fights the bad guys,” Luka swung your arm, “will he fight the ones who hurt you and Papa?”
You stopped just outside the kitchen. You turned Luka to you and bent to look him in his face. “What men, mishka?”
“The one’s we’re running from,” he said innocently.
You gulped and cradled his face in your hands, “don’t you worry about that, my love, me and your father will always keep you safe.”
The boy looked confused but didn’t ask more, he only nodded and you stood with a sigh. You took his hand again and pulled him into the kitchen. You sat him on one of the tall chairs along the island counter and searched the fridge. You poured each of you a bowl of Cheerios and pushed his across to him as you leaned on the other side of the counter and spooned up the cereal.
“You’re here,” James’ voice startled you as he came to a sharp stop just inside the doorway, “you weren’t in your room, I was--”
“You said we’re safe here,” you lowered your spoon, “Luka was hungry.”
“We are safe,” he exhaled and slowly crossed the room to stand at the end of the counter.
“You want some?” you shook the box at him.
“Eat,” he took it and grabbed a bowl of his own, “I’ll get it.”
He added milk and sat beside Luka. Your son smiled at him and received a goofy look in return. There were moments James wasn’t so guarded but those were always reserved for your son, never you. When he looked at you, you only saw his guilt and pain.
“Howard will be here at noon,” James said as he turned back to you and stirred his bowl, “I’ll talk to them first.”
“Talk?” you asked.
“They need to know… everything,” he said reluctantly, “you watch over Luka while I’m with them and try not to worry. We can trust Steve.”
You nodded and scooped another spoonful into your mouth. You chewed and stared at the counter. That wasn’t what you were worried about, how could you explain all that had happened?
✰
After you ate, you took Luka to the living room and Bucky left you again. After some giddy pleas from your son, you turned on the television. There were few times in his life, and yours, that you had the luxury of a screen. You sat and watched puppets spell and count for a while before you grew bored.
Luka tired of the wooden car he’d outgrown a while ago and jumped on the couch. You tried to get him to stop but only found yourself out of breath.
“Mishka! You will break it,” you caught him mid-leap and swung him down onto his feet, “why don’t we play a game?”
“Oooh, hide and seek!” he chimed.
“I don’t know, that might not--”
“Please, papa hates that game but it’s so fun,” he clapped, “please, mama.”
“It is fun when you can only hide in the broom closet. You will get lost in here.”
“Promise, mama, I will not go far, please?”
You sniffed and stared into his hopeful eyes, James’ eyes. “You stay on this floor and do not go past the stairs, understood?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he squealed, “now mama, you have to close your eyes. No peeking.”
“I know how this game works,” you sat and covered your face with your hands, “thirty seconds, mishka.”
“Thirty?” he whined.
“Twenty-nine, twenty-eight…”
You heard his feet stamp away and you smiled, counting louder with each number. When you reached one you got up and went to the hall. You looked up and down for any telltale sign of him. Nothing was different.
You went to the kitchen and searched all the cupboards and the pantry. He wasn’t in there. As you checked the closets and still did not find him, you felt the panic rising in your throat. Your heart hammered as you ran around the stairs, he hadn’t listened!
You heard a voice, a high pitch you knew well. The front door was open just a crack and you ripped it open as you followed Luka’s sing-song. He sang a Russian tune you taught him as he was carried on the back of a dark-haired man. You ran across the porch and past the armored car in the lot.
You tore Luka from the stranger’s back and both cried out in surprise. You put your son down as the man turned to you. You grabbed the collar of his shirt and punched him as hard as you could, just as James taught you. You heard the crack of his nose as you pulled back again.
“You take my son!” you snarled as he put his arm up to block your next strike and your hand gleaned off his chin, “my son! I will kill you.”
“Mama, mama,” you felt Luka tugging at your pants.
“Go inside, Luka,” you barked ready to strangle the man.
“He’s wasn’t taking me, mama, we were playing,” Luka begged, “he’s just a kid, like me.”
You stopped and looked the man in the face. Luka was right, he was sixteen, maybe seventeen, familiar even. You growled and let him go hesitantly. You pulled Luka close to you.
“Who are you?”
“I should ask you the same,” the adolescent stemmed the blood leaking from his nostrils with the heel of his hand and tilted his head back, “you sure pack a punch, lady.”
“Who?” you stepped forward again and he backed away.
“Tony,” he snorted and turned to spit up blood onto the ground, “Tony Stark, Howard’s son.”
“Howard?” you blinked, “oh, I--” you looked down at Luka who looked terrified, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I-- let me help you clean up.”
“Uh, I don’t think so,” he chuckled and backed away from you, “I think I can handle this.”
“Mama,” Luka huffed.
“I’m sorry, mishka, I did not know,” you grimaced, “I so very sorry, I really--” you looked at Tony again.
“I’m fine,” he pulled his cuff up to his nose, “really, I shouldn’t have just taken the kid.”
“I couldn’t find him, I was so scared, I--”
“Luka,” James’ voice drew you around. He stood on the porch and descended the steps carefully as he took in the scene, “what’s going on? What are you doing out here?”
“Playing a game,” you said as Tony shook his head.
“What happened to the kid?” James asked as he pointed at the bloodied teen.
“Your wife, that’s what happened,” Tony spat.
“She’s not--
“I thought he was taking Luka,” you interrupted James, “I’m sorry, I--”
“It’s okay,” he took Luka’s hand and pulled the boy close, “you did what I showed you,” he turned to the younger Stark, “you should get that cleaned up or it’ll stay crooked.”
“Uh huh,” Tony dragged his feet through the dirt towards the house, “such a pleasant little family.”
You watched him go and hung your head. You felt awful and held up your shaky hand, your knuckles sore from the assault. Bucky took your hand and looked it over.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I hurt him,” you said, “I hurt a kid.”
“He’s fine,” James assured, “I’ll talk to Stark, it’s fine.”
“I’m sorry, papa, we were playing hide and seek and I didn’t tell mama I was going outside--”
“I told you not to play that game,” James looked down at Luka, “this is why, because you scare us.”
“I’m sorry,” Luka repeated.
“Well, everyone’s safe so…” he rubbed his forehead with his gloved hand as his eyes met yours, “it’s your turn, I’ll keep and eye on Luka.”
“My turn?”
“Upstairs, they’re waiting,” James said and raised his hand as if he would touch your shoulder but instead dropped it, “answer the question but you don’t need to talk about what you don’t want to.”
You nodded and swallowed as you looked past him to the front door. There were no questions they could ask that you didn’t dread.
✰
Howard and Steve sat on the other side of the table. It felt like a real interrogation, like you’d done something wrong. And yet, as you explained your time at Hydra, from employee to experiment, neither seemed to flinch, they listened and took notes but did not show the horror you felt.
“Do you know what they were doing to your son the day of your escape?” Stark asked.
“No, I was… sedated for much of it, they took him from me and--” you shook your head, “I was so angry, I never been so angry and when I woke I felt invincible and when the doctor came, I would’ve killed him, I think.”
“And I know it’s probably a moot question but you don’t know what they were giving you? The capsules, the drip?”
“I never seen the charts,” you shrugged and looked down.
Your hands were trembling and you were overwhelmed. It was the first time you said any of it aloud and once you started, it streamed out like a river. Now that it was all out, the emotions began to flow too.
Then the realisation and the fear. It was, easy even for you, to guess what Hydra intended for your son. He was to be like his father, more efficient than his father. You lifted your head, terrified, and glanced between the men furtively.
“My son is not a weapon,” you said, “know that and do not make him one.”
“That is not our intent,” Steve assured softly, “that is not the type of weapon we use. That’s why we’re here, away from SHIELD, away from Hydra, we can’t let this happen to anyone else but given what we know, this experiment wasn’t just shelved. There are others out there and we need to get to them before another Winter Soldier appears.”
“But how… me and James hide for so long,” you said, “we cannot possibly know--”
Steve’s throat constricted and he looked at Howard. They weren’t telling you something.
“What you have told us today is all we need from you,” Stark said evenly, “It is a start for us to uncover the rest.”
“Uncover?” you blinked and frowned, “what do you mean uncover?”
“You and James have given us locations, details, security procedure,” Stark continued, “with that, we can gain access to the information we do need and find out where they’ve moved their new Soldat operation--”
“No,” you snapped as your chest squeezed, “you would send him back there?”
“We didn’t say--”
“You don’t tell me but you think I am stupid. I know James and I know he feels so bad he would go back to die,” you snarled, “he did nothing wrong. It was not him!”
“But… you, uh, he--” Howard began awkwardly.
“Hydra did that, Hydra made him that monster and he doesn’t not owe you anything. He killed the men who would take my child from me and he kept Luka safe, he is done.”
“Look, Bucky is my best friend and I understand, it wasn’t him, but he did those things, even if it wasn’t his choice and this is what we can do, this is the deal we can offer you. He gets us that intel and you get your safe haven.”
“And if he doesn’t come back?” you stood and slammed your hands on the table, “you would kill him all over again, Steven.”
Steve reeled as if you’d slapped him and Howard raised as brow as he looked at him from the corner of his eye.
“You friend? Really?” your English became more fractured as your rage rose and you hit the table again, this time leaving a dent in the metal, “you no friend to know what you send him back to. They not kill him, not his body, and they torture his mind.”
“Please, ma’am,” Howard said calmly, “it was his idea--”
“I don’t care, you let him!” you shouted, “You think him evil but I know he not. He save me and he has son. You would let a father die.”
“Just calm--” Steve intoned.
“No, no be calm,” you began to rant in Russian as you turned and stormed to the door.
“Where-- Wait!’ The men stood and followed after you.
“I go James!” you hollered as you strode out into the hall, “he trouble!”
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#Winter Soldier#dark winter soldier#winter soldier x reader#dark!winter soldier#fic#series#breach#dark fic#dark!fic#au#mcu#marvel#captain america
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|Soothe Me | M.F x Reader
A/N: It’s Soft Megumi hours! This was supposed to be a NSFW piece, but it was just so sweet i didn’t want to take the story there and distract from his loving and overall caring energy!
All characters are aged up in this story! Also, quick reminder that I’m open for requests :)
Dedication: Thank you so much @timewehad for sending such a sweet ask! You definitely motivated me to finish this thing i started a few days ago and completely forgot in my drafts!
Fighting curses for a living had a price. Besides the constant endangerment of your life.
Sore muscles.
Every time you bent down to tie your shoes, seven different muscles pulled painfully and at least ten vertebrae locked in place, forcing your body into a struggle to straighten itself. If you could walk just looking at the floor without it being weird, you wouldn’t bother to endure the hell that came with a straight spine. If only you had eyes in the top of your head like some of those slimy creatures you fought regularly, your life would be ten times easier.
After one particular busy night, your bed was calling your name. Busy in the sense that little weak curses kept popping around every corner nonstop, like a wicked game of whack-a-mole, only without the hammer. If you had one of those at hand, you surely would feel a lot less stressed. Something about smashing things was an exceptional way to relieve pent-up frustrations.
Walking up to your bed proved to be an arduous task, with your stiff legs and trembling muscles, but slowly you made progress. Your chest felt like it was about to cave in from exhaustion as you were slightly aware of the shower running and Megumi’s soft voice mumbling the lyrics of some cheesy 80’s love song he unexpectedly knew the lyrics of.
The soft comforter brushed your legs when you got to the bedside, and with no grace flopped down face first into it. You tried to kick off your slippers, but failed terribly as they refused to let go of your feet, so giving up you just left your legs dangling off the side.
Megumi’s sweet singing and the storm outside was a perfect recipe for sleeping, and right at that moment sleeping was all you could manage. Lulled, you drifted off into the place between dream and reality, still slightly aware of everything going around you but too busy making up fictional scenarios where you were laying on Megumi’s chest as a soft warm breeze ruffled your hair and the smell of ocean drowned the smell of coffee that lingered in your bedroom.
“What are you doing?” The fog dissipated, and suddenly you were face to face with your boyfriend.
Megumi had gotten out of the shower and was crouching down on the floor. A soft smile curved the tip of his full lips and amusement glinted in his eyes. Your eyes scanned his face and traveled lower, to the sharp curve of his jaw and the smooth skin of his throat. Drops of water still clung to his bare chest and glistened under the warm light of lamp resting on your bedside table. He looked like one of those greek gods you often appreciated in old paintings, all hard muscle but with a peaceful aura surrounding him, looking like he was a minute away from growing wings and taking off into the sunlight.
You hummed in acknowledgment and turned to your side, ten different vertebrae and a shoulder blade popping in the process. You winced, eyes drifting shut at the sharp spike of pain followed by the bliss of relieved pressure off of your nerves.
“Well, that sounded painful...” His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair out of your eyes and they lingered on your cheekbone, tracing idle circles on your skin. “I’m assuming work was a pain on your ass, huh?” Leaning in, his mouth lingered above your brow for a millisecond before pressing a chaste kiss on your forehead. His breath tickled you and warmth blossomed in your heart.
He got up and walked to the pile of clothes resting stop of a chair in the room’s corner. Your eyes followed his figure and never once blinked as you took in his graceful strides and the patch of pale skin often hidden by his pants, but now on full display because of the towel that hung dangerously low on his hips. He always complain about the word “beautiful” every time you used it next to the “you are”. He would argue non stop, stating you were just trying to boost his ego, but you never once found another word to describe him, and somehow you still felt that Beautiful wasn’t enough.
Not even the other girls gawking at him in the streets and shamelessly flirting while you, obviously his partner, stood next to him seemed to prove your point to Megumi. You couldn’t even be angry at the flirts. He was a sight worth of painting, framing, even adoring. He could be a god disguised as a mere mortal for all you knew, and even that would make more sense. It shouldn’t be possible for someone to be as breathtakingly beautiful as he was.
Even casually standing and just roaming through the pile of clothes, he made your stomach curl with something hot and heavy. The muscles on his arms flexed and his shoulder blades moved underneath his skin, doing very interesting things under the dim lights that had you hypnotized, eyes glued to his back and taking in everything they could, committing every single dip and crevice to memory. You could barely breathe while looking at him.
As if he could have felt your eyes on him like a caress, Megumi looked at you from the corner of his eye, a smirk tilted his mouth and a small barely noticeable dimple appeared on his cheek. Your muscles tensed at the sigh, suddenly too hot and bothered to relax when it was obvious he was evening something. The glint in his forest green irises was a dead giveaway.
Sighing intently while his eyes never once left your form, he loosened his grip on the towel. The white fabric slipped across his legs as it came undone and landed at his feet. Traveling the distance your fingers twitched to travel as well. He was sideways, showing you his profile as he grabbed a pair of loose black sweatpants. His well-defined thighs were teasing you, seemingly mocking you along with the deep V on his hip. His position was so that nothing too inappropriate could peek, and you were never awakened as fast as in that moment.
He slipped the pants on, managing not to flash you in the process and came right by your side, the smell of spice and pine from his deodorant enveloped you in a hug as he, in a sweet action that had your belly feeling funny from the amount of butterflies fluttering around, took off your slippers, his fingers casually brushing the arc of your feet and triggering chills down your arms.
“Thank you...” You muttered, turning to lie on your back. Another joint popped, but you couldn’t feel which one it was. Megumi Chuckled at this and shook his head while circling the bed. He sat down with his back against the headboard, going through his phone. His hip bone was leveled with your head and the temptation to just press your lips against it was poking your brain, but your body refused to move a few inches to do so. You were so exhausted and even tho it was worth it you couldn’t for the love of god lift your head from the mattress.
“Tired?” he questioned, while his fingers made their way to your head and sunk into your hair. With knowledge he had from years of dating and even before that when you two were just friends, Megumi’s fingers stroke your scalp, earning a soft hum of approbation from you. You looked up and found his eyes already on you, phone long forgotten because of the new task he had at hands.
“Yeah, a little…” You said, with your eyes fluttering close to enjoy the attention he was giving you.
Megumi patted your head a few times to catch your attention, and when you looked at him, he extended his arms towards you, asking you to get in between them. “Come here…” He invited, a sigh laced in his words.
You tried to push yourself up from the bed, but your treacherous arms failed you, giving up under your weight and sending you face first into your bed.
“Your helpless… You know?” Megumi chuckled under his breath before one of his arms snaked around your waist, his bicep flexing and pulling you onto his lap. Once he had you where he wanted, with your back pressed against his chest and his hands resting on your midriff, he kissed your cheek. Your eyes drifted shut simply enjoying his presence, letting the even rais and fall of his chest calm your mind. “Can i have a kiss?” he muttered, resting his chin on your shoulder, and peering at you with those forest green eyes that seemed to shine, and when he was so tender towards you, how could you deny?
Your chest soared with his words, so you turned your head to meet his awaiting lips, you could almost feel the softness of his mouth when a sharp searing pain stabbed your spine halting your movements as you squeezed your eyes tight. “Shit,” You cursed, pressing your palm against the ache in the back of your neck, hoping it would do something to soothe it.
“Oh, god… Baby, let me see?” Megumi’s fingers pried yours away and then brushed your hair away. His fingers thumb brushed your skin two times over the spot you were holding, and even though it still hurt, his concern seemed to tone the pain down a little.. “Does this hurts?” He applied a little more pressure and when you didn’t wince he kept going, tracing circles and working to erase the knots and kinks that bothered you. “Lean forwards for me…”
Doing just what Fushiguro instructed, you leaned forwards as he shifted underneath you. Suddenly you were no longer sitting on top of his legs but instead sitting in the mattress while his thighs circled yours, pressing against them and allowing his warmth to seep into your legs through the fabric of your jeans.
His other hand soon joined, and his fingers massaged your shoulders and neck intently. You could still feel the burn and sometimes when he pressed a little to hard on a specially sore spot you would yelp and try to get away from him, but he was fast to apologizes and land a kiss on the side of your neck.
You two spent fifteen minutes in that comfortable silence, until he perked up and and halted his movements
“I know what to do… Hold on a minute.” He shuffled behind you and leaped out of the bed, walking away into the bathroom without any explanation.
You just sat there, waiting, and wondering if he had some kind of lotion or cream to help you. You couldn’t recall ever seeing one in the shelves, but he often bought things and forget about them hours later.
The sound of running water rushed out and drowned the silence. You counted on your head, one minute, two, three… Still no signs of Megumi coming back to bed.
“Megumi?” Your answer came in the form of footsteps. Coming out of the room, he smiled at you as he approached. “What are you doing…?”
“Come here…” He said, not answering your question and scooping you up in his arms. On instinct your legs circled his waist while he supported your weight with his hands underneath your thighs.
“Megumi!” You laughed, surprised, clinging to his shoulders while he walked you two back into the steamed filled bathroom. The scent of flowers was what hit you first, closely followed by the sight of a filled tub with bubbles. “What?… Did you do this?” You asked in wonder, feeling cupid just shot another dozen arrows into your already pierced heart.
“Of course… You’re not feeling well, and a warm bath is a wonderful solution.” Pride shone in his eyes. He lowered you on the edge and took a step back. “Get in, and I’ll be right back.” He moved towards the door but hesitated before exiting the room. “Can you take off your clothes? Because I wouldn’t mind helping you out with that…”
“Oh god…” Embarrassment hit you like a wave and you covered your heated face with your hands. “That won’t be necessary, thank you. “
“Just looking out for my girl.” the dimple appeared again, and you almost wanted to crawl under the water to hide from the embarrassment. Even after all this time, he still earned a reaction from you.
“I’m sure you do.”
His laugh lingered in the air as he exited, and with shaky fingers you unbuttoned your jeans and slipped them off. The muscles on your back pulled as your pulled the hem of your shirt over your head, but you endured it. The sweet call of the warm water had you stripped down and inside the tub in no time.
Bubbles covered your chest as the heat from the water seeped into your body, the water brushed your chin as you just felt all the exhaustion from the day drain out of your body. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you lounged in the water like a tea bag without a care in the world.
“Comfortable?” Looking up, he was next to you once again.
“Very...”
He tapped something on his phone, and a soft guitar strummed. He placed it on the mirror shelf before grabbing the elastic of his pants. Noticing he was actually pulling them down, you turned away, covering your eyes.
“What are you doing!?” You asked, startled.
“Well... You seriously don’t expect me to get in with my pants on, do you?” He said matter-of-factly. And a shiver raced down your arms, while a heated wave pooled at the pit of your stomach.
“Are you getting in? You just showered! ” You stole a glance at him, forcing your gaze to stay on his face.
“Yes, but then you weren’t sitting in the bathroom with this much skin exposed... are you really embarrassed?” Laughing kicked the garment off. “You just watched me change a few minutes ago.”
“Shut up, Megumi.” You whined, fighting the urge to let your eyes roam.
“Come on, scoot over.” He laughed. “ I’m worried your might combust from embarrassment.”
Sighing, you moved forwards on the tub, letting enough space for him to sit behind you. The water rippled around you before you felt his soft skin brushing your bare back. His hands found yours and laced your fingers together.
“Better?”
“Yes, thank you, love...” You whispered, bringing your joined hands to your mouth and kissing his knuckles. Scars from past battles scattered the surface but you could only a testimony of his strength.
“Of course.” He squeezed you against his chest for a few heartbeats before asking. “Do you mid if I wash your hair?”
A heat that had nothing to do with the water temperature and all with the rumble of his words crept from your toes to your neck.
“I think I’d like that.”
Grabbing the bottle of shampoo, he dropped some of it on his palm and then he started robbing your scalp in lazy circles, his nails gently scraping it. You could feel his head swinging to the beat of the song sounding in the bathroom, before his voiced joined in.
Lyrics about love and happiness tumbled out of his mouth with a subtle rasp to them. And suddenly you were back to thinking about your dream, the one with beaches and warmth. Maybe a vacation wouldn’t hurt... You considered bringing it up, but the atmosphere was too serene to disrupt it with questions about his schedule. If you asked, it meant he had to stop singing in order to answer you, and that was the last thing you wanted at the moment.
Surely it was the warm water and his fingers, but sitting there listening to his voice and feeling his breath brushing your face, you concluded that Megumi’s mere presence was all you needed to feel better.
#megumi fushiguro x reader#megumi x reader#fushiguro x reader#megumi fushiguro#jjk#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#megumi#fushiguro#jujutsu kaisen fanfic#fluff#my fic#megumi-stan
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the good side
Pairing: former Luke x fem!Reader, Julie x Luke
Description: In the end, you ended up hurt and Luke ended up happy
A/N: this is kinda all over the place but i actually really like it
Warnings: heartbreak, alluded depression
Word Count: 2.0k
Prompt for jatp song fic february: week 1 Romance. A failed relationship based on The Good Side by Troye Sivan. @jatpsongficfeb @dream-a-little-bigger-x @bright-molina
Masterlist
Happiness
That’s the one word you would have used three months ago to describe your relationship with Luke. When seeing his smile made yours grow wider, and looking into his eyes made you fall more in love.
Complicated
The word you would have used two months ago, when the fights were a little more common than you liked to admit and both of you were hurt by words you couldn’t take back.
Crumbling
Is what it was a month ago, when you would roll over in the morning to find Luke already gone and the silence in the apartment rang louder than the screaming matches that followed.
Over
Is the word you use now, as Luke packs what is left of his clothes and slams the door behind him, leaving you to fall to your knees and cry at the loss of his arms around you. The weight of the promise rings in your hand is too much and you throw them at the door.
Heartbreak isn’t an emotion you’re unfamiliar with, you’ve had your fair share of failed relationships. But you never expected to feel this with Luke.
Luke who told you he was going to marry you one day. Who would hold you close and whisper lyrics of love songs he had written for you, proclamations of adoration that he promised to sing to the world one day.
You stay in the empty hallway, loud sobs racking your body until the sun starts to rise over the horizon, showering the room with a golden glow from the window.
Your throat is burning and you can barely feel your legs, but you force yourself to get up. You head to the shower, letting the burning water pelt against your skin until it turns cold.
Your friend comes over later that day but you can’t bring yourself to explain. She holds you close against her chest, promising that everything will get better, but you’re not sure if you believe her. There’s too many memories, too much love still in your heart that you don’t want to let go off. Letting go means accepting it’s over and deep down, you don’t want it to be.
You stay in bed for a week, not having the strength nor the motivation to get up. Other friends come over, forcing you to eat and you do so robotically. Life doesn’t feel real. You feel as if this is all some terrible dream and when you wake up, you’ll be in Luke’s arms again.
. . .
Luke is on Cloud 9. His fingers sting from the long hours of playing his guitar and his throat feels sore from months of singing lyrics into a microphone, only to hear people sing them back to him.
The last not of the last song echoes in his ear and he turns around, grinning at Alex who is holding the cymbal with the tips of his fingers. Julie holds the note longer than any of them, her voice blending with the screams of the fans. Reggie is bouncing, still full of adrenaline and Luke admires him, because he is exhausted and can barely stand on his feet.
“Thank you L.A. for making our last show one of the best, we’re Julie and the Phantoms-“
“Tell your friends,” the three guys join Julie for the last statement. With a final bow, they all exit the stage and in a flurry of excitement, Luke jumps on Alex’s back. This has declared the end of their first world tour and although Luke loved it, he is sure he could sleep for the next twenty years.
He met them, the band, shortly after breaking up with you, at an open mic night. Right as his set ended, he was ambushed by his now bandmates, Alex, Reggie, and Julie, all of whom started rambling and shooting him rapid-fire questions until his head spun. He clearly remembers putting his hands up and yelling “Shut up!” Causing all three mouths to snap closed. He proceeded, “What exactly are you asking me?”
It was Julie who spoke, “We want you to join our band.”
Everything seemed fast paced from then, it started with him meeting with them, trying out writing songs together and things just clicked. Every thought was finished by Julie, every melody completed by Reggie, every idea supported by Alex.
And, caught in the moment, he didn’t find the time to be heartbroken, to miss you. He got over you before he even realized it and suddenly, he was falling in love again.
Luke naturally gravitates toward Julie, orbiting around her like the earth does the sun. He can’t help it, and he’s not sure he understands it. He just finds himself longing for those small, unintentional touches, the intense eye contact during a song, the proximity of sharing a mic with her.
Then it happens. Julie is playing a melody on the piano, and Luke is sitting next to her, eyes closed and envisioning the lyrics forming before him. Julie shifts and now her thigh is pressed against Luke’s. His eyes snap open and he turns to her, finding her already looking at him. His eyes shift down and he registers a small nod of her head, and before he can think himself out of it, he surges forward, capturing her lips in a kiss that takes both their breath away.
They smile lovingly at each other when they pull away and then they continue writing the song.
. . .
You haven’t heard from Luke. Not since the door closed. You haven’t heard his voice for over a year but you recognize it as soon as you hear it on the radio.
Step into my world
Bittersweet love story 'bout a girl
You hadn’t been paying attention to the station, or what the radio host was saying. But you know, you are so sure that it is Luke singing the song. Your heart clenches as you listen to the lyrics, ones you had never heard in your life, which means that he had written this after the breakup. Your chest aches with hope, could this be about you? Is there still some part of him that wants you back? Still loves you as much as you love him?
It takes only a few seconds for your hope to be crushed, because a new voice starts singing, a woman’s voice.
Here in front of me
Shining so much brighter
Than I have ever seen
And it’s stupid, because you can’t see them, the song isn’t even live. It’s a recorded studio version, most likely recorded separately, but somehow you can still feel it.
Love. Pure unadulterated love, that this girl feels for Luke, your Luke. And that Luke feels for her.
It crushes you. Tears starts streaming down you face and a heart-wrenching sob cuts through your throat. You pull over, ignoring the honking of the car behind you as you merge into the next lane. Straight from a movie, it starts to rain, and you change the station, not bearing to listen to the love of your life fall in love with someone else.
The tears don’t stop coming and you turn the volume up, not wanting to hear the sound of your own anguish. You stay there for an hour, until you’ve run out of tears, and your throat feels raw.
You somehow make your way home and as soon as your head hit the pillow, you cry yourself to sleep.
. . .
Luke saw you once, two years after you parted ways. You didn’t see him, too busy staring down at the street as your friends dragged you to a store. It was clear to anyone, but especially to him, that you were miserable. And Luke didn’t want to believe that it was because of him, despite what people say his ego isn’t that big. So he followed you, calling out to Julie, Alex, and Reggie where he was going.
He stayed hidden, not wanting you to notice him. He was about to give up after fifteen minutes of finding out nothing, when one of his songs started booming from the store speakers.
Luke sees you freeze and then sees your friends immediately lead you out of the store. He hides behind a rack of clothes when you walk past him and he spots a trail of tears falling down your cheeks.
He doesn’t want to believe it, he thought you would be okay. He never expected you to not get over him. He wanted you to move on, find happiness. Just like he did.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, and is shocked when he feels a hand on his arm. Whirling around, he comes face to face with Julie, who has a worried look on her face.
“Luke? You okay?” Alex and Reggie are a few steps behind her, both equally confused.
“Yeah Jules,” he presses a kiss to her temple for good measure and she smiles up at him. “I’m just thinking about a new song.”
. . .
It takes Luke a few minutes to register that the fans are still screaming.
“One more! One more! One more!” Echoes through out the arena. They all look at each other, wondering if they should go out there again, and play one more song. Eventually, the love for their fans beats their tiredness and they bound back up the steps and to the stage, their instruments still there.
“Alright L.A. we’ll give you guys one more song.” Alex says into his mic, twirling a drumstick around his fingers. Luke pulls the strap of his guitar over his body along with Reggie and Julie goes to sit on her keyboard.
Luke leans forward on his mic, and he realizes that they didn’t discuss what song they were going to play. He turn his head and it seems that his bandmates are all thinking the same thing because they start sending each other looks. Luke is about to give his own input, but for some reason, decides to turn his head.
What he sees knocks the breath out of him. You’re standing there, in a worn out pair of black jeans and a random t-shirt. He feels himself lean forward again, starting to speak without even consulting his band. “This next song is one that we’ve been working on,” he pauses to look at Julie. They all know what song he’s talking about, because it’s the only song he’s been able to finish in the last few months, as if the universe won’t let him write another song until he achieves closure. His girlfriend nods at him and starts playing the melody. With a small, shy smile, he looks directly at you, willing you to understand. “Hope you like it.”
I got the good side of things
Your friend dragged you to the concert. Not telling you whose it was until you were already inside the arena. You wanted to run away and there were tears already welling up in your eyes. She pulled you to your seats and promptly scolded you, telling you that this was your chance. Your chance at closure, to finally write the ending to the Luke chapter of your life. “You won’t get over him unless you confront him,” she said. And knowing that you would never talk to him, going to his concert seemed like the best way.
You hate to admit that she’s right. At first, you had to bite down tears and force yourself to stay, but then you find yourself getting lost in the music. You enjoy yourself and as the concert came to a close, you felt that maybe, it is possible to move on.
But then they came back out. And every word, every lyric, every note change struck deeper and deeper within you, and as you meet Luke’s eyes, which are looking only at you, you know who the song is meant for.
And baby, I apologize
But you can’t do it. You can’t forgive him, not yet. Maybe not ever. You can try to forget about him but the scars he left behind will always be there, as a reminder of what you lost. And as the last note comes to a close, Luke’s voice drowned out by screams, you shake your head.
Luke’s shoulders fall but he nods, he understands. You walk away and he lets you, because what he wrote, what he just sang, still holds true.
#jatpsongficfeb#julie and the phantoms fanfiction#julie and the phantoms fanfic#julie and the phantoms#Julie and Luke#julie molina#jatp#jatp fanfic#jatp fanfiction#luke patterson#luke x reader#luke x oc#luke patterson imagine#luke patterson x reader#luke patterson fic#luke patterson fanfiction#juke#julie and the himbos#julie and the fat ones
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Double Heart | Chapter Twenty-Two ~ Cosima
|previous part|
Pairing: Haldir x OFC
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3549
Warnings: None
A/n Thanks for your patience, and happy reading :)
Our first day of traveling is rough.
In my months of comfort in Imladris, I easily forgot the vigor with which galloping on a horse shakes you. By the time we stop for the night, every muscle and bone in my body is screaming for rest. And, despite Haldir’s assurance that I will get used to the weight and awkwardness of the metal that is somehow both cold and hot, the chainmail has grated on my nerves all day.
Haldir helps me down from Faervel and I wince when my feet make contact with the ground.
“Walk around for a while,” he advises, then nods towards Glorfindel. “I’ll return later — I’m going to coordinate watches and take the first shift.”
“Okay.” I smile up at him, waiting for a kiss goodbye, but he just nods once and then turns, off to get to work.
I purse my lips. I guess he’s sore from riding, too.
Trying to push the uneasiness from my mind, I spend just a few moments walking and stretching before I turn to my own tasks. I’m in charge of Faervel and two of Glorfindel’s horses, so caring for them will occupy me until supper.
{***}
When Baranor calls for dinner, I hurry to our campsite. We are close enough to Elrond’s borders that Haldir and Glorfindel feel we can light a small fire and, while nothing on the road could compare to the delicacies served at Elrond’s table, a meal cooked with fire is much better than stale bread and soggy fruit. I sit on a rock near the flames, accepting the bowl Baranor places in my hands. Alex, Glorfindel, and one of the extra guards, Nodron, join us.
After a few minutes of eating in tired silence, I hear footsteps behind me, and turn with a smile to welcome Haldir from watch. He nods at me and accepts the bowl handed to him. He sits next to me on the rock — that’s normal — but keeps distance between us and barely spares a glance in my direction. Instead, he alternates between talking strategy with Glorfindel and Nodron and scanning our surroundings. I huff, eating my soup in silence. This earns me a brief raised eyebrow, but his focus soon returns to the mountains and his conversations.
What is going on with him? Did I upset him somehow? Is he grouchy from the day of traveling?
With my food finished and no one talking to me, I have no reason to stay gathered by the fire. I stand and take my bowl to the stream, wash it out, and then return it to the bag holding our cooking supplies.
“I’m going to bed unless anyone needs anything,” I declare, picking my bag up from the ground. I’m met with shrugs and murmurs, but nothing more.
With a huff, I throw my bedroll on the ground, spread it out, and take my hair out of its braid. I roll onto my back, frowning when I notice that the stars are covered by clouds. The chainmail digs into my skin, and I shift uncomfortably. I sit up and take a cursory look around. No one can see me. How would they know?
Quickly, I stand and pull off my tunic, then tug the chainmail after it. As soon as the biting, cold metal is gone, I put my tunic back on, eager for its warmth. Already, I feel better.
“Put it back on.”
I yelp, the metal falling to the ground with a tinny clink. I whip around to face Haldir, who has appeared out of nowhere. “Where did you come from?”
My eyes have yet to adjust to the night, so I can’t read his expression, but I do see when he shrugs his shoulders. “You said you were going to bed, no? So, I followed.”
I narrow my eyes, deciding to just get to the point. “I’m not sleeping in the chainmail. It’s uncomfortable, and I don’t sleep well on the road as it is.”
“You are sleeping in the chainmail,” he counters, no room for flexibility in his voice. He bends over to lay his own bedroll a few feet from mine. Huh. Does he not want to sleep closer to me? “We could be attacked at any moment, including during the night.”
I shift on my feet, glancing warily at the peaks and valleys that surround us.
Haldir huffs, looking up at me from the ground. I’ve adjusted to the limited light and can now see the exasperated look he gives me. “I do not want to frighten you, but I do want you to be realistic. Should we be attacked, the chainmail could safe your life, so you will wear it. We are not having this discussion again.”
I set my hands on my hips and grit my teeth. So he ignores me all day and now he’s talking to me like I’m one of his wardens? Oh, no. I tilt my head to the side, staring him down. “Have you ever heard of a compromise? Do you even know what the word means?”
He stands, his towering height and stern expression creating quite an intimidating presence. But unfortunately for him, he’s kissed me softly, cuddled closer to me in the middle of the night, and told me how much he loves me. It’s kind of hard to be intimidated by someone after that.
He sets his feet. “This is not a question of compromise, it is a question of safety. I—”
“—It is a question of compromise, actually.” I cut him off. “I agreed—begrudgingly, might I add—to wear the uncomfortable, heavy chainmail for this journey. I’m only doing it for you. So that means you have to meet me in the middle and give a little. If we’re attacked, I promise I’ll put it back on. There. Compromise.”
He only raises an eyebrow. “So you are telling me that, should orcs rain arrows upon us, chaos erupt, and a legion of warriors come at us with sword and spear, you are going to take the time to undress, put the armor on, redress, and then attempt to save your life?”
Well. He’s got me there. I sniff, not ready to let him win this. “Yes.”
He doesn’t move. “Then by all means, when you study strategy for over three thousand years, fight in countless battles, and lead the most formidable military force in the realm, you can make that choice. But for now, you are a fragile, stubborn, human woman that, despite her ability to make me want to pull my hair out, I love very, very much. So you will wear the chainmail at all times.” Without breaking eye contact, he bends down, scoops the metal up, and pushes it into my hands.
I grit my teeth.
With a huff, I tug my tunic off once more. I feel a deep satisfaction when I finally make him break his stoic demeanor. He watches for a fraction of a second before nearly hurting his neck snapping his head to the sky so quickly. I smirk, pulling the chainmail over my body once more, then adding the tunic.
“You can look now.”
He clears his throat and lowers his eyes to mine, nodding once. “Thank you.”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t do it for your gratitude, Marchwarden.”
He shakes his head and lies down on his bedroll. I sit on mine, gathering my cloak over me like a blanket before lying back.
Neither of us speaks.
After a few minutes, soft noises arise in the vicinity as those not on watch make their way to their own bedrolls. Footsteps crush the grass near my head and something heavy and warm drops over me. I raise up on my elbow, opening my eyes to the tall, grinning figure of Glorfindel.
“Here you go, dear Lady Cosima,” he declares in a near sing-song voice. “I have brought you an extra blanket. It seems you are in the path of a cold front, and I would not want you to suffer for it.”
I turn to look over my shoulder at Haldir, biting my lip to stop the laughter escaping at his glower. Glorfindel’s meaning is lost on no one.
I turn back to my friend and thank him.
“It is no problem,” he waves it off, still grinning from ear to ear. “Though, if you continue to find yourself in this uncomfortable position, my bedroll is nearer to the fire.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You would switch with me?”
“No.” He winks, making sure both Haldir and I can see it. “I would allow you to join me.”
My mouth falls open, my shocked laugher sounding through the clearing. I grin, playing along. “I shall keep that in mind.”
With a final, pointed look at Haldir, Glorfindel returns to his own bedroll.
I pull the new blanket over my shoulders, snuggling into it. It smells like the outdoors, and I breathe it in. The exhaustion of the day hits me. “Goodnight Haldir, I love you,” I call, not bothering to turn around.
His annoyed grumble is the last thing I hear before sinking into sleep.
{***}
The sun rises and brings wth it a cool chill, hinting at the autumn to come. I change into fresh clothes and brush my teeth quickly, re-braiding my hair as I go. With as many of us as there are, it doesn’t take long to tack up the horses, pack the bags, dole out breakfast, and get on our way.
Haldir smiles when I meet him at Faervel’s side. He reaches for me and I think he’s about to pull me in for a hug and make up for our disagreement last night, but instead of encircling me, his hands pat at my sides — he’s feeling for the chainmail!
I gasp, pulling away from him and glare at him in accusation. “You don’t trust me!”
He only smirks haughtily and drops to one knee, waiting to help me onto the horse. “Just checking. Now please get on the horse, Cosima, we haven’t got all day.”
I grumble and press my foot into his hands with more force than is strictly necessary. He chuckles and swings me up, settling in front of me a moment later. He nudges Faervel to encourage him to move forward, quickly guiding us nearer to the front of the line. While Glorfindel is here, he and one of his guards take point. Faervel seems dissatisfied with this, and Haldir frequently has to to tug on the reins to remind him to keep his place in line.
Behind me, I hear the familiar sound of Roch’s whinny, and I turn around in greeting. Rumil and I lock eyes. I smile. He clenches his jaw and lifts his chin in the air, avoiding my gaze. I sigh sadly and turn to face forward once more. I guess I deserve that.
Haldir shifts and a warm, calloused hand encases mine against his stomach. When he speaks, it’s in a voice so low I can barely hear it — probably to keep the others from listening in. “It won’t be like this forever.”
But I don’t have forever. And neither do you.
I bite the words back before they can escape my lips. It’s something Haldir and I both already know. Saying it out loud won’t do us any good. “Has he spoken to you?”
Haldir shakes his head, eyes continuing their scan of our surroundings. “Not yet, outside of what is necessary. But he will, I’m sure of it.”
The hope for a future reconciliation will have to be enough. With a sigh, I lean my cheek against Haldir’s shoulder blade, Faervel’s trot jostling me from side to side. We haven’t even been on the road an hour and I’m already longing for my bedroll.
“Did you really not sleep well,” Haldir asks, a hint of guilt in his voice.
I decide to let him off the hook. He really is only trying to keep me safe. “Yes, but it’s not the chainmail’s fault. It’s just getting used to the ground, and I was cold, and being on the road again…well, you know.” I sigh again, stopping my words. He can fill in the rest of my sentence. He knows well that, though I feel better traveling in a larger company and with some self-defense training behind me, being in the orcs’ territory still makes me nervous since the attack.
Haldir doesn’t say anything for a while, just nods absently while his eyes scan over the ridges to our left and right. “Can I join you tonight after watch?”
I blink. “Of course.” Then, I psych myself up, hoping I don’t sound too unsure or hurt. But I have to ask — it’s been bothering me since yesterday. “Why didn’t you last night?”
Haldir makes a noise of apology. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Our nights together have been in the privacy of your bedroom. I didn’t want to put you in a position where you would be close to me while surrounded by others.”
I breathe out a shaky laugh, glad that’s all it is. “That doesn’t bother me! I just worried that you didn’t want to be seen with me so publicly.” I take another deep breath, forcing myself to get the words out. “You’ve pretty much ignored me since we left Imladris.”
His shoulders tense. Then, he twists in his seat just enough that we can look each other in the eye. “I’m sorry, it was not my intention to treat you that way. It’s just—” he sighs, shaking his head. “I can afford to relax in Imladris and will be able to once we get to Lothlórien, but the road is completely different. Say I were to kiss you or hold your hand, and become distracted. In that one moment, I could miss something, and that could cost the life of someone here. I can’t risk that.”
I nod, the pieces coming together. “I can understand that.” I raise up, just high enough to press a kiss to his cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
{***}
Haldir takes the second watch shift, so I fall asleep on my own. But late in the night, I’m awoken by warm arms encircling me and pulling me against a solid chest.
I smile, snuggling into the warmth. “Hi.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers, mindful of our companions.
“It’s alright.” I match his volume. “How was watch?”
He pushes a strand of hair over my shoulder and smooths it down my back. “Quiet.”
I hum in response, already slipping back into sleep.
He presses a tender kiss to my forehead. “Goodnight, melethril.”
{***}
An hour into our journey the next morning, dark clouds form ahead.
Haldir curses under his breath.
I rest my chin against his back, trying to use him to block the wind. “That doesn’t look fun.”
“No, it does not,” he agrees, voice grave.
The wind blows again, and I shiver.
“Not minding the layer of armor now, are you,” he teases, tilting this head slightly so I can see the upturn of his cheek.
I roll my eyes, not about to admit that I’m thankful for the extra layer. “Eyes on the path, Marchwarden.”
He leans to the side and hands me the reins. “Here.” Before I can register what he’s doing, he’s gripped Faervel’s mane and swung from the front of the horse to the back.
“What—” I sputter, whipping my head around to stare at him in disbelief. “How did you do that?”
“Practice.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his chest puffs out proudly.
I shake my head, still trying to figure it out. But all thoughts die when he shifts, pressing himself against my back. He takes his cloak and arranges it to fall over my shoulders and cross at my front, providing another layer of warmth. He takes the reins from me and holds them in front, his arms resting against my sides.
I lean back against his chest. “I’m not gonna lie, I like this way of riding much better.”
He makes a noise of appreciation. “I thought you might.” He presses a quick kiss to my cheek then returns to all-business.
I purse my lips. I never really considered how frustrating it would be to be in the constant company of others for three weeks straight. Because right now, I want to turn around and kiss him until neither of us can breathe, but I can’t.
But the thoughts of what else I’d like to do to him wash away with the torrent of rain that falls on us. I gasp loudly, streams of cold water pelting my face. The cloak Haldir had made for me is helping — I’m not soaked through like last time, but the rain is quite persistent. I look over my shoulder, seeking out Alex. He slouches on the back o Baranor’s horse, hunched against the wind and the cold.
I turn my head to face forward, calling loud enough that I hope Haldir can hear me over the thunderous rain. “Is it warmer in Lothlórien?”
His chest twitches against my back as he shifts to accommodate Faervel’s changed gait. “It rarely gets cold enough for snow, but we do see the odd storm like this, and that can really drop the temperature.”
“Wonderful,” I grumble, and shrink against him in hopes of warming up. Cold water follows the tendrils of my hair and slides down my back, over my chest, under my legs. It’s so uncomfortable. But the only thing to do is press on.
{***}
We stop for the night in the same cave we rested in on the way to Imladris. Glorfindel orders a fire to be started immediately, and his guards get to work. Minutes later, Haldir leads my shivering form deep into the cave and stops me next to the flames.
“I hate the cold,” I grumble, reaching my hands as close to the fire as I dare.
“Agreed,” Haldir murmurs, peeling the cloak from my body and lying it on the ground where it can dry. A second later, he hands me a pair of my least-wet clothes. The ellyn in the cave respectfully turn their backs while I change, but I know I’ve seen most of them naked by now, so they’ve probably seen me as well.
Ah, the joys of traveling.
Alex collapses on the other side of the fire, giving me a haggard nod. “Doing okay?”
I grin tiredly back at him. “About the same as you.”
He chuckles ruefully, shaking his head.
Haldir throws a blanket over my shoulders and tosses one to Alex. They were encased in a material similar to my cloak, so they’re mostly dry. “I will return shortly. Do not move,” he cautions, standing and leaving my side.
Alex and I warm up in silence, each of us too occupied by our discomfort. After a while, I turn to speak to him, but he has fallen asleep, snoring softly against his bedroll.
Minutes later, Haldir reappears with dinner, cooked on the larger fire near the front of the cave. It seems this one is only meant for the freezing humans.
“How are you,” he asks, tugging the blanket tighter around me.
I chuckle at his obvious worry. “Much better, thank you. And thanks for dinner.”
Haldir grimaces. “Thank Glorfindel. Though, proceed with caution, he is not an excellent cook.”
Warily, I take a bite of whatever dinner is, then scrunch up my face at the oddly sour taste. “No, he is not.”
Haldir laughs, settling himself behind me and pulling my back against his chest. “Regardless, I still recommend you eat.”
The empty feeling in my stomach concurs. We sit in silence, warming up and eating.
Haldir picks up one of my strands of hair so it catches the light of the fire. “It’s so wavy when it’s wet.”
I snort. “And it’s going to be frizzy when it dries. How do you get your hair to look so nice all the time?”
He grins, jokingly tossing his hair into my face. “Genetics, my love.”
At this, I laugh loudly, then clamp a hand over my mouth at Alex’s sleepy noise of annoyance. Haldir and I don’t move until Alex turns over and his snores echo through the cave once more.
Despite my efforts, a yawn escapes, betraying the cold exhaustion already weighing heavily in my bones. I push my bowl into Haldir’s hands. “You can finish my food. I’m more tired than hungry.”
Haldir places the bowl on the ground. “No thank you, I’ve already had more than enough of Glorfindel’s cooking.”
I grin, not blaming him one bit. I stretch out and, getting the hint, Haldir shifts to give me enough room to recline on my bedroll. To my pleasant surprise, he doesn’t rise to join the others. Instead, he lies down next to me and allows me to press my face into his chest, sandwiched between him and the warmth of the fire.
I glance up at him, forcing my eyes to stay open. “You don’t have watch tonight?”
“Not tonight,” he promises, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Sleep well.”
A/n Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs make me happy :) Let me know if you would like a tag!
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Sick in the Soop (Part 1)
Summary: Poor Jimin catches a cold while Bangtan is filming “In the Soop.” Cue some cuddly caretaking and some much needed time to rest.
Sickie: Jimin
Caretaker: Taehyung, mild Hoseok and Namjoon
Word Count: 1570
Author’s Note: Much of this fic is inspired by actual dialogue and clips from “In the Soop”! If you haven’t seen the show and are wondering what clips were used, message me and I can clip/post them! Please look forward to some sickie Tae and caretaker Jimin in part 2!
~~~~~
“hH!—hH’tSHh’iiew!”
Jimin wrapped his FILA jacket more tightly around his shoulders as he let out a shivery sneeze in the evening briskness. He and the group were stationed out by the Bukhan River, enjoying some relaxing time to themselves as they filmed a new series. “In the Soop” came at just the right time. The Bangtan members had been busy with hectic schedules and various promotions, all the while drained at the news of having their world tour postponed.
Jimin would admit to feeling run down by it all, spending a few too many nights awake into the late hours as he and Yoongi worked on prepping their new, soon-to-be-released BE album.
So, he was not too surprised to be feeling a sneezy and sniffly cold coming on. He was quite grateful to have a few days to enjoy some video games, play ping pong against Namjoon, and try out wood carving. Perhaps the relaxation would help him nip this cold in the bud. The group was to return to Seoul after a few days before coming back to the forest, and Jimin wanted to be well before heading back to work.
Until then, Jimin planned to join the 94 liners out under the tent. He had been watching Hoseok and Namjoon chat for some time from his spot inside the house. Jimin’s throat was starting to hurt from all the karaoke he had been doing with Taehyung. The last song had him in a coughing fit with Taehyung patting his back. Jimin had waved off any of Taehyung’s concerns by attributing the coughing to the last set of heartfelt ballads they had sung.
He excused himself as Taehyung cued his next song, telling him he’d see him in the morning. Taehyung waved him off and picked up the microphone.
Time for a nice and peaceful chat, Jimin told himself as he walked out the sliding glass door onto the grassy field. But it was colder than he anticipated. He shivered as the crisp air blew lightly around him, and he jogged over to his friends to sit by the fire. Hobi and Joon were engrossed in deep conversation. They looked up when he sat down, offering him to head towards the house to join them for beer.
“I’ll just sit here and zone out,” Jimin smiled. “I’ll ask for some cold medicine later.”
“Cold medicine?” Hobi’s smile turned to a frown. “Are you feeling sick?”
“I’m not feeling so good,” he admitted. As if to prove his point, he sniffled wetly and scrubbed a finger under his now red nose.
Namjoon began to worry about Jimin.
“Put your hood on, Jimin. Wear your hood.”
Jimin chuckled at his hyung’s orders. “I’ll be fine.”
“Seriously, wear your hood,” Hobi nodded at him too, noting the chilly evening air. “Wearing the hood makes a big difference.”
“I’m obedient,” Jimin complied, pulling his hood over his fluffy black hair and beginning to poke at the fire as they continued their light conversation. They were all beginning to tire, the warmth of the alcohol from dinner setting in. Hobi and Namjoon continued to chat about the weather, noting the fluctuation in temperature. Their weather-related conversation eventually turned into giggles about their plans to play ping pong, already looking forward to the championship game.
Jimin tried to control his sniffles as his nose began to run more. He didn’t want his caring, and sometimes overbearing, friends to worry more than they already were. He was planning to ask the staff members if they had any cold medicine handy, and mentally noted the need to ask for some tissues as well.
He was thankful when Namjoon suggested they play a round of ping pong before bed. It would give him the opportunity to go back towards the house where it was much warmer. He figured that a game of ping pong, combined with the beer, would be a perfect way to send himself off to bed.
-
Taehyung woke up to the bright sun shining into his and Hoseok’s bedroom. Rolling over happily, Taehyung allowed himself to snuggle into his pillows before heading downstairs to gaze upon all of the activities the staff had planned for the group.
He excitedly grabbed his toy boat, slipping his feet into his favorite slides and trekking down to the lake. After a few loops through the shimmering water, Taehyung whipped out his phone. He wanted his fellow 95 liner to join him. He and Jimin had talked throughout the car ride there about their plans to try new activities together.
30 minutes later, and Taehyung had heard no reply. Checking the time, he noticed the group would be getting ready for lunch. He realized just how hungry he was and jogged to the upper house to help out and find Jimin.
-
Still? He was still asleep?? Taehyung peeked into Jimin’s room. Walking in, he stood over Jimin’s bed as his soulmate rolled over and looked up at him with bleary eyes. Taehyung plopped into bed, cuddling up close next to Jimin. Feeling playful, Jimin tickled his sides, causing Taehyung to giggle and curl up. Laughing Taehyung rolled over so that he laid across Jimin’s small form.
“You slept for so long. How are you, Jimin-ah?” Taehyung murmured into his friend’s shoulder with his eyes closed. He paused, frowning when Jimin didn’t answer. He peeked up in confusion—had Jimin fallen asleep again? Nope.
“hH’tsh‘iiew! hH’iKSHh!!” Jimin had been teased by his nose, finally letting out two breathy sneezes while turning away from Taehyung. With Taehyung draped over his body, he had his arms pinned to his side, so he was forced to sneeze away and down towards the floor.
“Sick,” he sniffled.
Taehyung frowned, standing up to get a better look at Jimin. His poor friend had deep bags under his eyes, his nose now beginning to run from the sneezes.
“You look bad,” Taehyung stated, tilting his head to the side as he gazed upon Jimin’s pale complexion.
“Wow, thank you,” Jimin groaned. Taehyung plucked a tissue out of the box on the bedside table and handed it to Jimin who blew his nose with a sigh.
“You’re warm,” Taehyung placed a hand on Jimin’s forehead before sliding under the covers. He wrapped his long arms around Jimin and threw a leg over his small waist.
“You’re an idiot,” Jimin sniffled as Taehyung pulled him in closer.
“Why?”
“You’re going to get sick. You know that.”
“Shut up. You like this—you feel better already. I know you do.”
Jimin couldn’t argue with him on that. Instead, he nuzzled his head into Taehyung’s shoulder and sighed admittedly in content. Taehyung was warm from being out in the sun with his toy motor boat, and Jimin was chilled. He was trying not to shiver. His sore throat had only worsened over night, causing him to cough lightly.
“Did you take medicine?”
“Last night,” Jimin croaked. “It hasn’t really helped.” The cold medicine only made him drowsy.
“Poor Jiminie.”
“Can you massage my back,” Jimin murmured with his eyes closed. Taehyung sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and getting to work. Jimin sighed happily as Taehyung’s long fingers kneaded into his sore, achy muscles. He’d almost fallen asleep when Hobi walked in, pushing the door open.
“Taehyung-ah, go and get it for me.”
“What?”
“The blowtorch, the one we used last night.”
Obediently, Taehyung left Jimin to help his hyungs cook. He didn’t leave without forgetting to give Jimin’s head a comforting pat. Jimin allowed himself 5 more minutes in bed before forcing himself up to eat lunch. He silently wished that one of the other boys could’ve gone to get what Hobi needed—he had quite enjoyed Taehyung’s massage.
-
The Bangtan members finished a delicious and filling lunch. Tired and under the weather, Jimin aimed to spend his day resting. He had wandered around throughout the afternoon, unable to find something he was interested in. His brain was a bit too foggy to write lyrics with Yoongi. His throat was too sore to sing more karaoke with Tae. His body ached way too much to even attempt boxing with Kookie.
When he found Hobi on the patio, he smiled and sat down in the chair beside him.
“Want to paint with me, Jiminie?”
“I don’t know, I’m not that great at it,” he scrubbed a hand under his nose and coughed into his elbow.
“Me neither,” Hobi giggled, patting Jimin on the back. “But it’s fun. Here, use this.”
Jimin took the other FILA sneaker from Hoseok and smiled, already imagining a beautiful cherry blossom tree on the blank, white space. He spent the rest of the afternoon there, happily conversing with Hobi, who didn’t seem to mind the frequent sneezes or sniffles that much.
By the time he had finished his beautiful masterpiece, the members were ready for a quick dinner and to head home to Seoul. By late afternoon, the group was packed and ready to take off. Despite the increasing congestion and growing aches in his body, Jimin was feeling peaceful and content to have spent his afternoon painting with Hobi and to have some much needed rest. He knew that going back to work would only prolong his sickness, so he yearned for the next few days to pass quickly so he and the boys could return to the forest.
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Can I have 5. Comfort Item with Solaire and Oscar? A modern AU is preferred, but canon is fine as well.
Title: To act like a true knight
Fandom: Dark Souls
Characters: Oscar fo Astora, Solaire of Astora.
Word-Count: 5770
AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34015300
Summary: On a winter's night, Solaire loses his equipment.
Author's note: It is going to be 1k words, I said. It will be a comedy fic, I said. And now... look at this almost 6k angst fest haha. I hope you like it :D
Prompt: Comfort item.
@sicktember
“Look, there’s the idiot.”
“By the sweet tits of Lady Gwynevere, what the farmer said is true!”
“Ah, our favorite buffoon never fails to put a smile on my face.”
“Astora would be a far duller place to live in without him. But...shouldn’t we stop him? That fool will freeze to death at this rate.”
“Ha! Solaire’s head is thicker than a bowl of oatmeal. You’ll get frostbite on your toes and nose before he even considers listening to a word you say. That wouldn’t be very smart of you, would it? Besides, you are already ugly as sin. Frostbite will do no favors to your hideous mug.”
“Shut your hole, bastard. Your features are hardly what I would call carved by the gods themselves. It is a blessing our helmets keep me from gazing at it too often. On second thought, I was wrong. Lord Nito really outdid himself when he made you in his image.”
“Aye, aye, keep talking.”
The two elite knights turned their backs on the frozen field and walked away, laughing and mocking each other. Their minds were too clouded with drink for either of them to notice the presence of a third elite knight nearby.
He had followed them outside.
He had remained quiet as his two fellow knights mocked Solaire, and he continued to do so until the drunk men were once again inside the tavern.
“Pathetic.” Oscar said under his breath before returning his attention to Solaire “All of you.”
Solaire was too far away from him to listen to his derisive mutterings. Even if he had heard him, Oscar doubted Solaire would have dared to say something in return.
Oscar was an elite knight.
Solaire was a lowly upstart, just freshly knighted in the battlefield a few months ago.
As foolish as he was, Solaire was well aware of his place in the world and he acted accordingly.
But he still has much to learn.
“Curses.” Oscar said in resignation, the falling snow starting to form small mounds on the top of his helmet and on his pauldrons.
Yet, when he started walking, he did so towards Solaire and not the rowdy tavern.
I knew I should have stayed out of this. If I catch a cold, you’ll answer for it, Solaire.
The snow and the cold slowed Oscar’s pace. It took him a moment to reach Solaire’s side.
The lower knight failed to notice Oscar at first, too focused on trying to pull some carrots out of the frozen field.
Underneath his helmet, Oscar frowned.
He would not be so easily ignored, especially not by Solaire.
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but the ground is frozen. You’ll never manage to harvest these crops.”
Solaire gasped and jolted in surprise. In his shock, he pulled the carrots’ stems too strongly and ripped them from their roots.
Solaire straightened his back and looked at Oscar. His face was hidden behind a thick piece of cloth wrapped around his head and neck, leaving only a small slit between the folds for his eyes.
At least you had the common sense of protecting your face from the cold. Hardly an achievement, but worth mentioning.
“See? What did I tell you?” Oscar pointed at the stems on Solaire’s hand. “It was bound to happen. I don’t know what else you were expecting.”
Solaire looked down at the stems he was holding. Disappointment quickly showed in his eyes.
He let go of the destroyed leaves, ashamed, as if he had been defeated in a duel before his lord and a royal court.
Ridiculous.
Still, Solaire’s regret was genuine. His actions had been foolish and improper of a knight, but his heart had been in the right place. That alone deserved some acknowledgement, even if just a little.
“Well, now you know this little quest of yours was a fool’s errand all along. ” Oscar folded his arms on his chest. More than to look severe and imposing, he did so to keep himself from trembling. How Solaire had endured so many hours out in that sheer cold he couldn’t comprehend. “You should have known better from the start. Don’t forget you are a knight now, Solaire. It’s time you started acting like one.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” Solaire replied harshly. He dedicated a quick glare to Oscar before grabbing a new bunch of frozen stems and repeating the process. “Now, if you are done talking, please leave. I need to get back to it. The pleasure was all mine, sir.”
Oscar was speechless.
Had Solaire, foolish and gullible Solaire, really talked back to him?
Was he willingly ignoring him?
Had he ordered him to go away?
With his entire body burning with anger, Oscar forgot about the cold simmering in his bones and grabbed Solaire by his forearm. With a violent pull, he forced him to stand up.
“I told you to stop! You are making a fool out of yourself.”
Even more so than usual.
Oscar had to bite his tongue to keep those words from escaping him. They were too cruel. Furious as he was, he wasn’t as heartless as to mock Solaire in that manner.
“Knights do not harvest crops for the farmers, help milkmaids make butter, cut lumber for the blacksmiths or shoe other men’s horses. You looked ridiculous enough when you did all these errands when you were a soldier, but back then, it was only your own reputation you were tainting. Things have changed now. Your actions affect us all, Solaire. A knight’s actions are every knight’s responsibility. Make a fool out of yourself and you make a fool out of us all.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Solaire broke free from Oscar’s grip easily, more easily than Oscar had expected. For a moment, Oscar feared Solaire would retaliate with an attack, but all Solaire did was to glare at him again. “So what if I am a knight? This farmer’s crops will die if they don’t get harvested soon. How will he feed his family if this happens? Did any of this ever cross your mind or that of your friends, or were you three too busy laughing at me? Don’t think I didn't see you. Don't think I didn't hear all you said.”
Shame almost found its way into Oscar’s heart. He fought against it, unwilling to bear the faults of others as his own.
I did nothing wrong. It’s not my duty to speak up for upstart knights. Those who can't defend themselves shouldn’t be knights at all.
“You are wrong.” He said sternly. “They mocked you, but I did not. Bold of you to assume I would waste my breath on you, Solaire. By the lords, knight a peasant and suddenly he grows prideful and defiant. Maybe this too was inevitable. But what else could I have expected from Astora’s biggest buffoon? ”
Oscar had not intended to say the last sentence out loud, but Solaire’s impertinence and stubbornness had depleted his patience.
He had tried to be kind to him, he had genuinely attempted to save Solaire from the cold and from further humiliation, and in return, Solaire had confronted him.
It wasn’t fair.
Without warning, Solaire took a violent step toward Oscar.
Against his will, Oscar took a step back.
They stared at each other, with nothing but the winter winds breaking the silence.
Though the visor of his helmet kept Solaire from noticing, it was Oscar who looked away first.
He had known that insulting Solaire wouldn't be amusing or satisfying, but neither had he expected it to fill his chest with guilt.
“Just leave.” Solaire said under his breath. There was no anger in his voice, only exhaustion.
He turned his back on Oscar and focused once more on the frozen crops.
Soon, it was as if he had forgotten about Oscar’s presence completely.
Stubborn fool.
Oscar thought of walking away and conceding Solaire his wish.
His arms and feet were already getting numb inside the gelid confines of his armor. His nose was stuffed and his throat was starting to get sore.
A fever and a cold by tomorrow's morning were mandatory.
Perfect, what a wonderful way to end the day and start the next. Was it worth it? Lords, I knew I should have stayed in the godforsaken tavern.
“Do as you wish, then.” Oscar turned his back on Solaire. “Don’t be shocked when everyone mocks you tomorrow for allowing some farmer to trick you into doing his work while he gets drunk.”
“What?”
Oscar ignored Solaire at first, decided not to dignify him with an answer, but the honest disbelief in his voice prevented Oscar from leaving him to his fate.
With a heavy sigh, he turned around.
“That downtrodden and sick farmer that so much begged for your help didn’t look so sick to me. He is healthy enough to be dancing around and singing in the tavern about how you fell for his lie.”
“No.” Very slowly, as if his arms and legs had turned into stone, Solaire stood up. “That’s not true. He… he is very sick, you see. He can’t dance. He has a bad leg, a childhood injury that never truly healed. It never stops hurting, but it gets worse during winter. That’s why he...he asked for my help. His family...”
“I doubt his imaginary wife and children will starve to death any time soon. He seemed rather proud of his bachelorhood, now that I think about it. A jolly and happy life, free of brats and a nagging wife , or so he called it.”
“Oh my, what a misunderstanding. No, no, you got it all wrong.” With a trembling hand, Solaire pointed at the small house and the other end of the field. “His family is over there. They can’t leave the house in this weather. The… the children, they would get sick. They can’t help their father harvest these crops in this cold… and that’s why I...I...”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable even for Oscar. Had his fellow elite knights been there to witness Solaire’s moment of realization, they would have laughed at him without any regard for Solaire himself.
Oscar, perhaps, would have laughed too.
Yet, at that moment, he felt no desire to laugh at all. His anger, so incensed just a moment ago, vanished from his heart.
“I’m a fool.” Solaire said with what sounded like a drowned laugh. He dropped to his knees as a blow of wind snatched the cloth wrapped around his head and took it away, exposing Solaire’s face to the freezing cold. “What did you call me? Astora’s biggest buffoon… well, you aren’t too far off.”
He laughed again, but it was a hollow sound.
“It’s always the same.” Solaire lamented. “Always.”
“I see.” Oscar did not know what else he could say, but he knew that neither he nor Solaire would benefit from staying out in the cold any longer. Gentler than before, he helped Solaire back on his feet. “We’ve no business here. Let’s get back to the tavern before we freeze to death. I’ll see that the farmer receives a proper punishment for his impertinence.”
“No.” Solaire refused to move when Oscar pulled him. “Don’t. What good would any of that do?”
“Plenty. He’ll never dare to trick a knight again, and he’ll be a good example of what happens to those who think they can get away with such insolence. Do not worry, his punishment shall be harsh, not lethal.”
“No.”
“Solaire, you can’t possibly allow this to---”
“I said no.”
“Are you trying to impress me by being stupidly kind and forgiving? If so, let me tell you that it isn’t working. Now, if you are done with this little act of yours, let’s get moving. Hurry; I won't carry you if you pass out. I’ll just leave you here, so you can become a giant snowman for the children to play with.”
“Go where? To the tavern, so that the others can mock me?” Solaire took a step away from Oscar. “Haven’t they mocked me enough? No, I won’t do it. I may be an idiot, but even an idiot has pride. I’d rather stay here and be a snowman by tomorrow’s morning than be everyone’s laughing stock any longer.”
“That would be futile. They are still going to mock regardless of what you do, so might as well be warm and out of danger as they laugh at you. You cannot blame them for it, Solaire. If you don't want to be treated like an idiot, you shouldn't act like one.”
It was the truth. After the stunt he had pulled, Solaire would receive little else than mockery and laughter from knights, merchants and peasants alike for the days to come.
What else does he expect?
What else does he deserve?
Why does he...
Solaire fixed a weary gaze on Oscar. He said nothing, and there was no need, for it was enough to make Oscar’s thoughts come to a halt.
Concealing his regret under a neutral tone, Oscar reached out for Solaire’s arm a third time.
“I won’t allow it.” He said. “If anyone dares to laugh at you, they’ll answer to me. If you are worried about my fellow elite knights, don’t be. I’ll keep them in check too, you have my word.”
Rather than grateful, Solaire seemed baffled, as if Oscar had promised him to make him an elite knight first thing in the morning.
“Why?” Solaire said. It was then Oscar noticed how pale he was, and how loudly his teeth chattered. “Why would you do that? We are nothing to each other. I don't even know your name.”
“By the Lords, you are never satisfied, are you? I didn't offer you to be your friend and my name is none of your business. I want to help you, that's all. Of all people, you should understand, Solaire.”
“And I want to. I want to believe you mean what you say, but for all I know, it’s all a trick, just another one of the elite’s jests against me.”
“That would be a rather poorly executed jest, and I would be the victim of it, not you. By staying here with you, I’ve already caught a cold. My head hurts, I can't feel my hands, my nose is stuffed and it will be a miracle if the snow hasn’t rusted my pauldrons and greaves. Do you think I’d endure all these mishaps just to trick you into some ridiculous situation?”
Solaire’s expression softened, but suspicion and wariness remained in his eyes. Oscar was already starting to consider knocking Solaire unconscious and dragging him to the tavern by one of his legs when the lower knight finally gave him an answer.
“No, I don’t think you would.” Solaire said. He spoke so lowly that Oscar could barely hear him. “Forgive me for not trusting you. I did not intend to be rude, I just…”
“Oh, Solaire.” Oscar rested a hand on his shoulder on what Solaire interpreted as an understanding gesture. Sadly, he was quickly proven wrong. “You talk too much. I’ll listen to your apologetic speeches all you want, but only once we are back to the tavern. Understood?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good.” Oscar said with relief. “Let’s go then.”
“Wait!” Solaire exclaimed. “Just give me a moment to retrieve my equipment and then we--”
He looked around in all directions. Oscar did the same, but all he saw was a thick blanket of pure-white snow.
“I left them here.” Solaire pointed at a spot a few steps away from his feet. After a brief moment of pondering, he pointed at a more distant spot on his left. “No, I left them there. My helmet, my talisman, my sword and my shield. Or was it over there? No, it was here!”
“That doesn't matter.” Oscar snapped at him. “We don't have time for this. You’ll retrieve your equipment tomorrow.”
“I can’t leave it behind.” Solaire got on his knees and began digging with his hands. “My shield and sword will rust… my talisman will get destroyed too...and my helmet…. No, no, what a dreadful thought. I cannot leave it behind!”
It didn't take long for droplets of blood to start splattering around Solaire’s hands, but that wasn’t enough for him to stop digging.
“It’s not here.” Solaire admitted reluctantly. He stood up, no longer bothering to hide his desperation. He looked around restlessly, his panting creating small clouds in the freezing air. “I… I don’t remember. I--”
He turned around and faced Oscar, as if he could give him an answer, but there was nothing Oscar could do other than look at him in sympathy from under his helmet.
Disappointed and tired, Solaire looked down at his bleeding hands.
“Let’s go.” Oscar said as gently as he could, though it still came out like stern order rather than a kind offer. “There’s nothing left to be done here.”
Solaire did not answer.
Oscar was starting to fear he would once again refuse when he finally muttered a low, “Yes.”
-----------------------------------------------------------
Oscar did not have to carry Solaire. There was no need, as he only passed out after they entered the tavern. They were received by a jolly crowd. Some mocked Solaire loudly as soon as they saw him, whistling and applauding at him as if he was returning victorious from a duel; others were more discreet and simply gossiped among each other, covering their smiles with their pints and hands.
Before Oscar could order them all to be quiet, Solaire collapsed on the floor. He fell flat on his chest, as if a wayward arrow had pierced his heart and lungs.
A silence colder than the wind outside spread across the tavern.
“By the Lords, is the idiot going to die?” an elite knight said to his friend as he stopped leaning his ear against the closed door.
He spoke of Solaire as if he was a horse with a broken leg and not a man agonizing on a bed.
“How should I know? You’re the one listening to the whole thing, you stupid sod!” The other elite knight answered. Behind them, a small and curious crowd had gathered. Among them, there was the farmer responsible for that whole mess.
He was crying like a criminal sentenced to be beheaded publicly by tomorrow’s morning.
“I never meant for this to happen.” He muttered in between his sobbing. “It was a jest…”
“Quiet, you!” One of the elite knights exclaimed. He shooed the peasants away, threatening violence upon them if they did not disperse and returned to their own business that instant.
They all obeyed, even the farmer, though he was still crying when he left.
“That was a bit harsh.” The other elite knight told his partner. “They were doing nothing wrong.”
“Perhaps, but I couldn't hear a damn thing with their blabbering and that farmer’s cursed sobbing. “ The elite knight rested his helmeted ear against the door and closed one of his eyes as if that sharpened his hearing. “Now you shut up too so that I--”
The door opened.
The elite knight sprung backwards like a scared cat. He crashed against his partner’s chest, and together, they watched a third elite knight emerge from the room.
“By the Lords, Oscar! You almost scared me to death!” The elite knight exclaimed. His anger soon waned, overtaken by his curiosity. “Speaking of death... Tell us what happened! Hurry, before the peasants come again like chickens hungry for breadcrumbs of gossip. What will happen to the idiot? Is he going to die?”
The last word came distorted with an amused snort.
“Hey now, ” the second elite knight said to his partner. “I may find Solaire’s antics fun and entertaining, but you shouldn’t laugh at him right now…not in his current state.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had too many drinks and… Nah, to hell with it! I am not sorry at all!” The drunk elite knight exclaimed, no longer bothering to repress his laughter. “Why should I be sorry? Why should we pretend this is not what Solaire deserves? Serves him right for allowing some peasant to deceive him. In fact, where is that farmer? Bring him before me so I can kiss him on both cheeks for granting me some joy on a stressful day! Where are you, you magnificent bastard? Come here! Now now, don’t be shy--”
The elite knight never got to finish, for his helmet was forcefully removed from his head by Oscar. Before he could react or understand what was happening, a gauntlet shaped like a fist crashed on his mouth.
He fell on his back, blood dripping from his mouth and busted lip.
“Oscar! Have you gone mad?!” The second elite knight asked in distress as he went to his partner’s side and helped him sit down.
“You damn bastard.” The injured elite knight stuttered, touching his bloodied mouth tenderly with his fingers. “You loosened my front teeth. You won’t get away with this, you’ll see! Once I’m done with you, you won’t be knight enough to guard the public muck pit!”
“You talk too much but you say so little. Typical of a fool.” Oscar said,unaffected by the other’s threats. “How about you stop wasting your nasty breath and do something good for a change? Guard this room, the both of you. Do not let anyone enter, and should the healer need anything, make sure you get it for her.”
“What, are we the guardians of the idiot out of a sudden? As if!” The drunk elite knight stood up, despite his friend doing his best to keep him quiet and on the floor. He spat a bloodied phlegm on Oscar’s tunic. “Look at you, acting so smug, trying to put yourself above everyone elsr, like you always do! Take your selfrightouness and cram it up your ass, Oscar. As if you cared about the idiot at all… as if you didn’t hate the way he makes all of us Astoran knights look like fools! What is that you always say? If he didn’t want to be treated like an idiot, he wouldn’t act like one. Well, you are absolutely right! And if he didn’t want to be at death’s doorstep, he shouldn’t have stayed out in the sheer cold for hours like an absolute nitwit!”
“Well, aren't you fond of my sayings. Here's a new one for you.” Oscar said calmly before pulling his fellow elite knight closer to him and landing another punch on his lips. The other fell to the floor again, and this time, he spat out not only blood, but two teeth. “If you didn’t want to get your mouth torn apart, you wouldn’t have opened it so much.”
The injured elite knight couldn’t answer. A sudden rush of vomit, mostly caused by the amount of drink in his stomach, finally came gushing from his mouth.
“Make sure this fool stays down and doesn’t cause any more ruckus.” Oscar said to the second elite knight, who looked at him as if he was a scolded child. “And please, do as I told you. Guard this door and make sure the healer has all she needs while I’m gone.”
“I.. I…” The elite knight looked at his almost passed out partner and then at Oscar again. He sighed, almost as exhausted as Oscar was. “Very well. But, where are you going?”
“I won’t take long.” It was the only answer Oscar gave him.
As he left the tavern, the curious crowd looked at him as if they had just witnessed a murder. They all stepped out of his way as Oscar passed them by.
All except for a farmer with red and swollen eyes.
“Sir.” He muttered to Oscar. “Sir, I’m so sorry. You have to believe me, this is not what I wanted. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
Oscar stopped and glared at him from under his helmet, but his expression soon softened.
If he did this, it is because he is following our example. This is what we elite knights have allowed.
“Sir.” The farmer kneeled next to Oscar and tried to hold his hand. “Please.”
Oscar backed away from him as if he had been burned and left the tavern without saying a word.
------------------------------------------------------------------
He felt unreasonably disappointed.
Perhaps, it was because of it that he refused to stop digging.
They’re not here.
The rational side of his mind whispered
They’re not anywhere.
A more fantasious but no less persistent side added.
“They are here. Somewhere.” Oscar replied to himself. If anyone saw him talking to his own mind, they would think of him as a madman clad in stolen armor, not as a rightful knight.
It would not be a baseless supposition, for an elite knight did not dig into the snow like some mutt in search of a lost bone.
Thankfully, or perhaps regrettably, there was no one around to look at him and laugh. Or, in a more idlilic scenario, to offer him a much needed hand.
You know who would be perfect for that? Solaire! But no… Lords, no. He had to go and get himself sick! And by doing so, he left this cursed task all to me! Who does he think I am? Some pig trained to search truffles for him? Some squire he can send to find his ridiculous equipment?
“They’re not here!” Oscar exclaimed, unable to state otherwise any longer. Snow had leaked through his gauntlets, freezing his fingers and lacerating his skin with dozens of sharp and small cuts.
He retrieved them from the snow and tried to stand up, but his knees and ankles were numb with cold and pain. After a long moment of effort, Oscar got back on his shaky legs. He turned around and looked at the many holes he had dug on the frozen field. Some of them were starting to get filled again with fresh falling snow.
Disappointment and anger faded and gave way to despair.
The helmet, the talisman, the sword and the shield.
If he didn’t find them soon, it wouldn’t take long before he lost track of the place where he had already searched.
And then…
So what if that happens? All I’d have to do next is go back to the tavern and forget about this whole thing. I’d owe no explanations to no one, especially not Solaire. That is if he isn’t already dead by then.
Oscar stopped thinking as he had been struck by an invisible hand.
Truth was that Solaire had not asked him to go find his equipment for him; he had been too moribund to do anything else other than rave like a lunatic about how much he needed to go back and retrieve his possessions before they got ruined under the snow.
Oscar didn’t understand why. The helmet was nothing special, the talisman was little more than an old rag and the shield was a mockery of what a knight’s shield should look like, with that foolish sun painted all over its surface.
The only piece with some value to it was the sword, and even that was highly arguable.
But even so…
“Dammit.” Oscar slowly walked to a new position and knelt down.
He repeated the process again.
Even if I am looking for nothing else than a bunch of scrap metal whose value is strictly sentimental, I will not give up. I will not be defeated by Solaire’s simple task! Who does he think he is? Who does he think I am?
He dug and dug.
Blood leaking from his gauntlets painted the red snow.
He kept digging, but he found nothing.
He moved to another spot, then another.
The result was the same.
My hands, my legs. I’m tired, I want to go back… no, no! Solaire stayed out in this cold for hours! Does he think I can’t do the same? Who does he think I am? An upstart knight, best an elite? Never!
Anger fueled his movements, but Solaire was not the reason behind it.
Why did he do it? What was he trying to prove? I don't get it… I don't… What am I…?
Oscar’s sight became blurry and his thoughts began to scatter.
Amidst his fever, he looked at me. He said…
His fingers scratched a solid surface.
"Please."
-------------------------------------------------------------------
He had survived the night.
His recovery would take a while, but his life was not in danger. The healer had done her job well.
Solaire had wanted to thank her, but she had left without waking him up.
Had she taken care of him for free out of the kindness of her heart, or had someone else paid her in Solaire’s stead?
Solaire could only wonder, but he knew the latter was more likely. He wanted to care more about the matter, but he had too little strength of body and spirit to focus his thoughts on anything beyond the room and bed he occupied.
The mere idea of going outside and facing the world was disheartening.
He was not naive enough to think his close encounter with death would soften the people’s hearts, especially not after he had survived.
He would be everyone’s laughing stock for the days to come. If he had managed to earn some respect from other knights since being knighted on the battlefield months ago, all of it would have been lost last night.
All his efforts had been wasted in an instant.
But I cannot stay here forever… I have to go back to my life. I have to live among my people, eat in their company, protect them and fight by their side. I have to face them with my head high.
The thought was meant to be comforting, perhaps even wise, but it only discouraged him further.
Solaire covered his eyes with his forearm and breathed out a bitter chuckle.
"But such is the life I've built for myself." Solaire muttered with a hollow smile as the silk of his shirt absorbed his tears. "Such is the life of Astora's biggest buffoon."
He wallowed in his self-pity for longer than he had done in his life. Eventually, realizing the futility of it and disgusted at his own weakness, Solaire stopped
Crying had solved nothing. The world outside and its people remained unchanged.
Perhaps it would be best if I face it now .
Slowly, Solaire got himself out of bed. The taverner and the few people in the tavern at that time in the morning were as good a start as any.
Or perhaps…
The idea that so often fluttered around his mind became so vivid that it felt almost like an order towards himself.
Why not go through with it?
Lately, Solaire often considered it.
Why not attempt to become an Undead and leave Astora for good?
Could he really say he had something dear enough to him in his homeland to be bound to it any longer?
Friends and family he had none. His achievements were seldom recognized, his missteps were always remembered. He had believed things would change for the better after becoming a rightful knight, but last night, he had discovered he had thought wrong.
I love Astora. I love my people.
Solaire thought once he was done putting his armor on. It was too heavy for his tired body, but he was a knight. It was time he started acting like one.
But I can’t —
The sight of his equipment disrupted his thoughts. Solaire didn’t believe his eyes at first.
His helmet, his talisman, his sword and his shield.
Someone had found them and returned them to him. Solaire had not wanted to think about his lost equipment. He was sure they were lost for good, he was convinced that he would find them ruined by the snow once he went to retrieve them later that day.
But there they were, right before his eyes. Solaire promptly knelt down to inspect each piece. The feather of his helmet was gone, but the helmet itself was undamaged. His talisman was dry; whoever had found it must have hung it in the tavern’s hearth. His sword and shield would require a blacksmith’s care, but they were perfectly salvageable.
“But…” Solaire stuttered, relieved and confused in equal doses. “Who?”
Then, he remembered he knew the answer.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Oscar lifted his visor just enough to release his sneeze. He had not slept well, and the fever from last night had not disappeared yet.
But last night was gone and a new day had dawned.
There were duties he had to tend to, and they cared not if he was sick or healthy.
Such was the life of an elite knight.
“Look.” His fellow elite knight said to Oscar, bumping him strongly on the arm. Without his front teeth, he sounded like a completely different man, but the venom and resentment in his voice was palpable. “Your lady has come to bid you farewell.”
Oscar didn’t understand what the other meant at first, but everything became clear when Solaire’s voice reached his ears.
“Wait!” Solaire exclaimed. He had followed them outside the tavern.
Oscar saw how the two other elite knights walked away from Solaire and ignored him as if he was ridden with disease. They said nothing in derision to him, they simply turned their backs to him and left.
Oscar tried to do the same, but Solaire approached him before he could escape.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Solaire asked.
Oscar answered by turning his back to him, but he didn’t walk away. He supposed Solaire still had something to say.
He was not wrong.
“Thank you.”
Oscar remained still for a little while, but he left without saying anything in return.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Solaire watched the three elite knights go.
As they became lost in the distance, he could no longer distinguish the one that had helped him from the other two.
He stayed outside for a moment. Eventually, Solaire went back inside the tavern.
The idea from before never faded from his mind, and it gained strength whenever he heard a distant chuckle or insult thrown at him.
But when Solaire returned to the room and looked at his beloved equipment, he decided he would not go trough with it.
Perhaps, one day, he would.
But not today.
Now properly dressed and with his shield, his sword, his talisman and helmet in place, he left the room to face the world with his head high.
Not today.
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This is for my lovely @beccabarba who requested this:
<One Nick x Reader request isn't enough! Could you write reader having a bad day and she texts Nick and tells him and he comes over to make it all better, trying to be sweet, and she's like, 'you know what would make me feel better'...😏 Smut ensues!>
Hope this hits the spot lovely, it sure hit mine and hope you pick up on the little inside jokes hehe x
WC: 1739
Warnings: Oral Smut
Enjoy x
The day was crap from the moment you opened your eyes. You should have known what was ahead. Your hot water cut out mid shower, you spilt your coffee on your white button down as you went into your final exam for the semester and after a meeting with your professor wanting to talk about an assessment you surprisingly failed you were done with the day.
You had always been academic, always wanting to better yourself and learn new things. You had transferred from Miami Vice and once you settled into SVU in Manhattan you looked around to study something to excel your SVU career and skills. You had settled on a Criminal Psychology Degree night course. Liv was happy with both you and Sonny for studying and was flexible as much as she could be with your studies more so during exams.
You walked out of your Professors office mad, sad and tired. Kicking yourself for the stupid mistakes that lead to a fail in the first place. You pulled your phone out of your pocket opening it to your message chain to your close friend and partner Nick,
Y/N 1pm: I’ am done with today : (
Nick 1.03pm: What’s happened? Exam didn’t go well?
Y/N 1.05pm: Cold shower, spilt coffee on a white shirt, failed assessment and long ass exam.
Y/N 1.07pm: How was your trip? Are you home?
You were at your kitchen sink trying to scrub the coffee stain out of your shirt and music blaring. Your hair was tied up in a high bun out of the way, ¾ black leggings with a slightly loose camo puller over and black slippers. You had just filled up the sink with water for your shirt to soak when you heard knocks on the door. You turned the music down and made your way to the door swinging it open singing along to the song playing over your blue tooth speaker,
‘I’m hot, sticky sweet from my head to my feet yeah’
Nick chuckled at you a big grin on his face,
“I like that song” He winked at you walking past you into your apartment holding some brown paper bags.
“I’ am sorry- do I know you?” you raised an eye brow at him, following him into your open plan kitchen, Nick turning to look at you after he put the bags on the kitchen bench. “My gosh Guapo” you reached over and ran your hand down his bearded jaw.
“You like it?”
“Oh my yes. That has made my day better already” You winked at him.
You both sat at your kitchen table eating your favourite wraps from your favourite deli and iced coffee that Nick had brought to try and cheer you up,
“What do you need to do to make up the marks?” Nick took a sip of his drink.
You sighed and rolled your eyes “If I pass today’s exam Professor Neill said I don’t need to write it again, but-“
“You’ll be fine. This is the first thing you have failed in two years”
You giggled and shrugged your shoulders “Here’s hoping. How was your trip how is Zara and Gil?”
“It was good. They are both doing great-”
You sat at your kitchen table as Nick moved around the room cleaning up after you had both finishing eating. You were sitting up straight, pushing your shoulders back arching your back and rubbing your neck trying to push the knot that was in your neck.
“Sore neck?” you looked over at Nick wiping his hands dry with a tea towel as you stretched your arms up above your head to try and loosen it up.
“Yeah, been slouching too much”
You gasped when you felt Nick’s hands on your neck. His long fingers rubbing into your neck, his thumbs running just under the collar on your t shirt. Nick’s pointer finger pushed into the knot on one side of your neck and you moaned,
“Oh Nick right there”
Nick cleared his throat as he felt himself stiffen slightly when he heard you moan. Nick worked the knot out and he kissed you on the top of the head when he heard you sigh contently. Nick squeezed your shoulder and you moved your hand to rest on top of his looking up at him through your lashes,
“Better?”
You stood up standing flush with his body. His body heat radiating through your cloths,
“Much. But do you know what would make me feel even better?”
“What?” Nick growled deep his eyes narrowing grinning at you, running his hands up and down your shoulders and arms.
You lifted your pointer finger to his jaw and ran it down over his extremely soft facial hair,
“Feeling this between my thighs”
“Is that all you want?” Nick whispered into your ear before he started to kiss down your neck.
“It’s what I deserve. You made me fail my assessment”
Nick laughed smiling into your neck,
“When I asked to come over you should have said no”
You giggled and one of your hands brushed down to cup him through his jeans,
“You know I can never say no to you Nick” you gave him a light squeeze.
“Maybe you should learn”
Nick’s lips met yours for a deep kiss, your tongue’s fighting each other’s. Darting into each other’s mouths. Nick pulled back and you pulled your hand away from his crotch, you ran your fingers of both hands into his bearded cheeks.
“You know I like learning so-“
“Kidding” Nick almost shouted in protest with a smirk reaching down to pick you up by the backs of your thighs “Supongo que será mejor que le compense a mi hermosa dama (Guess I better make it up to my beautiful lady)- although you won’t be much a lady once I’ am done with you”
Nick put you down on the floor of your room and made quick work of undressing you and then himself. He was in front of you in no time kissing all over your neck and kissing down to your collar bone, sucking and nipping your nipple lightly, his beard running over your skin making you so extremely wet, that it was running down your thigh. Nick pulled back making his way to your bed laying on his back, his hard cock standing to attention. You walked over to him, wrapping your hand around it giving it a couple of storks, twisting your wrist every so often. Nick groan and pushed your hand away,
“Tonight Y/N, is not about me” Nick sat up pulling you on the bed, grabbing a thigh to pull it over him so you were straddling his stomach and he laid back down “I have some making up to do to you and I have a way you can get some extra credits” Nick winked at you. Nick pushed your thighs up to give you the hint to move up his body. You raised your eye brows at him as you moved up, your knees now resting in his elbows.
“Are you sure?” Nick could see the slight hesitation on your face.
“Yes” Nick’s smile predatory “You want to feel this” Nick moved his head to run his chin over your skin and you whimpered “Between your thighs and I have missed the taste of mi dulce coño (my sweet pussy)” Nick’s hands moved to grab onto your ass cheeks giving them a tight squeeze and then a slap “Sit in my face mi Amor” Nick’s voice was deep and matter of fact.
You rested your hands on the top of head board, Nick’s hands pushing your hips down, his nose brushing your clit as you moaned and slammed your eyes shut. Nick moved his head to the side kissing your thighs in big open mouth kisses, the feeling of his beard making you rock against his face.
“Feel that good mi Amor” Nick nipped at your thigh and brushed his beard over it
“Oh Nick” you moaned loud.
Nick smiled into your thigh before he moved his head back to your core and started to run his tongue over your folds, sticking it in as far as he could, licking up to your clit sucking it between his lips. Nick reached up with one hand grabbing a hand full of your breast, twisting and tugging on your nipple and reaching down to his hard cock wrapping his other hand around it stroking himself fast.
You could feel everything tightening every time Nick sucked in your harden pulsing bud. You started to grind onto his face with every suck he gave you. You could feel your arousal running onto his face coating his beard. Nick sucked on your clit and then pulled back blowing on it. You mouth went slack at the sensation, groaning when he sucked it between his lips again, licking your inner walls and flicking it with his tongue tip.
Nick’s pace fastened on himself hearing your moans and groans, he knew you were close. Your coil was wound so tight you started to breath heavy and your body was on fire. One last lick and a quick suck when you grinded hard onto his face and you were screaming “Nick” over and over again with your eyes shut tight your hips moving fast over Nicks mouth and face until you came down from your high.
You felt Nick’s arm moving fast and you moved off him like a flash kneeling between his legs, pushing his hand away and taking him fully into your mouth hitting the back of your throat, flatting your tongue on the underside on the way back up and taking him fully into your mouth again. Nick’s hand balled into a fist in your hair and he tugged on it, not enough to pull you off or hurt you and felt his hot salty cum flood into your mouth.
You licked him clean like you would a melting icy pole and pulled off Nick with a pop. Nick sat up pulling you into his chest kissing you deeply,
“Did I make all better?” Nick kissed along your jaw.
“You sure did. We need to do that again before you shave this off” You ran your nose over his jaw.
Nick winked and kissed you lightly,
“If it turns on you that much mi Amor its going no where.”
Tags: @thatesqcrush @the-baby-bookworm @permanentlydizzy @amorestevens
#nick amaro#nick amaro x reader#nick amaro x you#nick amaro smut#nicolas amaro#detective nicolas amaro#law and order svu#SVU fanfiction#SVU FANDOM#svu fan#nbc svu#svu smut#danny pino
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Prince of Nothing III
~ Part Three of Five ~
Release Date: July 17,2020 @ 12 a.m. (GMT-4)
Word Count: 6,646
Jeon Jungkook was the prince of everything except for you…
Jeon Jungkook was the prince of everything: heaven, hell, and everything in between. His family was an enigma who came to power under mysterious circumstances and had managed to retain hold over the kingdom for centuries - even if no one knew how. There was one thing that Jungkook wanted though, something that could never be his: you. A nobody. A girl with no title. No land. Just money and a pure soul to your name. Jeon Jungkook would’ve never spared a look your way, had that incident not occurred. Now you find yourself the target of his affection and the most hated woman in all the land. Which will kill you first?
Trigger Warning: Some of the contents in this story may not be suitable for all audiences. These include toxic relationships, manipulation, gore and various forms of abuse as well as rationalization of said abuse. This is a work of fiction and doesn’t represent the character of bangtan sonyeondan. Enjoy ~~~
A small part of Yoongi trembles at the sight of the light blue house just a few feet away. It had been several weeks since he’d been there and it took all of his self-control, and a bit more, to stay away. It was his safe space. Somewhere he felt incredibly safe and after the guilt threatened to eat him alive Yoongi needed a break. Needed his songbird to take away his pain even if it was momentarily. The driver opened the car door, allowing him to step out. His saunter was light, feet barely touching the ground, even though he desired nothing more than to break into a sprint. Min Yoongi must always maintain an air of pacificity and general aloofness. Emotions were a weakness and now that the prince was aware of his, Yoongi had to proceed with caution.
“Welcome home, Master.”
“Where is he?”
Yoongi wasted no time with pleasantries. His cat-like eyes darted around every corner of the room attempting to find any trace of his beloved. “He’s in the garden master. He hasn’t eaten much since your departure.” Yoongi sighed, heading towards the back porch. There were many places that his songbird was allowed to be inside the manor, but he always preferred the garden. It was the only piece of the outside world he was entitled to see, Yoongi had told him it was for his protection. Even if they both knew it was a lie.
As he turned the corner he suddenly stopped, from where he stood he could see the porch in all its entirety. The glass that encased it allowed for one to view the beauty of the outside world without being exposed to the harshness the elements may bring. It was a beautiful day, the setting sun filtered through the glass creating prisms of rainbows which danced around the room but what shined brightly was him: draped longingly across the plush blue velvet chaise. The tan of his skin glowed effortlessly and Yoongi always found himself admiring it. When he wasn’t admiring the pillowy lips, sharp eyes, and rounded bottom that is.
“Songbird?” The man in question paid him no mind, despite Yoongi knowing he'd been heard. Slowly he approached him, his songbird was delicate yet ferocious. Life had forced him to live on extremes to survive and though Yoongi wished he could say that all of this had changed since being in his care - it had only worsened.
“I thought you would’ve replaced me by now. Seeing as you have found yourself a new toy.” There was an edge to the man’s tone, the words almost withered at the end.
Yoongi rushed towards him, his strong arms cradling his fragile lover, as he tried to calm his fears. “No, my love. That wasn’t for me. It was a favor I did for the prince.” His songbird stilled in his arms, he had only met the prince once in his life but it was enough to instill fear in him forever. A repressed memory of blood and screams flashing in front of the young man’s eyes. Yoongi didn’t understand why his lover struggled to get out of his hold.
“J-”
“So you’ve condemned someone else to suffer the same fate as I have?!" There it was the rage in his eyes. Yoongi shakes his head ready to defend himself, but his love doesn't buy it. "Why else would a Jeon be interested in a commoner?!" Despite all his efforts, Yoongi managed to maneuver the man back into his arms. Yoongi felt fire travel through his veins, vexed at how his beloved behaved.
“Don’t speak as if you are a prisoner. I have given you the world.”
“In return, you’ve locked me away in a cage, so that your songbird may only sing for you.”
Yoongi scoffs, shoving his songbird off him and standing up. "If you don't want me then, I'll leave. Wallow in your self-pity by yourself." Before Yoongi could take even a step away, the younger man had grabbed hold of his wrist. It was several seconds of tense silence before he finally spoke. "I've longed for you so much. Please don't leave me alone again." Just like that his songbird was broken once again, unable to sing. Tenderly, Yoongi placed his hands on either side of his lover's cheeks, cupping them gently as he leaned in closer. Their kiss was superficial, one-sided, but it didn't mean it wasn't passionate. Even if one side was fulled by love and the other by loathing.
YN ran through the long-winded corridors attempting to find a way out. She had been running for several minutes now and knew that she couldn’t be too far off from a staircase or the servant’s quarters, but her surroundings remained the same. It felt as if she was running in place. As if the castle itself was determined to not let her escape. Eventually, YN’s body grew depleted and she rested against the wall, listening intently for either guards or her captor to come to find her. It was the rhythmic clicking of heels that alerted her that someone was near. Vito, who had been comfortably resting upon YN’s forearm trailed up her body, wrapping across her neck and dangling down: ready to attack.
Jungkook had given YN a weapon, one that wouldn’t attack him, but wouldn’t hesitate to defend her. It caused her to worry, it meant that the prince was certain he was not the only threat to her safety. It seems there were those who were bigger and worse than him - or liked to pretend they were. Mistress Eun rounded the corner, her flamboyant yellow dress caused her to stick out like a sore thumb. It had been weeks since YN had seen the woman responsible for her brother’s death. If it were up to Eun both of them would be six feet under. Mistress Eun, in a world of her own, didn’t notice YN until they were mere feet apart. Her expression was one of shock before she quickly schooled it, grinning maliciously.
“Well if it isn’t the talk of the town.” Eun’s eyes dragged down YN’s figure and a disgruntled look overcame her face when she noted how YN’s lavish gowns far surpassed hers. “If it isn’t the prince’s whore, look at you effectively climbing up the social ladder. What would your brother say?”
YN didn’t respond, too furious to even attempt too, on the outside though she looked nonchalant and that bothered the older woman. It enraged her. “You really ought to be thanking me, child, if it weren’t for me you would have never met the prince. Likely would’ve died in a pigsty with no one to remember you.” The wrath turned icy cool and YN began to wonder if this is how Jungkook felt at times. She could almost hear him whispering to her: Do it. Hurt her. You know you want to. Mistress Eun stepped closer to YN, face mere inches away from hers as she hurled more insults. “The two of you were rats. Pests. If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be here so don’t think so highly of yourself. You’re just a plaything to spare his boredom.” YN smirked causing Eun’s blood to boil.
You wouldn’t get caught. It would be so simple. Vito could do it. YN tightened her fists, letting her nails dig into the palms of her hands.
“Then again, had your brother simply accepted to sleep with me and not embarrassed me with his rejection he’d still be alive.” Had Eun known those words would seal her fate, perhaps she’d have been more careful. Though it is unlikely she would have, she was never particularly smart and always brash.
YN’s hands flew around Eun’s throat tightening and squeezing as Vito jumped out aiding her. Do it! Kill her! It was not her voice inside her head, it was not her controlling her movements. Once YN realized that she ripped her hands off Eun's throat, taking Vito with her. By then, however, it was too late. Mistress Eun lay dead on the castle floor. The shock caused YN to remain frozen staring at the hollow eyes that seemed to plead at her. Her haze dropped to her hands where Vito was resting, they were shaking incessantly. Jungkook’s voice was no longer in her head, but YN was certain it wasn’t a delusion. What is going on? Strong arms wrapped around YN’s torso hoisting her up, YN’s reaction was too delayed to have been able to do anything.
It was someone YN had never met, blonde ashen hair stood out against his dark palette. He cast one glance at Eun before his hooded eyes fell upon YN a sense of familiarity in them. “The guards will be here any second. Run straight and turn left, there is a large tapestry attached to the wall. Push against it with all your might, it’s a door. Follow the sound of the cicadas and you’ll make it out.” YN parted her lips to question him, but she heard the distant murmurs of guards. “Take that thing with you.” The stranger looked disparagingly at Vito who hissed back. YN gripped the serpent in her hand and took off, sparing one final glance at the mysterious stranger.
Jungkook held the mouse over Morte’s head, allowing the snake to lunge before quickly moving it away. This continued until the activity eventually grew dull and Jungkook let the dead mouse drop into the snake’s jaw. The young prince rolled over onto his bed, his mind drifting towards YN’s fear-ridden expression when she’d failed at hurting him. Not to mention the look of shock when he’d called her his queen. The girl was full of surprises and was like a drug to Jungkook - strangely addicting. A part of him longed to be near her at all times but knew that wouldn’t be the smartest decision. There were always eyes on Jeon Jungkook, but now there were eyes on YN too and he couldn’t risk it. Not if he wanted his plan to work.
Morte stilled beside him alerting Jungkook to the potential danger. Jungkook lifts himself from his bed, looking towards the door. Awaiting the knock that was sure to come, Jungkook wondered who would be so audacious as to bother him in his bed chambers. They were likely more reckless than bold. "Come in." Jungkook mumbles, seconds later Seo Kangjoon is greeting him. Jungkook supposes he should have known it wouldn't be long before the Seo’s came to force his hand. It aggravated him to no end that they thought he would simply bend over to their will. The Seo’s held power: their family was the head of agriculture in the land. The crown needed them for crops and they were very popular, along with the peasantry, seen as beautiful yet polite people. What a fucking joke. Jungkook saw through their facade, much like everyone else the Seo’s were desperate for more power. Becoming part of the royal family would provide that in unprecedented amounts.
“To what do I owe the pressure of having the Kangjoon in my bedroom unannounced? Hoping for a repeat of that night?” Jungkook smirked, seeing Kangjoon visibly tense. The prairie’s golden boy had too much to drink during his bachelor’s night and Jungkook was there to witness his true depravity. Kangjoon shook his head, “Would you have accepted my requests to see you had I done so officially, your highness?” It annoyed the prince to no end how Seo refused to play along. Kangjoon wasn’t as smart as Soojin, not by any means, but it was his sex that determined he be the heir. Even if Soojin was destined to rule. Though Kangjoon’s intelligence lay in his practicality - which is why he always refused to engage in mind games with the prince. He knew he’d lose.
“I am here to warn you.” Oh? "I have a meeting with the king to discuss your marriage with my cousin. We don't wish to force the hand of a future family member, but given the recent developments, we are quite embarrassed. I hope you understand." Kangjoon bowed deeply, excusing himself before heading towards the King's corridors. Jungkook gazed out towards his spot, his hand lashed out gripping the canopy of his bed and in one swift move, it crushed in his hand. It almost landed on his snake had Morte not had fast reflexes. Jungkook left the room searching for his beloved fiance.
Soojin had never looked worse. The purple welts around her neck were too small and thin to have been caused by human hands leading Jungkook to assume it had been Vito who’d done the damage and not YN. Still, Soojin’s usually perfect hair was a tangled mess that darted in every direction and her almond eyes were puffy and red around the edges. The second she saw Jungkook she let him know who was to blame, “She did this to me.” Jungkook didn’t answer simply kissing her forehead gently, Soojin leaned into his embrace. Soojin places her head in the crook of the prince’s neck closing her eyes. Her neck ached painfully, but she had refused any more medication not wanting to see the pitying look of the palace’s healer.
“Your cousin is here to speak to my father about our wedding.”
Soojin stills, raising her head cautiously. She recognizes the edge in Jungkook’s tone. “I’m sorry. It isn’t him, but my mother who insists we be wed. I told her about the king, but-”
“Shush.” Jungkook smiled tenderly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s okay, I forgive you.” Soojin frowned, confused by his words, Jungkook hated being told what to do. Undermining him to go see his father would have definite consequences. “In fact, I think they’re right.” Soojin pulled away from Jungkook, needing space to properly comprehend what he was saying.
Jungkook smiles, dimples on show, “Let’s get married.”
YN had been walking for hours, it had been evening when YN had escaped but something told her it was nearing dawn. The corridors were cold and damp, unlike the rest of the palace they looked incredibly old. A testament to its legacy. The cold had been too much for Vito who was now nestled inside YN’s bosom, needing heat to survive. Being unable to properly see anything in front of her due to the darkness, it made her footing sloppy. So, when she stepped on a loose stone and twisted her ankle she went down with great force. “Fuck.” It was then that YN began to wonder if she would die inside the castle walls. Her body withering away until nothing, but a corpse remained. Would she join her brother? Or had her actions led to her having a reserved space in hell? YN was somewhat surprised Jungkook hadn’t found her yet but was also terrified that her thoughts seemed to always go to him.
It was as if she was under a spell. Though it was certain that Jungkook had found a way to bind Vito to her, she didn't want to focus on how she questioned if the prince had done the same thing to them. Before with Eun, she had not been herself. As if someone were coercing her into doing said things. YN trembled with fear if Jungkook could coerce her into murder then what else could he have her do?
“He’s a menace!”
Her head snapped left as she heard more yells and strange noises. YN pushed herself up from the ground with the little strength that remained and walked towards them. Soon enough, YN saw a light, getting closer; she saw what looked like a window peering into the room. Upon closer inspection, it was a mirror that looked into someone’s private office though who YN couldn’t decipher. Not until the figure emerged from the corner babbling to himself in an incoherent way that explained his state of mind. “Jungkook has been a murderer since the day he was born and will lead this kingdom to ruin if I don’t stop him!” YN’s hands flew up to her mouth to stop the gasp. YN had heard much about King Jeon the II growing up, the man was ferocious in the way only a Jeon could be. Still, he paled in comparison to Jeon the I, and that meant the war and social injustices that had long plagued the kingdom ended during his reign, or so it seemed.
YN couldn’t see all of him now, his back was towards her as the King faced a portrait hanging on the wall. Nonetheless, she could recognize the familiar slope of his shoulders and rigid posture as something his son had inherited. Yes, Jungkook was very much his father but managed to surpass him at a young age in just about every aspect. Even the love of his people. For that, it was said the king would always despise him but the real reason lay in the portrait he spoke to. No one knew much about the late Queen only that she was effortlessly beautiful and seeing her portrait YN couldn’t agree more. She held a softness to her that contrasted greatly with her husband and son, though if YN looked deeper she could see Jungkook had parts of her too.
Jeon muttered to himself once more and it dawned on YN that he was speaking to the portrait. "You're right my love. If I do it the people will turn against me, but if we blame the Kim girl…" YN's eyes widened, she stepped back, her back hitting the stone wall behind her. At that moment, Jeon freezes as if aware he's being watched. "Come out." The king speaks lowly, all the anguish has gone from his voice. In a split second, he draws a dagger from his clothes and sends it hurtling toward its target. But instead of the mirror, it is the door. YN doesn't waste the opportunity and flees once more.
"Mistress Eun was found dead last night. Similar attack to the one that occurred to the princess, Miss YN is nowhere to be found." Baekhyung announces loudly, his back bent at a ninety-degree angle to not offend the crown prince. Jungkooks nods, wiping his hands free of blood before returning to the book on his desk. Baekhyung grimaces slightly at the sight before him, knowing it’ll be him cleaning up the mess as the maids won’t go near the body. “Make sure to find her Baekhyung and bring her back to me.” Jungkook picks up the book leaning back in his chair, the title ‘Golden Ones’ had always drawn the guards attention but he knew to ponder any further would get him killed.
“What is the official story, your highness?”
Jungkook cast one final glance at Kangjoon’s corpse, it was a bloody mess with the heart ripped out and blood still oozing. The prince would have to replace his favorite carpet. “The king was so upset with having his hand forced about the Seo matter that he lost it and killed their last male heir. What a tragedy.” Baekhyung nods, before tilting his head towards Jinyoung who sighed under his breath and helped him carry the body out.
By the time YN had managed to escape dawn had broken and the sky was a pleasant mix of oranges, pinks, and purples all blended. Perhaps it had been the fact that YN had remained surrounded by darkness all night, that it had been so long since she had felt the warmth of the sun on her skin and the beauty of nature surrounding her that caused YN to stop. Vito was still asleep, YN felt exhaustion spread throughout her body. She began to sway from one side to the next and knew it wouldn’t be long until she collapsed. YN forced herself to continue forward, attempting to reach the edge of the forest before anyone caught her. The more distance she traveled the farther away the forest seemed. YN wasn’t sure if her perception was muddled or there was something else at play here.
It wouldn't matter anyway for the prince's guard hounds were on her tail. "You there! What do you think you're doing?!" YN let out a sigh of frustration. Every damn time. YN watched a large man with dark hair and thick eyebrows approach her, a bit of tension leaving her body when she realized he must have been a regular guard and not part of the knighthood. “I’m sorry, I was visiting my sister in the servant’s quarters when I got lost.” YN couldn’t think of anything more convincing but figured something complex wouldn’t work well in her case. The guard’s eyes narrowed, “As if I’m going to believe that. You look like a common whore, probably hoping to snag some nobleman, huh?”
The guard gripped her tightly pulling her close so that their bodies were touching. Almost instantaneously, the man fell to his knees back twisting painfully as he groaned out in pain. “I would refrain from touching what isn’t yours.” YN recognized the voice and turned around to see Jinyoung accompanied by another man dressed in similar attire. “The prince wouldn’t appreciate knowing some lowlife dirtied his favorite toy.” YN’s face scrunched up in disgust at Jinyoung’s words, she began to wonder whether she could escape the men but it seems they were onto her.
“Miss YN, the prince has been searching for you all night. He requests your presence.” The shorter one spoke, YN raised her eyebrow at him but he simply smiled. “Kim Baekhyung, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” YN ignored him, “You can tell the prince that I dissent his request.” Jinyoung smiled, “Ah, I forgot to mention the prince never did say we had to bring you back in one piece.”
“Oh, how you always manage to surprise me, darling.” Jungkook’s smug smile was far too large for YN’s liking. She’d been brought to his chambers against her will and judging from the glint in his eyes, he had something planned. “I’m happy to see you’ve taken a liking to Vito.” He eyed the snake draped across her décolletagle. YN crossed her arms over her chest as Vito slithered down her body towards Morte’s resting bed, desiring to be with the other snake. “Look their friends.” Jungkook seemed too enthusiastic to YN which was the exact opposite of what he normally was.
“Morte could eat him alive.”
“That’s what makes it fun.”
Jungkook turned his attention back to YN, noticing the state of distress of her gown before his eyes crawled back to her. “So tell me,” Jungkook leaned back onto the settee tilting his head slightly. “How did you escape?” If Jungkook knew about YN’s discovery then she’d be screwed. Though YN was beginning to pierce through the enigma that was Jeon Jungkook, she could never be sure whether she had managed to evade his game or play right into it. “Your fiance tried to murder me.” Jungkook shrugged, “I expected as much. Lions are volatile creatures, hot-headed too, best not to mess with them.” YN rolled her eyes, “The only reason Soojin attacked me was because of you. Shouldn’t it be you facing the actions of your consequences?!”
“You would blame a man in love?”
YN scoffed, “This isn’t love, it’s nothing but a game to you.”
“You’re wrong. It’s a love game.” Jungkook smirked, enjoying intensely how YN’s brows furrowed in frustration.
“What did you call me in for, your highness?”
Jungkook stood up abruptly, YN's stepped back a few feet in trepidation, something that the twisted prince enjoyed. He lifts his hand and brushes YN's lower lip delicately, "I wanted to tell you to switch your m.o. Strangulation is far too noticeable. I'd hate for you to draw unwanted attention." Slowly he circled YN letting his hand trail above her torso. "It was an accident, I didn't want to hurt her." Jungkook chuckled, arms wrapping tightly around YN's waist. "Who, darling?" His lips brushed the long arch of her neck, his arms tightening every second that passed by. "Soojin or Eun? Which one was an accident?" YN cast her eyes downward focusing on the snakes noticing how Morte had wrapped around Vito and was embracing him, or was it the other way around?
"You made me do it." YN struggled to get the words out, all she could see was Eun's dead body. All she could remember was the feeling of wringing her throat out until nothing remained. Jungkook gripped her chin, "Did I make you do it? Or did I permit you?" When they kissed it was tender so opposed to how the prince usually was. Jungkook was holding her as if afraid she would break. The kiss immediately distracted YN and she couldn't help but give in to it, just to escape the darkness in her mind. That is until a bitter tang filled her mouth and went down her throat. YN pushed away from Jungkook, spitting out his blood from her mouth.
Jungkook smiles sadistically, his tongue swiping across his lips to clean any remnants of blood. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" YN screams wiping her mouth in utter disgust. The man in question rolls his eyes as if the answer was oh so obvious. "I love you that's what." YN knew it was never good to reveal a trump card as it may come in handy later on, but she would have given anything at that moment to knock Jeon Jungkook down a peg or two.
“Your father is plotting to murder you.”
Instantly, Jungkook's face crumbled, his eyes widening in shock as he numbly asked, "What?" He looked so much like a lost child and YN felt regret pool at her stomach until his expression changed to one of rage. In the blink of an eye, Jungkook stood in front of YN, hand wrapping tightly around her neck as he lifted her from the ground. "What did you say?" YN struggles against his hold, her hands clawing at his to get him to let go. The only did he did was place her back on the ground, but his clasp remained.
“I saw him speaking to a portrait of a woman. He was going on and one about how you were a murderer from a young age and a threat he had to put a stop to.”
The pupil had all but consumed the iris in Jungkook’s eyes allowing YN to see herself perfectly reflected in them. “I don’t fucking believe you,” Jungkook screamed though there was a hint of pain towards the end that YN latched onto. “I swear it’s the truth!” She searched her mind for anything, any detail, that could convince the distrustful man that what she was saying was the truth. YN was beginning to feel dizzy as if she could pass out at any second, finally, she remembered. “S-she had your eyes.” Jungkook’s eyes filled with unshed tears as he let go of YN, letting her crumble to the ground. YN wheezed as she tried to regain her lost breath, well aware of the glare the prince had fixed on her.
“And how exactly were you in the king’s private study?”
In her disoriented state, the words slipped right out. “I saw it through a mirror.”
A moment passed before Jungkook smiled once more, a small ‘Ah’ leaving his lips. “You found the corridors. That’s how you escaped.” He crouched down in front of YN, “Though I doubt you’re aware of all of them, so you must’ve stumbled upon the one behind the tapestry.” Jungkook reached out patting down YN’s frazzled hair and tugging one side of it behind her ear. “Don’t worry I’ll have it sealed soon enough.” YN shoves his hand away, climbing to her feet. “I should have never told you.” Jungkook nods, “If it weren’t for your kindness you might have had me off your hands.”
He went to continue speaking but suddenly paused as if something had just occurred to him. “Why did you tell me?”
“He was going to pin it on me.”
A pause, then. “You aren’t as selfless as you think you are.”
News traveled fast of the wedding meant to bind the Seo’s and Jeon’s, while Jungkook had yet to mention it to YN there were too many outside forces for him to be able to avoid going through with it. Something which caused her great satisfaction. Though it was a cloudy day, YN found she enjoyed being outside nonetheless. Sana was currently by her side enjoying how the king’s many hunting dogs pranced around the garden. They were in the balcony near the throne room, YN was once again dressed in the finest garbs money could buy - Sana having forced her into them.
“Don’t worry, Mistress. I’m sure everything will be fine.” Sana reached out, squeezing YN’s shoulder comfortingly.
YN had told Sana everything one night after having one too many cups of wine and being cared for by the maid during her bath. Sana had assured YN that as much as the prince desired to wed her, as long as she was a peasant it wouldn’t be allowed. She wasn’t too certain that Jungkook wouldn’t be able to find a loophole, but it pacified her nerves. Not to mention her prompt meeting with the king had caused more rumors to surround her. Even while she was certain it was just Sana and her, YN could feel eyes piercing through her.
“Miss Kim?”
YN turned around to see Baekhyung bowing before her, instantly YN knew something was wrong. “They’re ready for you.”
When YN stepped foot inside the room it was filled with nobility, hushed whispers of incredulity falling from their mouth. Sitting perched upon the throne with a crown resting upon his perfectly styled hair was the prince of everything, Jeon Jungkook himself. No. It can’t be. He wouldn’t have…
“Unfortunately, my father is ill and won’t be able to attend any of his royal duties today, so I shall do it in his place,” Jungkook announced to the crowd of people, the second he spoke a deadly silence weighed over the room. Whether it was out of fear or respect was yet to be deciphered. Jungkook fixed his stare on YN and she could swear the prince blinked at her, but it was to quick to tell. "As most of you are aware by now, Mistress Eun has suddenly passed due to her misuse of substances. This has caused her land and title to have been lost." Jungkook wasn't just speaking to YN, but everyone.
“Due to her lands needing to be tended for and properties managed, someone needs to step forward to claim.” His dark eyes fixed on YN, “I hereby name Miss YN Kim and her heir’s sole proprietor of Eun’s lands and assets. Thereby granting her the title of Lady.” YN stilled in fear, but aware of the eyes on her she bowed deeply. “Thank you, your royal highness.” She spoke through gritted teeth. Once again Jeon Jungkook had won.
“A Kim?!”
“The king must be really out of his mind.”
“Another Kim in court? Isn’t one enough?”
“Everyone knows the real reason she received them. Has she no shame?!”
“Lady Kim,” YN turned around to see the crown of someone’s head, the ashy blonde hair all too familiar. It’s him. The man who had found Eun’s body and helped her escape. But why? The man rose from his bow, YN being able to see the deadly look in his eye. “Lord Kim Namjoon, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” YN’s eyes widened, but Namjoon remained unaffected. Taking her hand into his and placing a small kiss over the knuckles. Though Jungkook was nowhere in sight, YN was certain she could feel him gauging her. If Jungkook knew it was Namjoon who aided her escape, heads would roll. Best to pretend then, it seems that is what Namjoon desired to do as well.
“Pleasure is mine, my lord. I was unaware there was another Kim in court.”
Namjoon smirked, “It’s not necessarily something the King would so openly acknowledge.” He tilted his head away from the crowd, signaling her to follow him. As they walked YN could hear more hushed gossip surrounding her, but most of it came from faceless individuals - no one of importance. “You’ve managed to cause quite a stir in your short time here, my lady.”
“It wasn’t my intention to do so.”
“Still I am not surprised, a woman as beautiful as yourself is bound to cause a ruckus anywhere.”
YN blushed, “You toy with me, my lord.”
Namjoon smirked, a wicked gleam in his eye that said he was. “I would never dare.”
They stopped moving and YN realized Namjoon had maneuvered her away from the crowd, still close enough that they were in the room, but too far away for anyone to hear what was being discussed. YN longed to know why he’d helped her but figured that it hadn’t been done altruistically. The young lord stepped forward, “If I were to be so bold as to offer a word of advice, my lady?” A chill went down YN’s spine and her hand tightened into a fist, wishing Vito was there with her. “You’ve been so bold already,” YN cast her eyes around the room seeing Sana standing by the door speaking to Jinyoung. Her brow furrowed as the two seemed to be in a heated discussion. “I don’t see what harm a bit more could do.” She turned back to Namjoon who seems to have followed her line of sight.
“Are you familiar with your family’s history?”
“I have no family.”
“You are a Kim are you not?”
“It is only a name.”
Namjoon chuckles, “Ah, but what’s in a name?” Once again the lord stepped closer, “May I recommend the story of Soo and So? I think you’ll find it quite an intriguing read.”
“As much as I’d like to, my lord, I own no such story or book. I’d doubt the king is stocked up on history books that do not relate to him.”
“Ah, that is true. What a shame indeed.”
Sana trailed behind her quietly, something YN found quite odd as the girl tended to be incredibly lively. Perhaps Sana pitied her given the circumstance, but that couldn’t be it. The girl had previously stated how much more she enjoyed being YN’s personal maid than having to run around the castle. Maybe she’s tired? Or maybe it had something to do with her conversation with Jinyoung - YN's guard dog. Before they reached the door leading to YN's bedroom Sana suddenly halted. "I'm sorry mistress, but if I could be excused? I'm not feeling all too well." YN was a bit shocked but nodded nonetheless. She was about to ask Sana if there was anything she could do to help, but the maid had already runoff.
YN sighed, unlocking the door to her bedroom. When she entered she noticed Vito was feasting on his latest meal, so YN shed her dress and headed straight for bed. Hoping to catch some sleep before dinner was delivered, her actions stopped when she noted the gift placed on her bed. It was nicely wrapped in fine silk with a ribbon on top, peeling back the layers YN found it was a book. When she opened it, a note fell out:
I could only find the abridged version, apologies - KNJ
YN’s hands ran through the spine and bold lettering at the front, the words ‘Golden Ones’ peering back at her in a metallic red.
Jeon Jungkook had just finished his bath when his peace was once again disturbed by the rasping of knuckles on his door. He groaned asking who it was as he imagined harming whoever deemed themselves important enough to intrude on his time. Imagine the surprise on the young prince’s face when none other than his lover appeared. “Well, to what do I owe this surprise?” YN stood hesitantly by the door consciously trying to convince herself not to back out of the plan. If he was annoyed at her silence he didn’t say anything instead Jungkook tilted his head and asked, “What game are you playing?”
YN stepped into the room, closing the door behind her careful not to turn around. Jungkook was like a predator - eye contact was essential for survival. YN’s eyes danced around the room not finding Morte anywhere in sight. “I’ve decided to not play any games. I know I’ll never beat you.”
Jungkook smirks, eyeing YN's figure up and down. "Well then, this may be the most fun game we've ever played."
YN ambled towards Jungkook, their eyes remaining on each other. Waiting for the moment the other faltered to strike.
“Where’s your pet, my lady?”
“In my bedroom, your highness. He is shedding.”
“Where’s Morte?”
“Where she needs to be.”
As they neared each other Jungkook took a seat at the edge of his bed, encouraging YN to join him. YN straddled Jungkook, trying to calm her racing heart from giving her away. “What am I to you?” Her eyes were wide and honest, as she asked. It had been foolish to think the answer would change.
“My Queen.”
It was the intensity of the prince’s stare that caused YN to look away, her eyes landed on a glass and gold chessboard. “I’ve never been a good player.”
Jungkook chuckled, eyes-rolling. “I doubt that’s true.” His warm breath fanned her neck causing goose-bumps to rise.
“Isn’t the king the most vulnerable of them all?”
Jungkook nods, letting his lips brush against hers trying to draw her attention back onto him. “Which is why he needs a powerful queen.”
YN chuckled, parting her lips and allowing the venom laced words to hit their target. “Good thing, Soojin will be your queen.”
The prince visibly tenses, his hand coming to grip YN’s waist tightly. He forces her to look at him as his eyes filled with a heady mix of lust and rage. “That’s a dangerous game you're playing, love.”
YN shrugs, “I’m not playing a game. I’m only trying to prove a point.”
“Oh?” Jungkook uses his grip on YN’s waist to push them closer together, leaving only centimeters between the star-crossed lovers.
“What you feel or think you feel is not love. It’s infatuation fueled by lust.” YN allowed her lips to brush Jungkook’s, though they never fully kissed. “I’m just a shiny new toy you want to play with until you get bored.”
"I will never tire of you YN, you can be certain of that." Jungkook's tongue swiped across his lips to moisten them. "Though if you are so certain, let's have a wager." Jungkook released his hold on her waist allowing YN to move away. Now that they stood feet apart, it felt as if this was a serious affair. "If what I feel for you is nothing more than infatuation, I promise to let you go." He lifted his palm as if taking an oath.
YN scoffed, “No. If I am right, then you will marry Soojin and make her your queen.” She wasn’t going to fall for his schemes any longer. Jungkook nodded, leaning back to rest on his elbows. When he failed to speak any further YN’s eyes narrowed, “Declare your wager.”
“I think I’ll save mine for later. Makes things more interesting don’t you agree?” Jungkook looked all too pleased with himself, the prince thought everything was under his control. But, just as YN often underestimated him, it seems he had now underestimated her. “So, what’s your big plan to prove your point?”
“Sleep with me.”
#yandere bts#yandere jeon jungkook x reader#yandere jeon jungkook#yandere bts x reader#yandere jungkook#bts x reader#jeon jungkook x reader#bangtanarmynet#ykn#prince of nothing iii#pon#pon iii#girlmeetsliv3
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young god | chapter 11
chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |
word count: 5.3k
warnings: ryu says: be extremely careful with this one. extremely triggering; extreme descriptions of violence, domestic abuse, sexual abuse of a minor, child abuse, foul language, traumatic/suggestive descriptions
description: Han Jisung finally recounts the dark events of his past, revealing just what made him into the monster he is today. the world as you knew it has flipped on its head in the span of one night, and time is running out for you to decide who you’ll stand by.
watch the trailer here!
11| young god.
“Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,
And when the wind blows, the cradle will rock.”
Mama’s singing voice was soft in Jisung’s ears, her gentle fingers smoothing out the locks of his hair. He was curled up into her side, his tiny fists, which had been clutching stubbornly at her nightgown, finally loosening as his heavy eyelids drooped. Jisung couldn’t even remember what nightmare he had been having before he had cried out involuntarily and woken his mother, the warm embrace that followed immediately soothing the tightness in his chest and drying the tears on his cheeks.
Mama was always so warm. Mama was home, and Mama was safe.
This was the earliest memory Jisung could remember — every time something triggered all the flashbacks, the nightmares, he would always find himself back here — in this memory, in Mama’s arms, everything growing less and less clear every time. It was like wading through muddy waters, a thickening shroud of fog, as if his memories had become a frayed photograph — blurred at the corners and fading out of focus.
Eventually, he had stopped trying to remember altogether, and the lullaby became nothing more than white noise ringing in the back of his mind.
━━━━━━━━
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?”
The box was wrapped in gold paper, complete with a red bow and ribbon. Covered in little Santa Clauses and Christmas tree patterns, it was small, but weighted enough to make Jisung’s arms slightly sore from holding it. Father would have called him weak had he said anything, so Jisung bit his lip and sucked it up.
“Man up, boy,” he would bark, delivering a slap to the side of Jisung’s head that was hard enough to make his eyes water. “Don’t tell me I raised a little girl?”
Mama would tell him not to mind his words.
Father was watching him now, leaned back on the couch. Maybe there was a glint of impatience in his eyes, but Jisung didn’t notice it as he slowly undid the bow, fingers barely touching the paper for fear of ripping it as he unwrapped it. He never got gifts on his birthday — in fact, Father didn’t even seem to remember the date at all, and Mama never had the money to buy him anything. Christmas, though, was easier to remember.
The fluttering paper fell away to reveal a black box, and when Jisung lifted the lid it something shiny — metal? — caught his eye.
“Cost me a damn fortune. Old geezer down at Young Wings gave me a load o’ shit...”
Mama glanced over at his father, a hand hovering above his arm before withdrawing it timidly. Jisung’s attention was still fixed on the present — it was a camcorder, and brand new; the polished silver metal winked at him, and Jisung pulled it out with wide eyes. He flipped open the screen, fingers fumbling with the power button. The red recording light blinked at him like a rabbit’s eye. Grinning, Jisung held it up to his parents, smile not faltering despite Father’s disinterested eyes and Mama’s tense features.
Mama smiled into the lens. “Merry Christmas, ‘sungie.” Jisung turned away, too fascinated with the present to notice how the smile never quite reached her eyes.
They didn’t celebrate any more Christmases after that.
━━━━━━━━
“February 22nd, 2005.” Jisung cocked his head, squinting at the viewfinder as it came into focus. “Yes! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” His tongue ran over the gap where one front tooth used to be — he’d lost his first tooth a couple days ago, but he could swear the strange, metallic taste of blood was still in his mouth. He scrunched up his face. Blood didn’t taste good; he decided he wanted as little to do with it as possible.
Jisung was sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, the dying rays of the sun filtering through the window and spilling onto his hair. He had been filming video logs since Christmas — dramatically narrating battles between his old teddy bear and action figurines, or pretending he was a celebrity showing guests around the house. On some days, he would prop up the camcorder and hum a radio tune stuck in his head until he fell asleep. After all, Mama said he was too little to play outside with the other kids, and Father certainly didn’t play with him.
“Darn,” Jisung mumbled as the camcorder screen went blurry again. “Why do you keep doin’ this?” He got to his feet, pacing around his room while pointing the camcorder at random items. When it still didn’t focus, he opened his bedroom door and wandered into the hallway. His father was home — Jisung hadn’t seen him all day, but he had heard sounds coming from his parents’ bedroom — and surely, Father would know what to do, right?
“Father?” Jisung called, his voice coming out more timid than he’d intended. “Um, I—I know you don’t like to be bothered, but my camcorder isn’t--isn’t working. U-um...could you, m-maybe—”
Jisung’s stutters were cut off by a loud, strange gasp that made him freeze at the door. It sounded as though someone was in pain, but not quite. The door was shut, but when he listened closely he could hear...heavy breathing...heavy breathing, and a woman’s voice.
“Mama?” His voice was barely above a whisper as one hand scrabbled for the doorknob, twisting it open. Inside, it was dark — but his camcorder was zoomed in, and Jisung watched as it finally focused on two figures on the bed. One, his father.
And two, a woman who was definitely not his mother.
Jisung’s gaze darted wildly. Clothes were strewn all over the floor — a red cashmere coat, his father’s dress shirt. His wide, confused eyes flickered up again, adjusting to the darkness. Father wasn’t hurting the woman — no, he was kissing her; she was on top of him, touching him, and he was letting her, and Mama was nowhere to be seen, and — and —
His camcorder clattered to the floor and Jisung felt his heart stop, both heads on the bed snapping in his direction.
“Baby, we have a little visitor.” The woman spoke first, the cool calmness in her voice turning Jisung’s skin to ice.
“Get out.” His father had locked eyes with him, and when Jisung’s feet stayed frozen in place, his father pushed the woman off and strode towards him. “GET OUT!”
Something in Jisung clicked and he unfroze, fingers slippery with cold sweat as they grabbed at the fallen camcorder and he dropped to his knees. His father was standing in the doorway now, Jisung scrambling to push himself away — back into the hallway, back into the light.
“If you ever speak a word of this to your mother, boy,” his father’s voice was a low rumble above his head, like thunder before a tempest. “I’ll ram that camera right into your skull.” His finger came to rest on Jisung’s forehead before pushing, hard, and Jisung fell backwards, watching his father’s dark face disappear behind the closed door. His head hit the floorboards, hard, but he crawled to his feet, breaking into a run back into his bedroom and slamming the door shut.
Jisung glanced down at the camcorder, a pounding headache beginning to ebb and flow between his ears. The red recording light was still blinking with the comical innocence of a child’s eye — as if forever oblivious to the things it had seen. He slid to the floor, feeling like he was about to throw up, and punched the button to stop the recording.
━━━━━━━━
“June 3rd, 2006.” The ice cream truck rushed past him, and Jisung lightly whistled its tune as it disappeared around the corner. “This is my neighbourhood! Here’s the basketball court—” He pointed the camcorder through a chain-link fence, where a couple of older boys were in the middle of a game. “There’s Levanter Park—” — a children’s playground surrounded by tall lavender flowers — “And in the distance, that’s Miroh Heights.” He shifted the camcorder upwards to film the tall buildings looming in the distance, behind the suburbs. “And we’re back to my house!”
Ever since Mama had started working more shifts, Jisung had been able to sneak out more without anyone noticing. When Father got home, Mama would have to leave, and vice versa.
Jisung had tried his best to forget the woman in Father’s bed — after all, he hadn’t seen her since, having begun avoiding his parents’ bedroom altogether. Sometimes, he wondered if it had happened at all. It was all so strange. It must have been a nightmare.
He swung open the front door, reaching down to unlace his sneakers — and froze. On the doormat sat a pair of red heels.
Did...Mama own red heels?
He ran into the kitchen, a familiar nauseous feeling settling in his gut. There, sitting on top of the kitchen counter, was the woman from months before. She was wearing the same cashmere coat despite the summer weather, loosely draped over her frame so her bare shoulders were exposed.
Jisung’s breath caught in his throat. Somehow, he willed his feet to move, every fibre of his being screaming for him to run, to run into his room, to run out the door, to run anywhere that wasn’t here. But instead, he lifted his camcorder, shaking as he tried to focus on her face. This was real. He needed something to show someone that this was real. Sensing the movement, the woman turned, eyes widening in surprise before a dark smirk curled across her blood red lips.
“Well, well. Look who we have here, hm? Filming something?”
“I-I won’t tell Mama,” Jisung blurted, and the woman’s face darkened. “P-please don’t tell F-Father—”
“Oh, he’s not home, pet,” she chuckled, and stood up. Jisung felt as if his feet had rooted in place, throat painfully dry as she slowly walked up to him. “It’s just you and me.”
There was a red Zippo lighter in one hand, and the other fished in her pockets as if looking for cigarettes. She lit it with a crackle that made him jump, and ran a long finger down the side of his cheek before glancing down at the camcorder in disdain. “Naughty, naughty. You look just like your daddy, though. Same pretty-boy eyes.”
She held his chin between two of her long, red nails and Jisung shrank away from the touch, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the air as his eyes brimmed with tears. “Not quite a man yet, though, are we?” The woman chuckled, her breath reeking of cigarette smoke and liquor. With a smirk that made Jisung’s gut flip, she shrugged the red coat off her shoulders, the heavy fabric hitting the kitchen floor.
She was wearing nothing but lace lingerie underneath, her catlike gaze flickering back to Jisung. “Say, mama’s boy, want me to teach you how to be like daddy?” Jisung was frozen, pupils quivering as his eyes darted back and forth. “Just give me your little camera, hm? You can touch me, too. I’ll make you feel real good.” Her hands were touching him, they were grazing his shoulders and chest and roaming lower, and lower, and —
Jisung shook his head frantically, hands shooting out to push her away — but a red-taloned hand caught his arm and halted his feeble attempts. The woman scowled, and before Jisung knew it his arm was burning — she was pressing the lit cigarette into his forearm to snuff the flame. With a choked gasp he squirmed in pain but she wouldn’t let go, red nails digging into his forearm like a snake’s fangs as his nostrils filled with the smell of her perfume and his own burning flesh. His fingers were trembling violently around the camcorder, clutching it close to his chest for dear life.
She pressed harder, and a scream of agony ripped through his throat before he could stop it, making the woman loosen her grip in surprise. Seizing his chance, Jisung yanked his arm away before a voice thundering through the house made him halt in his tracks.
“What the fuck is that?”
So his father was home.
The moment Jisung’s eyes shot up to meet the woman’s, it all made sense. She was leaning back on the kitchen table, red lips spread wide in a Cheshire Cat’s taunting smile. She was toying with him — she knew that the moment his father came down, wrenching the camcorder from Jisung’s hands would be child’s play.
Snapping out of his horrified state, Jisung finally willed his legs to move and he sprinted out of the front door. The woman’s high-pitched laughter was ringing in his ears even as he made it to the sidewalk and ran out of his neighbourhood, as far away as his legs could possibly carry him. The sky had darkened, the red hues of the sunset making him shiver involuntarily. When Jisung finally collapsed, it was in a field of lavender flowers on the outskirts of town.
He threw his head back towards the sky, and let the sobs rack his body until he lost consciousness.
━━━━━━━━
“December 31st, 2009.”
His own voice sounded foreign to his ears, barely above a hoarse whisper. His house was always so quiet — tip-toes and whispers and furtive glances, for as long as Jisung could remember, as if one wrong move would set off a bomb.
What Jisung would give for quiet in moments like right now.
He could hear shouting and banging on the other side of the house, shaking the walls and making him jolt with every sound. The moment it had begun he’d froze, bare legs hanging off the side of his bed before — as if by reflex — snatching the silver camcorder off of his dresser. He hadn’t picked it up in months — no, years — hadn’t been able to touch it since without feeling nauseous. The moment his skin brushed the cold metal, the memories would shoot through his head like electricity. The grits of dust it had collected bit into his palm now, his own erratic breathing filling the room.
“You fucking whore — you want to leave me? That it? Do I need to remind you that I’m the reason you’re still alive?”
Father. Father’s voice always carried no matter how far away he was. Jisung heard pounding on the floorboards, the sound of someone running — no, crawling; his mother’s fingernails were scrabbling at the base of the stairs. There was a crash, and the struggling stopped momentarily.
“N-n-no, pl-please—” choked sobs were closing up his mother’s throat; Jisung could hear the thick tears in her voice through the paperlike walls. “You can h-hit me, y-you can — I won’t mention your--your other woman, just--God, not in front of Jisung.”
Jisung heard his father wheeze an incredulous laugh. “Jisung,” he spat. “You should’ve gotten rid of him when I told you to, eh? I’m telling you, Ji-Eun—” his mother’s name sounded foul in his father’s mouth — “I never wanted any of this.” There was a blow, and a cry of pain. “But you just wouldn’t get rid of the baby, huh? You just had to fuck everything up, and you still bitch about how hard your life is every fucking day.”
“N-not Jisung,” his mother gasped desperately, “Chungho, he’s your son—”
“THAT BOY IS NOT MY SON!” His father’s sudden roar made Jisung leap to his feet, eyes darting around his room frantically. “I never wanted a son, that boy is a mistake you made and kept.” There were footsteps coming up the stairs now, getting louder and louder — and with a jolt of horror, Jisung realised that his father was dragging his mother towards his room.
Before Jisung knew it, there was a deafening bang on his door that nearly sent him toppling to the floor, as if a body had been slammed hard on the other side. The fighting had never happened so close before — it was always, always on the other side of the house, always downstairs, as if Mama had wanted him as far away from it as possible.
Mama always told him to stay far, far away from the danger, from Father — but it had never been this bad. Jisung would always stay in his room and pray for it to end — pretending as if the shouting, the banging, the screaming was all just static from the TV he could tune out if he tried hard enough. But he knew it had been getting worse as the years passed, Father’s drunken rages growing more and more violent; Mama’s face growing sickly pale and paler still.
The sound of his bedroom door cracking at the hinges snapped Jisung back to reality. Shaking, his eyes shot to the window, under his bed, then to his closet doors. Feeling as though his feet were dragging through wet cement, he felt his legs propel him towards the closet, not even managing to shut the door properly before his bedroom door came crashing down in an explosion of splinters and plaster.
Father was crushing Mother’s weak frame into the ground, both their faces scratched from splinters of wood. Jisung’s body was pressed against the back of the closet — he was long past the age where he could hide away from the fighting in the closet. He was taller than he was years ago, his limbs having grown awkwardly lanky and so he barely fit anymore. The camcorder shook violently between his fingers as he aimed it through the tiny crack in the closet, the small crack of light revealing a fragment of the hellish scene.
Father’s huge hands were wrapped around his mother’s throat and every fibre of Jisung’s being was on fire, every inch of his body screaming for him to open the door, to save her, to stop him. His mother’s voice echoed in his ears, telling him to stay away from the danger, to run, to stay away — but Father was killing her, he was killing her—
He lowered the camcorder, trembling fingers ready to push the door open — and froze. At that moment, just outside the closet, his mother tilted her head upwards. Her eyes met his, wide and bloodshot with fear, and Jisung felt his heart stop. Mama, I’m coming, he wanted to scream, Mama, Mama, I’ll save you—
Face contorted with pain, swollen eyes locked on his, she shook her head ever so slightly. Then Father’s fist came down with a sickening crack, and her eyes rolled backwards into her skull.
The silence that followed seemed to swallow Jisung whole.
This couldn’t be. This wasn’t happening. Mama wasn’t — Mama couldn’t be. But her whole body had fallen limp like a rag doll, and the house felt infinitely emptier, and at that moment Jisung just knew what horrible thing had just happened.
Father’s erratic breathing on the other side of the door brought him back, if only momentarily. “Shit,” the man muttered. There was so, so much blood pooling from beneath Mama’s body, slowly leaking a trail towards Jisung’s hiding place. “Bitch fucking--fucking asked for it. Had it coming…”
Little broken sobs were beginning to bubble in Jisung’s throat as the horror sank in, pathetic hiccups growing louder the harder he tried to shove them down. His vision was growing hazy. His head was throbbing. And when his father wiped his bloodstained hands on his dead mother’s body with the nonchalance of wiping on a rag, something in Jisung’s chest snapped.
Jisung tore through the closet doors, the hoarse sobs licking like flames in his throat giving way to a roar of anguish. His eyes were burning with tears, gaze tinged with crimson red, ears ringing as his face contorted into something animalistic, something he had never felt before, something that wasn’t him. Everything was spinning; the floor was collapsing beneath his feet and threatening to swallow him whole. His hand wrapped around a long fragment of broken wood, and, as if it was an anchor to the last bits of sanity he had left, Jisung let out a bloodcurdling wail and plunged it deep into his father’s neck.
The man howled in pain, wheeling his large body around, but Jisung had already sprinted through the splintered doorframe and tumbled down the stairs. There was dark, slippery liquid all over the floors that reeked of blood and alcohol, shattered glass from bottles sinking into the soles of Jisung’s feet as he ran, his father’s heavy footsteps shaking the ground right behind him.
Jisung found himself in the kitchen, and the caricature before him turned his blood into ice. His mother had been cooking: a pot boiling over on the stove sending hot water splashing onto the tiles and onto his bare feet. The corners of his vision were blurred like a fish-eye lens, the camcorder dented but still locked between the fingers in one hand and slippery with blood. Little details jumped out at him. An open jug of cooking oil. An abandoned meat cleaver on the counter.
He whipped around just in time to see his father lunge for him, and Jisung’s mind went blank. He felt his fingers find the handle of the meat cleaver, his eyes bulging out of their sockets and trained on his father’s chest — and charged forward.
Jisung drove the knife straight into his father’s flesh with a terrible force he never knew he had, a neverending scream tearing through his vocal chords -- and brought it down again, and again, over and over and over, until several eternities later, when Jisung’s screams had finally given way to quieter, quivering sobs, his hands stiffened and he dropped the knife with a clang.
Suddenly, the house felt enormous, a seemingly endless silence flooding the suffocating air. Somehow, he got to his feet and limped out of the kitchen, stumbling back up the stairs.
“Mama,” he mumbled. His vision was blurry, eyes darting everywhere and refusing to focus. The camcorder was forgotten in his hand. “Mama?” Jisung dropped to his knees by her side, shaking hands touching her hands, her blood-drained face.
Jisung didn’t know how long he stayed like that, by her side, silent wails racking his body as he felt the warmth slowly seep from her skin. Mama was always so warm, Mama was always safe, Mama was all he had—
And Mama was dead.
He wrapped his arms around her limp frame, trying to lift her from the growing pool of blood and down the stairs as best he could. His legs gave way before he had reached the bottom, toppling down the steps, and he landed hard on his side, dragging his mother’s body the entire way down. As Jisung’s hands scrabbled to push himself back up, crawling forwards into the kitchen, his mouth went dry as he caught a full glimpse what he had truly done.
Red. That was the only way he could describe the remnants of his father, a giant crimson mass soaking the white kitchen tiles. Red blood on his own raw, bruised hands. And a familiar red lighter that had skidded from his father’s pocket and was now lying in the mixture of fluids on the floor tiles. The cooking oil was still on the countertop, and the moment Jisung’s eyes fell on it there was only one thought coursing through his mind.
In a single, final motion he lurched forward and brought down the jug cooking oil, feeling it sear his eyes as it splashed all over the floor, the walls, the body — before fishing the the red lighter out from the pool of blood and vodka. With the last of his strength he flicked it open, eyes mesmerized momentarily by the tiny flame — and let it fall to the ground.
Flames erupted from the floor, enclosing him in a circle of fire and heat. It was like a bomb detonating, the walls shaking violently as black smoke flooded his lungs. Choking, Jisung’s hands blindly snatched at the flames for his mother’s body, desperately trying to lift her out of the fire. The camcorder’s acrylic strap was sticking to his palm, melting into his skin as it grew unbearably hotter, flames licking at his skin as he limped forwards, no longer able to tell if he was dragging himself out of the fire or further inside of it.
Jisung’s palm smashed the screen door and it burst open. The blast of freezing winter air that hit him as he stumbled out of the building finally leached the energy from his bones, and Jisung collapsed, skinned knees buried deep into the fallen snow. The night sky was a hollow purple, the weak lights of stars drowning in the black billowing smoke from what once was his home. Cradling his mother’s lifeless body as the house burned to the ground behind him, weeping with the agony of an angel cast to the infernos of hell, Jisung could almost hear a familiar lullaby ringing in his ears.
Rock-a-bye, baby, on the treetop
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
Somewhere, a firetruck sounded, followed by the growing wail of police sirens approaching — but Han Jisung was laughing like a madman.
━━━━━━━━
“They told me that there was nothing left from the fire but bones,” Jisung had told you. “The delivery lady — Old Mrs. Hwang, I think — was the one who called the police. I woke up right before the paramedics arrived and hid the camcorder’s memory chip in my pocket. It was like I already had the reflexes of--of a murderer.”
“What happened then?” You had asked him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Did they…”
“Find out? Never. How could a ten-year-old single-handedly burn down a building? More importantly, why would he want to? I must’ve looked traumatised enough, because the whole thing was written off as a gas explosion. Faulty pipes, something leaked, and the moment my father turned on the stove the house went up in flames.
“I was famous across the country,” Jisung’s voice was ironic, but his eyes were flat and hollow. As if he had already condemned himself long ago. “Everybody pitied and swooned over the poor, orphaned boy — but after a month had passed I became a ghost again, floating from orphanage to orphanage. Then I met Minho—” his eyes snapped up at you— “And after the kidnapping case, it was like everything had snapped again. I couldn’t run from what I had done — I could still see it, every single time I closed my eyes.
“I couldn’t save her. I should’ve died that day — no,” he had chuckled hollowly, “maybe, I never should have been born.”
The moon was three-quarters full, a pale teardrop outside your bedroom window. Your mind had been in limbo for hours now, shifting endlessly back and forth between what Jisung had said, what you had heard, and everything you had seen until now.
Jisung had finally fallen asleep beside you on the bed, his eyebrows slightly furrowed but his breathing otherwise even. You had made him stay the night, a request that surprised the both of you — Jisung, who had still been respecting the distance you had forcibly wedged between the two of you — but you couldn’t bear the thought of him having more nightmares. Especially not after tonight.
Funnily enough, you thought, you’d much rather have a wanted serial killer safely sleeping next to you than out roaming the streets doing heaven-knows-what. A voice in the back of your mind mentioned how you had never expected that your first time with a boy in your bed would be under circumstances that were...less-than-favourable, but it wasn’t like you could do anything about it now.
It all made sense. It all fit together like a grotesque puzzle: the way Jisung reacted with the colour red, all his strange, uneasy symptoms, why all the victims were known to be abusers or mistresses, and oh, God — his family. Your mind flashed as you imagined him bringing the knife down on his abusive father, the scrap metal on his kidnapper — and the stone on the dead man from the Yellow Wood. It was like he had his own Mark of Cain — whoever hurt him would have the pain and wrath reenacted upon them thousandfold.
Maybe it should have felt wrong, what you were feeling — you should have been repulsed, you should have turned him in on the spot, you should have written him off as a monster, a murderer — but you didn’t. No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him. You’d seen the moments his facade had cracked and revealed the raw, vulnerable, broken boy underneath; you could feel the regret and torment he was living with every day, eating away at him from the inside like a disease. And, most of all, you saw the flashes of the boy he might have been in his wide, sheepish smile and bright, mischievous eyes, in his gentle hands and soft voice. In the fleeting moments of happiness that had been robbed from him too young. And now, you realised that you were certain about one thing.
You were absolutely, hopelessly in love with Han Jisung.
Your eyes wandered to his sleeping face, studying the dark circles beneath his eyes, the stress ingrained in the lines of his features. You had seen the same shadows in Lee Minho’s expression — these boys who had grown up with worry and pain etched into their faces like scars.
Jisung shifted slightly, mumbling incoherently and changing sleeping positions. After hesitating for a moment, you gently took his wrist in your hand, gingerly studying his hands and ankles.
Sure enough, there were faint white lines where cable ties and rope had once burned into. Jisung’s shirt had hitched up slightly, revealing rosy skin dappled with numerous bruises and mapped with more miscellaneous scars that all told the same, horrible story.
Your eyes finally settled back onto Jisung’s face again, a knot of bittersweet emotions festering in your chest. Outlined in the silver moonlight, he looked ephemeral — like a young god with too much power thrust into his hands, cold and damaged and beautiful; capable of the most terrible things.
You didn’t know what was going on inside his mind, and you had no idea how things would change when morning came. It felt like he was slipping from your grasp the harder you tried to hold on. Was this how Minho had felt? Out of control? If so, you were beginning to understand why the coroner had wanted to help Jisung in the first place, to mask the ugly truth. To protect his friend, the only brother he’d ever known.
“Trust me, y/n, I was in your position once, too. You’re just like how I was.”
Maybe you weren’t so different from Minho, after all. Because as you watched Jisung’s sleeping figure, felt his body warmth pressed up beside you as something in your chest swelled in both tenderness and pain — you knew you were more than willing to lie for him, too. If you could save Han Jisung’s life, if you could bring back the boy with the happy, angel-like smile from your very first date — no, if you could keep even a fragment of the light and peace left in his eyes, then that was what you had to do. You would hide everything until — until the case was closed.
And maybe, you thought as the moon burned into your drooping eyes, just maybe, everything will be okay.
#han jisung#stray kids#skz#stray kids series#bang chan#kim woojin#yang jeongin#lee know#lee minho#lee felix#seo changbin#kim seungmin#hwang hyunjin#stray kids boyfriend#stray kids yandere#stray kids au#stray kids angst#stray kids imagine#han jisung imagines#han jisung au#han jisung angst#han jisung yandere#han jisung boyfriend#serial killer!au#maatryoshkaa
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touch me someone
HIIIII it’s your favorite fic writer back from the dead with TWO whole fics real close together maybe I’ll finally become a consistent publisher?!? we can dream. Anyway. JJ and Kiara are my new Bellamy and Clarke I guess so enjoy this VERY angsty smutty hurt/comforty poetic nonsense the idea for which would not leave my brain til I wrote it. Please for the love of god read this bc I actually kind of love it and need validation or concrit or literally any feedback at all bc my none of my irl friends like this show so pls interact/comment
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ao3
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He pulls away from her, and his eyes are wide but dry as his chest heaves. He looks wild, uncaged and raw, the moonlight turning his blond hair white and his blue eyes into pools of silver. Tragedy and shock have destroyed him, the chains he’d wrapped around his brash, heedless, unending want twisted into shards by an explosion of hurt and grief. He has always been the victim, the boy left behind in empty rooms with nothing but loss and bloody fragments, told to piece himself back together. Finally, they’ve taken the last thing. When he told John B they had nothing to lose, they still had each other. And now, he doesn’t even have that.
But she’s still here.
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Touch me someone
I’m too young to feel so
numb, numb, numb, numb
You could be the one to
Make me feel somethin, somethin.
The Phantom went down around 8:30 PM. Or maybe 10:30. Kiara doesn’t remember. She only knows that the hours between then and now have felt like a lifetime and also no time at all. Like she’ll turn and John B will be there, behind her shoulder, laughing at something JJ said, Sarah hanging off his arm; but also like the world is dark and will be dark and has been dark forever. Like the sun will never rise after this. Like the storm took the light and heat from the world just like it took her best friend.
Later, she’ll learn that John B’s official time of death is listed as 8:34 PM, when they stopped trying to establish radio contact with him and Sarah. Later, she’ll watch news stories about the manhunt for Rafe Cameron and the scandal of Ward Cameron’s property being left to his second wife, rather than his remaining daughter. Later, she’ll get an email from an internet cafe in Bermuda and her whole world will flip upside down one more time.
But now, she is laying in her four-poster bed, watching the ceiling fan lazily trawl the same, tired circle, listening to the pull-chain tap not-quite-silently against the glass fixture. Now, her hair still damp from the shower that her mother made her take, eyes stinging from sharp wind and tears not yet shed, the inside of her mouth shredded and sore from the hours she spent chewing on her lips, the world is too quiet, too peaceful. The crickets outside sing soft and gentle, just like they have every night her whole life, and the texture of her comforter, the quiet harmony of the night, the soft click and whoosh of the fan -- it all feels so chokingly familiar, like spiralling back down to earth after spending weeks dipping in and out of orbit.
She wants to scream until her throat is raw, sob and fight and unleash herself on every single adult that hurt John B, that brushed him off or refused to help or wouldn’t listen to him. She wants to gut Ward Cameron for ripping everything away from John B, first his father, and then the gold that was his by right. The gold that was theirs. She wants to rip off Rafe’s skin piece by piece until he’s in shreds at her feet. She wants to eviscerate his father with the same gaff hook he used to rip apart those two mainlanders and ruin John B’s life. She’s so full of hurt and grief and anger that her fists keep clenching white-knuckled in her blankets and she wants to bring down the sky itself. But at the same time, she’s haunted by that same emptiness that followed her after Sarah’s childish betrayal, like she’s watching it all from the outside.
She can’t sleep. She won’t. Sleep is just an escape, a place to forget, and she’ll have to wake up and remember what happened all over again, remember the rush of hope and the hours of adrenaline and apprehension that ended in a tragedy none of them could have ever predicted. What child foretells death?
Rolling over, she presses her face into her pillow, smothering herself until her lungs force her to turn her head for air. She opens her eyes, no less heavier than they were hours ago. Her throat tightens like tears are about to well up, to spill over and stain her sheets, but they don’t come. Itchy and claustrophobic, she throws back the sheets and paces over the smooth boards of her room, bare feet making soft noises over the lacquered wood. She has to get out, to make sure that she didn’t dream up the whole goddamn thing.
She dresses quickly, throwing on denim cutoffs and an old drug rug that cycled its way through at least two of the boys’ wardrobes before landing in hers. She doesn’t know where she’s going, doesn’t know what she needs, but she throws her wallet, her charger, a flashlight, and her water bottle in her beat up backpack, and, on second thought, a toothbrush and some deodorant. She picks up her keds and tiptoes down the stairs, avoiding the creaky eighth stair.
The key rack is empty, and, chastising herself for believing her parents would leave the car keys out after everything she’d pulled in the last few days, she rocks on her heels, assessing her options. The most prudent one is probably just to go back to bed, given the usual risks of going out at night as a teenage girl, the massive punishment that looms in her future, and, now, the lack of a vehicle. But the thought of returning to her stale room, skin crawling and mind racing at a standstill, makes the decision for her. She slips out the back door, making sure to catch the screen door before it slams, and digs out her bike from next to the garage. The tires could use air and the gears are misaligned, but it still rides, and it’ll get her… somewhere else.
Her original intention is to go to Pope’s house, mostly because it’s closest, but then she thinks about how she kissed him earlier that afternoon -- and God, was that just this afternoon? There’d be implications, now. Showing up in the middle of the night, throwing pebbles at his window -- it would mean something. So she stands up on the pedals and pushes past his street, floating like jetsam through the night.
She ends up heading for the chateau, which is where she was going all along. After her family moved to the outskirts of figure eight just before high school, it was the only place that felt like home anymore. She cruises deep into the cut, where even the smell of the air changes, from freshly mowed grass and chlorinated in-ground pools to gasoline and oil, rotting seaweed and the salt marsh.
The little house sits in the reeds, ramshackle and welcoming as ever, tired and reaching under the moon. It’s empty and forlorn, alone on the edge of the edge, out past the main cluster of the cut, pushed past the tideline, separated from the rest of the flotsam by a freak wave. The Routledge boys never fit in, even with the outcasts, and they made their home like they knew it. Skidding to a stop in the gravel driveway, the sting of tiny rocks against her bare ankles is the only thing she’s really felt in hours. Her heart picks up, skipping over itself as her memory stumbles over all the years seeping out of the wind-weathered boards and the sinking foundation.
Again, it feels like this would be a moment for tears, like the sight of John B’s house, the memory of Big John’s booming laugh and all the bonfire-scented nights on that sagging porch should mean enough to make something in her crack, to finally shatter the glass walls of shock and let the grief come pouring in. But it doesn’t. She just stares up at the chateau, one part of her aching for the ease of a found family she’ll never get back, the other dreading the fate of the little house.
The breeze changes directions as she stares up at the rickety shutters and holey screens, bringing with it the tinny sound of music played out of a cell phone in a solo cup, a noise she knows well. Her stomach drops to the hard-packed dirt, crashing there with her bicycle and sending up a cloud of dust. Maybe John B survived. Maybe he made it back to shore, and he’s laying low, doing that stupid, chivalrous thing he does, trying to protect them by not letting them know. Maybe he’s out by the shed in that old metal lawn chair, Sarah in his lap, exhausted and defeated and alive. But as she gets closer, the moonlight glints off tawny waves crusted with sweat and salt, and the momentary, wild hope crashes and ebbs away from the shore.
JJ hears her, of course, sitting up in the hammock and turning toward the sound of her flat-soled sneakers slapping the dirt. “Hey,” he says, his expressive face, for once, inscrutable.
“Hey,” she says, slightly out of breath from the sprint. “I thought you were…” she trails off, because he knows. Because he’s the only one in the whole world who can look at her and understand the cathedral dreams and vaulted memories crashing down in her chest.
“I’m not,” he says, an answer that belies more than either of them knows. JJ gets this look, when he’s seconds away from doing something particularly concerning (and usually criminal). Manic energy lights up in his blue eyes, burning anywhere from mischief to stubborn determination to full-tilt rage. The well-developed muscles in his shoulders and arms refuse to relax, and his hands get so fidgety they lose the coordination it takes to flip the zippo lighter between long, practiced fingers. His face fights with itself, half already spitting with well-steeped anger, the other tired, and broken, and grieving.
“I noticed,” she responds. She drops her bag on one of the metal folding chairs, dooming it to a coating of flaky, faded paint. Crossing the grass, hoping her broad strides will disguise the rattling breath in her chest, the shake in her hands, she moves to sit next to him in the hammock, and he shifts his weight to allow her.
There’s no verbal communication, no squabble about personal space or indignant demands she find her own seat. There never is, not with her boys. The Pogues. It seems so silly now, hiding behind that name for themselves, a name she’d never really belonged to, anyway. He’s holding a lit joint in one hand, a bottle dangling from the other, and he offers her one while swigging from the other. The old favorites of a Maybank in crisis. She takes it.
He falls back next to her, sending the hammock swinging as he gazes up at the stars. Sarah had known the most about constellations, of the five of them, but JJ knows a fair amount, too, some of the only memories of his mother the nights when she would hold him under the stars, tracing the designs across the sky, her hand wrapped around his tiny one. His eyes keep drifting off the sky and landing on Kiara, eyes distant, bathed in moonlight.
“He’s not dead,” JJ says, surprising himself as much as her. He sits up, and she follows. He stares at his feet for a while, and she thinks about putting her arms around him. “I --” he picks his head up to look at her and stops, voice stolen by the hope in her eyes. “I’d feel it,” he finishes lamely, and watches the spark die.
“The first stage of grief is denial,” she says, and it’s supposed to be at least slightly lighthearted, but it falls cruelly to the crabgrass.
“You sound like Pope,” he counters, and there’s too much weight to that name to throw it around for long. They’re both thinking of Kiara kissing him, and the memory is pleasant to neither.
She doesn’t really know why she did that. Maybe it’s because he’s everything she’s supposed to want, intelligence and ambition and ingenuity, everything she tells herself is important in a guy. Maybe because he’s in love with her. Maybe because she’s definitely in love with one of her best friends, and he’s the one who makes sense. She takes another hit and hands the blunt back to JJ.
“I’d know,” he repeats, and she knows it’s not her he’s trying to convince. He lays back in the hammock, putting the blunt between his lips and dragging deep before tilting his head back and blowing the smoke into the tumultuous night. She looks back over her shoulder, watching his jaw and the movement of his throat as he exhales. Laying back next to him, she tries not to think about the warmth of his skin against hers, the strength of the body pressed to her side. It’s only JJ, the same reckless, stupid asshole who carried that damn pistol everywhere all summer and has a talent for getting into trouble. He’s not giving her butterflies with his proximity, and she’s not thinking about reaching down and lacing her fingers through his.
Eventually, JJ flicks the roach into the darkness and stands as quickly as he can without tipping Kiara out of the hammock. She starts, not realizing she was dozing on his shoulder until it’s gone. “It’s late,” he says.
She stands as well, tucking her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt as he kicks at the dirt. “I don’t --” she starts, and the hesitation makes him stop his nervous movement, meeting her eyes. “I don’t want to go home.” He opens his mouth to say something, but she interrupts him. “I can’t go home.”
“Okay,” he says, after a second. He doesn’t want to be alone, either. She nods, and walks past him, picking up her bag. He follows her up to the house, and they stop at the foot of the stairs to the porch, staring at the buzzing light. JJ takes a stuttering inhale Kiara pretends not to hear, and he goes up the stairs first, wrapping a shaking hand the handle to the screen door. He pauses before going in, frozen, and it isn’t until she lays her hand on his shoulder that he summons the courage to push the door open.
They knew the place was going to be tossed, but it still hurts Kiara and kills JJ, to see the overturned table and scattered papers, the couch cushions scattered on the floor and the coffee table flipped. He tries to shuffle backwards, to run from the sharp, fresh grief and the deep, familiar ache of loss and violation, but Kie is in the way, and when he turns to escape she catches him, her arms around his shoulders, his clutched around her waist. “I can’t --” he chokes, his face pressed to her neck, “It’s not --” his breath speeds up, his shoulders shaking. “They --”
“I know,” she says, swallowing down tears, herself, in that same small voice from the night in the hot tub. She knew JJ was broken, on that deep, fundamental level that, intellectually, she could conceptualize, but she could never feel. But that night, seeing the bruises on his ribs, damning as fingerprints, the ghost of his pain, the whisper of breath knocked out and the brush of betrayal, turned her chest inside out. This feels the same way, watching him lose the last shred of some semblance of home to the same kind of mindless anger and selfish authority that claimed the first one. “I know.”
He pulls away from her, and his eyes are wide but dry as his chest heaves. He looks wild, uncaged and raw, the moonlight turning his blond hair white and his blue eyes into pools of silver. Tragedy and shock have destroyed him, the chains he’d wrapped around his brash, heedless, unending want twisted into shards by an explosion of hurt and grief. He has always been the victim, the boy left behind in empty rooms with nothing but loss and bloody fragments, told to piece himself back together. Finally, they’ve taken the last thing. When he told John B they had nothing to lose, they still had each other. And now, he doesn’t even have that.
But she’s still here. “Kie…” he breathes. She opens her mouth to reassure him again, but then his hands are on her face and he’s kissing her, deep and rough and desperate. She bursts into flame underneath him, paralysis broken, stupefaction overcome, as the glass walls she’s been watching through crack and shatter at her feet. JJ’s hands wrap around the back of her neck and spread across the small of her back, pushing her up against the door, and she twists her hands into his shaggy, sun-streaked hair. Every desperate question is met with his touch, and she chases it, even as he pulls away in horrified shock.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, Kie, I’m so sorry --” He tries to shove himself away from her at the instant she curls her fists in his shirt, and it almost rips as she pulls and he slams back into her. Teeth clash and noses bump and it’s not perfect or soft or loving, but passion born from desperation and terror of what it would mean to stop. Putting his hands on the door on either side of her face, he pushes himself off of her, even as she tries to yank him back. “What are we doing?” he asks, in a voice that won’t like the answer.
“JJ,” she gasps, pushing her fingers back up to tangle in blond, salt-sticky waves. “Shut up.” Pulling his mouth back down on top of hers, she gasps into him as his hands come down and frame her ribs, one of his arms sliding around her waist and the other pushing back up into her hair.
“Don’t you think --” he tries, even as he leans over her, their breathing ragged, his knuckles white in her impossibly soft curls. His forehead is pushed to hers and he can’t pull away any farther, sucked into her gravitational field, helpless to it.
“I don’t want to think,” she insists. “I want this, I need this,” This momentary pause is already too long, and if he stops kissing her, stops touching her, the tears she’s been holding back will crash over her and they won’t stop. The dark room is loud with heavy breathing as she catches the scent of him, salt and sweat and smoke. “I need you.”
His grip falters and the momentary relaxation has her pressing herself against him. “Are you sure?” he asks, and this is a choice, now. This isn’t something that either of them can pawn off as a mistake made in the heat of a desperate moment. He wants this, has wanted it, ever since he met her, but he won’t be a decision half-made, won’t take advantage of vulnerability only to become a regret. He’s giving her a way out, knows her pragmatic nature and her anxious need for well-thought plans. He wants her to think, even if she’s desperate not to.
He’s right, when he almost never is, but she knows that if she waits too long or lets in the doubt that expects her, she will break. “JJ,” she gasps, “Please.” His name, she knows, he can’t resist, not when paired with urgent pleading, and in this way, she makes her choice. He surrenders to her.
They fall onto the creaky pullout, still set up from JJ’s most recent stay, not minding the sheets and blankets wrought asunder by the angry police search. He can’t let go of her, his hands pushing up her sweatshirt, dragging over her sides and up her thighs, tangling in her hair like he’s drinking her in with his touch, intoxicated with the smell of peach in her hair and the taste of sweat on her skin. Kiara lets herself get lost in him, ride the wave of desire pushing through her, moans and gasps when he hits the right spots and closes her eyes as he lifts her shirt over her head and attaches his lips to her neck, his hands finally coming up to cover her tits, and the long careful fingers she’d spent so many afternoons watching prove adept at twisting and pinching her nipples and leaving her begging for him.
She almost rips his t-shirt off, pulling his bare chest against her own and letting the feeling of skin on skin light her up, setting fireworks off behind her eyelids. Wrapping one hand around the arm holding him up, she can feel his teeth on her neck, and she knows he’s leaving marks, and, for once, it doesn’t feel like she’s being claimed. She knows what it is -- proof this is happening, that they’re alive and feeling and crashing together again and again. She sinks her nails into his bicep as his fingers skim below the waistband of her shorts, and feels him smirk against her lips.
“Yeah?” he asks, and the teasing in his voice is tortuous and reminiscent of his old, humorous self, just enough to make her sad for a moment, and when she nods quickly in return, it’s a bid to forget that sadness. His fingers flick open the button of her shorts and as his fingers dip lower, the only thing she can think about, the only thing she can feel, is his touch, his all-consuming presence, radiating heat. The bastard takes his time, her only gratification the press of him against her hip, hot and hard. He teases her through her underwear, and she can’t say she doesn’t enjoy it, arcing into his touch, shocks of pleasure building in incredible anticipation, but he’s going too slow, and he’s wearing too many clothes, still, and the intense want gnawing at her has too much potential to turn into grief.
“Would you just --” she grunts against his mouth, cut off on a moan as he presses his fingers against her clit. “Fucking -- ah,” he works slow, hard, circles, enjoying himself as she tries to form sentences with his hands on her. “Fuck me already!” Because even this can’t be easy, not between the two of them. Because she’ll always be fighting with him, even with her bare chest pressed against his and his hand down her pants.
JJ grins, scraping his teeth over her ear. “What,” he says, still teasing, still bittersweet, as he finally pushes his hand into her underwear, “aren’t you enjoying this?” Slowly, much too slowly, his fingers part the lips of her cunt, pressing down over her clit before finding the wetness further down. JJ practically growls as his middle finger dips between her folds and he finds her soaked, dropping his forehead against the forearm braced above her head. “Fuck, Kie,” he moans, and he can’t disguise the wasted crack in his voice. “God, you’re so fucking wet.” He’s already drunk on her, every new sensation dragging him deeper.
“Your fault,” she stutters as he puts his hands, lean and strong and practiced, to good use, dragging slick fingertips back up to her clit and teasing small circles, rough, calloused skin creating delicious friction. And this -- this is what she was so desperate for, to feel only his touch and the way he pushes her higher, closer to an edge far away from the bleak grief of their every day world. He moans, too, as he dips his middle finger into her and she keens into his mouth, and she’s not thinking anymore, only chasing heat and skin and pleasure, the rest of the night foggy and distant, moonlit and blurred.
She doesn’t even know how much time passes before he’s kissing his way down her body, only that he’s fucked her so well with his hands he has three fingers inside her and she’s asking for more. He pulls his hand away and she lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched noise at the loss of contact, only to end on a gasp when she opens her eyes to see that he has his fingers curled around the waistband of her shorts and his face is hovering near her hips, pupils blown wide as he looks up at her. He asks her something, but blood rushes in her ears as her heart pounds and her chest heaves and it isn’t until his tongue darts out to wet his lips that she realizes what he’s saying.
“Fuck, yes, please,” she whines, and it feels like less than instant before her shorts are on the floor and his head is between her legs, his tongue on her clit, and she screams, pushing her hands into his hair as his mouth launches her higher and keeps her there, wave upon wave crashing over her until her legs are shaking, and when she feels the pull deep in her stomach and he takes half a second to breathe, she has enough presence of mind to yank him back up, slamming his lips down onto hers, tasting herself there.
“Inside me,” she gasps, ragged and raw and scraping. “Now.”
“But you haven’t --” he breathes, and she reaches down, shoving past the waistband of the shorts he’s still wearing, her hand on his cock stopping him dead.
“Now,” she repeats. And then, leans up to kiss him, slightly softer than before, as if in apology for being so rough, but more as a distraction as her hands unbutton his shorts and shove them down his thighs, her hands finding him again and stroking his cock until he’s gasping into her mouth. “Unless,” she says between short kisses, trying to keep her tone light, even as her cunt aches for him. “You changed your mind?”
He scrambles out of his shorts and boxers so fast it’s almost funny, but the laugh falls out of her chest as he braces his forearms on either side of her face, pushing her hair back from her forehead and looking at her so carefully it almost hurts. “I don’t have a condom,” he says, uncharacteristic worry trembling in his voice.
“I’m clean,” she says, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair once more, to ground her, and disguise their shaking. “You?”
He nods. “What about --”
“I have an IUD,” she says, more grateful than ever for her liberal mother and her own presence of mind.
He licks his lips again, eyes dropping to her mouth before flicking back up to her eyes. “Last chance,” he says, like she’s going to change her mind and push him off of her, run off into the night and leave him here, disgraced and embarrassed. “Still sure?” he asks, like he’s expecting her to say no. She nods without hesitation, caught in his blue eyes, turned cobalt in the half-light. He kisses her one more time, and it’s laden with years of things he hasn’t said, and she surges up with urgency, not ready for the tenderness in his touch. JJ tries to slow her down again, to revel in the moment of bare skin and vulnerability, no matter how guarded it may be, but she reaches down, wrapping her hand around his dick, guiding him closer to her, and he’s falling into her touch, into her orbit, helpless.
She draws him inside her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder with a forsaken, heavy breath. It’s too soft, this moment before he moves, too easy to break, every sense on fire. The air is too close to her skin, too tight around her arms, like she could rip the fabric of it with the barest movement. She wants to be lost in him again, to feel separate, far away and floating above herself, not so torturously in her body, JJ trembling and present above her. “JJ,” she says, opening her eyes to find his, a split-second mistake, the next word hitching on its way out of her chest. “Move.”
He does, mercifully lowering his face to press against her neck, the eye contact too substantial, too burdensome to hold. The bubble surrounding them expands as he works her up to that blissful edge with ease, his mouth letting out a stream of filthy words about how good she feels surrounding him. Closing her eyes, she tilts her head back, letting her hands have free reign over his back, his shoulders, his arms and up into his hair, every place she wants to touch him when she watches his ridiculous muscles ripple under his young, tan skin. He shifts his weight, hooking her knee over his hip so his cock hits exactly the right spot with every thrust, and she cries out, racing higher.
She should have expected that JJ likes to run his mouth -- she only catches parts of what he’s saying, things like ‘so fucking hot’ and ‘sound so fucking good’ and ‘so fucking wet for me’ and as her moans increase in pitch and volume, he growls “c’mon, Kie, cum for me,” and she falls apart. He fucks her through the aftermath and she barely knows what noises are coming out of her mouth, her nails digging angry welts in his back. Just when she thinks she can’t take anymore, he tenses and spills inside her on a half-broken sigh.
Her vision sharpens as he rolls off of her, collapsing on the squeaky bedsprings, and the house is too quiet all of a sudden, the air once again too close. Her breath slows, the sweat cooling on her skin in the soft breeze pushing through the wooden walls, the still-open front door. Neither of them says anything, and Kiara can feel him looking at her, his blown out smile too loud in the fallout. She sits up, almost flinching at the light touch of his fingers on his spine when he picks up a strand of her hair. “I’m gonna pee,” she says, finding her underwear and pulling them on, and then, after half a moment, pulling his discarded t-shirt over her head.
Her head echoes as she steps over the scattered mess to get to the bathroom, like she’s walking through a tunnel. Her legs ache and tremble, and she wraps her arms around herself, numb and falling. She fights tears as she washes her hands. The bathroom is, as always, a deplorable mess, products everywhere and hair all over the sink. Her green bikini top is still on the floor from when she’d forgotten it just the other day, and that girl feels impossibly far from the one staring at herself in the mirror, wearing her best friend’s shirt while he’s naked in the next room. There’d be shame, and guilt, too, if the smell of John B’s deodorant didn’t choke her with overwhelming loss. Bracing her hands on either side of the sink, she can’t hold it back anymore, and sobs spill out of her, harsh and echoing in the small space.
JJ is behind her an instant, half-dressed in basketball shorts and drawing her into his arms, tucking her close to him, her tears hot on his skin. “He’s gone,” she whimpers. “He’s really gone.” He doesn’t say anything, just guides her back to the pullout and straightens the blankets enough for her to fall in. She curls up on her side, crying so hard she can’t breathe, and he climbs in across from her, pushing one arm under her neck and using the other to pull her against him, his lips pressed to her forehead.
Tears leak out of his own eyes, silent and soft to her earth-shattering grief. “It’s gonna be okay,” he reassures her, fighting the quiver in his own voice, his chin shaking with the effort of it. He stares into the empty darkness above her head, every jerk of her prone body another crack in his breaking heart. “He’s coming back,” he says, more to himself than her. “He’s coming back to us.”
When she finally quiets down, the betrayal of dawn is beginning to lighten the sky, the moon fading, and the idea of this night being over feels impossible. For a short while, they breathe each other in, her forehead pressed to his collarbones, his hand trailing up and down her spine. Her head aches and her eyelids fall heavy over gritty, exhausted eyes, but she still fights sleep, stubbornly resisting another day, the beginning of a life without John B and Sarah. “I can’t stay here,” she says, finally, pushing back from him. “I should go home.”
He reaches up to catch her chin as she watches her hands curled close to his chest, reluctant to go. “Kie,” he murmurs, lifting her gaze to meet his. He moves forward to kiss her, and she flattens her palms against his skin, stopping him even as her eyes fall to his lips.
“JJ,” she says, an exhale more than his name. “We -- I mean, I --”
“Shit,” he sighs, and it almost sounds like a laugh, formed from expectations he wished hadn’t come true. “Okay.” His eyes flutter close, and she watches him draw back into himself, close all the doors, like he wants to turn off the lights and pretend he’s not even here. But then, he looks at her again, gently smoothing a curl behind her ear. “It’s just --” he starts, and inhales again, wetting his lips as he struggles to keep his eyes on her deep brown ones. “Can we go back to normal tomorrow?” Her eyebrows push together a fraction of an inch, and he focuses on the wrinkle there, a thousand times easier than holding her gaze. “Please,” he says when she inhales to say something. “I don’t want to be alone.”
It’s the first time either of them have been completely honest all night, and the most he’s said in hours. “Yeah,” she says, agreeing without thinking. Making it about him instead of admitting to herself that she wants to stay, that she doesn’t want to be alone either. “Yeah, okay.” She allows herself to be kissed, to be held and kept softly. JJ twists his fingers in her curls, skims his lips over her hairline before pressing his forehead against hers.
He tucks his hand against the side of her neck, his fingers spanning from her ear to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright,” he promises, and they both pretend he’s saying it to her. She’s seen JJ cheerful and stubborn, breaking and angry, seen him a thousand different ways. But never like this, kind and soft, quiet in the grey, grieving dawn. Eventually, she falls asleep under his touch and reassuring whispers.
The morning is just as sticky and unforgiving as every other that summer, and she wakes up damp and sticky with sweat. JJ is stretched out on his stomach, arms tucked under his head, mouth slack and hair falling over his eyes. Her head still hurts, and now so do her back and thighs, and she stretches her hand out across the rumpled sheets, tracing the red lines she’d left down his back. He blinks awake, closing his mouth and freezing when he feels her touch on his skin.
“Hey,” she murmurs.
“Hey,” he replies.
She waits for him to say something, but he just watches her, his clear blue eyes unflinching. She bites her lip. “I should get home,” she says, keeping her eyes on the knuckle tracing over his back, his gaze too heavy to hold.
“Yeah,” he says, “okay.” Neither of them move. The world waits on a hair trigger, and JJ’s more familiar with this kind of silence than she is. She wants him to break it first, to be the impulsive hothead he always is, to make the choice for both of them. But he doesn’t, and the moment crumbles, and she sits up and goes in search of her clothes.
He doesn’t say anything until she stoops to pick up her bag, sweatshirt in hand, ready to shove it into the biggest pocket. “Kie,” he says, and she stops dead, looking up at him. She doesn’t know what she wants him to say, but she deflates anyway when he just asks “my shirt?”
She’d forgotten she was wearing it. Pulling it off, she feels his hungry eyes trace up her bare chest as she untangles the drug rug before pulling it down and arranging it around her hips. She tosses him the shirt, and he holds her gaze as he flips it right side out and tugs it on. They stand on either side of the disheveled living room, daring the other person to say something, move, do anything first. He knows what he wants, what he can’t have, what he’s convinced himself he never will. She remembers the line she drew, the boundary she’d very clearly set. He chooses to respect it while she waits for him to break the rules.
Birds sing in the unflinching morning, and a breeze stirs the hair around her face. She slings her backpack over her shoulder. The sun blazes as gulls call and waves lap against the dock. He tilts his chin back, like he always does just before a fight. She turns to go.
#outer banks#jiara#jj x kiara#kiara x jj#kiara/jj#jj/kiara#outer banks fanfiction#jiara fanfic#jiara fic#jiara fanfiction#jiara smut#jiara angst#angst#smut#hurt/comfort#PLEASE interact with this I'm LITERALLY BEGGING YOU
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Eye of the Storm 17
Warnings: nonconsensual sex; paddling.
This is dark!Thor and dark!Loki and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You are a new servant at the palace of Asgard but the job isn’t so easy as you thought.
Note: This is a lot of smut but I promise y’all, we are close to a conclusion. Don’t give up on reader just yet.
Thank you. Love you guys!
As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3
The door was locked. Loki barely said a word as he left you in the king’s chambers. Alone. You would have been thankful for the solitary in any other circumstance, but this was more penance than peace. Not only was the prince angered by your attempt at flight but he now held it over you. If he should reveal it to the king, you would surely face a wrath far worse than Loki’s silent brooding.
Several days passed, a week maybe. In a perverse way, your wish for isolation had come true. Only the maid appeared to bring your meals and to clean up the barely touched remnants. You didn’t do much but stare out the window or at the wall. You couldn’t decide which you dreaded more, Loki’s inevitable appearance or Thor’s foreboding return.
The prince woke you. As the first time he’d appeared thus, you were on the couch, in a troubled and tenuous slumber which he swiftly broke. You sat up slowly as you touched your forehead and your vision cleared slowly. You blinked away your fatigue as Loki paced back and forth behind the couch. You looked over the back at him and he barely seemed to notice you.
You turned your legs over the edge of the sofa and were startled as something slapped harshly against the back. You stopped and looked back. The wooden paddle rested threatening against the upholstered frame. A snake head was carved into its face and it’s long tail wound around the handle, gripped in the prince’s pale hand.
“Obedience.” He said staunchly as he turned the paddle. “That is what you must learn. While your little acts of resistance are entertaining they can be rather exhausting.” He brought the paddle to your cheek then slid it down under your chin and forced your head up. “Trust me, darling, this will save you much trouble. Not only with myself but my brother as well.”
“Your highness. I--” You stammered as he lifted your head higher. “I have thought on my transgression and I am so very sorry. I understand that what I’ve done--”
“You do not understand.” He insisted as he pushed on the paddle and you were forced back until you were on your feet. “You do not understand that the queen left because I allowed it. That she did invite you because I suggested it. That you fell into my trap because I knew you to be underhanded.”
“I was scared but I--”
“You be quiet,” He hissed as he brought the tip of the paddle to your lips. “I did not come to break that precious face.” He let the paddle drop as he stepped around the couch. “Only the last of your cursed obstinacy.”
Your lips trembled. You couldn’t understand why he would aid Calla. Why should he let her go and not you? Well, certainly he had more use in you than a wife not his own.
“Come on.” He slapped the couch cushion with the paddle. “Hands flat.”
You stared at him and he lifted the paddle. He brought it around your back and nudged you towards the sofa. You did as he bid and he leaned the wood against your ass. He spun it and rubbed it against you.
“I did not bring the queen to be an ally to the king. I chose her because I knew she would be an easy foe, especially with my oaf of a brother.” He slithered as he stepped closer and pulled up your skirts. “I don’t expect you to comprehend my methodology but surely you can guess my intent… my brother’s arrogance has always been his greatest flaw. He is a sore loser.” He bared your ass and stepped back. “Ever since we were children. And to lose to me… a greater tarnish upon his pride.”
“Please--” Your voice caught in your throat as the wood cracked across your ass and your legs gave out. You cried out as you crumpled to the floor and reached back to touch your tender flesh.
“Up!” He barked and jabbed you with the paddle. “Count.”
“Ow,” You whined. “I can’t. Please don’t--”
“I will double the mark, dear, so stand and take your punishment with some degree of dignity.” He snarled.
You rose, shakily, drawing yourself up with the couch. You bent over it heavily and braced yourself as your legs continued to quake. You took a breath as the wood met your flesh again before Loki pulled back. The next strike made you yelp, and the next, and the next. With each, you counted, pained grunts which barely left your breathless chest.
When you reached twenty, tears crawled down your cheeks and nose and fell onto the cushion below. You waited for twenty-one but it never came. Instead, Loki pushed on your lower back until you lowered yourself down to the floor, careful to keep on your knees as your ass reverberated with pain.
“I did promise my brother to keep you in line,” Loki said as he placed the paddle against the wall. “He did not clarify in which way I should do so but whatever is most effective, I suppose.”
He neared and pulled you up by your elbows, your skirts falling over your legs once more. You were barely able to stand on your own strength and you sniffed back your sobs. You’d never felt a pain so intense and it lingered as your flesh was already bruising.
“You do know if you were to tell him of the ways in which I’ve kept you submissive, he will do worse.” He turned and sat on the sofa as his hands slipped your arms. “You must know that I have shown you mercy but you would rather not have him prove it thus.”
You scowled down at him, somehow numb and entirely agonized all at once. He grasped your waist as he drew you between his knees until your legs met the couch.
“So, what have you learned, darling?” He asked.
You stared down at him as his fingers crept up and down your sides. You choked as you searched for your voice.
“To listen. To be obedient.” You quavered.
“To be silent.” He added as he pulled you into his lap. “To do as you must, not as you want.”
He tore your skirt from beneath you as he slid you closer. He kept you on your knees, just above him as he felt around between your bodies. He unlaced his breeches as his other hand brushed your skirts back behind you. He freed himself from his pants and you felt him prodding along your cunt. He gripped your hip and forced you down impatient and sighed as he tossed his head back against the couch.
You sat atop him, your ass burned as you settled in his lap. His hand fell from you and he spread his arms across the back of the sofa.
“Do as you must,” He purred. “You’ve learned much, darling. Surely you needn’t my guidance any longer.”
You inhaled as you began to rock. You grasped his shoulders as the friction of your skirts against your ass caused you to tremble. He stayed as he was, watching you past his long nose, as you sucked in your lip, in agony and reluctant pleasure. Despite the fire in your veins, the singe along your flesh, you felt that familiar tingle. That one which wasn’t really you but that baser, instinctual weakness within.
You kept your pace slow but steady, afraid to further agitate your tortured ass. You hung your head, wishing, praying, for it to end. The listlessness, the loneliness, the purgatory of these chambers, you had taken it for granted. You hadn’t appreciated any of it and this is what came from it.
Your orgasm rolled through you but you only let out another pathetic whimper. You focused on keeping your hips tilting until as a flood of warmth filled you. Until Loki’s voice rose sultry and dusky around you. You stopped and without thinking, fell forward until your head rested beside the prince’s. Your breath came shallow and shaky.
“Get off me,” He growled as he shoved you.
You sat up and lifted yourself from him, falling back on the cushion beside him with a grumble. It hurt worse than before. Not just the welt from the paddle, but your soul; your very being. He stood and strode away, ignoring your existence as he searched for something to clean himself with.
You remained on the couch, curled up in a heap, barely hearing or seeing him as he moved around the chambers. You only sensed his shadow as he came to loom over you.
“I will not be so patient again.” He bent and grabbed your chin until your lashes fluttered up at him. “Your novelty wears thin, my dear.”
🌩️
Loki did not return for another week. You were thankful he did not bring the paddle but his visit went as any other. The next day, the door was unlocked. You opened it but did not leave. Not for another week after that. More than a month since the king had left. You didn’t long for his return only for the similar absence of the prince.
You felt sick often, your stomach cramped most nights, and you’d begun to bloat. Was it stress? Surely the unending tension that encased your entire existence was wearing on you. That morning was worse than most. You were overtired, your head hurt, and your breakfast made you queasy.
So you decided it was finally time to leave the chambers. You needed some air. You needed to be free of the walls of your prison. You needed to forget, if even for a moment, a second. You could just pretend, just a little, that this all had been a bad dream.
You stepped out into the corridor. The guard stood straight and watched you as you passed him. He followed a few feet behind. Loki’s man? Thor’s? Did it even matter?
You went to the garden, the only place you could think of to go. The only sanctuary in this inferno. You passed by the flower beds around the stone bench and the low hedges near the front of the courtyard. The bushes got higher and higher and trees came to be framed by rose bushes and lines of tulips and lilies.
You were a fawn, lost in a forest of wolves. You were a fae searching for the magic root that would free you. You weren’t you, you just were. Only the guard, your personal shadow, kept you bound to reality.
You knelt by a patch of golden daffodils and daintily felt a petal. The scent of pollen made you think of when you’d been a child. The bunches of violets you’d gathered and give to your mother as a present. You smiled.
“I wondered where you were.” Your heart caught at the deep tone; quiet but suffocating. You looked over your shoulder as Thor dismissed the guard with a glance. “I admit my greater fears did come to mind.”
You withdrew your hand and stood. Was it truly him? Was this some trick again?
“My king.” You breathed. “You’ve returned?”
“I was longer than I expected,” He said calmly as he neared. His scarlet cape was stirred by the gentle breeze, his expression was a mix of fatigue and frustration. “But I prevailed. Ormheim has been subdued and I return to you, pet, wanting.”
You lowered your chin as he came up before you. He took your hands in his and drew you to him.
“You look… even more delicious than I recall,” He hummed as he cupped your cheek in his hand. “Did you miss me as I missed you?”
“Yes,” You lied. “Every day.”
“And night, I’m certain,” He grinned. “How long I’ve waited to see you again. To see this face.” His arm wrapped around you and he hugged you to him. “To feel you.”
You tried to smile but it felt more a wince. You recalled Loki’s warnings, the queen’s escape, and your own guilt. Even if he did not learn of his brother’s mischief, he would not be happy for his wife’s departure.
“I cannot wait,” He snarled as he leaned in, his large hand stretched over your jaw as he raised your head. “I thought to take you back to the chambers but my patience is little.”
He pressed his lips to yours and clung to you. You kissed him back, perhaps hoping to prolong the inevitable. Perhaps hoping to live in your delusion a little longer. He might be the keeper of your cell but you could pretend he was another. Pretend you wanted it so bad as him. You did want it; you wanted to leave it all behind. You wanted to be happy so why not fake it…
He bent closer and his arm slipped down your back. His other hand fell from your chin and he grabbed the back of your thighs. He lifted you as easily as he would a feather and wrapped your legs around him. He groaned into your mouth as his hand blindly searched your skirts, bunching them up in each other as he bared your ass.
You clung to his shoulders as he felt beneath you and tickled your cunt. His lips left yours and he bent his head into the crook of your neck. His mouth brushed along the collar at your throat and his warm breath seeped into you. He guided himself with two fingers to your entrance and he sank into you slowly. He gasped and dragged his lips along the skin that bordered the golden choker.
He impaled you completely and you moaned. You tilted your hips as you pushed your head back and he kept his motion with sharp, short thrusts. You let out pathetic mewls with each rock of his pelvis and you tightened your hold on him.
“You really did miss me, pet,” He rasped in your ear. “Mmm, all mine.” He purred. “The nights must have been long all by yourself.”
“Very,” You breathed as you let him use your body and turned your face up to the hot sun. “Oh, my king.”
“So sweet,” He groaned as he sped up, hooking his arm under your right leg and drawing it up as he hooked his fingers over your shoulder and his other stayed wrapped around your back. “Fuck, it’s been so long.”
You panted as you felt the pressure mounting. As the coil twisted inside of you and urged you on. As it pushed away every ounce of doubt and resent. As you forgot the sickness which had woke you early and the melancholy which had coloured your life. You exclaimed as your orgasm took over and you let yourself surrender to Thor’s body. Accept his gentleness while you could, his cruelty would not be far behind.
He slammed into you harder and harder. His growls grew deeper and louder. He snarled against your cheek and crashed his hips against you. He jolted your body as his motion grew sharper and more deliberate. He rocked through his orgasm as he roared in pleasure, fucking you until his seed was dripping out around him.
His chest rose and felt against you and he stumbled around with you still in his arms, still buried inside of you. He sat on a stone bench beneath a tree with great green prongs. He sighed and ran his hand up and down your back as he embraced you.
“I needed that,” He said. “Were you a good girl when I was gone?”
“Yes, my king,” You uttered as leaned against him. You felt his power, remembered it. Visions of his wrath tinted those memories and you shuddered.
“Let us stay like this,” He played with your skirts as he spoke. “Just for a time. I’m not so ready to be king again.”
#thor#loki#dark thor#dark loki#dark!thor#dark!loki#loki x reader#thor x reader#dark loki x reader#dark thor x reader#dark!loki x reader#dark!thor x reader#fic#series#eye of the storm#dark fic#dark!fic#au#marvel#mcu
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universal constant
Rated: M
Words: 5,711
Read it on AO3
(Wolgraha. Mild sexual content within)
beta’d by @vaniccio
G’raha’s world ends. She dies. And then, inexplicably, she doesn’t.
The Echo, he comes to realize, is a callous master.
-----
The first time G'raha sees her go down in a fight, he forgets how to breathe.
It is only a fraction of a moment. The air is knocked out of her in a thick cry. He hears the skid of her feet against mud and stone and the clatter of her bow upon the ground, even amid the heavy rain.
She becomes a wet pile of leathers, unmoving for just a moment too long.
An imperial mech bears down on her, but G'raha’s feet move automatically. He hurls his body over her and then he throws up his arm, summoning a shield of light just as a gigantic sword crashes toward them both. His arm vibrates so hard from the blow that his teeth clatter. His off-arm digs deep into the dirt. His eyes water -- and then Alisaie sets the enemy alight with red flares. Metal explodes in fiery flints over the field. He ducks under his shield so that his forehead nearly brushes Izzie's, and the battle stills, if only for a moment.
He opens his eyes (when had he closed them? Everything moves too fast for him to remember) and is met by Izzie staring up at him, her sea glass eyes bright against the mud smears on her face. Gods, he thinks, gods and wicked white and every curse, of course she is fine. Of course. The thought alone is cooling as a salve. He remembers to breathe.
But then she is suddenly, impossibly close, her breath hot against his face. She yanks him up by the biceps. Her fingernails dig into his skin, even through his clothes. She shakes him fiercely, yelling something, and it happens so quickly he doesn't process what she is saying until--
"--so don't fucking do that!" she shouts over the rain. "Some blows aren't meant for you!"
"Izzie--" Her name spills out of his mouth, but the rest of his words clot in his throat. Am I supposed to just stand here?
She shoves him away before he can finish.
The fight swells and her fury becomes magnificent to behold. He loses track of her, but never completely. He would hear her over the loudest of dins; whether via the lingering mysticism of the Crystal Tower or this young body's constant yearning, her soul has left deep marks on him. Its aura presses like high tide, smothering and heady in its power. Arrows fly. Her voice rises to haunting crescendo. Magitek scatters to blue sparks and flame. Only later when she vice grips his shoulders does he see the sickness that drives her into reckless battle. Her eyes scan him so thoroughly he would have blushed if he had the energy.
"Okay," she breathes. She shakes and shakes and shakes. Heavy rain plinks on dead metal. All else is silent. He could hear her bones chatter together, if he listened hard enough. "Okay," she says again. "We're fine."
She sways on her feet. He wraps his arms around her taut waist and pulls her close, but she resists him, tensing in his arms, turning her face away from him. Blood and ceruleum and ash drip from her pale skin as rain showers them both. He rubs her forehead with his thumb, but his gloves are dirtied with battle, and so he simply leaves another smear.
"Izzie, look at me."
"I'm fine."
"I know--"
"I just need..." She sucks in a breath between her teeth. He would give her anything she asks. The moon and every star in the sky. "Just give me a second."
He purses his lips. He pushes her hair from her drenched forehead and tests her tension. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it," he says.
She bristles in his arms. Her nails dig into his wrists. She is a bow string near to snap. "So?"
He blinks. "What?"
She sniffs heavily and still won't look at him. "This isn't new."
But he had never been in the field like this, never felt the slick of dirt and grime on her like this, never smelled blood and gunpowder in her hair like this. He drinks her in, how small she seems now, soaked by rain. He is well aware that she is only in his arms because she allows it, but the dichotomy between Izzie of the Fight -- the Izzie the stories sing about -- and the Izzie of the Aftermath is discordant. He fears one of them may shatter from the sound.
"I'm sorry," he says. "You're right."
A heartbeat passes between them. When she finally turns to speak into his shoulder, her voice is near lost in the rain. "...Just let me do my job."
He sways in place, holding her in his arms. He knows that tone -- the determination, the resignation of it. The stubborn will to stand in the storm so no others will. It is the only way she knows how to seize control.
An old frustration makes his tail thrash.
There is no time here to hash it out, not as the other Scions begin to approach. There is no time for him to spill his heart on the floor for her -- to explain just how each blow she takes is one for him, too.
"Alright," he says, picking his battles. "Alright."
-----
It isn't always like that. But he does learn just how terrible of a chirurgeon patient she is.
After another engagement at Bozja, Izzie lays her head in G'raha's lap while Krile sews up the re-opened gash in her side. Izzie grits her teeth. You’re here as a distraction. And a focus. So she remembers not to throw me across the room, Krile had said, blasé, and G’raha couldn’t tell if she was joking. Izzie’s body jerks as Krile begins another stitch. Her hand grips his tightly enough his mouth pops open in shock.
“Sorry,” Izzie hisses out. She lets go immediately. “Sorry.”
“I fear this is my doing." He manages a light tone despite the throttling nature of the pain. He opts to let his thumbs linger at her temples, instead. "For making you laugh too hard.”
“Shame on you.” She smirks up at him, wobbly and disjointed, and affection floods him, warm and rounded. She jolts again.
He brushes hair from her brow. “Are you sure you--”
“Nope,” Izzie says quickly. “I’ve had worse.”
Izzie, he discovers, hates pain medicine -- hates the way it blurs her thoughts and stunts her movement, even for something as routine as stitches, and he realizes he is there to shine like a sharp light through the sensation of Krile digging into her flesh.
“Prepare yourself, Warrior,” the lalafell says, and she goes for another stitch.
Izzie almost thrashes out of G’raha’s lap. He presses his palms into her shoulders, startled. He would soothe her with a healing spell but he’d been yelled at by Krile enough for that; such spells interfere with chirurgeon work by making the body repair along bad seams.
“Bitchass motherfucker, Krile !” Izzie seethes in his lap, eyes watering. “You’re doing this on purpose!”
An old, silent war rages as Krile meets her patient’s gaze. It doesn’t have to be like this, Krile would say. We live in a society with medicine. And Izzie would insist upon it because her stubbornness is near a sickness of its own. He frowns.
She is a horrible patient for one who must be treated so often.
Even so, she is not the only one with hurts -- and despite everything, he comes to cherish the moments late in the eve when both lay in bed, beaten and bruised and tired and together. He relishes the way her body melts into his when he smooths his hands over her shoulders, healing aether warming his palms. The way she presses messy kisses into his chest, his wrists, his jaw. The rejuvenating rest allowed two people, waking in shared soreness, beneath the soft dawn light.
It’s not so bad, he thinks; it’s all he ever wanted. It is a deeply survivable thing, to share these burdens.
Until, sometimes, it isn’t.
-----
Her striking shadow slices the beam of Garlemald’s fearsome weaponry, a flare in the negative against roiling light. He stands struck by her glory.
And then his stomach curdles as her shadow scatters, like grass eaten by locusts, beneath the assault.
He doesn’t even have time to scream.
She's gone.
She's gone.
He feels outside his own body, staring blankly at the scorch mark left behind on the ground where she stood. His feet move on their own.
Thancred shouts for him to hold the line. The man's voice barely registers over the white noise buzzing in G'raha's ears. What line is there left to hold? Was it really doomed to end like this? Even with the balance of the Universe reset by centuries just to--
Wait.
A figure appears amid the smoke and shadow, and he has to blink back the blurred edges of his vision.
She’s... there.
She stands, whole, where she should not be -- a filagree of light against the dark. Silence rolls across the field. It’s as if she’d never been gone at all.
She turns toward him, face blank. His throat is hoarse. He realizes he is screaming her name. The world skips past him like a broken orchestrion roll until he has her in his arms, pulling her down from the outcropping that made her such an obvious target.
She doesn’t resist him. “Raha?”
Hate surges through him then, suddenly -- a fear so poisonous it cripples him -- and he realizes the hate is not for Garlemald or even the killing blow but for the heroic image she strikes despite the damage it clearly ekes. She blinks helplessly, eyes reddened and bloody. Burns seep away from her skin like paint under rain, disappearing before his eyes. She gropes in desperation until she finds his chest and her hand wraps around the edge of his scarf. Her dirt-caked nails leave grimy splotches on the fabric.
“Do I have my bow?” she manages.
He can’t speak. Her hands reach for the weapon anyway.
His heart rips. “You shouldn’t--”
“I’m okay, darlin’.” Her voice is an unusual, knowing calm. “You shouldn’t be this far afield.”
And she turns away. She somehow returns to the fight. No one asks. They don’t need to.
He looks toward the backline and sees the rest of the Scions watching him.
They deal with it in their own ways, he realizes then. It's why Alphinaud focuses so hard on healing and the reason Alisaie throws her all into her offensive battery. It’s one of the myriad reasons Thancred took up his position as the group’s shield. Why Y’shtola turned from conjury to the most fearsome of black magics. Why Urianger brought the power of the stars to bear.
If they are enough, she doesn’t have to go through that.
The battle ends, largely a stalemate but slightly in their favor. Even Izzie tires. G’raha’s body protests but he ignores it; he half-carries her back to the camp and does not let her out of arm’s reach until they’ve regained enough energy to teleport back to the Rising Stones. Even then he feels she could too easily slip from this coil.
He knows she is not feeling right because she doesn’t rebuff him.
He fears his uselessness. A habit from a century of living with want. While he quietly helps her out of her armor and into a bath, he ponders what the Echo has wrought. He sprinkles healing salt into the water.
She died. She died! Her body flipped like a switch to a moment before her demise, shivering and burned, gasping for air.
He wonders at its function alongside her connection to the Ancients. It’s different from revival; she was disintegrated. The Echo made it not so. He knows she can die. He lived centuries to prevent that very outcome. But which deaths are final? Which can she shrug off? How many does she get?
Does she exist outside the usual laws of time and space? A paracausal existence, where cause and effect do not matter in ways comprehensible to the Spoken mind? If Hydaelyn and Zodiark are merely primals, the most powerful of all meant to rewrite the laws of science, is it possible that glimpsing the power of the Ancients makes it so the most Blessed of Her heart can only be felled in the most horrific and reality-twisting of ways?
Why? Why would that be Her solution?
He jolts when her wet palm settles against his cheek. “Hey.”
He breathes deep. Her soap smells like lavender and honey. He presses his mouth into the grooves of her hand and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” His throat tightens. “Today, I--”
“No,” she says, so soft. “I’m sorry. I know the...the weird thing happened.”
He somehow never had seen it. The weird thing. The Weird Thing. He’s shaken by this term. “Do you know when it will happen?”
She lets out a shattered sigh. “I don’t.”
“...do you...remember what happened to you?”
“Not really,” she says. A primal memory of the muscle, but not of the heart or mind. He feels deep relief right alongside revulsion. “I just know no one likes it.”
His mind buzzes. He has a thousand questions. He sometimes wishes the song of the Tower was clearer in his head, like back on the First. Perhaps the Allagans had known of this phenomenon; they seemed the type to cultivate such a talent. But he knows, too, the history of their avarice and he feels a spike of protectiveness at the thought of exposing her even to their memory.
The water splashes as she sits forward in the tub. “Raha?”
He meets her gaze and is lanced to the ground. Her eyes threaten tears.
“You just can’t think about it, okay?” She looks every which way. “Are you...does it…”
He leans forward and cradles her face between his palms. He kisses her hard enough that their teeth clash. His hands are still dirty. He would have to wash her face again. But he kisses her until her wet hands settle on the back of his neck and he feels her relax into the water.
“No,” he says. “It doesn’t change anything. Nothing could.”
His world nearly ended today. And then it didn’t. He would, for her sake, do his best to forget.
-----
He sees the blood spray from her arm. He watches her stumble and drop her bow. His body’s response is near automatic, summoning cool aether to weave a healing spell even as smoke fills the air. But when he charges forward to find her through the morass, she is not there.
He spins. He thinks of the blood rolling down her bow arm, sticky and dark.
“Izzie!”
Figures collide in the corner of his eye. He turns and turns and turns but her fiery hair is nowhere to be seen, wholly devoured by the chaos. He swallows down the building panic in his gut.
And then--
A thick silence descends, before his hair stands up and air sucks away from his ears and he dives to the side but it is not enough--
He stumbles to his knees from the concussive force and acrid stench of a fire bomb. Smoke burns his eyes. His ears ring from the biting kerang of gunfire. His shield nor his barriers are ready; the other Scions are scattered across the field. The Garleans must be catching on, he realizes, dark and heavy. They’ve had enough of the Scions’ tricks.
A war machina bears down on him. He spins to the side but the damn thing feints.
Raha!
In one moment, he is upright. In the next, he is on the cold ground. The world spins and spins and spins. His mouth fills with dirt; blood paints his teeth. Warmth trails down his chest and sticks to his tunic. Pain, dull at first, crescendos in the back of his head until it is shrieking.
A familiar voice rises over the din.
Fuckers! You’ll pay for that!
He opens his eyes. Blue-black debris flies overhead and then--
“Raha. Raha, look at me, okay? Look at me.”
Slick hands touch his face and turn his head until all he can see is the sea green of her eyes and the red flare of her dirty, war-tangled hair. He blinks. His limbs feel malms away. He can’t move fast enough to stop her from attending to him right here in the middle of a fight. Izzie’s hands slide up and down his chest until her fingers dig into his wound and he bucks in pain. His shoulder feels...incomplete. Bitten off. Wet and gone. Bits of fire dig into his skin. Shrapnel, perhaps.
“Okay. Okay. Okay. I can...no, can’t tourniquet there...cloth...pressure…”
She’s talking to herself.
He hears the tearing of cloth. Her stilted hands press a ripped part of her tunic into his shoulder. He cries out in agony as she pushes and pushes and pushes to try and stop the bleeding.
Her breathing is sharp and watery in his ear. “What the fuck were you doing,” she hisses. Her eyes are wide as saucers. “Where did you go?”
He braces himself to grunt out a few words, but he can’t form them.
“No. Don’t talk. Just focus on me. I...I don’t...” She takes a sharp breath and remembers her linkpearl. She pleas for a healer over the line, her voice shaking even as she barks out their location. Her hands are rough and seizing as she hoists him onto a field stretcher, but that is all he remembers before he wakes up under Krile’s care back at the safety of their camp.
He is laid out on a soldier’s cot, groggy and hazed, and he feels a strange anger simmering just below the medicinal fog. He hears his father’s laugh, cruel and thoughtless and drunk. You’ll never understand. None of us ever has.
Izzie sits in a chair, staring at the thin line revealed by the tent’s flap. Her face is still smeared with black oil and dirt. Her head is tilted slightly, like a garden ornament about to fall in the rain. His heart tumbles strangely.
“Where had you gone?” he croaks.
She jumps a foot in the air before she spins in her chair toward him. Her eyebrows creep near her hairline. In the next instant, she leans over him, hands hovering over his injuries. “I’m right here,” she says.
He thinks to tell her she hadn’t been. She hadn’t been where he thought she was and he thought she died, again, and he couldn’t bear it. Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she feel it, too? But her eyes are so wide and blown out and her skin shines so wetly he fears she is sick with fever.
So he buries the anger, deep and dark, and focuses on the feel of her fingers in his hair.
-----
He has sworn to love a wildfire. But wildfires are not known for their fairness.
The anger, simmering between them, spills out the next morning. She pushes open the tent flap and a warning klaxon sounds off between his ears, seeing the paleness of her brow and the darkness around her eye sockets. She had not slept. Yet her gaze glimmers, dangerous and lucid, and she says to him as she hands him a tray of rations: “You’re not doing this again.”
He squints up at her. Krile had said he likely won’t be returning to this particular engagement, but something in Izzie’s tone feels heavy and final. “I’m sorry?”
“We’re going back to the Stones.”
He sets the tray aside. “I understand I need to recover--”
But she won’t let him finish. “A warfront isn’t for you. You’re too...you’re too reckless.”
For a moment he forgets how to speak, struck dumb by her sheer audacity. “I’m reckless?”
She glares down at him. Challenging him. “Yes.”
She’s baiting him. He knows this.
“Izzie.” He bites out her name. She doesn’t flinch. “You were injured. It’s my job to protect you. You know that. You agreed to it.”
“It was just a small cut. You exposed yourself for no reason.”
He remembers the blood splatter. Anger, thick as sludge, makes his lungs hurt. “No reason? Izzie Nenelori, you took a hit that would have taken the arm off of any other man!”
“That’s my job!”
“It is, emphatically, not.”
She purses her lips. Her eyes glitter. He should fear this face, he knows, but he can barely see through his own fury, red and vile.
“You don’t know anything,” she hisses. “You know what I can do. What I can survive.”
Some dam in him breaks. He doesn’t think. He snakes out a hand to seize her by the wrist, as if that might prevent her from proving the power of the Echo here and now, and his heart stutters when her eyes widen. But he glares, intent. “Don’t. Do not even think to joke about that in my presence.”
“Or what?” Her eyes flick to his fingers wrapped around her arm. Her voice is desiccating. “What will you do.”
“Do you have any idea what it feels like?” His eyes burn. “To watch you throw your life about as if it holds no worth? Do you have any concept of the hole you would leave in our lives, in my life, if your Echo failed you once?” He can barely speak for the lump forming in his throat. “What it does to me, every time you shrug off a hit that should flatten you?”
She is silent for a single, heavy beat.
His throat burns as he resists breaking down in sudden, furious tears. “Do you?” he presses.
She tears her wrist from his grasp. She balls her hands into fists.
“How fucking dare you.” She takes a watery breath before her voice rises like the tide. “I watched you near die some three times already!”
His ears ring. Her words hang in the air, dripping and cruel and right.
“You think I don’t know?” Her cheeks glisten. “What it’s like to watch everything you love in the world fade? Are you really that godsdamn stupid?”
His mouth slackens. His shoulders sag. Tears leak down his face. He remembers, vividly, Alisaie flicking him on the forehead for openly considering his sacrifice for all their sakes. He had been so cavalier. He felt the circumstances had required it, then, and that Alisaie’s reaction had been driven by something a little illogical...
But Alisaie had been protecting Izzie’s heart. Because he hadn’t considered the possibility of the harm he could do to her, even then.
He grips the blanket, cursing his foolishness. Always the idiot boy in her presence.
“You’re right,” he churns out. “I...I’m sorry. I am.”
She turns away from him but she doesn’t storm off. He reaches, gently, for her hand. She does not pull away, but she does not loosen her fist.
“I struggled to remember, then, that I was...I was still...close enough to a Spoken man for it to matter, and…” He struggles to breathe. “I worry that you think the same thing. That you forget you are still a Spoken woman.”
Her shoulders crumple. Her hands fly to her face. She does not say anything for a long moment and he feels like a monster writhing in chains as he swallows down the desire to sweep her into an embrace. She would turn him away. She must come to him first.
“Am I?” Her voice shakes. “Am I?”
She sits at the end of his bed. He waits until her first sob breaks free before he pulls her to him, tucking her tightly under his chin. He strokes her back and hides his own tears in her hair. His shoulder be damned.
His lips brush her skin as he whispers his adoration. “You are.”
She is the girl he met in Mor Dhona, bright as seltzer. She is a rarity and fleeting and real -- like any girl, yes, but his.
-----
Even injured, he still tames her.
His hands rest at her bare waist as she reveals herself to him, word by word. She leans over him until her ruby hair pools in the cave of his collarbones and her taut arms frame his head. Her lips brush his jaw. “I just go crazy, thinking about it,” she admits, quiet, as if it is only the moon watching. “I survived a world without you, once. I don’t...I don’t think I could do it again.”
Before he can reply with words of his own, her teeth graze his chin and seize his lip. She eggs him on. Tell me, she would say, but don’t speak.
He flips her over him and pins her to the mattress. He buries his nose in her scent. Runs his hands down her naked body. Maps her sharp curves and deep scars, presses his thumbs into the dips of her hip bones, mouths her until her chest heaves -- even as she fights him.
His mouth is kind even as he manhandles her. His grasp is gentle but firm; she desires boundaries to rail against and he will give them to her. He drives her body into the mattress. He whispers sweetness into her ear as he does it. My star. Beautiful and glorious. I will never tire of your body under mine. He pulls her hair to expose her neck to his chastising teeth. Do you know how long I've wished for this? How lovely you look, laid bare and taken and mine?
It is the greatest honor he knows to have her like this, to break her open so the ache comes free and she can fill her heart with joy again. There are some hurts she need not bear. Pain need not be her only constant.
And it is thrilling to remind her who she belongs to.
He treats these moments like arcanima proofs. Through them, he describes the unknowable with what tools he has. His fingers, his tongue.
“I... Raha, I…”
Her voice saying his name sets his core alight. He is driven harder and harder until the pressure between them crests like a mad wave.
But when she finally cries out her pleasure and falls lax beneath him, he is the one who feels split in half. He leans over her, spent. His mind keens. His shoulder throbs. Her voice sends him a thousand different places -- to memories and fantasies that are both ancient and new, sometimes the same memory at once. A shattered kind of Echo.
She brushes the hair from his brow. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out when he meets her gaze. Her lingering silence pressurizes the room. He feels lightheaded. She’s holding something back and he no longer has the mind to figure out what, exactly; it may as well be dripping from him along with his sweat.
Her hand cups his cheek. He closes his eyes.
He would not survive another separation, either.
“It’s not just losing you,” she says. “It’s losing...losing me. Losing the people who remember who I am. I don’t know who I would be.” She looks up at him, wide-eyed and small. “If no one...if you weren’t here to...remind me...”
He lays down and pulls her in against his chest. She presses herself entirely against him, bracing him. His arms tighten around her waist. His fingers thread through her hair.
“Sometimes I fear I’m no longer tethered anywhere in time,” he confesses, throat tight. Ghosts linger in his blood; that is the true curse of Allag. “That I’m a mistake in the tapestry...and that all could be unwoven in a blink…”
She pulls back just slightly and brushes the backs of her fingers down his jaw. His eyes swim, overwhelmed by the sweetness of her face and the bruising of her lips.
“But we’re here,” he says, voice breaking. “And if I am a mistake, so be it. I will fight for my place. To remain here, with you, as long as I can. Even if that means I must take a hard risk now and again.” His shoulder throbs, as if to be the declarative point on his sentence.
Her answer is simple and shattering. She just says his name. “Raha…”
He pulls her into a kiss. Her voice is what he had followed when all else failed. He named the Musica Universalis after her -- the beating heart of the city, the center of their strange star and the harmonies within. The place where merchants and birds gathered and sang their hopeless, hopeful songs.
She pulls away. Her back is taut, but her hands are gentle, reaching up to rub his ears, and he is helpless before her.
"Let me show you something. Tomorrow." She turns her face into his neck. "It might help you understand."
-----
Ishgard splits the horizon like Halone’s Spear, painted in light and heavy stone. Coerthas’ mountains swell just behind it. From here, everything feels worlds away, even as the wind sears freezing gashes across his face.
But the gravestone feels too small.
Izzie stares at the broken shield, eyes threading seams into the hole, and G’raha feels a rock slowly sink into his stomach.
"That," Izzie says, "is why people can't take blows for me."
A moment passes. And then she tells him everything from the day Haurchefaunt died -- the details Lord de Fortemps could not bear to put in his memoirs. The warm twilight sky. How she and Haurchefaunt only needed share a single look before they both sprang into action. How they moved in sync, down a walkway gilded in purple and gold.
How he said he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, instead. How she watched the light leave his eyes.
She doesn't say it, but G’raha can feel it in her thoughts. It should have been me.
He guards her from the worst of the chill with his shoulders. "You could never know for sure. What might have happened if he hadn't been there."
Izzie's gazes upon the gravestone with a heaviness only worn by those who have made the same calculation over and over. "And Edmont wouldn't want me to think this way. I know. But I'm always going to wonder."
G'raha purses his lips. He remembers something a first generation settler of the Crystarium once told him. "That's the curse of the living, I'm afraid."
She eyes him. He can't pin if it's suspicion or annoyance or concern, her face half-hidden in a scarf.
"He knew who I was. Beyond the Warrior of Light. Like...someone else I once knew." She shoulder checks him hard enough that air rushes from his lungs, but he deserves it, teasing or no. "I was in a really bad place for a really long time before you found me again in another world. But even you…" Her gaze slides away and he snakes an arm around her shoulder. "...well, you know," she grumbles.
Even he almost died for her.
"So that's why it makes me crazy. When people try to help me. It's just easier for you to...not."
"But it isn't," he says softly.
Her hat re-shapes as her ears flatten.
"You've seen so much loss,” he says. “But what does that mean you'll do? Will you love others and receive none in return, in the hopes of sparing them some dark fate?"
She grumbles something, which signals to him he's right.
"It doesn't work like that, my love," he whispers into her ear, hiding the words from the icy wind. "And you, more than anyone, deserve the fullness of affection people have for you."
She bunches her gloved hands near her face, clawing at her cheeks before hiding her eyes in her palms. He thinks perhaps they've reached the end of it when she says: "I know you're right."
His heart jumps. "I do so love to hear it."
She gives the smallest snort of a laugh. He smiles into her wool cap.
“Ma always said the world doesn't owe us anything." Her shoulders bunch forward. "So it feels stupid to say I'm due for something." She pins him with her eyes. The heat in her gaze turns his frozen legs to water. "But maybe I am. I think I've paid for it enough."
She curls in around him against the cold. She suddenly sucks in a breath. It mists in the frozen air, like his own words inside his head.
"I want you with me forever," she says. "I mean it.” She hides her face against his neck and he's shot through with golden light. “Rings and everything.”
He feels dunked into champagne. Thoughts short out in a fizzy fog.
She leans back and searches his face. “Raha?”
“I want it very much.” His words spill out fast. “I want to be tied to you in any way I can manage. I never want to make the mistake of separating myself from you, ever again.” The cold air in his lungs grounds him. “If you’re willing to have me, of course.”
She stops her strange searching and her eyes land on the grave. She laughs like she has been surprised by what she sees. “Sorry,” she says. “I know that’s sudden.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, perhaps too quickly. “We’ll do it right. With all the pomp and circumstance you deserve.”
He gets the reaction he seeks. Her head leans back in offended shock, eyes dancing over his face.
“No.” She glares at him. He grins, helpless. “No! I’m gonna do it my way and you’re gonna like it.”
“You sound very certain. As if I might not be scheming anything of my own.”
She scans his face. “You’re not.” Despite these revelations being fresh, her voice rings with uncertainty. She looks so concerned -- her brow so furrowed in consideration -- that he pulls her into a kiss. He can’t stop smiling. He is dumbstruck.
He feels a conviction so dense that he is, for a moment, cleaved to the universe.
When he pulls back, she is beaming.
#ffxiv fic#g'raha tia x wol#wolgraha#ffxiv#g'raha tia#in which i ponder the horror of the echo and come away frightened#you can blame masq for this#izzie nenelori#otp: upon an eternal wind#kathryn writes
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Until the Sun Rises in the West and Sets in the East (Chapter 3)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Relationships: Azula/Sokka (Avatar)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Game of Thrones References, Game of Thrones-esque, Game of Thrones Spoilers, Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Verbal Abuse
Read below the cut or on AO3
The khalasar had broken camp the morning after her wedding, moving east towards Vaes Eveth. By the third day, Azula thought she was going to die. Saddle sores opened on her bottom, hideous and bloody. Her thighs were chafed raw, her hands blistered from the reigns, the muscles of her legs and back so wracked with pain she could scarcely sit. By the time dusk fell, her handmaids would need to help her down from her mount.
Khal Sokka ignored her when they rode, as he had ignored her for most of their wedding, and spent his evenings drinking with his warriors and bloodriders, racing wolves. Azula had no place in these parts of his life. She was left to sup alone, or with General Zhao and her brother, and afterwards cry herself to sleep. Yet every night, sometime before dawn, Sokka would come to her bed. He always slept pressed against her back, for which Azula was grateful. That way her Lord Husband could not see the tears that wet her face and she could use the pillow to muffle any further sobs that poured out of her. He would snore softly with Azula beside him, her body bruised and sore, hurting too much for sleep.
Day followed day, and night followed night, until Azula knew she could not endure a moment longer. One night she decided she would kill herself rather than go on.
Yet when she slept that night, she dreamt the dragon dream again. Father was not in it this time. There was only her and the dragon. Its scales were black as night, wet and slick with blood, her blood, Azula sensed. Its eyes were pools of molten magma, and when it opened its mouth, the flame came roaring out in a hot jet. She could hear it singing to her. She opened her arms to the fire, embraced it, let it swallow her whole, let it cleanse her and temper her and scour her clean. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away, could feel her blood boil and turn to steam, and yet there was no pain. She felt strong and new and fierce.
And the next day, strangely she did not seem to hurt quite so much. It was as if the spirits had heard her and taken pity. Even her handmaids noticed the change. “Khaleesi,” Ming Hua said, “What is wrong? Are you sick?”
“I was,” she answered, standing over the dragon’s eggs that Uncle had given her when she wed. She touched one, the largest of the three, running her hand lightly over the shell. Black and scarlet, she thought, like the dragon in my dream. The stone felt strangely warm beneath her fingers… or was she still dreaming? She pulled her hand back nervously.
From that hour onward, each day was easier than the one before it. Her legs grew stronger; her blisters burst and her hands grew callused; her soft thighs toughened, supple as leather.
The Khal had commanded the handmaid June to teach Azula to ride in the way of the Tribe, but it was her wolf who was her real teacher. The wolf seemed to know her moods, as if they shared a single mind. With every passing day, Azula felt surer in her seat. The Water Tribe were a hard and unsentimental people, and it was not their custom to name their animals, but Azula still thought of her as Nymeria, the warrior queen Azula had been told tales of as a child. She had never loved anything as much as she loved her wolf.
As the riding became less an ordeal, Azula began to notice the beauties of the land around her. She rode at the head of the khalasar with Sokka and his bloodriders, so she came to each scene fresh and unspoiled. Behind them, the great horde might tear the land and muddy the rivers, but the lands ahead of them were always white and pure.
They crossed rolling hills, past small villages where the people watched anxiously. They forded three wide placid rivers and a fourth that was swift and narrow and treacherous, camped beside a high blue waterfall, skirted the tumbled ruins of a vast dead city where spirits were said to moan among blackened marble columns. They raced down paths a thousand years old and straight as an arrow.
Her agony became a fading memory. She still ached after a long day’s ride, yet somehow the pain had a sweetness to it now, and each morning she came willingly to her saddle, eager to know what wonders awaited her in the lands ahead.
“The Water Tribe Sea,” General Zhao said as he reigned to a halt beside Azula on the top of the ridge.
Beneath them, the icy tundra stretched out immense and empty, a vast flat expanse that reached to the distant horizon and beyond. It was a sea, she thought. Past here, there were no hills, no mountains, no trees nor cities nor roads, only the endless snow, the white mounds rippling like waves when the winds blew.
Azula heard the sounds of voices and turned to look behind her. She and Zhao had outdistanced the rest of their party, and now the others were climbing the ridge below them. Her handmaid June and the young warriors of her khas were fluid as centaurs, but Zuko still struggled with the short stirrups and the flat saddle atop his wolf. Her brother was miserable out here. He ought never have come. Uncle had urged him to wait in the port, but Zuko would have none of it. He would stay with Sokka until the debt had been paid, until he had the crown he had been promised. “And if he tries to cheat me, he will learn to his sorrow what it means to wake the dragon,” Zuko had vowed , laying hands on his broadswords. Uncle had blinked at that and wished him good fortune.
Azula realized that she did not want to listen to any of her brother’s complaints right now. The day was too perfect. The sky was a deep blue, and high above them a hunting sea vulture circled. The snow swayed and sighed with each breath of the wind, the air was cool over her face and Azula felt at peace. She would not let Zuko spoil it.
“Wait here,” Azula told General Zhao. “Tell them all to stay. Tell them I command it.”
The older man smiled. General Zhao was not a handsome man. He had a neck and shoulders like a bull, and coarse black hair covered his arms and chest so thickly, that there was barely any left for his head. Yet his smiles gave Azula comfort. “You are learning to talk like a queen Azula.”
“Not a queen,” said Azula. “A khaleesi.” She turned her wolf and rode down the ridge alone.
The descent was steep, but Azula rode fearlessly, and the joy and the danger of it was a song inside of her. All her life Zuko had told her she was a princess, but not until she rode her wolf had Azula Sozin ever felt like one.
At the bottom of the ridge, the tall snow rose around her. Azula slowed her wolf and rode out onto the plain, losing herself in the white, blessedly alone. In the khalasar, she was never alone. Khal Sokka came to her only as the sun was about to rise, but her handmaids fed her and bathed her and slept by the door of her tent, Sokka’s bloodriders and the men of her khas were never far, and her brother was an unwelcome shadow, day and night. Azula could hear him on the top of the ridge, his voice shrill with anger as he shouted at General Zhao. She rode on, submerging herself in the Water Tribe Sea.
The white swallowed her up. Many of the tribespeople wore light blue and white furs, their brown skin contrasted with the environment around them. One of the first days that they had begun their journey, Ming-Hua had presented Azula with a dark blue parka, dress and leggings trimmed with fur. Sokka too wore light colors like his people, so Azula inquired about the difference of her furs. Ming-Hua had given a small smile and said, “The Khal fears he will lose you in the snow, with your light skin. Says you need dark colors so he can find you.” That was the first indication Azula had that the fearsome warrior she had married might have some sense of humor.
The air was rich with the scent of fresh snow, mixed with the smell of damp wolf fur and the scented oil in Azula’s hair. They were smells of the Tribe. They seemed to belong here. Azula breathed it all in, laughing. She had the sudden urge to feel the snow beneath her, to curl her toes in the thickness of it. Swinging down from her saddle, she let Nymeria rest while she pulled off her high boots.
Zuko came upon her as sudden as a summer storm, his wolf rearing beneath him as he reigned up too hard. “You dare!” he screamed at her. “You give commands to me? To me?” He vaulted off his wolf, stumbling as he landed. His face was flushed as he struggled back to his feet. He grabbed her, shook her. “Have you forgotten who you are? Look at you. Look at you!”
Azula didn’t need to look. She was barefoot, with braided hair, wearing Tribe furs her husband had gifted to her. She looked as though she belonged here. Zuko was soiled and stained in silks and ringmail.
He was still screaming, “You do not command the dragon. Do you understand? I am the Lord of the Four Kingdoms, I will not hear orders from some peasant or his slut, do you hear me?” His fingers dug into her flesh painfully. “Do you hear me?”
Azula shoved him away, hard.
Zuko stared at her, his golden eyes incredulous. She had never defied him. Never fought back. Rage twisted his features. He would hurt her now, and badly, she knew that.
Crack.
The whip made a sound like thunder. The coil took Zuko around the throat and yanked him backward. He went sprawling in the grass, stunned and choking. The riders hooted at him as he struggled to free himself. June held the handle of the whip and asked Azula a question. Azula was still so shocked to see her brother thrashing about that June repeated herself as General Zhao and the rest of her khas rode up, “Would you have him dead Khaleesi?”
“No,” Azula replied, “No.”
One of the men barked out a comment and the others laughed. Zhao translated, “They think you should take an ear to teach him respect.”
Her brother was on his knees, his fingers digging under the leather coils, crying incoherently, struggling for breath. The whip was tight around his windpipe.
“Tell them I do not wish him harmed,” Azula said.
Zhao repeated her words. June gave a pull on the whip, yanking Zuko around like a puppet on a string. He went sprawling again, freed from the leather embrace, a thin line of blood under his chin where the whip had cut deep.
“I warned him what would happen, my lady, “General Zhao said. “I told him to stay on the ridge as you commanded.”
“I know you did,” Azula replied, studying Zuko. He lay on the ground, sucking air noisily, red-faced and sobbing. He was a pitiful thing. He had always been a pitiful thing. Why had she never seen that before? There was a hollow place inside of her where her fear of him had been.
“Take his wolf,” Azula commanded Zhao. Zuko gaped at her. He could not believe what he was hearing; nor could Azula quite believe what she was saying. Yet the words came, “Let my brother walk behind us back to the khalasar.” Among the Tribe, the man who does not ride was no man at all, the lowest of the low, without honor or pride. “Let everyone see him as he is.”
“No!” Zuko screamed. He turned to Zhao, pleading in the Common Tongue with words the tribesmen would not understand. “Hit her, Zhao! Hurt her! Your king commands it. Kill these Water Tribe peasants and teach her!”
The older man looked from Azula to her brother; she barefoot, with snow between her toes and braids in her hair, he with his silks and steel. Azula could see the decision on his face,“He shall walk Khaleesi.” He took her brother’s wolf in hand while she remounted Nymeria. She gave one last mournful look at her brother, mourning the man she had thought he was, only now beginning to realize it was a facade.
Zuko gaped at her, and sat down in the dirt. His eyes were full of poison as they rode away. He said to the wind, “My honor, my throne, my country...I’m about to lose them all.”
Soon he was lost in the snow. When they could not see him anymore, Azula grew fearful. “Will he find his way back?” She asked General Zhao as they rode. “Even a man as blind as your brother should be able to follow our trail,'' he replied.
“He is proud. He may be too shamed to come back.” Zhao laughed, “Where else should he go? If he cannot find the khalasar, the khalasar will most surely find him. It is hard to drown in the Tribe, child.”
Azula saw the truth of that. The khalasar was like a city on the march, but it did not march blindly. Always scouts ranged far ahead, alert for any sign of game or prey or enemies, while outriders guarded their flanks. They missed nothing, not here, in this land, the place where they had come from. These lands were a part of them...and of her, now.
“I hit him,” she said, wonder in her voice. Now that it was over, it seemed a strange dream. “General Zhao, do you think...he’ll be so angry when he gets back…” She shivered. “I woke the dragon, didn’t I?
Zhao snorted, “Can you wake the dead, girl? Your cousin Lu Ten was the last dragon, and he died at the Wall. Zuko is less than the shadow of a minksnake.” His blunt words startled her. It seemed as though all the things she suddenly believed were suddenly called into question. “You-you swore him your sword..”
“That I did girl,” Zhao agreed. “And if your brother is the shadow of a minksnake, what does that make his servants?” His voice was bitter.
“He is still the true king. He is…” Zhao pulled up his wolf and looked at her. “Truth now. Would you want to see Zuko sit a throne?” Azula thought about that. “He would not be a very good king, would he?”
“There have been worse… but not many.” The man gave his heels to his mount and started off again. Azula rode close behind him. “Still,” she said, “the common people are waiting for him. Uncle says they are sewing dragon banners and praying for Zuko to return from across the narrow sea to free them.”
“The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends,” Zhao told her. “It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace.” He gave a shrug, “They never are.”
Azula rode along quietly for a time, working his words like a puzzle. It went against everything Zuko had ever told her to think that the people could care so little whether a true king or a usurper reigned over them. Yet the more she thought on Zhao’s words, the more they rang of truth.
“What do you pray for, General Zhao?” “Home,” he said. His voice was thick with longing. “I pray for home too,” she told him, believing it.
Zhao laughed, “Look around you then, Khaleesi.” But it was not the snow Azula saw then. It was the Capital and the great Red Palace that her ancestors had built. It was Dragonstone where she had been born. In her mind’s eye they burned with a thousand lights, a fire blazing in every window. In her mind’s eye, all the doors were red.
“My brother will never take back the Four Nations,” Azula said. She had known that for a long time, she realized. She had known it all her life. Only she had never let herself say the words, even in a whisper, but now she said them for General Zhao and all the world to hear.
Zhao gave her a measuring look. “You think not.” “He couldn’t lead an army even if my lord husband gave him one,” Azula said. “He has no coin and the only knight who follows him reviles him as less than a minksnake. The Tribe mocks his weakness. He will never take us home.”
“Wise child,” the man smiled. “I am no child,” she retorted fiercely. Her heels pressed into the side of her wolf, rousing her to a gallop. Faster and faster she raced, leaving Zhao and June and the others behind, the sharp wind in her hair and the setting sun red on her face. By the time she reached the khalasar, it was dusk.
Her tent had been erected by the shore of a small pool. She could hear rough voices from the hill. Soon there would be laughter, when the men of her khas told the story of what happened in the snows today. By the time Zuko came limping back among them, every man, woman and child in camp would know him for a walker. There were no secrets in the khalasar.
Azula gave her wolf over to June for grooming and entered her tent. It was cool, but not unbearable. As she let the flap close behind her, Azula saw a finger of dusty red light reach out to touch her dragon’s eggs across the tent. For an instant, a thousand droplets of scarlet flame swam before her eyes. She blinked, and they were gone.
Stone, she told herself. They are only stone, even Uncle said so, the dragons are all dead. She put her palm against the black egg, fingers spread gently across the curve of the shell. The stone was warm. Almost hot. “The sun,” Azula whispered. “The sun warmed them as they rode.”
She commanded her handmaids to prepare her a bath. Jin built a fire outside the tent, while Ming-Hua and June fetched the big copper tub-another bride gift-from the pack horses and carried water from the pool. When the bath was steaming, Ming-Hua helped her into it and climbed in after her.
“Have you ever seen a dragon?” she asked as Ming-Hua scrubbed her back and June sluiced small icicles from her hair. She had heard that the first dragons had come from the Spirit World. Perhaps some were still living there, in realms strange and wild.
“Dragons are gone, Khaleesi,” Ming-Hua said.
“Dead,” agreed June. “Long and long ago.”
Zuko had told her that the last Sozin dragons had died no more than a century and a half ago, during the reign of Azulon, who was called the Dragonbane. That didn’t seem so long ago to Azula. “Everywhere?” she asked, disappointed. “Even in the Spirit World?”
“No dragon,” Ming-Hua said. “Men kill them. It is known.”
“It is known,” agreed June.
“A trader once told me that dragons came from the moon,” Jin said as she warmed a towel over the fire. June and Ming-Hua were older than Azula, almost twenty and five. Jin was of age with Azula. Her brother had found the girl at a pleasure house in Ba Sing Se.
Jet black wet hair tumbled across her eyes as Azula turned her head, curious. “The moon?”
“He told me the moon was an egg, Khaleesi,” the Earth Kingdom girl said. “Once there were two moons in the sky, but one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat, A thousand thousand dragons poured forth, and drank the fire of the sun. That is why dragons breathe flame. One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return.”
The two other servants gave her a perplexed look. “You are foolish, Earth peasant,” Ming-Hua said. “Moon is no egg. Moon is spirit, woman wife of sun. It is known.”
“It is known,” June agreed.
Azula’s skin was flushed and pink when she climbed from the tub. Ming-Hua laid her down to oil her body and scrape the dirt from her pores. Afterward June sprinkled her with vanilla and winterberry perfumes. While Jin brushed her hair until it shone like onyx, Azula thought about the moon, and eggs and dragons.
Supper was a simple meal of fruit and cheese and bread, with a jug of wine to wash it down. “Jin, stay and eat with me,” Azula commanded while she dismissed her other handmaidens.
Jin lowered her eyes when they were alone. “You honor me Khaleesi,” she said, but it was no honor, only service. Long after the moon had risen, they sat together talking.
As the girls began to eat, Azula asked, “Why did the trader tell you that story about dragons?” Jin gave a soft smile, “Men like to talk after their pleasure. It is when they are happy”
Azula thought on it as she took a sip of wine, “Can you- can you teach me how to make the Khal happy?��� Jin chewed thoughtfully, “You have done it though, yes?” Azula glanced sideways, “Yes, but-” “But you want him to feel for you?” She wasn’t sure, but Azula responded, “Something like that.”
Jin nodded, “How does he take you?” The Princess was slightly affronted by how brazen her handmaiden was, but she answered “As all the Tribe does.” Jin chided, “No, no. You must look upon his face. You must use your eyes to make him feel for you. It was said that Irogenia of the Northern Air Temple could finish a man with just a look. Men traveled across the world for a night with her. They sold their riches. Fire Nation men burned her enemies just to have her for a few hours with her. They say a thousand men proposed to her and she refused them all.”
Azula poked at her food, “I don’t think the Khal would approve of me on top of him.” Jin looked at her knowingly, “Do not worry Khaleesi. You will make him enjoy it. Men want what they have never had. The Tribe take women like wolf takes a bitch. You are not bitch, you will not make love like bitch. You are Khaleesi.”
The Earth Kingdom girl stood from where they were eating and beckoned Azula to her, “Come Khaleesi. I will show you.” Azula tentatively followed this girl that seemed to have no issue instructing her Khaleesi. Azula sat on the floor of her tent and Jin shamelessly climbed into her lap. She took Azula’s small hands and put them on her hips as she began to sway, “Like this Khaleesi.” Azula felt Jin’s body press into hers, rubbing together through their many layers of furs.
Azula thought upon her handmaiden’s earlier words and easily flipped the other girl underneath her. Jin let out small laugh, “You are fast learner Khaleesi. Out there he is mighty Khal, but at night he is yours.”
The princess pulled back, “This is not the way of the Tribe.” Jin sat up following her, “Khaleesi, if he wanted way of the Tribe, why did he marry you?”
That night, when Khal Sokka came, Azula was waiting for him. He stood in the door of her tent and looked at her with surprise. She rose slowly and undressed, letting her furs fall to the ground. “This night we must go outside, my lord,” she told him. For the Tribe believed that all things of importance in a man’s life must be done beneath the open sky.
Khal Sokka followed her out into the moonlight, his long’s wolf tail blew in the breeze. A few yards from her tent was a bed of soft furs, and it was there that Azula drew him down. When he tried to turn her on her stomach, she put her delicate hand on his massive chest. “No,” she said in the Tribe language she was still stumbling on, “This night I would look on your face.”
There is no privacy in the heart of the khalasar. Azula could feel the many eyes on her as she undressed him, heard the soft voices as she did the things Jin told her to do to give a man pleasure. It was nothing to her. Was she not Khaleesi? Her Khal’s eyes were the only ones that mattered, and when she mounted him she saw something in his face that she had never seen before. She rode him as fiercely as ever and when the moment of his pleasure came- Khal Sokka called out her name.
They were on the far side of the Watertribe Sea when Ming-Hua brushed the soft swell of Azula’s stomach with her fingers and said, “Khaleesi, you are with child.”
“I know,” Azula told her.
It was her nineteenth name day.
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