#red invasion gown
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bachelorette - bjork // padme amidala in the phantom menace
#this just came to me#tag time#star wars#star wars prequels#the phantom menace#padme amidala#web weaving#bjork#red invasion gown#star wars parallels#padme
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top notes ; peter hale x reader x deucalion
summary: danger has never smelled so... enticing.
warnings: implied s~mut; blood kink (minors DNI!), failed home invasion + minor character death & fluff!
a/n: we're back with another vampire wifey because it was only right to include them in this little event! hope you enjoy it & don’t forget to leave some sugar! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ
» wanna know what I have in store this fall? come & check out my m.list for 'reve's quirky reverie 🕷️'!
'It was luring them to you.' ;
Something was amiss.
Peter knew Deuc felt the same when they turned to each other at the same time, brows furrowing and muscles tensing. Whatever it was, it had them dropping the supplies they had been arguing over before rushing out of the grocery store with inhumane speed.
Nobody really visited this side of the block past nine. However, the pair couldn’t care less about bumping into a civilian and potentially giving them a heart attack, especially with looks that could kill a man as they sped up back to the cabin, where you were home alone.
But just as the momentum picked up, they stopped dead in their tracks.
The scent—your scent grew stronger, but it wasn’t your blood. It was the same one you’ve always had, but more addictive, invigorating, even. Attracting their senses like the top notes of a perfume and awakening the much feral side of them, the kind that was only shown between the sheets. It was luring them to you. It only spurred them to run faster than they did before.
It was almost like a race at this point, passing through the forest and breaking through tough branches in their paths like a bunch of twigs. Not long after, the cabin was in sight.
Deuc was the one who slammed the door open, his chest heaving more so because it wasn’t locked rather than the fact that he and Peter had run all the way home in mere minutes. Both the upper and lower levels were dark, other than the moonlight passing through the windows. But it hardly mattered when Deuc’s eyes landed on the movements in the middle of the living room.
Peter snarled, wondering why Deuc froze up by the front door before shoving him to get to you.
“Out of my way.” Only for Peter to stop moving, too.
You were covered in blood, dripping all the way to the necklace you wore. Your nightgown was no better, the red had already made its way under the silk, and the view of the blood trailing down the valley of your breasts only roused the two.
Your scent, plus the very sight of you nearly had them losing control. Their breaths had grown heavier, gazing upon you with half-lidded eyes and an aching need to have you right then and there.
But you didn’t need that. Not now,
“Angel?” Peter called out to you softly, hoping to calm you down the way one would to a scared and wounded animal. His and Deuc’s hearts broke a little at your fearful whimper, “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just us.”
Deuc nodded along, holding his hands up the way Peter was to let you know there was nothing to fear, and even then, you could only look down, clenching on the hem of your gown.
They approached you ever so slowly, catching a glimpse of the lifeless body and the sizable puddle of blood that trailed from behind you. A pitiful-looking man, dressed in all black with an expression that was of pure horror.
They could breathe easily, at least for a moment.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” Deuc asked, nodding as you sluggishly shook your head, “Good, good.”
You awaited their reaction; incredulity, repulsion, hostility, anything that would have your stomach dropped for acting so careless and letting your emotions take over you, even for a brief moment. But none came, other than the lust in their eyes, the ones that you missed as you stared at the ground.
You were expecting the absolute worst that the feeling of Peter wrapping his arms around you from behind caused you to jump, “Peter?” You sounded in disbelief, as though you had snapped out of your adrenaline high. Deuc took the spot right beside him, holding your other hand, “Deuc.”
“It’s alright,” He kissed the back of your hand, uncaring of the blood, “Can we turn the lights on, angel? Just in case you’re hurt.”
You couldn’t find it in you to decline the offer, even when you wordlessly told them you were fine just seconds ago. You nodded again, leaning into Peter as he switched the table lamp on just next to him.
For one man, the splatters made it look like a massacre. You were nearly drenched but the other guy was worse and served him right, too.
"Tell us what happened." Peter sought nicely, carefully wiping off a bit of the smear on the side of your lips.
You let out a shaky breath.
"I came down from the bedroom," You covered your eyes, not even thinking twice about the blood that you smeared on your face, and neither did Peter as he consoled you by rubbing his hand up and down your side, "I-I don't know how I didn't hear him."
You did know, and you hated yourself for it. You dropped your guard, growing too comfortable with the sanctuary you've built ever since you met the men holding you.
"I panicked. H-He... He didn't smell either of you." Your throat tightened. You remembered how your stomach dropped upon realizing that it wasn't them or the pack. How you slammed him against the wooden floor before removing his mask. The knife he had in his hand slid far from his reach, though he made a futile attempt to get it.
The way your evil grin made his body run cold before you sneered in his ear, "You've gone far enough now."
You ignored his pleas and beg, only driving you forward to end his ways as you pierced your fangs into his neck. You made sure to make it as painful as possible as he thrashed and cried out like a man slaughtered in your steel grip. His movements only made it worse for him as the blood splattered out of his body uncontrollably, dousing you both in red.
But just as the fun started, you were brought back to reality. Never in your life have you ever scooted back so abruptly, moving away as if your skin was burnt badly.
You even tried to rub the blood off you, even if you knew you were just making a fool out of yourself.
“M’sorry.” You weren’t sorry for killing the man, he deserved it. You were sorry for worrying them. This wasn't your first rodeo, but you haven't done it since moving back in Beacon Hills. Plus, no one was there for you when it happened. You had to wallow in despair, pick yourself up and act like it didn't happen.
Rinse and repeat.
"No, you have nothing to be sorry for. He should've known better than to think no one was living in a well-kept cabin." Deuc clicked his tongue, snarling at the dead body before leaning in for a peck on your forehead.
Peter hummed in agreement, easing your train of thoughts with kisses on your sensitive neck.
It made you wonder; did you act the way you did because you were scared? Or because you have restrained your dark side long enough before it snapped? Or had you done so because the 'old' days of Peter and Deuc's ways were starting to rub off on you, even for the greater good?
Then again, you were doing yourself a favour. Hell, you were doing everyone a favour. Had the law cuffed him up instead, who knows what tricks he would've had behind closed doors to be free? Then, he'd just terrorize the neighbourhood again, or worse, amp up his acts as revenge.
The more you thought it through, your rational side dispelling your doubts and concerns, the less scarier it became.
"Feeling any better?" Peter murmured against your skin, prompting you to respond with an 'mhm'. You finally looked up at Deuc, who gave you a warm smile. You mustered up a smaller one, reaching over to cradle his face with both hands, only to pull away just as fast as you somehow forgotten about the blood.
"Sorry," You mumbled, but he wasn't having it, taking your hand in his and placing it back on his cheek. Your smile grew a little more, looking over your shoulder and being surprised by Peter surging forward to press his lips to yours.
A giggle bubbled in your throat when Deuc closed the gap between the two of you, nipping on your shoulder, the side that Peter hadn’t touched yet.
This moment alone had only reminded them of how incredibly exquisite of a being you were. You were delicate just as you were deadly. Not that they had forgotten about it, not at all, but this—this was a sight to behold. Though they’ve seen you in action countless times, you have never let your anger fully take control of you, not even in the most dire situation.
You were too special not to appreciate, the crème de la crème, too good for this godforsaken world, even for them.
But oh, they were too greedy to let you go.
But Peter also couldn’t help himself when he opened his mouth.
"As sweet as this is, I have a confession," Oh, boy. Deuc had a feeling where this was going, "Has anyone ever told you how hot you look covered in blood?"
Deuc sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. But he couldn’t blame him.
“What? You going to sit there and deny it?” Peter scoffed at Deuc before nuzzling his nose against yours, “I know you caught her scent when were in the forest.”
Deuc’s face hardened, causing you to blink quizzically.
“My scent?”
“It was…” Intoxicating. Enticing. A taste worth dying for. “Pure perfection.”
Your eyes grew wide. You were unaware of such a fact, but then again, they were the same dangerous duo who found you special the first time you met them. The ones who saw you as remarkable when egotistical pups or any trespassers are panic-stricken by your presence.
“I… Really?” You would’ve looked so innocent if not for the bloodbath, and that only turned them on even more. There was a chance you wouldn’t be up for it, but there was no harm in asking.
“Really. I almost lost control when we came here,” Peter swiped the pad of his thumb across your lips. He cocked his head in Deuc’s direction, “Him, too.”
You turned to the latter, silently gasping at he stared down at you both lovingly and sensually. Though, you couldn’t lie and say this wasn’t turning you on either.
And the second they let out a dangerous groan, the same time you began rubbing your thighs together no matter how subtle you were trying to be, you knew you couldn’t hide it and you didn’t want to.
“What do you say?” Peter’s warm breath tickled your neck.
“In this?” You managed to gesture at the grotesque display you were covered in, or at least it was in your eyes.
“Especially in this.” He replied without missing a beat, easily lifting you so your legs straddled his lap, wide enough for you to squeal as Deuc moved closer to you.
“Your call, angel.” Deuc caressed the apple of your cheek, “You say the word and we’ll take good care of you.”
You wanted nothing more than to be doted and fucked by your beloveds.
“Yes.”
˚ · . f i n . · ˚
» a/n: we love our protective husbands, don't we! ;) ;; gorgeous divider by @firefly-graphics ♡
#— reve's reverie 🌹#reve's quirky reverie 🕷#peter hale x reader#peter hale x f!reader#peter hale x you#peter hale#deucalion x reader#deucalion x f!reader#deucalion x you#the deucalion#deucalion#ian hohen#gideon emery#teen wolf#teen wolf x reader#teen wolf x you#teen wolf fanfiction
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kinktober day 5.
10.09 - BLOOD PLAY | KAPPA!
݁ ˖🕸️.𖥔 ݁ ˖ {tags} @willsdollface @bub0nic-plague @izuoyarmin @auggiethecreator @angelsanarchy @s-al-em @that-one-persons-posts @kashmirclam @areuirish @oliviah-25
previous: 10.07 - KNIFE PLAY
female!reader x kappa
word count: 1.0k
contents: period sex, oral (f receiving), slight overstimulation, house invasion
the home invasion scene became the highlight of your relationship with kappa. he’d always appear whenever during the loneliest time of night and fuck you until sunrise. too bad your period had to roll around on the night of halloween, ruining any plans that you had for him.
you lay in your bed, wearing a dark red nightgown as you felt yourself drowning in a pool of your own blood. the excruciating pain inside of you was unbearable, but there was nothing you could do. you were sprawled over your blanket, listening to the sound of your clock ticking as each second passed.
there was a red glow outside, one that only reminded you of the blood that was rapidly coming out of your body. your gorey thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. this was normal, except for the absence of your glass window breaking, which he’d stopped breaking once you made him pay for the repairs.
the footsteps grew louder as they neared your bedroom. your body was too weak to get yourself presentable for his visit, so you remained in your position and waited for him to get to you. your door swung open, the frame holding the silhouette of his heavily adorned figure. kappa walked over to you, seeing the state that you were in.
he walked right up to your bed, looking down at you in a condescending yet caring way. he firmly gripped your chin with a hand, forcing you to look up at him. he gently stroked your flushed cheek with his thumb. his motions were hypnotic, sending a wave of heat right to your core. you squirmed, sending that you wanted it just as much as he did.
he climbed on top of you, pushing your frame into the mattress as his own covered you, his lips finding your neck and peppering soft kisses all over it. his hand snaked down the soft, silky material of your nightgown, his fingers creeping underneath the bottom of the gown. your legs parted slightly, welcoming him in between them but you quickly closed them before all hell could break loose.
“i’m on my period…” you felt a little sheepish saying this, hating the fact that you had to turn him down because of something like this. he had sunken a little lower down, his head right above your stomach as he gazed up at you. “doesn’t bother me, sugar…” he pulled the dress up to your waist, starting to suck on your skin until he reached your thighs.
you opened your mouth to speak, but your protest was swallowed once he grabbed you and flipped you around so that your head was in the pillow and your hips were up in the air. your lacy panties were exposed, leaving you as a flustered mess. he slipped the fabric to the side, pulling out your tampon by its white string. “won’t be needing this anymore.”
as much as you wanted to stop him from what you knew he was about to do, a feeling of desire had grown to an ungodly point inside your stomach. you felt blood rushing through your core. you tried your best to hold it in, but kappa shoved two fingers inside of you, causing you to scream out and coat his fingers with your blood.
“makin’ such a mess for me, sugar…” he pumped his fingers in and out of you at a torturing pace. you couldn't help but roll your hips into his touch, desperate for more movement. as much as you wanted to curse yourself for acting like such a whore at a time like this, the feeling of his fingers so deep inside of you eliminated every sensible thought from your mind.
kappa stared intently at the way your pussy glistened with your ruby-red blood. the sight was so alluring that he simply couldn’t help himself, connecting his lips with your throbbing bud. you whimpered into the pillow as he swirled his tongue all around your dripping wet folds. you could hear how wet you were, the mixture of your cum and blood turning into a slurry that melted onto his thirsty tongue.
his rhythm was perfect, the way he thrusted his fingers into you and how each pattern he drew with his tongue brought you closer to your climax. your back arched as you gripped the pillow from dear life, your tight pussy clenching around his fingers. he chuckled softly, “you’re crushing my fingers, doll… look how wet you are.” he cooed as your liquids dripped from his chin.
blood was running down your legs as you cried into the pillow. your legs were shaking as he used his tongue to fuck your sensitive little hole. he was completely infatuated with your taste, continuing even after you hit your climax. your body trembled as you grinded your cunt on his tongue, painting his face with your blood.
your noises, your taste, and the way you had submitted to him so easily were all it took for him to drench himself in his pants, palming himself with his free hand as his cock throbbed. you were a sobbing mess, your body quaked until he finally ceased the assault on your swollen cunt, stepping back to look at the mess he had made.
you turned your head to look back at him. the bottom half of his face dripped with blood, making it look like a whole crime scene. you panted as you regained your composure, trying to calm yourself down after realizing what you had just done. you were slightly worried that kappa would think you were disgusting after doing such a bold thing with you, but he scooped you up in his arms and started carrying you into the washroom.
“let’s get you cleaned up, sugar. then i can stay with you for the night.” you and him were both covered in blood, but considering everything else you had ever done together, that was nothing out of the ordinary.
author's note: sorry this came out so late yall, im never using the schedule thing again :(( im planning on posting another bonus fic this week too. hope yall enjoyed this one!
#rory culkin#rory culkin smut#kappa black mirror#kappa x reader#kappa smut#smut#october#kinktober#444rockstargf
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Since I won't be writing the sequel to Blade that Severs Hierarchy, but I thought some people might still enjoy the snippets I have, I will just post them on here, with the disclaimer that unfortunately they are not going to be a full story. You're free to use your imagination.
The idea is that Jace used his telepathy to forcefully remove Norn's influence from the oil, abruptly undoing the mind control implanted in the Phyrexian forces... all at once.
Norn isn't doing all the direct control herself. In reality, her understanding of Phyrexian biology is poor, let alone ichor magic. She's puppeting the armies by using a number of elite ichormages as proxies, who are the ones actually maintaining the spells.
The defenders of Ravnica did not understand what they were seeing.
One moment: the choking porcelain sea closing in on all sides, each centurion moving in flawless concert.
The next: a spasmodic ripple propagating through the invaders' ranks. A twitch of a jaw here, an arm there. Like marionettes snipped free, one string at a time.
Then, all at once, chaos erupted.
Those Ravnicans infected enough to understand the invaders' language heard sobs, prayers, pleas. Phyrexian soldiers looked wildly around themselves with sudden awareness of where they were, screaming the names of people long gone from their sides. Metal rang and cracked as centurions wrested their way from the ranks like trapped animals, breaking formation and fleeing deeper into the city. Compleated Ravnicans stared into the faces of their opponents with sudden, horrified recognition.
"No, no, no!"
"What– what have I done–?"
--
Back in New Phyrexia, wrapped in her red silken gown and ensconced in the safety of her palace, Elesh Norn hissed through her teeth.
What she was seeing was impossible. Blasphemous.
Entire sections of her Ravnican invasion force had gone dark from the grid, flickering before they lost contact entirely.
"What is the meaning of this?" she snarled, seizing the nearest ichormage by the throat. The Phyrexian went limp with terror in her grip, whimpering as she lifted them to her face level and tightened her hold until a thin rivulet of oil trickled onto her perfectly manicured claw. She leaned in closer, baring her rows of sharp teeth. "Answer. Me."
"I– I don't understand, Mother," they gasped. "Anomalous interference– Spontaneous–"
"Then figure it out," Norn spat, hurling the mage to the floor with a resounding crack. Her lip curled, watching the pathetic creature scramble to their feet and desperately wipe their bleeding faceplate as their compatriots struggled not to watch. She would call a servitor to scrub the oil from her floors.
#mtg#magic the gathering#mtg fanfic#jace beleren#march of the machine#elesh norn#ravnica#new phyrexia
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GRIMMJOW SMUT: BLINDFOLDING
YAY! my first Fanfic, feel free to leave tips/suggestions in the comments! <3
After the quincy invasion, the soul society used whatever means necesarry to help rebuild the place. And, Grimmjow came with it. He had been your boyfriend for about three weeks now, so the two of you where still figuring things out.
That also goes for your s!x life. Of course, you did it a couple of times with him before the two of you 'officially' got together, but there were still many things that had yet to be explored with Grimmjow. To cautiously spice some things up sometimes, you or Grimmjow would bring spicy gadgets to the bedroom. Today, he suggested for you to use a blindfold.
NSFW BELOW THIS PRETTY IMAGE <3
Coming to your little place late in the evening after a long very day, you could see that he was pretty worn out. You had fantasized about him the whole day when finally getting a day of, and you dressed up in a pretty night gown, so you were a bit dissapointed to see a worn out Grimmjow. He dropped on your couch after giving you a kiss, eyeing you up and down.
You sat next to him on the floor, as the two of you briefly talked about his day. Then, he brought up an attribute he saw on his mission in a small shop today: a blindfold.
'y/n, do you think we could use this some time together?'
After some thinking, you happily agreed and took the blind fold from Grimmjow and stood up, walking towards the mirror. As you were trying to put it on, you heard a sigh coming from him. Being confused, you asked him what was wrong.
'my idea was for me to put on the blind fold, actually… can we do that instead?'
You were shocked, almost. Dumbfounded. Normally, he would try to completely overpower you and leave no room for any submmission from Grimmjow's side. He would be rough and call you all kinds of names. But this time it was different. He had this soft look in his eyes instead of a lustfull, greedy look. The pretty blue eyebrows furrowing up together on his forehead, his lips curling down a bit instead of curling upwards. For once, he wanted to be a bit more submissive.
Grimmjow wanted you to take the lead, he was curious about what you were gonna do, handing the blind fold to you with a look of uncertainty as he sat beneath you on the couch. He looked at you with that same look as before, licking his lips softly. He looked anxious, scared almost, so you reassured him that you were going to take good care of him.
You took his hands into yours and led him to the bedroom. Lying you down on your back, Grimmjow put you down onto the futon. Impatiently pressing your lips together while hands roam each others bodies, a heated make-out session started to arise.
You took of your pretty night gown to reveal black lace panties underneath with a little heart dangling on the front, his favorite. Mustering up the courage for you to put the blindfold on Grimmjow, you softly stopped the kiss and layed him down on his back.
You took of his clothes, revealing a very warm, muscular chest with a cute little happy trail at the bottom. It was your duty today to alleviate some of Grimmjow's pent up stress from all of the missions he has to go on.
You looked charmingly in his pretty blue eyes as you put the blind fold on, wondering what your next move would be… He always licked over your whole body, almost like a cat. Giving little kitten licks everywhere, from you head to your pretty calves, so why not do the same with him, you thought. To return the favour.
starting at his neck, your tongue made itself comfortable there leaving small hickeys everywhere, not staying at one spot for too long. You marked his whole throat almost. Soft, whining noises espaced from his mouth now and then. It was almost like he was… purring. so cute, you tought, it sounded so different from his usual deep groans, you couldn't get enough of it.
Then, you formed a big, dark red hickey at the back of his throat, coming loose with a big 'pop'. Your tongue made it's way down his chest, leaving a trail of kisses all the way down to his waist. As you arrived, Grimmjow let out a big sigh. You knew that Grimmjow was sensitive there. Now, it was really about to go down…
He kept squirming as you tried to leave little hickies at the base of his stomach, just above the lining of his boxers. To reassure him, you took his hand into yours and squeezed it a bit to reassure him a little. A deep sigh left his mouth as this took him with suprise, along with a..
'your lips are so soft, pplease keep going'
You swore that you almost came on the spot, right there. Soft words of affermation coming from a big, muscular guy, being blindfolded by someone so much smaller than him will always be just so exciting, as it was rare from a dominant Grimmjow. You looked up to see Grimmjow's face being flushed, mouth being parted a little, breathing deeply. It almost was like he's aching, he looked like he couldn't take it anymore.
Wanting to give him his long awaited release, you carefully let loose of his hand and took his boxers off, brushing along his now aching cock. Grimmjow was so hard it almost hurts… Starting with the base of his cock going up, you left a trail of kisses. You heard a heavy sigh coming from above, accompanied with a deep groan and deep breaths. He was gripping the sheets to hard you swear he would rip them.
You grabbed his member in your hands and put it fully in your mouth at once, a surprised Grimmjow moaning in response as he couldn't see anything. He was now fully entangled with the amount of pleasure you were giving him, focussing on not cumming at this instant. Moving your tongue around the tip playfully, following up with a hard suck on his member, you let loose with a big 'pop'.
you're doing so well Grimmjow
Came from your mouth.
'y-yeah'
He softly grabbed a hand full of your hair, luckily not gripping it as tightly as the sheets, as you took his now lightly pulsating cock back into your mouth. Seeing Grimmjow like this made you weak. Longing for some pleasure yourself, you started softly circling your arching clit, right arm unhooking from Grimmjow's thigh, preparing for your soaking hole to take him in. All while keeping a slow, but steady pace with taking Grimmjow into your mouth.
Now being ready, you prepared yourself for a big surprise. You shifted your body almost into a seated position, slowly coming off his member with your hot mouth, and removing his hand from your head slowly.. You never thought that Grimmjow would be the submissive party, but for once, you took over control and climbed on top of Grimmjow, grabbing both his hands with yours, placing them next to his muscular chest.
Your right hand lined his throbbing cock up with your entrance, sliding it in one smooth motion. A moan came from both of your mouths, only for it to be deafened with a reassuring kiss, as you placed your lips on his. Grimmjow was now absolutely loosing it. He was breathing so heavily it seemed like he was in pain, like he was injured, face and chest completely flushed, his throbbing cock twitching. Bouncing faster and faster on top of him, Grimmjow's deep sighs turned into soft moans. Realising he was close, you gave everything you had, moving up and down in a fast pace, grinding smoothly on the base of his cock.
'y/n, im going to c-cum, can I please come i-inside of you' haahh
You took of his blind fold at this instant, removing your hands from his. You looked him deep in the eyes, nodding, as you couldn't bring out a clear yes as you were a moaning mess yourself at this point…
His hands migrated towards your hips, starting to pound into you now, all while your eyes being locked into place. Grimmjow's eyes closed, and a deep, but loud moan came from him as he painted your inside's white with his semen. You looked at him as he came undone, eyebrowes furrowed, mouth wide open and cheecks bright red.
what a sight to behold.
Coming down from his high slowly, he grabbed onto you tightly as you layed down and burried your face deep into his neck.
'can we please do that again some time?'
oh absolutely <3
#grimmjow#grimmjow x you#grimmjow x reader#grimmjow jaegerjaquez#bleach#bleach headcanons#bleach smut#smut#grimmjow smut#bleach x reader#bleach x y/n#bleach x you#bleach x female reader
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All Eyes On Us (Tom Cruise)
Another addition to the "Something to Talk About"/"One More Night" series. And yes, the title is a subtle reference to "So It Goes..." by TS bc that's the vibe. I hope you all enjoy this as much as me; I have been on that grind
TW- none
Summary- Oscars night finally arrives and you and 90s!Tom make your official debut as a couple. You are overwhelmed by the attention, chaos, and some invasive interview questions, but Tom is there supporting you through it.
At several points over the course of the plane ride home, Tom had to peel Y/N away from the entertainment shows and newspapers. He noticed that she kept trying to check to see what the outlets were saying about them, and it was making her visibly distressed. Each time he would lean toward her, snatching the paper from her hand or switching the television off.
“Honey, this isn’t good for you,” he would say, and she would begin to pout until he took her mind off the subject by bringing her into a kiss instead. “This is a much more productive use of our time. But think of how exciting it’s going to be- we don’t have to sneak around anymore, and I get to show you off at events.” He hit her with a playful, encouraging grin.
“As soon as we get home, I want you to start looking for a dress. I know you’ll pick something incredible.” Y/N perked up somewhat at that idea, toying with the buttons on Tom’s shirt. “It’ll be fun, you’ll get to meet everyone I’ve told you about- Cameron, Renee, Cuba… they’re a really fun group, you’ll like them.”
~
“Are you sure I look okay?” Y/N whispered, eyebrows furrowed, glancing up at Tom with anxious eyes.
“Are you kidding? No one is even going to notice that I’m there,” he grinned, shaking his head in amusement as he admired her gown. It was a sleek nude dress with a plunging neckline and ruffled, flowy short sleeves, encrusted all over with matching gems. Tom had opted for a classic black tuxedo with slightly elongated, silky lapels.
Tom gave Y/N a last kiss on the forehead, accompanied by a reassuring squeeze of her hand, as the limousine rolled to a stop. They had reached the drop-off point for actors and their plus-ones at the Dolby Theater- the location of the Academy Awards. She sucked in one last deep breath before it was time to exit the vehicle and face the intimidating wave of photographers preparing to descend. Gripping her clutch purse and a fistful of her dress in one hand, Tom took the other in his as he helped her from the limo.
They were immediately surrounded by a claustrophobic perimeter of camera lenses, flashing lights, their accompanying photographers, and other attendees. As Tom guided her along a path through the crowd, it took everything in her to focus on not tripping over her gown at the same time as she was trying to smile for the cameras. Fans in the distance behind a barricade started to scream when Tom came into their view and he waved, smiling broadly. Y/N followed his lead, squeezing his hand in a vise grip. He then caught her off-guard with a kiss to her cheek, bringing a genuine smile to her face as people’s cheers grew louder.
“How about her, huh? Isn’t she something?” Tom called, gesturing to Y/N before they continued on their way inside, waving goodbye to the onlookers.
Before too long, interviewing time commenced. Between briefly circulating the arrivals as Tom introduced her to former coworkers and industry friends, they traveled from television host to host, from the likes of E! News to ABC and CBS. Each interview was fairly similar and went something like this:
A TV host, wearing something resembling a prom dress, would announce them with maniacal enthusiasm after they ascended the stairs to a slightly raised platform on the red carpet.
“Aaaand now we have with us tonight, Tom Cruise! And his wife- Y/N! Now let’s see this ring…” she asked, and Y/N shyly raised her hand into view of the camera, blushing. “Oh my God,” the reporter gushed. “You must feel like a lucky woman.”
“I am,” she replied, trying not to look directly into the camera. “He’s a wonderful guy. I still can't believe any of this is real. And I’m so proud of him tonight, whatever happens.” She referenced his Best Actor nomination.
“Aww… and who is it that you are wearing tonight? You look fabulous,” the reporter gestured dramatically for emphasis.
“I know, isn’t she a knockout?” Tom agreed, squeezing Y/N's waist.
“You two are adorable,” the reporter exclaimed, maintaining the same forceful enthusiasm. “Now, you guys have been very secretive about your relationship; no one even knew you were dating and now you’re married- what is that about?” The interviewer’s voice took on a subtly harder tone as she brought her microphone in closer to her interviewees.
The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, and his eyes narrowed, although the charming smile didn’t drop. “I mean, I think I’ve always been a pretty private person. I’ve made it clear that my personal life doesn’t exist for ratings and reviews.”
Y/N looped her arm in his protectively as the host pressed on. “Are you concerned, maybe, about what your exes or the public might think? Y/N, does it bother you that Tom's already been through the motions a couple of times? I mean, when he moves on, he moves on...”
Y/N’s mouth fell open, and her raised eyebrows created a wrinkle on her forehead. Too disoriented to answer, Tom swiftly chimed in.
“Um… well, I don’t know where you heard that because it’s just not true. I’m on good terms with my former partners.” Tom cocked his head to the side, slipping a hand into his pocket as his posture stiffened and his smile faded. “Besides, all of that is in the past, and no one’s business but my own. I love this woman, and she’s my wife. Are we going to talk at all about the movie I’m nominated for?” He made a visible effort to relax his stance and expression.
The rest of the exchange, which was mercifully brief as time ran out and it was the next interviewee’s turn, was almost unbearably awkward as the host returned to softball questions about the experience of working on Jerry Maguire. As they walked away, Tom fumed, and though Y/N’s palms were shaking and sweaty, she was also angry on his behalf.
“You’d think with how much you’ve done for the industry they’d show you some respect,” she muttered when they stopped off to the side of the milling crowds to regain their composure. She softly brushed a runaway strand of his hair back into place, and he grinned sweetly at her, grasping her shoulders and rubbing them.
“It’s okay, I’m used to it. Comes with the territory, unfortunately. But you do know I love you? You know I’m not going anywhere?”
Y/N shook her head and chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Relax. I don’t treat the E! channel like gospel. And you know better than to leave me for someone else anyway. I’d take the cat, and I’d kick your ass.”
Tom laughed. “On the bright side, it’s almost time to sit and eat. I think there’s gonna be cake.”
Y/N made an exaggerated gasp, although genuinely excited by the prospect of a good dessert. “Well, then let’s get on with it; what are we waiting for?”
#tom cruise#tom cruise fic#tom cruise fanfic#tom cruise imagine#tom cruise x female reader#tom cruise x reader#one shot#creative writing#just for fun#imagine#tom cruise fluff#fluff#x reader#fanfic#self insert#reader insert
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Inspired by @antadogoias 's post:
cw: fem!reader
an: im trying out some smau stuff, let me know what you think and if you have any tips!
The bright lights of the charity gala illuminated the ballroom, casting a warm glow over the elegant guests sipping champagne. Andrey stood at the edge of the room, feeling slightly out of place in his tailored suit. As a professional tennis player, he was used to the intensity of the court, but social events like this always made him a bit uneasy.
Then, amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, he spotted you. Despite being a Formula 1 rookie you had managed to already make history as one of a few women to enter motorsport. Your determination, skill and charisma had captured his attention from the moment he had first heard about you. You were standing near the bar, ordering a drink in your evening gown, looking like a Bond’s girl.
Summoning up his courage, Andrey made his way over to you, his heart pounding in his chest. "Hi," he said, his voice slightly nervous but determined. "I'm Andrey. It's a pleasure to meet you". You turned to face him, your eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Andrey Rublev, the tennis star?" you exclaimed, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "I'm honored. It's nice to finally meet you in person”.
Andrey felt a surge of relief as you found a common ground. Your conversation flew effortlessly as if you had known each other for years. You two spent the whole evening together turning a boring event into an opportunity to get to know each other.
You and Andrey have been going out for a few months. Busy schedules resulted in you two spending time for not more than four days at a time. Nonetheless, you still tried to see each other every moment you could. That often resulted in you sitting in the stands, going over your latest race data, while Andrey trained. He often feels bad for training while you visit him but you don't mind as you can sit next to him, look pretty and enjoy the view. He always sets up the best dates as a compensation - he would take you to fancy dinners, and less fancy local adventures. He always makes sure you have fresh flowers, either he would give you them in person or send you a bouquet when you two were apart.
First time fans started noticing your connection was when Tennis Channel posted a video asking tennis players who their favorite Formula 1 driver was. "Y/N," he said without hesitation, a spark in his eyes. "She's my favorite. She's incredibly talented, and I admire her passion and dedication to her sport. She’s determined and has gone through a lot. One of the strongest people I know”. His cheeks flushed red as he realized how quickly he replied.
You two found yourself in a locker room after a particularly hard match. Andrey had fought hard, but in the end, he had come up short, defeated by his opponent in a long battle. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion and disappointment, as he looked at the floor. You sat beside him, your expression filled with concern and empathy as you reached out to gently squeeze his hand. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Andrey, please" you said softly, your voice a soothing balm to his wounded pride. "You played your heart out there, and that's all anyone can ask for. Tomorrow is another day, another chance to prove yourself." Andrey sighed, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over him as he hid his face in your shoulder. He held onto you like his life depended on it. In that moment, he realized just how lucky he was to have you by his side – not just as a partner, but as a source of strength and support in times of need.
You didn’t necessarily keep your relationship secret but you didn’t want it to be in a spotlight. Media and reporters tend to be quite invasive and with Andrey struggling with his mental health you wanted to avoid it for as long as possible. Fans and reporters had analyzed your every interaction, searching for clues and hints that would confirm their suspicions. But you two wanted to focus on your respective careers. Until one fateful day, when a reporter finally broached the subject during a post-match interview.
"Andrey, can you comment on the rumors that you're dating Y/N?" the reporter asked, her voice tinged with curiosity. Andrey hesitated for a moment, his mind racing as he weighed his options, he wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. But then, he glanced over at you, who was watching him with a reassuring smile, and he knew that the time had come to set the record straight. “Yea, we have been dating for some time now. She's an incredible person, and she's helped me a lot, especially mentally. I think it’s noticeable as I’m a lot calmer on the court these days. I owe her a lot”. As he spoke, a feeling of relief and freedom washed over both of you.
@/y/n.isntagram
All the rumors are true : )
liked by medwed33, lewis hamilton, hubihurkacz and 84,378 others
comments are off
May 2, 2024
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The discovery of the chopped-up bodies in Belle Gunness's chicken yard changed everything. It caused a terrific stir. To see her burned-out lair, the open graves, the makeshift morgue in the carriage shed, thousands of people flocked to La Porte and paid enterprising livery men a dime for the wagon ride out to the place. (The return trip cost a quarter; Belle Gunness was not the last greedy entrepreneur in La Porte.) On the first Sunday after the victims were found in the chicken yard, ten thousand people came to La Porte, almost doubling the town's population; on the following Sunday, fifteen thousand people visited the farm. The Lake Erie and Western Railroad scheduled special Sunday excursion trains from Indianapolis. Interurban cars and automobiles came from Michigan City and Chicago. At the farm the crowds trampled the fields, stripped the leaves from the trees, picked bricks from the ruins. The Gunness place became "a Mecca for curiosity seekers," according to the Chicago Tribune, and not a bad place for a picnic. Vendors hawked their wares: candy, ice cream, and picture postcards of Andrew Helgelein's dismembered body. The crowd included "women in smartly tailored gowns who came all the way from Chicago with their husbands in costly automobiles, old men and old women ... and hired men galore from all the farms in northern Indiana. ... Members of churches mingled with the demimonde in struggling for views of the pits from which the bodies were taken." In the crush, babies were neglected and people on crutches were pushed aside. "Women clawed at the little red carriage house" where the bodies were laid out. "They stuck their fingers in the cracks and wrenched in an attempt to pry them apart far enough to see inside.... Men boosted each other to the window in the end of the structure and gazed at the bodies until others behind pushed them from their places to make room for other gazers." At last Sheriff Smutzer gave in; he opened the carriage-house doors and let the spectators file by to gape at the reeking skeletons.
The town made a business of it. For reporters and other overnight visitors, cots lined the halls of La Porte's hotels, and spare rooms were let in private houses. An enterprising writer hurried into print with a pamphlet detailing forty-two grisly murders Gunness supposedly had committed. Reporters joked in print about "The Port of Missing Men." Crammed La Porte restaurants peddled tubs of chili con carne as "Gunness Stew." To the Trib reporter, booming La Porte presented "the appearance of a fair or big convention" marred only by fear of an invasion of pickpockets. All in all, the gathering was "an organized feast of the morbid and curious, believed to be without parallel in the United States." On that first rollicking Sunday, Sheriff Smutzer, who had stationed two men to guard the ashes in the cellar, was appalled. He had spent the week painstakingly unearthing rotten bones of murdered men with his own shovel. On Sunday he looked around at the crowd and told a reporter, "I never saw folks having a better time."
And so the folks domesticated the fiend and turned her truly psychopathic butchery into a titillating joke. Faced with an apparently genuine monster, the public turned her grisly farm into a tourist attraction, a sort of circus ground, and Gunness herself into a sideshow draw, last appearing as the headless woman—not a monster but a freak.
No one joked about Lucretia Chapman, Ann Simpson, or Hannah Kinney. No one joked even about Sarah Jane Robinson or Lydia Sherman. But Belle Gunness was something more and worse and different. The family poisoner was thought to be a woman askew. Something out of whack at the very center of her nature caused her to kill by stealth those whom she most should honor. She was by popular definition, then, unnatural and a monster. But aside from her poisoning of long-time husband Sorenson, Belle Gunness was nothing of the sort. She was, above all, an entrepreneur. As such, she was intelligent, original, energetic, persistent, ambitious, thoroughly American, and distinctly "masculine." And Belle's particular sort of murder was decidedly "male." She was a sort of female Landru and flimflam man rolled into one: Bluebeard with a profit motive. In part she used her sex to attract and kill. She knew woman's assigned role by heart; to Andrew Helgelein she wrote, "My dear Andrew: I am lonesome; I need help. I need a good strong man to help me. ... I put my confidence in you. I would depend on you more than any king in the world. How happy we will be when I see you. Come as soon as you can... " Helgelein, Budsberg, and Moo disregarded her instructions to bring cash, but after a day or two with Belle, each man went to the La Porte bank to convert his savings into ready money.
But the main part of Belle's attraction was not some sirenlike sensuality; it was good acreage, a big chicken yard, and a thirteen-room brick house. Like any good confidence man, Belle appealed to the greediness of others. She matched her suitors' desire to exploit her with plans of her own, and most often, she won. To men her story may have been frightening, but it was intelligible, for Belle Gunness merely applied to the domestic sphere the "cutthroat" tactics of the business world. It is not surprising then that Belle Gunness, with her axes and knives and her chicken yard full of skeletons, resembled those fictitious villains of earlier nineteenth-century cautionary tales—Mary Jane Gordon, Ellen Irving, Pamela Lee, Mary Thorn, Ann Walters—much more closely than she resembled any real woman; for those female arch-villains were simply the creations of male imagination limited to its own terms. Paradoxically, Belle Gunness was precisely what men imagined a vicious female criminal would be, and because that model was so outrageous, Gunness seemed to be—at the same time—not an unnatural and monstrous woman, but an absolute freak of nature.
Women might see Belle's crimes differently. Using sex and property to attract her victims, Belle reversed at one stroke the familiar tales of young ladies despoiled by the vile seducer and powerless women manipulated by the man of property. Her crimes speak powerfully to the vengeful, man-hating part of every woman. Later generations of men—always trying to distinguish the dangerous woman from the harmless—have emphasized Belle's sexual "hold" on her victims and have pictured her as a sex kitten. The cover painting for a 1955 paperback book about Belle, for example, depicted a young, buxom blonde wearing a black lace negligee and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Jane Russell. But Belle Gunness was not what men would make of her. She was almost fifty years old. She weighed almost 250 pounds. She was a housewife turned psychopath.
-Ann Jones, Women Who Kill
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Ficlet #6: Ivy and her mother-in-law
I am going to figuratively bash my head against my desk one of these days since I keep writing about Ivy or people related to her and not Jugdral. Anyways here's a fic...Note that I kind of don't know if I like the name Ruby too much for Diamant and Alcryst's mother, but it's probably the most popular fan name for her.
--
In one of the coffee-rooms of Elusian castle, on a spring afternoon, was the first private meeting between the Queen Dowager of Brodia and the Queen of Elusia.
The Queen Dowager of Brodia was about average height for a woman. Though in her fifties, her hair retained its cobalt blue shade, undoubtedly the result of dyeing. Her face had quite a few wrinkles on it, enough to where one can get the sense that the past few years had truly worn her down. She was wearing a floor length dress of dark red color, the kind that she would wear casually use at home which was loose and flowing.
The Queen of Elusia, a bit taller than average, had longer purple hair. She still was youthful but had a stern look on her face like her counterpart. She had just come from a wyvern ride and thus was wearing her outfit for that: a dark purple gown which allowed her legs more freedom, paired with her fascinator (decorated with roses), an ermine cape with the Elusian coat of arms, her leggings decorated with floral designs, and her boots with a spike on each one.
One could sense that a silence had settled in after the younger queen had poured tea for the both of them. The only sound that punctuated it was the sipping of tea while they exchanged judgmental glances. The Queen Dowager of Brodia was rumored to have quite antiquated views on Elusians. On the other hand, the Queen of Elusia spearheaded the invasion which led to the late King of Brodia’s death. It would be remiss to omit that Elusia’s queen had also given birth to two of the Queen Dowager’s four grandchildren...at the cost of her eldest son renouncing the Brodian throne.
Finally, the Queen Dowager puts down her teacup on its saucer. “So what makes you like fascinators?” Ruby asked.
Ivy reached for the fascinator around her head. “They’re beautiful headwear,” she said.
“A lot of headwear is stylish,” Ruby replied.
“Fascinators are common for Elusian ladies,” Ivy continued. “I was gifted my first when I was fourteen years old. This style is special to me because I started wearing it in the Academy.”
“I’ve heard quite a bit about this…Academy of yours,” Ruby responded.
“It was truly amazing…”
She closed her eyes and found herself imagining that she was relaxing over tea not with her soon-to-be-mother-in-law but with her closest friend from the Academy. An Elusian noblewoman of her age, an aspiring mage who loved chatting with her about history books or helping her study for the next exam. Someone who she confided in more than anyone else that she ever met. She imagined that she was not in a stuffy room in the castle, but in the open-air courtyard of the Academy, a cool breeze passing through.
Unfortunately, that friend had died in the war as had most of her classmates.
“The Academy molds young men and women into future leaders. I treasure my time there - it was second only to my faith in the Divine Dragon in making me who I am.”
She cut herself short before reminiscing on the first day that she wore her fascinator at the Academy.
Ruby spoke up after sipping her tea: “You Elusians dress in such a funny way. So much unnecessary pomp. And that leg! It would be quite scandalous if I dressed like that.”
Ivy instinctively put her hand on her thigh for a moment before responding back: “Have you never left Brodia, Your Majesty?”
She tutted and continued: “Other nations have different traditions, of course. I, for my part, think that Brodians dress in a very *boring* manner.”
Silenced by her counterpart’s jab, Ruby finished off her tea. When she stood up to walk to the teapot and pour more, Ivy tried to get her to sit down. But her elder shook her head. “I may be older, but I’m not infirm,” she cautioned.
“Diamant doesn’t like when I try to get things for him either,” Ivy commented.
“He got that from his father.”
Ivy still cringed at the mention of the late King Morion, for as much as she tried to hide it. She never knew him very well, but it was well known that he was all too eager to pounce on perceived weaknesses in Elusia with little regard for the lives of civilians. As much as she hated to think this about her fiancé’s father, she was glad that she would never have to face him.
“I must concede one thing. You have done a great job with Holly,” Ruby said.
Caught off guard by the compliment, Ivy took some time to clarify: “It’s mostly been Diamant over the past few months. I’ve been too busy with Carnation.”
“Ah, he’s six months old, right? You must only just now be getting back to normal.” As Ivy nodded, Ruby continued: “Alcryst was very difficult to have. It lasted almost an entire day with him. It was well worth it in the end.”
(Ivy silently thanked the Divine One that she hadn’t broached the topic of giving birth to Diamant.)
“Carnation looks very cute too. He looks like he takes after his father,” Ruby continued.
“Diamant cried when he held him for the first time,” Ivy softly commented.
“Diamant has always been like that, ever since he was young. He’s never wanted to show weakness, not even after the…”
The accident happened when Diamant was eight years old, not long after Alcryst was born. His scream had caught Ruby's attention, interrupting a moment of rest. But when she and Morion got to him, Diamant was holding back tears of pain even as his entire arm was scalded by the flames.
She cleared her throat. “I pray that if your children study magic, they do it in a safe manner.”
A faint smile finally came upon Ivy’s face for the first time in the conversation. “Do not worry. Holly is only allowed to practice magic when I am with her, and only the most basic spells. I don’t know if she’ll be able to do advanced magic though…”
“It’s alright,” Ruby reassured. “With a supportive father and a loving mother, she’ll turn out fine.” She finished her second cup (before Ivy even finished her first) and then continued: “I can’t say I’m happy with the way you took Diamant from me, but you seem to be quite alright. I worried for a long time that he would never find someone like his brother did, but now he has you.”
Ivy nervously laughed.
“That is the truth. I’m not happy with much of what you’ve done, but I appreciate how much Diamant and your kids love you.”
As Ivy dreaded, the Queen Dowager focused onto her role as the mother of her household. Not that she had ruled an entire nation on her own, nor that she had single-handedly changed the trajectory of Elusia to one of friendship and not isolation. With a twinge of bitterness in her voice, she said: “I’m glad that I’ve performed well enough for them.” She had the good sense to leave out a backhanded compliment that Diamant had improved on his housekeeping skills, not because he wouldn’t laugh but because she wouldn’t want Ruby to think her feelings for him are anything less than genuine.
Then Ivy finished off her tea, stood up, and gestured for Ruby to give her empty teacup. “If you please, I must wash myself before it’s my turn to watch Carnation again,” she said.
“Oh, my. Why so soon?” Ruby asked.
With a slight smirk, Ivy replied: “You did say my dress is scandalous, did you not? I may as well change into wear that shows less of my leg.”
Flushed red with embarrassment, Ruby only mumbled a thank you to Ivy when the latter took away their empty teacups. She wished that Morion were there, since he at least was better at trading barbs than she was.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation,” Ivy said.
She was stopped as she left the room when Ruby called out: “Won’t you at least give a handshake?”
Ivy wasn’t comfortable enough to give a hug, but she at least extended her hand out to her future mother-in-law to share a handshake.
“It was nice to meet you, Your Majesty,” Ivy said.
“A pleasure. A pleasure to meet you and Holly and Carnation,” Ruby responded. “Thank you.”
Granted, Ruby and Ivy weren’t yet comfortable with each other, but they were happy to find that they weren’t totally unreasonable people either, not as bad as they feared of each other.
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The Peacock Dress worn by Lady Curzon (1903)
History of the dress:
(This info was found on the national trust collection website. I didn’t write it)
Lady Mary Curzon became Vicereine of India upon on her husband’s appointment as Viceroy in 1898. She recorded her experience of India in diaries and countless letters, a life revolving around a calendar of social events staged to symbolise the authority of the British Empire. Despite frequent ill-health, Lady Curzon was the public face of the Viceroyalty and her life was scrutinised and reported on by the press. She had a keen interest in fashion and was aware of the importance of her appearance as the wife of a political figure. Known for her preference of combining Indian textiles with European fashion styles, Lady Curzon wore this gown, known as Peacock Dress, at the 1903 Delhi Durbar Coronation Ball. The Ball was the pinnacle of two weeks of events marking the succession of Edward VII and Queen Alexandra as Emperor and Empress of India. It was held in the Diwan-I-Khas at the Red Fort, Delhi, the historic residence of the Mughal Emperors. Lady Curzon’s dress deliberately referred to – or, as the historian Nicola J. Thomas writes, ‘replaced’ – the Peacock Throne which had originally stood in the Diwan-I-Khas (Thomas 2007, p. 392). This dazzling jewelled throne, now lost, was made for Shah Jahan in the early 17th century but was looted during the Persian invasion of Nader Shah in 1739. A replica throne was destroyed in 1857 when the British commandeered the Red Fort as a garrison in India’s First War of Independence. The gown was made of Zardozi embroidered fabric traditionally used for elaborate Mughal court garments and palace furnishings. The technique takes its name from the densely worked metal thread; zar (gold) and dozi (work). It used the peacock image for its pattern, a symbol of great significance in Indian culture and the Hindu religion. The use of this motif would have been noted by all who saw it. The fabric was embroidered at the workshop of Kishan Chand in India and is likely to have been sourced by Lady Mary herself before being shipped to Paris to be made into a dress by the House of Worth (Thomas, 2007). Mary was unusual in her choice to wear Indian textiles, and to have many of her clothes made up in India. This would not have gone unnoticed in the higher echelons of Indian society, among Maharajas and Maharanis at state functions. Other gowns worn by Lady Curzon in India are in the collection of the Fashion Museum, Bath.
#peacock dress#edwardian fashion#edwardian era#edwardian#long dress#historical#historical fashion#fashion#edwardian dress#photography#painting
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padme body horror is supreme bc when you think about it, her very existence requires constant agony. in real life that red invasion gown took several weeks to build. and the costumes were so uncomfortable that kiera knightly, who was sabe for like 2 seconds, cried every night while filming. the main way natalie portman describes her prequels costumes is “painful” . and sure “beautiful” usually follows but dude. imagine being 14 and in constant pain bc your job requires you be pretty as possible while defending your planet from fucking invasion. i can’t imagine how estranged i’d feel from my own body and sense of self in that moment. you can take that (already extreme) rigor over the body to all kinds of violent ends. possession. some sort of creature. self-mutilation. fic writes itself tbh!
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☾ Smoke and Dust {Yoonmin au}
masterpost here
Genre: smut, angst, old kingdom au
Note: I know the term ‘Maiden’ is usually used for girls, but unfortunately due to societal double standards, there is not a specific term needed for a male virgin, so in this au the word will be used neutrally.
ao3 link here
Chapter 1
"They found Finley this eve, just outside the Blood Forest, dead."
Jimin looked up from his cards and across the crimson-painted surface to the three men sitting at the table. He had chosen this spot for a reason.
He...felt....nothing from these men as he drifted alongside them between the crowded tables earlier.
No pain, physical or emotional.
Normally, Jimin didn't prod to see if someone was in pain. Doing so without reason felt incredibly invasive, but in crowds, it was difficult to control just how much he allowed himself to feel. There was always someone whose pain cut so deeply, was so raw, that their anguish became a palpable entity that Jimin didn't even have to open his senses to feel—and he couldn't ignore and walk away from. They projected their agony onto the world around them.
Jimin was taught from an early age to ignore. To never speak of the gift bestowed upon him by the gods and to never, ever go beyond sensing to actually doing something about it.
Not that Jimin always did what he was supposed to do.
Obviously.
But these men were completely fine earlier when Jimin reached out with his senses. He specifically sat here because he couldn't feel a great pain coming from them, which was surprising, given what they did for a living.
They were guards from the Rise—the mountainous wall constructed from the limestone and iron mined from the Elysium Peaks. Ever since the War of Two Kings ended four centuries ago, the Rise had enclosed all of Masadonia, and every city in the Kingdom of Solis was protected by a Rise. Smaller versions surrounded villages and training posts, the farming communities, and other sparsely populated towns.
What the guards saw on a regular basis, what they had to do, often left them in anguish, rather it be from injuries or from what went deeper than torn skin and bruised bones.
Tonight, they weren't just absent of anguish, but also their armor and uniforms. Instead, they donned loose shirts and buckskin breeches. Still, Jimin knew, even off duty, they were watchful for signs of the dreaded mist and the horror that came with it, and for those who worked against the future of the kingdom. They were still armed to the teeth.
As was Jimin.
Hidden beneath the folds of the cloak and the thin gown he wore underneath, the cool hilt of a dagger was sheathed against his thigh. Gifted to him on his sixteenth birthday, it wasn't the only weapon he'd acquired or the deadliest, but it was his favorite. The handle was fashioned from the bones of a long-extinct wolven—a creature that had been neither man nor beast but both—and the blade made of bloodstone honed to fatal sharpness.
Jimin may yet again be in the process of doing something incredibly reckless, inappropriate, and wholly forbidden, but he wasn't foolish enough to enter a place like the Red Pearl without protection.
"Dead?" the other guard said, a younger one with brown hair and a soft face. Jimin thought his name might be Airrick, and he couldn't be much older than Jimin. "He wasn't just dead. Finley was drained of blood, his flesh chewed up like wild dogs had a go at him, and then torn to pieces."
Tiny balls of ice formed in the pit of Jimin's stomach. Wild dogs didn't do that. Not to mention, there weren't any wild dogs near the Blood Forest, the only place in the world where the trees bled, staining the bark and the leaves a deep crimson. There were rumors of other animals, overly large rodents and scavengers that preyed upon the corpses of those who lingered too long in the forest.
"And you know what that means," Airrick went on. "They must be near. An attack will—"
"Not sure this is the right conversation to be having," an older guard cut in. Jimin knew of him. Phillips Rathi. He'd been on the Rise for years, which was nearly unheard of. Guards didn't have long lifespans. The man nodded in Jimin's direction. "You're in the presence of a Lord."
A Lord?
Only the Ascended were called Lords, but also Jimin wasn't just anyone, especially not someone that people would expect to be inside the Red Pearl. If he was discovered, he would be in...well, more trouble than he's ever been in before and would face severe reprimand.
The kind of punishment that Dorian Teerman, the Duke of Masadonia, would just love to deliver. And which, of course, his close confidante, Lord Brandole Mazeen, would love to be in attendance for.
Anxiety surfaced as Jimin looked at the dark-skinned guard. There was no way Phillips could know who Jimin was. The top half of Jimin's face was covered by the white domino mask he'd found discarded in the Queen's Gardens ages ago, and he wore a plain robin's egg blue cloak he'd, uh.... "borrowed" from Britta, one of the many castle servants who Jimin had overheard speaking about the Red Pearl.
Hopefully, Britta wouldn't discover her missing overcoat before Jimin returned it in the morning
Even without the mask, though, Jimin could count on one hand how many people in Masadonia had seen his face, and none of them would be here tonight.
As the Maiden, the Chosen, a veil usually covered Jimin's face and hair at all times, all except for his lips and jaw.
Jimin doubted Phillips could recognize him solely on those features, and if he had, none of them would still be sitting here. Jimin would be in the process of being dragged back, albeit gently, to his guardians, the Duke and Duchess of Masadonia.
There was no reason to panic.
Forcing the muscles along his shoulders and neck to ease, Jimin smiled. "I'm no Lord. You're more than welcome to talk about whatever you wish."
"Be that as it may, a little less morbid topic would be welcomed," Phillips replied, sending a pointed look in the direction of the other two guards.
Airrick lifted his gaze to Jimin's. "My apologies."
"Apologies not needed but accepted."
The third guard ducked his chin, studiously staring at his cards as he repeated the same. His cheeks had pinkened, something Jimin found rather adorable. The guards who worked the Rise went through vicious training, becoming skilled in all manner of weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. None who survived their first venture outside the Rise came back without shedding blood and seeing death.
And yet, this man blushed.
Jimin cleared his throat, wanting to ask more about who Finley was, whether he was a guard from the Rise or a Huntsman;a division of the army that ferried communication between the cities and escorted travelers and goods. They spent half the year outside the protection of the Rise. It was by far one of the most dangerous of all occupations, so they never traveled alone. Some never returned.
Unfortunately, a few who did, didn't come back the same. They returned with rampantly spreading death snapping at their heels.
Cursed.
Sensing that Phillips would silence any further conversation, Jimin didn't voice any of the questions dancing on the tip of his tongue.
If others had been with Phillips and had been wounded by what most likely had killed Finley, Jimin would find out one way or another.
He just hoped it wasn't through screams of terror. The people of Masadonia had no real idea exactly how many returned from outside the Rise cursed. They only saw a handful here and there, and not the reality. If they did, panic and fear were sure to ignite a populace who truly had no concept of the horror outside the Rise.
Not like Jimin's brother Ian and him did.
Which was why when the topic at the table switched to more mundane things, Jimin struggled to will the ice coating his insides to thaw. Countless lives were given and taken by the endeavor to keep those inside the Rise safe, but it was failing—had been failing—not just here, but throughout the Kingdom of Solis.
Death....
Death always found a way in.
Stop, Jimin ordered himself as the general sense of unease threatened to swell. Tonight wasn't about the tragedy outside the walls. Tonight was about living, about...not being up all night, unable to sleep, alone and feeling like...like he had no control, no...no idea of who he was other than what he was.
Another poor hand was dealt, and Jimin had played enough cards with Ian to know there was no recovering from the ones he held. When Jimin announced that he was out, the guards nodded as he rose, each bidding him a good evening.
Moving between the tables, Jimin took the flute of champagne offered by a server with a gloved hand and tried to recapture the feelings of excitement that had buzzed through his veins as he'd hurried through the streets earlier that evening.
Jimin minded his business as he scanned the room, keeping his senses to himself. Even outside of those who managed to project their anguish into the air around them, Jimin didn't need to touch someone to know if they were hurting. He just needed to see someone and focus. Physical pain was almost always hot, but the kind that couldn't be seen?
It was almost always cold.
Bawdy shouts and whistles snapped him out of my his own mind. A woman in red sat on the edge of the table next to the one he had just left. She wore a gown made of scraps of red satin and gauze that barely covered her thighs. One of the men grabbed a fistful of the diaphanous little skirt. Smacking his hand away with a saucy grin, she lay back, her body forming a sensual curve. Her thick, blonde curls spilled across forgotten coins and chips. "Who wants to win me tonight?" Her voice was deep and smoky as she slid her hands along the waist of the frilly corset. "I can assure you boys, I will last longer than any pot of gold will."
"And what if it's a tie?" one of the men asked, the fine cut of his coat suggesting that he was a well-to-do merchant or businessman of some sort.
"Then it will be a far more entertaining night for me," she said, drawing one hand down her stomach, slipping even lower to between her—
Cheeks heating, Jimin quickly looked away as he took a sip of the bubbly champagne. His gaze found its way to the dazzling glow of a rose-gold chandelier. The Red Pearl must be doing well, and the owners well connected. Electricity was expensive and heavily controlled by the Royal Court. It made Jimin wonder how this much luxury was available so far from the Castle.
Under the chandelier, another card game was in progress. There were women there too, their hair twisted in elaborate updos adorned with crystals, and their clothing far less daring than the women who worked here. Their gowns were vibrant shades of purple and yellow and pastel hues of blue and lilac.
Jimin was only allowed to wear white, whether he was in his room or in public, which wasn't often. So, he was fascinated with how the different colors complemented the wearer's skin or hair. Jimin imagined he looked like a ghost most days, roaming the halls of Castle Teerman in white.
Here, some people also wore domino masks that covered half their faces, protecting their identities. Jimin wondered who some of them were. Daring wives left alone one too many times?Young princes who had grown tired of their duties? Servants or women who worked in the city, out for the evening? Did they come here for the same reasons Jimin did?
Boredom? Curiosity?
Loneliness?
If so, then they were more alike than Jimin realized, even though they were probably normal, ordinary second daughters and sons, who just wanted a night of fun.
And Jimin....he was Park Jimin of Castle Teerman, Kin of the Balfours, and the Queen's favorite.
He was the Maiden.
Chosen.
And in a little under a year, upon his nineteenth birthday, he would Ascend, as some others did .
But Jimin's Ascensions would be much different, it's meant to be the largest one since the first gods' Blessing that occurred after the end of the War of Two Kings.
Ordinary people were allowed to go out, have fun with friends and play games, yet if Jimin were to be discovered here, he would face severe punishment from The Duke.
Jimin's lips thinned as a kernel of anger took root, mingling with a sticky residue of disgust and shame. The Duke was a pestilence of overly familiar hands and had an unnatural thirst for punishment.
Whatever, people like The Duke didn't scare him, or was he worried about being disciplined. He had learnt to take it
Dragging his gaze from the table, Jimin noted that there were smiling and laughing women and men in the Pearl who wore no masks, hid no identities. They sat at tables with guards and businessmen, stood in shadowy alcoves and spoke with masked women, men, and also those who worked for the Red Pearl. They weren't ashamed or afraid to be seen.
Whoever they were, they had freedom Jimin deeply envied.
Jimin searched for independence tonight, because masked and unknown, no one but the gods would know he was here. And as far as the gods were concerned, Jimin had long ago decided that they had far better things to do than spend their time watching him. After all, if they had been paying attention, they would've cleared the monsters that lived in the shadows, and brought peace to the Kingdom.
So, Jimin could be anyone tonight.
The freedom in that was a far headier sensation than he imagined. Even more so than the unripe poppy seeds provided by those who smoked them.
Tonight, he wasn't the Maiden. He wasn't the Royal secret. He was simply Chimmie, a nickname he remembered his mother using, something only his brother Ian and very few others ever called him.
As Chimmie, there were no strict rules to follow or expectations to fulfill, no future Ascension that was coming quicker than he was prepared for. There was no fear, no past or future. Tonight, Jimin could live a little, even for a few hours, and rack up as much experience as he could before he was returned to the capital, to the Queen.
Before he was given to the gods.
A shiver tiptoed down his spine—uncertainty, along with a bite of desolation. He tamped it down, refusing to give life to it. Dwelling on what was to come and could not be changed served no purpose.
Besides, Ian had Ascended two years ago, and based on the monthly letters Jimin received from him, he was the same. The only difference was that instead of spinning tales with his voice, he did so with words in each letter. Just last month, he wrote about two children, a brother and sister, who swam to the bottom of the Stroud Sea, befriending the water folk.
Jimin smiled as he lifted the champagne flute, having no idea where Ian came up with those things. As far as Jimin knew, it was impossible to swim to the bottom of the Stroud Sea, and there was no such thing as water folk.
Shortly after his Ascension, on the orders of the Queen and King, Ian had married Lady Claudeya. Ian never spoke of his wife.
Was he happy at all in his marriage? The curve of his lips faded as his gaze dropped to the fizzing, pinkish drink.
Jimin wasn't sure, but they'd barely known each other before marrying. How was that long enough when you'd presumably spend the rest of your life with a person?
And the Ascended lived for a very, very long time.
It was still odd for Jimin to think of Ian as an Ascended. He wasn't a second son, but because Jimin was the Maiden, the Queen had petitioned the gods for a rare exception to the natural order, and they had allowed Ian to Ascend.
Jimin wouldn't face what Ian had, marriage to a stranger, to another Ascended, one who was sure to covet beauty above all else, because attractiveness was seen as godlike.
And even though Jimin was the Maiden, the Chosen, he would never be viewed as godlike. According to the Duke, Jimin wasn't beautiful.
He was a tragedy.
Without realizing it, Jimin's fingers brushed the scratchy lace of the left side of the mask. he jerked his hand right away.
A man that Jimin recognized as a guard rose from a table, turning to a woman wearing a white mask like he was. He extended a hand to her, speaking words too low for Jimin to hear, but she answered with a nod and a smile before placing her hand in his. She rose, the skirt of her lilac-hued gown falling like liquid around her legs as he led her from the room toward the only two doors accessible by guests, one at either end of interconnecting chambers. The right went outside. The left door led upstairs, to more private rooms where Britta had said all manner of things occurred.
The guard took the masked woman to the left.
He'd asked. She'd said yes. Whatever it was they did upstairs, it would be welcomed and chosen by both, regardless of whether it lasted a few hours or a lifetime.
Jimin's attention lingered on the door long after it had closed. Was that another reason he had come here tonight? To...to experience pleasure with someone of his choosing?
He could if he wanted to. He'd overheard conversations between the Lords and Ladies in the Wait, who weren't expected to remain untouched. According to them, there were...many things a woman and a man could do that brought pleasure while retaining their purity.
Purity?
Jimin hated that word, the meaning behind it. As if his virginity determined his goodness, his innocence, and its presence or lack thereof was somehow more important than the hundred choices he made every day.
There was even a part of him that wondered what the gods would do if Jimin went to them no longer an actual maiden, no longer a virgin. Would they overlook everything else Jimin did or didn't do simply because Jimin was no longer a virgin?
He wasn't sure, but Jimin hoped that wasn't the case. Not because he planned to have sex now or next week or...ever, but because jimin wanted to be able to make that choice.
Though, he wasn't quite sure how he'd find myself in a situation where that option would even arise. But Jimin imagines there'd be willing participants who'd want to do the things he'd heard the Ladies and the Lords in Wait speaking about here at the Red Pearl.
A nervous flutter beat in his chest as Jimin forced himself to take another sip of the champagne. The sweet bubbles tickled the back of his throat, easing some of the sudden dryness in his mouth.
Truth be told, tonight had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Most nights, Jimin couldn't fall asleep until it was nearly dawn. And when he finally did, He almost wished He hadn't. Three times this week alone, Jimin woke from a nightmare, with his screams ringing in his ears. And when they came like this, in clusters, they felt like a harbinger. An instinct much like the ability to sense pain, screaming out a warning.
Drawing in a shallow breath, Jimin glanced back to where he'd been looking before. The woman in red was no longer on the table. Instead, she was in the lap of the merchant who'd asked what would happen if two men won. He was inspecting his cards, but his hand was where hers had been heading earlier, delved deep between her thighs.
Oh, fuck.
Biting down on his lip, Jimin pulled away from where he stood before his entire face caught on fire. Jimin drifted into the next space that was separated by a partial wall, where another round of games was being played.
There were more guards here, some he even recognized as belonging to the Royal Guard, soldiers just like those who worked the Rise but who protected the Ascended instead. This was why the Ascended also had personal guards. People had tried to kidnap members of the Court before for ransom. No one was usually hurt too seriously in those situations, but there had been other attempts that stemmed from far different, more violent reasons.
Standing near a leafy potted plant that sported tiny, red buds, Jimin was unsure of what to do from there. He could join another card game or strike up a conversation with any of the numerous people who lingered around the tables, but he wasn't all that good at making small talk with strangers. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd blurt out something bizarre or ask a random question that would make little sense to the conversation. So that was off the table. Maybe he should head back to his chambers. The hour had to be growing late and—!
A strange awareness swept over him, starting as a tingling sensation along the back of his neck and intensifying with every passing second.
It felt like...like he was being watched.
Scanning the room, Jimin didn't see anyone paying much attention to him, but he expected to find someone standing near. That was how potent the feeling was. Unease blossomed in the pit of his stomach. Jimin started to turn toward the entrance when the soft, drawn-out notes of some sort of guitar string drew his attention to the left, his gaze landing on the gauzy, blood-red curtains that swayed gently from the movement of others in the establishment.
Jimin stilled, listening to the rise and fall of the tempo that was soon joined by the heavy thump of a drum. Jimin forgot about the feeling of being watched. He forgot about a lot of things. The music was...it was like nothing he'd heard before. It was deeper, thicker. Slowing, and then speeding up. It was...sensual. What had Britta, the servant, said about the kind of dancing that took place at the Red Pearl? She'd lowered her voice when she spoke of it, and the other maid Britta had been speaking to had looked scandalized.
Making his way along the outskirts of the room, Jimin neared the curtains, reaching out to part them—
"I don't think you want to go in there."
Startled, Jimin turned at the sound of the voice. A woman stood behind him —one of the ladies who worked for the Red Pearl. Jimin recognized her. Not because she'd been on the arm of a merchant or businessman but because she was utterly beautiful.
Her hair was a deep black, thickly curled, and her skin was a deep, rich brown. The red gown she wore was sleeveless, cut low across her chest, and the fabric clung to her body like liquid.
"I'm sorry?" Jimin said, unsure what else to say as he lowered his hand from the curtain. "Why wouldn't I? They're just dancing."
"Just dancing?" Her gaze drifted over his shoulder to the curtain. "Some say that to dance is to make love."
"I...I hadn't heard that." Slowly, Jimin looked behind him. Through the curtains, he could make out the shapes of bodies churning in time with the music, their movements full of mesmerizing and fluid grace. Some danced alone, their curves and forms clearly outlined, while others...
Jimin sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes swinging back to the woman before him.
Her red-painted lips curved into a smile. "This is your first time here, isn't it?"
Jimin opened his mouth to deny that statement but could feel the heat spreading across every visible part of his face. That alone was telling. "Is it that obvious?"
She laughed, and the sound was throaty. "Not to most. But to me, yes. I've never seen you here before."
"How would you know if you had?" Jimin touched his mask just to make sure it hadn't slipped.
"Your mask is fine." There was a strange, knowing glint to her eyes, which were a mix of gold and brown. Not exactly hazel. The gold was far too bright and warm for that. They reminded him of another who had eyes the color of deep citrine. "I know a face, whether it's half-hidden or not, and yours is one I haven't seen here before. This is your first time."
Truly, Jimin had no idea how to respond to that.
"And it's the Red Pearl's first time also." She leaned in, her voice lowering. "As we've never had the Maiden walk through the doors."
A wave of shock rolled through Jimin as his grip tightened on the slippery champagne glass. "I don't know what you mean. I'm a second son—"
"You are like a second son, but not in the way you intend," she cut in, lightly touching Jimin's cloaked arm. "It's okay. There is nothing to fear. Your secret is safe with me."
Jimin stared at her for what felt like an entire minute before he recovered the use of his tongue. "If that were true, why would that kind of secret be safe?"
"Why would it not be?" she returned. "What would I have to gain by telling anyone?"
"You'd earn the favor of the Duke and Duchess." Jimin's heart thumped.
Her smile faded as her stare hardened. "I have no need of a favor from an Ascended."
The way she said that, it was as if he'd suggested that she was courting favor with a pile of mud. Jimin almost believed her, but no one who lived within the kingdom would waste the chance to earn an Ascended's esteem unless they...
Unless they didn't recognize Queen Ileana and King Jalara as the true, rightful rulers. Unless they supported he who called himself Prince Casteel, the true heir to the kingdom.
Except he was no prince or heir. He was nothing more than a remnant of Atlantia, the corrupt and twisted kingdom that had fallen at the end of the War of Two Kings. A monster who had wreaked havoc and caused bloodshed, the embodiment of pure evil.
He was the Dark One.
And yet there were those who supported him and his claim. Descenters who had been a part of riots and the disappearances of many Ascended. In the past, the Descenters only caused discord through small rallies and protests, and even then, that had been few and far between due to the punishment that was meted out to those who were suspected to be Descenters. The trials couldn't even be called that. No second chances. No long-term imprisonment. Death was swift and final.
But things had changed of late.
Many believed the Descenters had been responsible for the mysterious deaths of high-ranking Royal Guards. Several in Carsodonia, the capital, had inexplicably fallen from the Rise. Two had been killed with arrows through the back of their heads in Pensdurth, a smaller city on the coast of the Stroud Sea, near the capital. Others had simply vanished while in the smaller villages, never to be seen or heard from again.
Only a few months ago, a violent uprising had ended in bloodshed in Three Rivers, a teeming trade city beyond the Blood Forest. Goldcrest Manor, the Royal Seat in Three Rivers, had been burned, razed to the ground, along with the Temples. Duke Everton had died in the fire, along with many servants and guards. It was only by some miracle that the Duchess of Three Rivers had escaped.
The Descenters weren't just Atlantians who were hidden among the people of Solis. Some of the Dark One's followers didn't even have a drop of Atlantian blood in them.
Jimin's gaze sharpened and zeroed in on the beautiful woman. Could she be a Descenter?Jimin couldn't fathom how anyone could support the fallen kingdom, no matter how hard their lives were or how unhappy they may be. Not when the Atlantians and the Dark One were responsible for the mist, for what festered inside of it. For what most likely had ended Finley's life— had taken countless more lives, including his mother's and father's, and had left Jimin's body riddled with the reminder of the horror that thrived inside the mist.
Pushing aside his suspicions for the moment, Jimin opened himself up to sense if there was some great pain inside her, something that went beyond the physical and stemmed from either grief or bitterness. The kind of pain that made people do horrible things to try and alleviate the anguish.
There was no hint of that radiating from her.
But that didn't mean she wasn't a Descenter.
The woman's head tilted. "As I said, you have nothing to worry about when it comes to me. Him? That's another story."
"Him?" Jimin repeated.
She moved to the side as the main door opened, and a sudden gust of cool air announced the arrival of more patrons. A man walked in, and behind him was an older gentleman with sandy blond hair and a weathered face, colored by the sun—
Jimin's eyes widened as disbelief thundered through him.
It was Kim Seokjin. What was he doing at the Red Pearl?
Oh, gods.
Jimin didn't want to think about the purpose for Seokjin's visit any longer. Seokjin
was a seasoned member of the Royal Guard, a man well into his fourth decade of life, but he was more than that to Jimin. The dagger strapped to his thigh had been a gift from him, and it was Seokjin who broke with custom and made sure Jimin not only knew how to use it, but also how to wield a sword, strike a target unseen with an arrow, and even when weaponless, how to take down a man twice his size.
Seokjin was like a father to Jimin.
He was also Jimin's personal guard and had been since Jimin had first arrived in Masadonia. He wasn't Jimin's only guard, though. He shared duties with Rylan Keal, who'd replaced Hannes after he'd passed in his sleep a little less than a year ago. It had been an unexpected loss as Hannes had been in his early thirties and in prime health. The Healers believed it to have been some unknown ailment of the heart. Still, it was hard to imagine how one could go to sleep healthy and whole and never wake up again.
Rylan didn't know that Jimin was as well trained as he was, but he knew Jimin could at least handle a dagger. He wasn't aware of where Seokjin and Jimin all too often disappeared to outside the castle. He was kind and often relaxed, but Jimin wasn't nearly as close to him as he was with Seokjin. If it had been Rylan here, Jimin could've easily slipped away.
"Dammit," Jimin swore, turning sideways as he reached back and pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head. His hair was a rather noticeable shade of blonde, but even with it hidden now and his entire face obscured, Seokjin would recognize him.
He had a sixth sense that only belonged to parents and made itself known when their child was up to no good.
Glancing back toward the entrance, Jimin's stomach dropped as he saw Seokjin sit at one of the tables facing the door—the only exit.
The gods hated Jimin.
Truly, they did, because there was no doubt in his mind that Seokjin would see him. He wouldn't report him, but Jimin would rather crawl into a hole full of roaches and spiders than attempt to explain to him, of all people, why he was at the Red Pearl.
And there would be lectures. Not the speeches and punishments the Duke loved to deliver, but the kind that crawled under Jimin's skin and made him feel terrible for days. Mainly because he had been caught doing something he deserved reprimand for.
Jimin stole another peek and—
Oh, gods, a woman knelt beside Seokjin, a hand on his leg!
Jimin needed to scrub his eyes.
"That's Sariah," the woman explained. "As soon as he arrives, she's at his side. I do believe she carries a torch for him."
Slowly, Jimin looked at the woman beside him. "He comes here often?"
One side of her lips curved up. "Often enough to know what happens beyond the red curtain and—"
"That's enough," Jimin cut her off. He now needed to scrub his brain. "I don't need to hear any more." Seeing the only father figure he had in a brothel was enough for one night.
Her laugh was soft. "You have the look of one who is in need of a hiding place. And, yes, in the Red Pearl, that is an easily recognizable
look." She deftly took Jimin's champagne glass. "Upstairs, there are currently unoccupied rooms. Try the sixth door on the left. You will find sanctuary there. I'll come for you when it's safe."
Suspicion rose as Jimin met her gaze, but He let her take his arm and lead him toward the left. "Why would you help me?"
She opened the door. "Because everyone should be able to live a little, even for a few hours."
Jimin's mouth dropped open as she gave him a wink, and closed the door.
Her figuring out who Jimin was couldn't be a coincidence. Repeating back to Jimin what he's been thinking earlier? There was no way. A rough laugh escaped his lips. The woman may be a Descenter, or at the very least, she wasn't a fan of the Ascended. But she might also be a Seer.(a which, a fortune teller)
Jimin didn't think there were any of them left.
And He still couldn't believe that Seokjin was here—that he came here often enough that one of the ladies in red liked him. Jimin wasn't sure why he was so surprised. It wasn't like Royal Guards were forbidden from seeking pleasure or even marrying. Many were quite...promiscuous since their lives were rife with danger and often far too short. It was just that Seokjin had a wife who'd passed long before Jimin even met him, dying in childbirth along with the baby. He still loved his Camilia as much as he had when she lived and breathed.
But what could be found here had nothing to do with love, did it? And everyone got lonely, no matter if their heart belonged to someone they could no longer have or not.
A little saddened by that, Jimin turned around in the narrow stairwell lit by oil wall sconces. Jimin exhaled heavily. "What have I gotten myself into?"
Only the gods knew, and there was no turning back now.
Jimin slipped his hand inside the cloak, keeping it close to the hilt of the dagger as he climbed the steps to the second floor. The hallway was wider and surprisingly quiet. He didn't know what he expected, but he had thought he would hear...sounds.
Shaking his head, Jimin counted until he reached the sixth door on the left. He tried the handle and found it unlocked. Jimin started to open the door but stopped. What was he doing? Anyone or anything could be waiting beyond this door. That woman downstairs—
The sound of a male chuckle filled the hallway as the door beside him opened. Panicked, Jimin quickly backed into the room in front of him, closing the door behind him.
Heart pounding, Jimin looked around. There were no lamps, just a tree of candles on a mantel. A settee sat in front of an empty fireplace.
Without even looking behind him, Jimin knew the only other piece of furniture had to be a bed. Jimin drew in a deep breath, catching the scent of the candles. Cinnamon? But there was something else, something that reminded him of dark spices and pine. He started to turn—
An arm curled around his waist, pulling him back against a very hard, very male body.
"This," a deep voice whispered, "is unexpected."
Caught off guard, Jimin looked up. A mistake that Seokjin had taught him never to make. He should've gone for the dagger, but instead, Jimin stood there as the arm around his waist tightened, and the man's hand settled at his hip.
"But it's a welcome surprise," he continued, sliding his arm away.
Snapping out of his stupor, Jimin whirled to face him, the hood of the cloak remaining in place as Jimin's hand went for the dagger. He looked up...and then up some more.
Oh, gods.
Jimin froze, utter shock rippling through him, shorting out all common sense when he saw the man's face in the soft glow of the candlelight.
Jimin knew who he was, even though he'd never spoken with him.
Min Yoongi.
Everyone in Castle Teerman knew when the Rise Guard arrived fromCarsodonia, the capital, a few months ago. Jimin had been no different. Jimin wanted to lie to himself and say that it was due to his striking height, placing him nearly a foot taller than Jimin. Or it was because he moved with the same inherent, predatory grace and fluidity that belonged to the large, gray cave cats that normally roamed the Wastelands but that Jimin had seen once in the Queen's palace as a child. The fearsome, wild animal had been caged, and the way it continuously prowled back and forth in the too-small enclosure had equally fascinated and horrified him. Jimin had seen Yoongi pacing in the same manner on more than one occasion, as if he too were caged. It could've been the sense of authority that seemed to bleed from his pores even though he couldn't be much older than Jimin was—maybe the same age as his brother or a year or two older. Or perhaps it was his skill with the sword. One morning while Jimin stood beside the Duchess on one of the many balconies at Castle Teerman, overlooking the training yard below, she'd told Jimin that Yoongi had come from the capital with glowing recommendations and was well on his way to becoming one of the youngest Royal Guards. Her gaze had been fixed on Yoongi's sweat-slick arms.
So had Jimin's.
Since Yoongi's arrival, Jimin found himself hidden in the shadowy alcoves more than a few times, watching him train with the other guards. Other than the weekly City Council sessions held in the Great Hall, it was the only time Jimin saw him.
The younger's interest could simply be because Yoongi was...well, he was handsome.
It wasn't often that could be said about a male, but Jimin could think of no better word to describe him. He had dark, thick hair that curled at the nape of his neck and often fell forward, brushing equally dark brows. The planes and angles of his face made Jimin yearn for some talent with a brush or a pen. His cheekbones were high and wide, nose surprisingly straight for a guard. Many of them had suffered at least one broken nose. His square jaw was firm, and his mouth well formed. The few times Jimin had seen him smile, gums would show, and a deep dimple appeared. But his eyes were by far his most captivating feature.
They reminded Jimin of cool honey, a striking color he'd never seen before, and he had this way of looking at someone that left them feeling stripped bare. Jimin knew this because he felt Yoongi's stare during the Councils held in the Great Hall, even though he'd never seen Jimin's face or even his eyes before. Jimin was sure the man's regard was due to the fact that Jimin was the first Maiden in centuries.
People always stared when Jimin was in public, whether they were guards, Lords and Ladies in Wait, or commoners.
Yoongi's stare could also just be a product of Jimin's imagination, driven by the younger's small, hidden desire and hope that Yoongi was as curious about him as Jimin was of him.
Perhaps it was all those reasons why he caught Jimin's interest, but there was another one that Jimin was a little embarrassed to even acknowledge.
Jimin had purposely reached out with his powers when he saw Yoongi.
Jimin knew it was wrong to do when there was no good reason. Nothing to justify the invasion. And Jimin had no excuse other than wondering what often made Yoongi pace like a caged cave cat.
Yoongi was always in pain.
Not the physical kind. It was deeper than that, feeling like chips of sharp ice against Jimin's skin. It was raw and it felt never-ending. But the anguish that seemed to follow him like a shadow never overwhelmed him. If Jimin hadn't used his senses, He would have never guessed it. Somehow, Yoongi kept that kind of agony under control, and Jimin knew of no one else who could do that.
Not even the Ascended.
Only because Jimin never felt anything from them, although Jimin knew they felt physical pain. The fact that he never had to worry about picking up emotional pain from them should make him seek out their presence, but instead, it gave Jimin the creeps. Why didn't they feel anything?
"I wasn't expecting you tonight," spoke. He was giving Jimin that half-smile of his now, the one that showed no teeth, made the dimple in his right cheek appear, but never quite reached his eyes. "It's only been a few days, sweetling."
Sweetling?
Jimin opened his mouth and then clamped it shut as realization rose. Jimin blinked. He thought he was someone else! Someone he'd obviously met here before.
Jimin glanced down at his cloak—the borrowed garment. It was rather distinctive, a pale blue with an edging of white fur.
Britta.
Did he think he was Britta?
To be fair, Jimin wasn't the manliest looking man. He had luscious shiny blonde hair and big plump red lips. His skin was smooth as silk and once covered entirely in cloak with his mask on, people had mistook him for a woman once or twice. It happens.
Jimin's gaze swept over Yoongi. He wore the black tunic and breeches that all guards wore under their armor. Had he come straight here after his shift? Jimin gave the room a quick once-over. There was a small table beside the settee, where two glasses sat. Yoongi hadn't been alone in here before Jimin arrived. Could he have been with another? Behind Yoongi, the bed was made and didn't appear as if anyone had...slept in it.
What should he do? Turn and run? That would be odd. Yoongi would be sure to ask Britta about it, but as long as Jimin returned the cloak and mask without her knowing, Jimin would be in the clear.
Except Seokjin was most likely still downstairs, and the woman was, too—
Dear gods, she had to be a Seer. Instinct told him she had known this room was occupied. She'd sent Jimin here on purpose. Had she known that Yoongi was here and likely to mistake Jimin for Britta?
It seemed too unreal to believe.
"Did Namjoon tell you I was here?" he asked.
Jimin's breath caught as his heart started pounding like a hammer against
my ribs. Jimin thinks Namjoon is a guard on the Rise, one around Yoongi's age. A dark haired fella, if heremembered correctly, but he hadn't seen him downstairs, so he shook his head without making a sound
"Have you been watching for me, then? Following me?" he asked, sighting softly under his breath. "We'll have to talk about that, won't we?" There was an odd threat to his voice, one that gave Jimin the impression that he was not all that pleased by the idea of Britta following him.
"But not tonight, it seems. You're strangely quiet," he observed. From what Jimin knew of Britta, she was rarely ever demure.
But the moment Jimin would speak, Yoongi would know he wasn't Britta, and Jimin...wasn't ready for him to discover that.
He wasn't sure what he was ready for. His hand was no longer on the dagger, and Jimin didn't know what that meant. All he knew was that his heart was still racing.
"We don't have to talk." Yoongi reached for the hem of his tunic, and before Jimin could take another breath, he pulled it over his head, tossing it aside.
Jimin's lips parted and his eyes widened. He had seen a man's chest before, but he had never seen his. The muscles that flexed and bunched under the thinner shirts the guards trained in were now on display. He was broad of shoulder and chest, all lean muscles and pale skin. Probably soft to the touch.
Jimin's gaze dipped even lower, and heat returned, a different kind that didn't just flush his skin but also invaded his blood.
Even in the candlelight, Jimin could see how tight his breeches were, how they gloved his body, leaving very little to the imagination.
And Jimin had a vast imagination thanks to the Ladies' frequent tendency to overshare, and his frequent tendency to listen in on conversations.
A strange curling sensation hit his lower stomach. It wasn't unpleasant. Not at all. It was warm and tingling, reminding his of his first sip of bubbly champagne.
Yoongi stepped toward him, and Jimin's muscles tensed to run, but he held himself still by sheer will. Jimin knew he should've stepped away. He should've spoken and revealed that he wasn't Britta. He should've left immediately. The way that man prowled towards him, his long legs eating up the distance between them, told Jimin his intent, even if he hadn't removed his tunic. And while Jimin had little—all right, absolutely no experience—He inherently knew that if that man reached him, he would touch him. He may do even more. He might kiss him.
And that was forbidden.
Jimin was the Maiden, the Chosen. Not to mention, he thought Jimin was a woman, and he'd obviously been in this room with someone else before Jimin got here. That didn't mean he'd been with someone, but he could've.
Jimin still didn't move or speak.
He waited, his heart beating so fast he felt faint. Tiny tremors racked his hands and legs.
And Jimin never trembled.
What are you doing? whispered the reasonable, sane voice in his head. Living, Jimin whispered back.
And being incredibly stupid, the voice countered.
Jimin stood there.
Senses hyperaware, he watched as Yoongi stopped in front of him and
lifted his hands, gripping the back of Jimin's cloak. For a moment, Jimin thought he might pull it back, and the charade would be over, but that wasn't what he did. The hood only slipped back a couple of inches.
"I don't know what kind of game you're about tonight." His deep voice was husky. "But I'm willing to find out."
Yoongi's other arm came around the younger's waist. A gasp left Jimin as the man hauled him to his chest. This was nothing like the friendly embraces he had received from Seokjin. Jimin had never been held by a man like this. There wasn't an inch between Yoongi's chest and his. The contact was a spark to Jimin senses.
He lifted me up onto the tips of my toes, then clear off my feet. His strength was staggering since Jimin wasn't exactly light, at least not as light as Britta was. Stunned, hands landed on his shoulders. The heat of his hard skin seemed to burn through Jimin's gloves and the cloak and thin white gown Jimin usually slept in.
Yoongi head slanted, and Jimin felt the warmth of his breath on his lips. A tight tremor of anticipation coiled its way down his spine at the same moment his stomach dipped with uncertainty. There was no time for the two warring emotions to battle.
In a matter of a few stuttering heartbeats, Yoongi was guiding them down to the bed, his grip strong but careful, as if he were aware of his strength. He came down over Jimin, his hand still behind Jimin's head, his weight a shock as he pressed Jimin into the bed, and then his mouth was on the younger's.
Yoongi kissed him.
There was nothing sweet or soft, like Jimin imagined a kiss to be. It was hard and overwhelming, claiming, and when Jimin sucked in a sharp breath, Yoongi took advantage, deepening the kiss. His tongue touched Jimin's, startling him. Panic flared in the pit of his stomach, but so did something else, something far more powerful, a pleasure Jimin hadn't experienced before. He tasted of the golden liquor he'd once snuck, and Jimin felt that stroke of the guard's tongue in every part of him. It was in the shivers that erupted all over his skin, in the inexplicable heaviness in his chest, in that curling, tightening sensation below his navel and even lower still where there was a sudden, throbbing pulse between his legs.
Jimin shuddered, his fingers digging into the man's flesh, and He suddenly wished He hadn't worn gloves because He wanted to feel his skin.
The man's head tilted, and Jimin felt the brush of his oddly sharp—
Without warning, he broke the kiss and lifted his head. "Who are you?"
Thoughts oddly slow and skin humming, Jimin blinked open his eyes. Dark hair fell forward onto Yoongi's forehead. His features were shadowed in the soft, flickering light, but Jimin thought Yoongi's lips looked as swollen as his own felt.
Yoongi acted too fast for Jimin to track the movement, tugging Jimin's hood back, exposing Jimin's masked face.
Yoongi's brows lifted as the haze cleared from Jimin's thoughts. Jimin's heart jumped around in his chest for a whole different reason, even though his lips still tingled from the kiss.
His first kiss.
Yoongi's golden-eyed gaze rose to Jimin's head, and he shifted his hand out from behind the younger's neck. "You are most definitely not who I thought you were," he murmured.
The man seemed to be unfazed over the fact that Jimin was a male.
"How did you know?" Jimin blurted out.
"Because the last time I kissed the owner of this cloak, she damn near sucked my tongue down her throat."
"Oh," Jimin whispered. Was he supposed to have done that? It didn't sound like it would be something enjoyable.
The man stared down at him, gaze assessing as he remained with half his body atop of Jimin's. One of his legs was thrust between the younger's, and Jimin had no idea exactly when that had happened. "Have you been kissed before?"
Jimin's face caught fire. Oh, gods, was it that obvious? "I have!"
One side of his lips kicked up. "Do you always lie?"
"No!" Jimin immediately lied.
"Liar," he murmured, his tone almost teasing.
Embarrassment flooded Jimin's system "You should get off."
"I was planning to."
The way he said it made Jimin's eyes narrow.
Yoongi laughed, and it was...it was the first time Jimin had heard him do so. When Jimin saw him in the Hall, he was quiet and stoic like most guards, and he'd only seen that half-grin of his while he trained. But never a laugh. And with the anguish Jimin had sensed lingered below the surface, he wasn't quite sure that this man ever laughed.
But he had now, and it sounded real, deep, and nice, and it rumbled through Jimin, all the way to the tips of his toes. Jimin was slow to realize that this was the most He'd heard that man speak. He had a slight accent, an almost musical lilt to his tone. Jimin couldn't quite place it, but Jimin had only ever been to the capital and here, and it was not often that many spoke to Jimin or around him if they knew he was present. The accent could be quite common for all Jimin knew.
"You really should move," Jimin told him, even though he liked the weight of him.
"I'm quite comfortable where I am," he added, still unfazed by the fact that Jimin was a man
"Well, I'm not."
"Will you tell me who you are, Prince?"
"Prince?" Jimin repeated. There were no Princesses or Princes in the entire kingdom beyond the Dark One, who called himself such. Not since Atlantia had ruled.
"You are quite demanding." He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I imagine a Prince to be demanding."
"I am not demanding," Jimin stated. "Get off me."
He arched a brow. "Really?"
"Telling you to move is not being demanding."
"We'll have to disagree on that." He paused. "Prince."
Jimin's lips twitched in wry humor, but he managed to hide the smile. It felt annoying being amused by him "You shouldn't call me that."
"Then what should I call you? A name, perhaps?"
"I'm...I'm no one,"
"No One? What a strange name. Do young boys with a name like that often make a habit of wearing other people's clothing?"
"I'm not a young boy," Jimin snapped.
"I would sure hope not." He paused, lips curling down at the corners. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to be in here, if that's what you're worried about."
"In other words, old enough to be masquerading as someone else, allowing others to believe you're another person and then allowing them to kiss—"
"I get what you're saying," Jimin cut him off. "Yes, I'm old enough for all those things."
One eyebrow rose. "I'll tell you who I am, although I have a feeling you already know. I'm Min Yoongi."
"Well Min Yoongi, Hi" Jimin said, feeling foolish for doing so. He couldn't have thought of something witty and clever on the spot.
The dimple in the man's right cheek deepened. "This is the part where you tell me your name."
Jimin's lips nor his tongue moved.
"Then I'll have to keep calling you Prince" His eyes were much warmer now, and Jimin wanted to see if the pain had eased but managed to resist. Jimin just thought that perhaps his pain had gone away. If so...
"The least you can do is tell me why you didn't stop me earlier" the man said before Jimin could give in to the curiosity and reach out with his senses.
Jimin had no idea how he could answer that when he didn't fully understand it himself.
One side of the man's lips quirked up. "I'm sure it's more than my disarming good looks."
Jimin wrinkled his nose. "Of course." He said in an obvious ironic tone.
Another short, surprised-sounding laugh left Yoongi. "I think you just insulted me." He looked at Jimin from top to bottom, almost as if he was admiring him "You've wounded me, Prince."
"I highly doubt that. You have to be more than well aware of your fine appearance."
"I am. It has led to quite a few people making questionable life choices."
"Then why did you say you were insulted—?" Realizing the man was simply teasing Jimin and feeling foolish for not seeing that right away, Jimin pushed at his chest once more. "You're still lying on me."
"I know."
The younger took a breath. "It's quite rude of you to continue doing so when I've made it clear that I would like for you to move."
"It's quite rude of you to barge into my room dressed as—"
"Your lover?"
He raised a brow. "I wouldn't call her that."
"What would you call her?"
Yoongi appeared to mull that over while still sprawled halfway across Jimin. "A...good friend."
Part of him was relieved that Yoongi hadn't referred to her as something derogatory like he had overheard other men do before when speaking of women they'd been intimate with, but a good friend? "I didn't know friends behaved this way."
"I'm willing to bet you don't know much about these sorts of things."
The truth in his statement was hard to ignore. "And you bet all of this on just one kiss?"
"Just one kiss? Prince, you can learn a wealth of things from just one kiss."
Staring at him, Jimin couldn't help but feel...very inexperienced. The only thing he could tell from his kiss was what it had made Jimin feel. Like he was seeking to possess me.
"Why didn't you stop me?" he repeated his previous question, gaze swept over the mask and then lower, his eyes brushed over Jimin's lips as if they were touching them. Honestly, Jimin was too overwhelmed to move or say anything, he just sat there squished under Yoongi's body like a lost puppy.
Yoongi's gaze found Jimin's. "I think I'm beginning to understand."
"Does that mean you're going to get up so I can move?"
Why haven't you made him get up? whispered that stupid, very reasonable, and very logical voice. That was a great question. Jimin knew how to use another man's weight against them. More importantly, he had his dagger and access to it. But Jimin hadn't gone for it, nor had he truly made an attempt to put space between them. What did that mean?
Jimin... supposed he felt safe. At least, at the moment. He may know very little about Yoongi, but he wasn't a stranger, at least he didn't feel that way to Jimin, and he wasn't afraid of him.
Yoongi shook his head. "I have a theory."
"I'm waiting."
That dimple in his right cheek appeared once more. "I think you came to this very room with a purpose in mind."
He was right about that, but Jimin doubted he would be right about the actual reason.
"It's why you didn't speak or attempt to correct my assumption of who you were. Perhaps the cloak you borrowed was also a very calculated decision," he continued. "You came here because you want something from me."
Jimin started to deny what the man suggested, but no words rose to the tip of his tongue. Silence wasn't a denial or agreement, but his stomach dipped again.
Yoongi shifted ever so slightly, his hand coming to rest against Jimin's right cheek, his fingers splayed out. "I'm right, aren't I, Prince?"
Heart skipping all over the place, Jimin tried to swallow, but his throat had
dried. "Maybe...maybe I came here for...for conversation."
"To talk?" His brows rose. "About what?"
"Lots of things,".
His expression smoothed out. "Like?"
Jimin's mind was uselessly empty for several seconds, and then he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Why did you choose to work on the Rise?"
"You came here tonight to ask that?"
Not a single thing about his tone or his look said he believed Jimin, but the younger nodded while mentally adding that this was yet another example of how terribly bad he was at making conversations with people.
Yoongi was quiet and then said, "I joined the Rise for the same reason most do."
"And what is that?" Jimin asked, even though he already knew most of the reasons.
"My father was a farmer, and that was not the life for me. There aren't many other opportunities offered than joining the Royal Army and protecting the Rise, Prince."
"You're right."
His eyes narrowed as surprise flickered across his features. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, there aren't many chances for children to become something other than what their parents were."
"You mean there aren't many chances for children to improve their stations in life, to do better than those who came before them?"
Jimin nodded as best he could. "The...the natural order of things doesn't exactly allow that. A farmer's son is a farmer or they—"
"They choose to become a guard, where they risk their lives for stable pay that they most likely won't live long enough to enjoy?" he finished. Scorn lacing his tone "Doesn't sound much like an option, does it?"
"No," Jimin admitted, but he had already thought that himself. There were jobs Yoongi could've strived for. Trader and hunter, but they too were hazardous, as they required going outside the Rise frequently. It just wasn't as dangerous as joining the Royal Army and going to the Rise. Was the source of his anguish due to what he'd seen as a guard?
"There may not be many choices, but I still think—no, I know—that joining the guard requires a certain level of innate strength and courage."
"You think that of all the guards? That they are courageous?"
"I do."
"Not all guards are good men, Prince"
Jimin's eyes narrowed. "I know that. Bravery and strength do not equal goodness."
"We can agree on that." His gaze dropped to Jimin's mouth, and then his chest felt inexplicably tight.
"You said your father was a farmer. Is he...has he gone to the gods?"
Something crept across his face, gone too quickly for Jimin to decipher. "No. He is alive and well. Yours?"
Jimin gave a small shake of his head. "My father—both of my parents are gone."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, and it sounded genuine. "The loss of a
parent or a family member lingers long after they're gone, the pain lessening but never fading. Years later, you'll still find yourself thinking that you'd do anything to get them back."
He was right, and Jimin thought that this was perhaps the source of the pain he felt. "You sound like you know firsthand."
"I do."
Jimin thought of Finley. Had Yoongi known him well? Most of the guards were close, developing a bond thicker than blood, but even if he hadn't known Finley, there were surely others he knew that had been lost. "I'm sorry,"
Jimin said. "I'm sorry for whoever it is that you've lost. Death is..."
Death was constant.
And Jimin sure saw a lot of it. He wasn't supposed to, as sheltered as he was, but he saw death all too frequently.
Yoongi's head tilted, sending a tumble of dark locks over his forehead. "Death is like an old friend who pays a visit, sometimes when it's least expected and other times when you're waiting for her. It's neither the first nor the last time she'll pay a visit, but that doesn't make any death less harsh or unforgiving."
Sadness threatened to take up residence in Jimin's chest, crowding out the warmth. "That, it is."
Yoongi dipped his head suddenly, his lips nearing Jimin's. "I doubt the need for conversation led you to this room. You didn't come here to talk about sad things that cannot be changed, Prince."
Yoongi was right, yet again. It wasn't to talk. Jimin came here to live. To experience. To choose. To be anyone other than who he was. None of those things included talking.
But he had his first kiss tonight. He could stop there or tonight could be a night of many firsts, all of his choosing.
Was he...? Was he really considering this, whatever this was? Gods, he truly was. Tiny tremors rocked him. Could Yoongi feel them? They piled in Jimin's stomach, forming little knots of anticipation and fear.
Jimin was the Maiden. The Chosen. His earlier convictions about what the gods concerned themselves with weakened. Would they find him unworthy? Panic didn't seize Jimin like it should. Instead, a spark of hope did, and that unsettled him more than anything. The tiny glimmer of hope felt traitorous and wholly concerning, given that being deemed unworthy resulted in one of the most serious consequences.
If Jimin was to be found unworthy, he'd face certain death.
He'd be exiled from the kingdom.
#yoonmin scenarios#yoonmin#yoonmin fanfiction#jimin imagine#jimin fanfic#jimin scenario#yoongi reaction#yoongi fanfic#yoongi smut#jimin smut#bts scenarios#bts imagines#bts au fic#yoonmin au
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Oh, Sinnerman
Warnings: Child abuse
Word Count: 7k
The next chapter is the last chapter, I swear.
Chapter Five
The front of his gown is open, spread wide for easy examination of the bruises fading up and down Hotch’s side. Too many are of some sort of permanency, unforgiving skin unwilling to let go of its trauma. The few that aren’t are still in the stages of yellows and greens, proof of the hours Hotch spent running in the woods. His disoriented state left him with cuts and bruises from falling into things or running into them. Nasty, painful spots where thorns tore through his clothing.
It’s the hues of his skin that first draws JJ’s attention in. The discoloration beneath his eyes is hardly abnormal, she can’t imagine what he’d be like without them. He’s always had that tired, weary look about him but this is so different. The colors have reached new depths. She thinks of comas as sleeping because that’s what it looked like he was doing. She’d seen him twice before he woke up with Jess. He looked like he was sleeping, resting just like the doctors said he needed to. Sleeping. Yet the bags under his eyes, the markers of his restlessness, are more present than ever.
She watches him breathe for a moment. The same way she’s stood in the doorway of Henry’s room and just watched his chest rise and fall. Insurance, believing it when her eyes can tell her it’s real. Hotch’s sternum rises with his breath and she follows the movement down his ribs. He’s breathing on his own, a feat they thought they’d never see again. She thought they’d have to let him go. Her last goodbye to a ventilator and bandages. But now he’s steadily breathing, her own breathing calming as she matches his pace. So steady.
JJ has never seen his scars. Her official report – tiresome paperwork they filled out for months detailing and rehashing the events of Haley and George Foyet’s deaths – had included the medical history of what Foyet did to Hotch. She had the medical records. That little anatomical man that they’re all so used to seeing with it’s little red hashes. Nine stab wounds. They’re easier to digest on paper.
Crime scene investigators had taken graphic photos for other reports. They got close, close enough to count stitches and staples. Those reports were sealed off. Something that Garcia could get into but not a single one of them had that curiosity in them. So they simply forgot them, pretended they didn’t exist until they just didn’t.
She’d seen them on paper, enough to know locationally where they are. Never in person.
There’s a blanket folded over his lap in the name of discretion and privacy. But everything he’d be worried about showing is on a grand display. Wires snake over his naked chest, one side of the gown loosely folded over his abdomen. She can see four of them. The ones that sit higher on his chest and the one that runs down his sternum. Along the bone. A surgery scar to go atop it all, a more invasive attempt to do more than stop the bleeding and get him stable.
JJ had just forgotten they were there. Blissful, willful ignorance.
“Hotch?” she approaches the side of the bed cautiously. She’s afraid he’s awake and sitting on the edge of the drugs. Pretending to be asleep so that he can ignore them. “Are you awake?” She gets a little closer, and touches his arm. If he were awake he might flinch or his fingers give a little jump. He doesn’t move. She doesn’t know why she expects something more. He’d talked to Jess and met all the others with silence. Opened his eyes to recognize who was sitting beside him and closed them again. Hasn’t spoken a word since.
She’s stood this close to him before, closer. He leans over her shoulder to read the paperwork and she’s certainly invaded all of his privacy by rummaging through his desk. Yet this feels invasive, to see him like this and to be this close. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She pulls the sides of his gown over his chest, one at a time. Takes one long pause as they are hidden again, from her sight and her mind. She’s sorry for having seen them. Sorry they make her feel so uncomfortable. Sorry no one else closed his gown.
He’s restless. The nurses have left his gown untied but they’d closed it. He just gets agitated and lifts up from the morphine haze for moments of confused consciousness. Tries to move and gets nowhere, sinks back down without any reality. No grasp. He manages to open the gown on his own, twisting around too much.
“Hotch?”
He squints– the lights too bright and he’s got no contacts in. No one’s brought him any glasses but it doesn’t make any sense if he’s not awake and looking around. He grumbles, too disoriented to say JJ’s name, but needs to make a noise. To let her know he’s awake, he’s listening. He can’t trust his mouth to form the words in his head anyway. The things he’s seeing, what he’s already seen… He’s not sure about anything.
“You don’t have to talk.” Her hand is warm and slips underneath his palm. “I just – I wanted to see you.”
He hums, eyes already closed.
She’s gone when he opens his eyes next. A wisp of smoke faded from the room but the scent still lingered. Maybe she was here. Maybe she wasn’t. He can never really tell.
––––––
Aaron hadn’t been afraid of his father since he was ten years old. He’d lost the fear somewhere deep, replaced it with trembling hands and a stubborn clenched jaw. Fear had vanished, he just didn’t have it anymore. He lost it and never mourned it. Other things started slipping away too. Aaron felt like all of his emotions had become mechanical. He could smile but only because he realized it was the appropriate response. Like when Sean told a silly joke, something he’d picked from a book. Aaron knew then to smile. For Sean he could fake any of those feelings – but he never had to fake love. Sean was the only thing Aaron loved, the only thing he stayed for. What he kept coming back for. Sean.
His father had come in crashing drunk. Parked his car crooked in the driveway, a Marlboro already lit between his teeth. He couldn’t get his key in the door, his coordination too sloppy. In his drunken state, he’d assumed that his wife had changed the lock, and tried to lock him out of his home. The mistake Aaron’s mother made in leaving was coming back, the most fatal common mistake. And he never forgave her for either of those things. Whenever anything happened, Aaron’s father assumed she was going to leave again or already had. He punished them all for that choice, for that paranoia. He beat the idea out of her a while ago.
Aaron had come down the steps as soon as he heard his father’s car pulling up. Knew the sound at the door wasn’t a good one. “Stay in bed,” he instructed Sean, shutting the door behind himself and creeping down the stairs.
“Bitch!”
Aaron had stepped right in the middle of them, between his father’s raised hand and his mother’s red cheek. “Sean’s upstairs,” he told his mother, never breaking eye contact with his father. They stood nearly the same height by then, Aaron only a few inches short. He’d get there, he knew it. But even now he was nearly too big to be hit the way his father liked. It was easier when he was smaller and when he was afraid. He’d found courage, a different sort of poison. Not his father’s bottled kind. “Go to Sean, mom.”
She didn’t.
She cried out when his father shouted, turning to his left and slamming his fist into the vase of flowers he’d bought her just earlier that week. An apology and a good time, Aaron’s father had taken her out for dinner. Bought her make-up. Now his apology had burned through, his same old promise broken.
There was no escalation, no ladder of actions that made him do it. No build-up. Or maybe his entire life had been the build-up.
No fully developed frontal cortex, not enough brain development.
All adrenaline.
Aaron fell to the floor, kicked or punched – it didn’t matter. He picked up the glass and made his decision. “I dare you,” the words fell right out of his mouth. “Touch me again. I dare you.”
Sean wasn’t allowed to visit him in the hospital. No one under 16 – he asked. His father wouldn’t have brought him anyway. No one visited. He asked the nurse and he could hear her crying as she left his room. Having to tell him that after his father had signed what he needed to, he left. No one had tried to visit, no one had asked for him. She brought him all the popsicles he wanted. Took his arms out of the restraints and let him watch TV. She talked to him like a kid, a mix he wasn’t sure he understood. He’d been so used to indifference and adulthood he wasn’t even aware that’s what she was doing when she snuck him extra ice cream or cake. Gave him stickers like she did with the little kids for behaving so well for her.
When he was released to the other ward, he missed her the most.
His father did visit, once.
Aaron was sleeping, curled up underneath as many blankets as he could get. The nurse could only give him one and she watched him closely with it but he coveted it. He’d let her strap his arms down without complaint for the blanket, anything to be just a little warmer. He had no clothes, only what he came in with. She took sympathy on him. Brought him sweatpants and a sweatshirt from her son’s stuff, clothes that were too big but warm.
The smell of Marlboro woke him. Aaron told himself he didn’t fear anything but that smell… He never actually shook the panic that overtook him at the smell of those cigarettes.
He woke up in pain, surrounded by the scent of Marlbollo and whiskey. “I bet you think you’re so smart.” Aaron couldn’t understand a word he was saying. His father had grabbed his bandage wrist up, and pinched his fingers into the wound. “Your mother is beside herself. You’re so selfish–” He was too startled to process anything. His father was going on about valor and family. Legacy.
He’d had dreams like this in the hospital but this one was different. No nurse was coming in with a grape juice and an offer to keep his door cracked so the hall light could come in. This was a nightmare that had followed him from his dreams.
His nurse came to his rescue and he’d cried out only then, choking on his sobs as he listened to his father explain his way through a lie. That he’d come in here to see his son and found Aaron digging his fingers through the gauze. Attempting to break the sutures. His father had the broken sutures under his grip, blood was pooling to the top of the white gauze quickly.
He remembers nothing else after that. Sedatives made his eyes roll back in his head, calming him while his father stood there pretending to be worried for the son he nearly lost. Faking tears as he spoke his concern, “he was never like this before.” His father wove a lie of drugs and bad friends.
Aaron didn’t have any friends.
He had Jess and Haley and what he did to them… He asked far too much of them, he couldn’t consider them his friends. He was their parasite, the boy they just felt too sorry for to turn away.
They moved him during the night, he never saw that nurse again. He never got a chance to tell her that he didn’t do what his father said he did. Aaron had worked so hard to earn her trust, to just be good. And she probably didn’t believe him. She couldn’t.
––––––––––
The memories of hospitals and fear twist itself up in Hotch’s stomach. Too much like the woods, the time gets tangled up.
Hotch smells Marlballo cigarettes and pain shoots up his chest as he forces his eyes open. His head screams with the movement but he has to see. Hotch can feel his father before he sees him, leaning over the bed and saying his name. Aaron? That was the warning call – the flicker of a lighter, the smell of a Marlballo cigarette before his father started drinking. He’d always been a Marlballo man.
“Aaron?” Sean stumbles away from the bed, raising his hands as an angry-looking nurse comes into the room. “I didn’t do anything,” he swears. “I was just sitting here!”
The methodical motions of the nurse do nothing to soothe Hotch’s accelerated heart rate. Sean’s distance helps, and the nurse talks to him. He can see her mouth moving, and hear her voice, but the words are too much. He can’t decipher her instructions, only knows his father is right there. Hotch could see him. Lazy five o’clock shadow, dark hair swept back from his head. Smell the Marlballos on him.
Hotch knows he’s in for it this time. He really fucked up. He anticipates a pain that doesn’t come.
“Aaron.”
The panic is forced down, numbed out slowly but powerfully by something cold and heavy. His vision clears, the room’s black spots clearing.
“It’s me.” Sean.
It takes Hotch a painful minute to respond, his eyes open and attentive but face blank. It terrifies Sean to be on the end of that stare, just an empty stare. “Your…” Hotch grunts softly, turning his eyes away. He’s already forgotten the word.
“Your brother?” Sean guesses. They said there might be some memory issues, Sean wouldn’t be surprised that he’s the one that gets forgotten.
Hotch scowls at him, a sharp nasty look Sean hadn’t expected out of him. Such an Aaron face to make when he hasn’t been acting like himself. “Face,” Hotch rasps, “chin?” He knows who his fucking brother is, he doesn’t need Sean being an antagonizing asshole right now.
Sean moves his hand up to his face, suddenly self-conscious. What the hell is wrong with his face? He runs his fingers down his beard and tries to flatten any hairs that might have gotten crazy. There’s no cigarette ash in it, at least. But then he smiles, Aaron hasn’t seen his beard. He’s never had facial hair around Aaron. “My beard?” he asks.
“Beard,” Hotch repeats. Yes, that’s what he meant. “Your beard…”
“You like it?”
“No.”
Sean rubs at it, and huffs, “well I do.” Older women like it too, and the young ones. “No asked you anyway.”
The nurse clears her throat and Hotch groans, dragging his eyes over to her. Every movement makes his head hurt. His heart beating makes his head hurt. Sean’s beard makes his head hurt too. Really contradicts the baby in his head, the way he always imagines a punky little kid and not a grown man when he thinks about his brother. Thinking about Sean hurts his head too but thinking about Sean always has made his head hurt.
“I’m gonna keep a close watch on his heart rate for a little longer,” she says, displeased with how quickly Hotch got upset. “And I’d like to keep his visitors down,” she gives Sean a leveled look but he raises his hands again. Clearly not willing to take the blame for Hotch’s sudden heart problems. But she’s clearly set on him as the perpetrator. “You can stay,” she adds, “but I’d like no more of this in and out business. Keep him calm.”
Sean rolls his eyes. Aaron has always been one minor event away from a stroke. The man is overly excitable. That has nothing to do with him.
“Now,” she pats Aaron’s leg. Her attention back on him. “Can you tell me your name and date of birth?” It’s no better than an alarm clock. Every morning at seven, no later than seven-ten, a nurse comes around with her pen-light and those same questions. Name and date of birth. Hotch answered her questions this morning, already. He’ll have to do it again for night rounds. And tomorrow morning all over again. About twelve times a day. The annoying part isn’t that he knows the answers, it’s how slowly they come to him. How hard he has to fight them.
The nurse repeats herself and Hotch blinks two slow times before dragging his eyes over to Sean. He’s hoping Sean will shoo her away. Sense the intense pressure sawing across his front lobe, back and forth. Friction burn. Ask them in that whiny little brother voice if maybe this can wait. But Sean’s just leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and yawning. “What?” he grunts, Sean glances over at the nurse and then back at Hotch. “Answers not written across my forehead. Stop gawking at me.”
Hotch scowls at Sean but turns his attention back to the nurse. Swallows uncomfortably, “ ‘otch?”
“That sounds like a question to me,” the nurse smiles. She’s used to his resistance by now. Getting sleepy grunts and groans rather than answers out of him. His friends swear on his behalf, he’s very polite and even-tempered normally. This whack to the head has just thrown him off. He doesn’t like hospitals. It’s okay, she understands. She can tell he’s a good one.
He groans, ignoring them both and moving his hand up to his face. Going to dislodge the canal under his nose but Sean catches his hand before he can raise it that high. Hotch grunts at Sean, scowling again. “If looks could kill,” Sean mumbles, shaking his head and the nurse laughs. He’s been here for a week and they do this routine every day and he is no more willing to comply today than he has any other day they’ve come in asking him questions.
The nurse moves from the foot of his bed over to where Sean’s sitting. Closer because she’s noticed it’s easier for him to pay attention when he can see her. She pats his knee and gets his attention again. That tight, displeased frown. “Let’s start with your name. Can you tell me what your name is?”
He turns his head away from them and grumbles out, “Aaron.” His little fit is making him breathless. Spending too much energy being stubborn and now the answers are foggy, his body not following his commands. “Hotchner.”
“Good,” the nurse pats his knee. “Now when’s your birthday?”
“November,” he rasps, “second.”
“The year?”
He couldn’t remember any of this when he first woke up. Jess got some version of him that hid in the days following. He was following verbal commands, squeezing their hands and pulling his foot away from touch. But the first time they asked him to identify himself or anyone around him, he’d come up blank. He knew them but their names were just coming up short.
He’d managed to identify Emily first. The nurse had given up on asking him his own name, took his reply of ‘Hotch’ as very close, but wanted to see if he was up for just a little bit more. “Can you tell me who that is?” His tired, hurting eyes followed the nurse’s pen to where she was pointing and scowled at Emily. She’d held his hand down to stop him from trying to rip at his IVs. He was annoyed with her, angry rather indignantly. “Prentiss”, he grumbled. The rest followed soon after but there’s still this raw nervousness he holds around names. Afraid every time more than one person comes into the room and his brain short-circuits. All this information just gets all jumbled up.
“If I tell you all but the last digit, do you think you can remember?” the nurse asks. She can see in his eyes that he’s gone elsewhere, grown too distracted in his heavy thinking.
Hotch looks back over to Sean, he’s really not sure what they’re talking about anymore. The conversation changed suddenly from what he was thinking about. He just doesn’t remember. Last digit of what? His confusion is evident, sleepy lines around his eyes heavy
He’s lost them in the silence of moments.
Sean sits up and looks between the nurse and Hotch with a tight new fear hot and heavy in his stomach. “Your birthday, Aaron,” Sean moves his hand anxiously towards Aaron’s and taps at him.
His hospital bracelet. He uses Sean’s hand as an aid as he turns his wrist until he can see the date.
The nurse catches him before he can remember how to say the numbers. “Alright,” she laughs, “no cheating.” It’s the first time he’s done that and it feels like a good sign. He might not remember what year he was born right now but he’s oriented enough to try and use prompts around him.
“Calm.” The nurse says again as she’s leaving, pointing a finger at Sean.
“Calm,” Sean repeats, he gets it.
It’ll be fine, Sean’s certain. This is the first time anything has happened at all. Mostly, Sean comes in here for the two hours Penelope penciled him for and he sits. Sometimes Aaron’s awake but there’s never much more than a side-glance out of him. Slightly recognition that there’s been a guard shift while he was sleeping and then he’s gone again. No “hey, Sean, how’d you get here”. Not even a fuck you.
“Do you want a donut? I want a donut.”
Hotch had forgotten Sean was there. His eyes already drifted shut, he was only mostly sure Sean was there. His father wasn’t so maybe neither was Sean. It’s hard to trust anything that he sees.
“Are sprinkle donuts juvenile?” Sean wonders aloud. He’s biting his nails. Got his finger in his mouth as he speaks. “Like only little kids get them but they are just better when they have sprinkles. It’s science or something… like the colors must make your brain think it tastes better.”
Hotch frowns at him. Where does he come up with this stuff? Sean always speaks every thought that comes into his head. Hotch sighs and rasps tiredly, “ ‘s bad.” Sean lifts an eyebrow, finger still in his mouth. Hotch points, “that.”
“Ok dad,” Sean rolls his eyes but puts his hand down. He picks at his nails instead, asking, “yes donut or no donut?”
“No.”
“Okay, party-pooper.” Sean stands up with a dramatic sigh, “but don’t give me a look when I come in here and won’t let you have a bite.” They’d done that as kids. Aaron would buy them both different donuts and they’d make all kinds of stupid bargains to get a bite of the others. Sean was always frustrated that Aaron wouldn’t let him have a bite of his. He’d beg and beg and only at that last bite would Aaron relent and give him the rest. All that remained of Sean’s donut was the glaze around his mouth, a stray sprinkle on his t-shirt.
Sean would give him a bite if he asked but he doesn’t.
—----------------
There’s a Doberman that sits at the end of his bed, tags jingling every time it cocks its head to the side. It’s sitting there, Hotch’s certain of it but no one else mentions it. Certainly, if there was a dog loose in the hospital someone would say something and yet the nurses come in with their cold hands and the doctors with their charts, no one says anything. He disappears, the Doberman when things get a little too busy. Hotch would like to go with him, wherever he’s gone off to avoid the overcrowded room. He doesn’t want to be here either.
The Doberman gives one big yawn and stands up, Hotch perks up. His voice is hoarse, his speech progressing to clarity as he sits up, “Wh– Where are you g-going?” The dog looks back over its shoulder and obviously hears him. Tail twitching with excitement as it waits.
He hasn’t been allowed to walk anywhere unassisted yet, mostly because he can't. His balance is coming very slowly along, his head still not yet adjusted to the real world. What lays beyond the foggy woodscape he’d fallen into. Pushing himself up from bed makes his vision stir and he shuts his eyes against nausea that builds up, even the dark blacks of the back of his eyelids swim. An uneasy dipping, swaying motion. The rocking of a boat. “I’m coming,” he whispers, pushing his hips up off the bed. He takes one cautious step leaning on the rail and pulls in small breaths to prepare for the next. Machines come dislodged with a sharp tug, he grunts and look down at his arm. The IV ripped out and landed with a plastic plink heavy to the ground. The pulse ox sitting right where he’d been sitting.
The Doberman rises again and Hotch grows too distracted to care about the rest. Each walk is like fire shooting up his left leg, he’s not yet forgiving for running through the woods for hours without one of his shoes. He leans heavily on the doorframe, fingers curled around the cold metal. The Doberman tilts its head, waiting in the empty hall for him to follow.
“Why are you bleeding?” Hotch jumps and before he can turn around, Emily’s cautiously coming around his other side. She grabs his wrist and turns his arm over so she can find the source. She frowns at it, then at him, before swiping at the blood with her finger. Pressing her thumb against. “Come on,” Emily says, there’s a hint of sadness, something else tinges her tone as she nods her head back to his room. “We can go for a waltz in a second.”
Waltz. He turns the word over in his head. Dancing, he doesn’t know how to dance.
A nurse comes in behind them, just as Emily’s pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Sorry, Sarah,” Emily says, putting the take-out she’d brought up on the side table. “I snagged him in the hall, I was just about to call you down here.”
Sarah smiles and shakes her head, “you’re fine. I know Aaron here is an escape artist.” She smiles at Hotch but he’s staring down his feet. Still trying to decode “we can go for a waltz in a second”. Waltz. He knows the word, he knows she’s got some double meaning but can’t make any sense of it. Sarah gently touches his shoulder and he looks up, “you gonna sit still for me? Let me get you hooked up again, alright? Then you and Emily can go for a walk.”
A walk. Hotch nods his head, it clicks then. The correct word is in place and Emily’s meaning is uncovered. “A waltz,” he whispers to himself.
Sarah smirks, and looks over her shoulder at Emily, “yeah, a waltz.”
Emily’s frown hasn’t wavered. She’s standing against the wall now, not hovering like normal. Fingers up at her mouth as she chews on her cuticles, absently trying to contain her worry until Sarah’s done.
“Just a prick,” Sarah warns as she places the other IV. Hotch is still, just watches quietly while she tapes him back up. “I’ll leave him like this,” Sarah says, rubbing the edges of the tape down. “I can just come back in a second to get him hooked up, let you go your waltz.” She smirks at Hotch then, thinking it’s a funny little word for him to use. He’s a funny man when he wants to be. Cranky in a sweet kind of way.
Emily nods and Sarah and goes over to where she’s standing. “Everything else okay?” Sarah asks.
Emily shakes her head but pulls in a breath like she’s going to say something. She shakes her head again, and shrugs, “I don’t know.” She meets Sarah’s eyes and glances over to Hotch, the way he’s just sitting there staring off. “There’s something off about him.”
Sarah nods crosses her arms and looks Hotch up and down. It was hard to tell what he was thinking but she’d curious about what was going on in his head. “He’s quieter,” Sarah agrees. His manners come and go, raspy little apologies and thank you’s. She can usually get him to say a little more but he was the response, she thought. “I can get someone down here,” she offers. “We can run through some questions with him. Is there something specific?”
Emily shrugs again and clicks her tongue but she can’t name it.
“Take him on his walk,” Sarah offers, “and you can call me back down here if you’re still worried. Sound good?”
Emily nods, “yeah. Yeah, that’s good.” It’ll give her time to think. To be sure it’s something and not just… It’s hard to have this version of him in her head and this version of him right here with her. He’s still so sulky and silent, stoic when he’s angry, it’s hard to see the steep cliff that ends where the similarities are.
He’s said the word so many times to himself that it comes out clearly. “Waltz?” Hotch says when she back over, offers him her hand to stand.
“Yeah,” she agrees, “let’s waltz.” The very idea makes her uncomfortable because she knows he can’t do it alone. No one trusts her with the emotional work. She’s good at the stand-by. Standing close and offering him a little thumbs up, a pat on the shoulder if she absolutely must. That’s what she’s good at. Being in his corner. She brings take-out and gets to confirm to everyone else that he’s eaten. It’s an easy, rewarding job. This that’s not her. She’s nearly avoided, completely, having to be this close. Now she can’t let go. It’s desperate and vulnerable, she’s holding his hand as tightly as he’s holding her’s. She’s welded to his side, holding anxiously to his bicep with her free hand. It’s uncomfortable and she wishes she could break the tension by calling this whole thing off. Turn him around right here and take him back to his room. She’s never even been this close to him sober. A few drinks in maybe, he’s a sleepy drunk and she gets cold after a while. Those boundaries fallout, there’s nothing to that proximity that isn’t purely circumstantial. He’s tired and she’s cold.
Emily feels him start to tug to the left, going on his typical route. She goes, not sure what else to do. Hopeful he’s read her mind and they’re heading back. “The window?” she asks. It’s big, she’s walked past it every day without thinking much of it. “What’s out here?” Trees. It’s just trees, a line of them that reaches back far but behind them is the city. Buildings and concrete. It’s something but it’s not that much.
Hotch points and she follows his finger down to a little playground. She hadn’t even noticed it before. It’s sweet, really. That he takes this little pause to absorb what little of the outside world he has access to. Damn. He’s been locked in here for days and hasn’t been outside. Deprived of everything to the point that he has to pull enjoyment out of a fucking walk. A walk she didn’t want to take him on because his proximity was making her uncomfortable. Jesus, she’s an awful friend.
“Do kids come out here often?” Now she just feels guilty.
He barely moves his head but he gives her a sad little no. “Some– Sometimes,” he whispers, as he glances at her. The corner of his eye. “In the–” he forgets the word. After. In the after. “Late?”
“The afternoon?”
“Yes. Afternoon.”
Derek takes him on the afternoon walks. The day wears him thin. He has dinner and they go on their little walk before the night rounds begin. Hotch’s footing is less confident, he’s tired and somehow speaks even less. He takes two walks a day but he’s growing steadily more restless with each day. Today is the first time Emily’s caught him escaping but she knows he walked off on Jess too. She’d just cleaned his hair up, got it all even, and as she was sweeping up the mess he’d wandered out into the hall. Brought back by the first nurse that saw him, Sarah.
Sean does the morning walk. They grumble back and forth depending on what it is that morning that Sean makes the mistake of talking about. Yesterday, it was why Sean had left his car in Winchester. But Sean had left out a lot of details, not sure how much of the truth he was allowed to admit. They’re not supposed to press him about Winchester, none of it. Today it was because Sean was wearing Hotch’s Georgetown t-shirt.
Sarah’s waiting for them when they get back, Emily smiles when Hotch sees her and groans to himself.
“Good to see you too, sunshine,” Sarah smirks and takes Hotch’s other side. Looping their arms together and giving Emily a chance to break away.
He looks back at her and almost doesn’t let go of her hand. She has to pull her hand away and stare hard at the ground willing her brain to push her into motion. All there is, all she can do is uselessly unpack lunch. It makes her heart race, standing there at the side of the bed while Sarah goes through her check-ins. Making her eyes remain frozen and fixed on the bags in front of her. Unpack things. One at a time. All tense, mechanical movements as her heart pound hard enough to feel like it’s outside of her body. She can feel the pulse in her skin.
“Alright,” Sarah beams, satisfied that Hotch is now back in bed and properly hooked up to his machines. “No more wandering off, hear me? You know where the call button is.” The last sentence is a reprimand, she squints her eyes at him so he knows she really means business. “You want something, you call.”
Hotch grumbles back at her, looking away.
“No,” Sarah says, arms on her hips. “Repeat it back to me.”
Hotch sighs, glancing at Emily for some backup but she’s peeling the plastic back from a fork. Purposefully ignoring him. He’s on his own. Hotch carefully clears his throat and looks at his lap while he forces himself to think clearly and hard about how to say it back. He can do it. “Call…” he manages, face heating up. “I will call.”
“Good.” Sarah’s halfway out the door when she turns around, her pleased smile back in place. “I’ll bring you an extra pudding cup at dinner.”
Emily remains silent and says nothing where Hotch expects a comment to be made about how Sarah’s too nice to him. Maybe she wouldn’t bring him an extra pudding cup. Or that he’s just too much trouble with all this running off. Something dramatic and untrue. Accented by whatever treat she’s brought today. Because she’s all hard fronts and taunts but if he asks she’ll let him have dessert first. Can’t say no to his request.
She’s silent. Places his fruit cup, pudding, and juice in front of him and takes her own seat. The groan of styrofoam opening is all that breaks the silence.
Only after a great silence does Emily look up, meeting Hotch’s tired gaze. He’s turned his head, just watching her in silence. “What?” she says, a mouthful of food still in her mouth. “You going on a hunger strike or something?”
Hotch looks at his lunch, it’s not unappetizing but he’s not hungry. Besides, he can’t open any of those lids. A fact Emily should remember seeing as she does this every day.
“Oh, and the silent treatment…” Emily goes back to her food, shaking her head.
Hotch sits a moment longer, stewing on his thought before he dares speak it. Wanting to be absolutely certain, not yet trusting himself with his mind. “You’re… first— furst— frustrated.”
“Frustrated,” Emily repeats, grunting and rolling her eyes. “Of course I am. You’re stuck in a hospital. I’m—I’m…” She motions vaguely around her with an irritated huff.
“Mmm,” Hotch turns his head to look at the ceiling. The time to celebrate his success is not yet here, there are still things he wants to know. “Frustrated,” he says carefully, saying the word slowly. Trying to repeat the ease Emily had. “With… me?” In his temple there’s a pinprick of pain, he knows it’ll spread. A pressure that will build until he feels he’ll burst. “With the… the hospital?”
Emily shakes her head and puts her fork down. “No.” It’s the short answer. She’s not mad at him. He’s being just as she’d expect. Something she might wish to change on other days but the familiarity of his shared silence is enjoyable. It’s reliable.
Hotch hums, closing his eyes against the pulsing spreading to his forehead. He begins to speak but shuts his mouth. Despite the pain, what he knows will only grow worse, he can’t bring himself to tell her. Not even when he knows she could call Sarah back down here and fix it. Pain meds and more sleep.
He doesn’t want to sleep.
“You alright?”
The sound he means to make is affirmative but the end cracks into a grunt of unexpected pain. He raises his hand mindlessly to the pain before he can self-correct, already in motion to grab his head.
Emily hadn’t seen the color drain from his face, just looked up and noticed his attentive staring at turned to pale cheeks and his fluttering eyelashes as he tried to breathe unsuccessfully through the pain. There are pinpricks of sweat already beading at his brow, his mouth opens as his breathing quickens.
“You’re getting real pale,” Emily sits up. “I’m going to call Sarah.”
“No.” He puts his hand and covers the button with his palm. “No, no I’m okay.”
Emily considers believing him. In the past, she might have. This is his storm to wait out. Seeing him in less pain eases her consciousness but he hates the drugs, hates the cloudy head he gets. How his actions become loose and his body ceases to obey him. And with his autonomy already so wreaked, for a moment she does think to leave this.
But no. She wants him back. It won’t be the same, that’s a reality she’s accepted. She just wants him out of the hospital. Back on his feet and likely trying to micro-manage them from his home. So she pushes the call button, ignoring Hotch’s groan of frustration. It’s the right call.
He’s doubled over by the time Sarah gets to them. Emily’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoulder leaning against her while both his hands press into his forehead. Willing with all his strength for the pain to break just a little.
The light she dances between his pupils makes him gag and Sarah holds a kidney basin underneath his chin, rubbing his back while he brings up strings of saliva. A doctor comes next, a blur of in and outs. Emily doesn’t recognize the drug that’s ordered and Hotch shows no improvement or refusal as Sarah tells him what she’s doing. The syringe is filled quickly, a lot of clear liquid on a long needle.
Its effects are immediate. Not in pain but the sedative quality. Hotch gives a low whine of protests, his arms getting heavy and his body weighing him forward. Strong hands ease his shoulders back up. “Easy does it.” Sarah leans him back. She moves his hands away from his head. The left goes down easily but the right tries to come back up.
Anxiously, Emily takes his hand. Holds it in her own, pressed into her lap. Hotch groans again, eyes open but blinking quickly.
“I – I do… don’t want…” his words blend out in a whisper.
Emily isn’t sure what to say. This isn’t the part of the job she’s equipped for. She feeds him lunch. Someone else sits with him through the night. Stands guard for the less than lucid moments. Derek walks him up and down the halls. Sean works his brain with stupid conversation. She just feeds him. Fights his fork with her own to steal a grape or a piece of watermelon. She’s not equipped for this.
His eyes finally close and Emily feels like she can breathe again, no longer held under the scrutiny of his ragged breathing. She slips her right hand away from his and freezes when he pulls in a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering back open. He tries to speak but the sound dies in his throat. But his fingers twitch against her palm and she gets the message.
“Alright,” she relents, stiff and uncomfortable but accepting her fate. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”
#oh sinnerman#aaron hotchner#criminal minds#emily prentiss#derek morgan#spencer reid#david rossi#criminal minds fanfiction#jennifer jareau#penelope garcia
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❛ i have no queen, no king and no country. i have only ever had what i believe. ❜
⊹ ⁺ rule of wolves starters. ) ACCEPTING!
THE WAKING DOES NOT QUITE SETTLE UPON HER. sinking into these silken sheets and the bareness of limbs parting the froth of her duvet. the bed had always been an excessively grand piece far too expansive for one and yet typically reserved for the dragon queen alone. when she comes to she feels the gentle dark at her side, their skin deep and warm in the excess of ivory. here they both cut the same lines through the pallid dressings and she begins to recall their return to her. it always began; blood first and then the kiss, the kiss that was also a memory. the monk had stirred awake before she and the witch can feel the lightness of fingers dragging down her spine, a study of the furrowed flesh where the tiger had staked its claim. SOMETIMES I CAN STILL FEEL THOSE TEETH AGAINST MY WRIST. the many animals within her stand at attention then to the adjoining heartbeat. even half-conscious the invasive bond begins to remake itself out of habit.
this room holds all the markings of her status and perhaps this is what resurfaced the reminder of her place in this city. gown of night sky laid out on the carpet, the circlet of steel and bone tossed haphazardly over the surface of the vanity table. ❛ i would never ask for you to pledge your loyalty in such a way. ❜ a voice thick with fatigue as she raises her cheek from the pillow to face them. morning's only presence in the room made known by the cracks in brocade curtains. THERE WAS A TIME I WOULD HAVE ASKED YOU TO SWEAR; MY NAME AND MY COUNTRY INEXTRICABLE FROM THE OTHER. a greater purpose has shown itself to her and the years fell like torrent ━ painfully quick reminding her just how much she had left to endure. ❛ my crown is ephemeral as a storm... my reign will pass and all this along with it. ❜ pulling herself further out of the haze of sleep, chin rests atop a palm and her eyes sweep the expanse of ocean-lined walls ( the false sea, a child's comfort she has taken with her into this new life )
it is then that she presses a hand to their chest; palm over thrum and that same reverberation goes through the whole of her. ❛ this is what you believe in, is it not? ❜ to drown in this; every molecule of oxygen in their veins humming in tandem to her own. ❛ blood ━ a red thread that ties your heart to mine. that is what is ours and that is eternal. ❜ leaning in her lips brush below their collar bone, branding that space between life's blood and breath. every word is its own hush as the day before the monarch begins to materialize itself. TRADING THE DREAM FOR THE COOL CUT OF REALITY. ❛ i still do not know why you came all this way. i would have returned to you in my own time. ❜
#here we go... back to the hot for teacher cinematic universe#𝖎𝖎𝖎. *ੈ ˖ ° ⥽ trust your anger / it is a demand for love ⥼ ⅋. v — row#sheikage
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The Comedian - Split Ends
WORD COUNT: 1,592
SUMMARY: Trajes tries to make arrangements, but a roadblock prompts a self-care visit to a place of comfort and a meeting with an old friend. Mentions of Ashter Faurux from @memurfevur (Story begins under the cut)
“Missus Kalzir, I--“
“-DIctIr Kalzir. And, as I instructed befIre, I can’t even begin to think why any If this is my prIblem. NI means n|, even in y|ur kind’s language.”
The waiting room was abustle. Wrigglers hissed and nursed their bruised mandibular sockets with invasive grey tongues. Whimpers rose from some chairs in clouds. Trajes’ attention only loosely included them in his universe, though he was more than protected from view by transparent glass that housed the reception booth.
“I admit, it’d be more cramped on room than I first thought, but--“
“There’s nIthing mIre tI discuss. I take my jIb seriIusly.” The Cerulean huffed, an extra eye on his ear seeming to bristle with agitation. “This is a h|spital, and last I checked it will c|ntinue t| be that, and |nly that. N|w, if a pr|per venue is what y|u need, I’d suggest the bar seven minutes away. |r, better yet, the brick wall it’s attached t|.”
He would have normally shrugged such derisive remarks away, but the two beefy biceps strangling both his armpits made the motion difficult. “I can promise you--. I sent my references to Mister Ianoni three days ago--! I’ve never had a problem with this before, I have plenty of references--! Name one--! You, Tiny Timmie, ask me a hospital in the--!“
“C’mon, little guy, let’s go.” One of the lugs murmured between pastrami wheezes.
“Wait--! Wait, okay, just--!” Trajes wriggled a little in the air as he was hoisted up. “I can send a follow-up, that’s fine--! But you at least remember the other thing I asked for, right--?”
“And that’s an|ther thing with y|u.” The Cerulean glowered, arms crossing over her surgical gown. “It’s bad en|ugh t| have a l|ne cullbait like y|u l||se in the |perating r||m-“
“-Theatre--!”
“-but what use d| y|u even have f|r a bag |f hair??”
Trajes’ eyebrows lifted in surprise beneath his mask, as if the mystery was obvious to her. “Well I’m not doing anything weird with it, I promise! Besides, it’s not like your patients need it anymore, it’s practically running off their heads--!”
“Y|u make chem|therapy j|kes at y|ur h|spital gig? G|gdamn shall|w-“
“Can you just--? Please get it--? Please--?”
“This c|nversati|n is |ver. This isn't an asylum, and I d|n't deal with nutcases. Lads, n| need t| take the elevat|r, let him take a dunk!”
“Dunk--? Your--...your hospital has a swimming pool--??” As Trajes was carried down the hallway, he beamed. “That’s great material, why didn’t you tell me earlier--??”
Dr. Kalzir simply shook her head with disapproval and vanished around the corner.
======
They did not, in fact, have a swimming pool in the hospital. Apparently take a swim had meant Trajes getting stuffed down a small rectangular chute on the other side of the hallway that led thirty stories down in claustrophobic darkness. Trajes bumped and fell through the duct yelping with dismay for 45 seconds, waiting to hear the splat of his bones on the pavement, but instead he was met with the cushy embrace of at least four dozen black garbage bags of used medical equipment. The Pyrite rubbed his elbows, scraped from contact with the metal, and smoothed out his hair.
“Well……that’s one way to make an exit--!” Despite the heart-dropping plunge his humour quickly returned, and he popped forward on his knee, quickly adjusting to avoid the puncture of an errant syringe needle poking from a biowaste container, and peeped from the dumpster’s skyward opening.
He was on the side of the tall building, and as he remembered…yup! His cherry-red bike of 3 sweeps was still propped against the adjacent wall, waving him out.
But before that…the doctor’s words spawned a thought, and he looked back to the bags and quickly began glancing through the bundles of refuse, giving a rough feel through the contents. Diapers, diapers, dressing gowns, face masks, IV bags.
Seconds turned to minutes, but there was no luck. Sourness puckered at his lips, and the stink clung to him just as much as the shame did. He…hadn’t done it. He’d failed. Failed again.
Failure, failure...failure...f-failure...his chest started to feel tight, arms quaking. C'mon, keep it together, this is nothing, this is...
A buzzing from his pocket, though, distracted him just as the first traces of a tear started to fill an eye.
32-02
& <( Did the doctor cooperate?)
Well, shit, he was hoping for a moment’s notice before she tried to pry. Sometimes, it felt like she knew exactly when he needed her advice; maybe that was a power she’d never told him? Or there was a security camera in the garbage chute…
32-02
If cooperate you mean a) say no to everything and b) make me never want to go skydiving for the rest of my existence--…
then yeah, it went swimmingly--. I was so excited to see the pool too--. 8(
32-02
& <( The resident must still be dodging his shift for bucket smuggling. It sounds like you’ve been through an ordeal. Does it hurt your feelings?)
32-02
It feels--…
I just don’t feel good--.
32-02
& <( Leave it in my hands, Trajes. I’ll straighten this out for you. Do you want a milkshake? I can transfer you some credit.)
Trajes clambered over the edge, avoiding twisting his ankle on the low slope in the guttered alcove. The thought gave him some peace. Tomorrow, the mean lady would not be so mean; he knew how Superego went about her business by now.
32-02
I want to go be with Zaldes right now--.
32-02
& <( Are you positive? Don’t be afraid to message your brother either though.)
& <( If you’re sure, send my best wishes to their spirit. I’ll let you know about the show tomorrow)
32-02
Yeah--.
Trajes lodged his flip phone back into his pocket, and grabbed his handle-bars, gripping the rubber tighter than he needed.
======
He’d grabbed the last ziplock of hair from his hive before making the short cycle down across the familiar path. Through the graveyard, past the whole in the chain link fence. Dodge the poison ivy whacking at your bangs and try not to spill your lunch for the five minutes of jerking up and down on bump rocky dirt.
Planted between autumn leaves was the tree stump where Zaldes was buried. This had once been desolate not so long ago: the arborists had made the area look much better than the desolation that once tattooed its sickly vertebrae. In the heart of the stump, Trajes placed his offering with the many others.
“Hey--! Hey, Zaldes--!” He cooed, like waking him from a nap, his fingers knitted and eyelids weary. “How’re ya, buddy pally chummy--? I hope you aren’t too lonely--…
“Anyways, look--…I know it’s been two weeks this time, so you’ve probably been wondering how I’m doing--! And, well, I’m--…” He sniffed, grinning and looking up past the treeline. “I’m doing super--! You know, I--…I met my brother—!”
He clapped to the silent audience. “I met him, finally, like I said I would, and he--…doesn’t outright hate me, I think--! That was kind of a given, you know how my energy is, my natural charm and wit, but I was really afraid at first, you know--?
“Buuuut he saw my show, oh yeaa--! The other day, actually, and he said he enjoyed it--! Not his sense of humour, but he saw the merit--! Yeah, oh, he’s a gamer, and he wears muscle shirts, and has lots of quads, and a fluffy mohawk--! You’d appreciate him, he’s really stand-up, honest and caring, not low self-esteem whatsoever, not a trace--. What else, what else--? Superego's doing great--...uumm--...
Trajes paused, feeling like he could sense the appreciation from the soil. His arms fell to his side as he looked down. The seconds ticked and locked by, tip of tongue in between teeth.
“I miss you--………I know I--…say that, every time, but I--…do miss you, still, Zaldes--…wish I could hear you being proud of me, you know--? Wish I could know everything is going to be okay--. I’m not a wriggler anymore, I can take care of myself, but--…just--...it'd be nice--...”
………
.........
Are you even there? His thoughts poked at the endothelium of his skull, lips pursing. Am I even talking to you right now?
........
The moment of self-reflection passed though as his lips puckered, and Trajes clenched his fists and forced a smile. “Sorry, sorry--! Don’t worry, I shouldn’t ask you for so much, you’re already so busy in the afterlife--! Getting five trolls for every quad, drinking Cruel-Aid in a jacuzzi, telling tall tales to every ear that hears--! Ohahahaha, you rascal bastard, don’t ever stop, stay wild for me, alright--? I’ll hold you to it--! And I promise, next time, I'll bring you some of that cobbler from Chacho's--! I know you've been wanting it--!!”
Bubbly as ever, Trajes clicked his fingers and winked, then grabbed his bike and left the sacred place to the mnemonics of chirp-beast song and the peeking eyes of the moons. His latest donation of hair shifted in the wind as he rang his dingy bicycle bell and headed hive.
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“My queen,” spoke the Mirror on the Wall, as Ophelia spun about her room. A deep purple gown adorned her body, decorated with gold embroidery and silver furs at the cuffs and hem, fiery red hair still loose and flowing with curls.
Ophelia pretended she did not hear the mirror - it had once been a prized companion when she fit the parameters it liked, as the fairest in the land. But these days, when it spoke, it spoke of her age. That she had not married, that she had not had children of her own, and yet, though the clock still stretched over a decade in front of her for these pursuits, the Mirror spoke as if she were half a century older than what was true.
”My queen,” repeated the Mirror on the Wall. “I must have your ear. It is vital information about the kingdom,”
At this, Ophelia wanted to continue to dance around her room - no partner or orchestra save for the songs in her mind. But she caught a glimpse out the window - flumes of smoke rising above the Baker’s beloved home and shop. She righted herself, and sat down at the vanity, beginning to fix her hair up into its appropriate style.
“You intend to have that baker imprisoned for his carelessness about the town’s safety, yes?” The mirror suggested.
“Hardly. I’m sure it was an accident. Were there any casualties?” Ophelia asked.
The mirror went silent.
“Were there any casualties?” Ophelia repeated.
“... No, my queen. The baker caught the flames in the early morning and alerted the town. They put it out using water from the nearby river,”
“Then there is no reason to punish the poor man.” Ophelia spoke.
“Perhaps. But his oldest daughter is only 14...”
Ophelia placed the pins she was using to secure her hair down. “Do not start down that path today. I’m not in the mood for it.”
“Perhaps. But whether or not I am silent, your youth is fleeting - it has already fled.”
“I am twenty-five in four months,” Ophelia scowled.
“Precisely. And when you make that face, I can see the beginnings of crow’s feet in your eyes, my queen.”
Ophelia rolled her eyes. “My mother was a powerful woman well into her 50s.”
“And yet, she is dead now, my queen.”
Ophelia resumed taming her hair, finally gathering it in place to secure the cap over it.
“Ask me the question,” the mirror chided.
“No.”
“Do you fear the answer?”
“I know what you’ll answer.”
“The fairest of all is Snow White. In the bloom of her youth - she celebrated her 16th birthday today,” the mirror said.
“I do not care about her.” Ophelia draped her veil, securing her crown over it.
“If you could have her youth, would you? A chance to redo the last 9 years?”
Ophelia stood up from the vanity - half in a mind to toss it from the window to the grounds below. The threat of 7 years of bad luck was all that had kept her from doing it prior.
“... I have made the choices I have. I must speak to the baker.”
“You can have it back, you know. I hear what they whisper about you, Ophelia - a queen with no husband, with no heir. What happens to the kingdom should you fall? You would leave in the hands of your rivals?”
Ophelia turned around, lending the mirror her ears again.
“Have a huntsman kill the girl and bring you her heart. Dine upon it, and it shall take a decade from you.”
“You’d have me murder a defenseless girl?”
“In the name of youth, we all must make sacrifices. Whether that is our own or someone else’s. This girl is, of course, a threat to your throne, too.”
Ophelia paused for a moment, her hands gesturing to the scrolls. The sacrifice of one for many...
... and just as quickly, she withdrew her hand.
“... I’m youthful, still. And even if I were not, it would not be a vice.” Ophelia walked towards the mirror, wrapping her hands around its sides. “You want me to murder for my own benefit.”
“Is that not what all royalty, including yourself, have done? You waged war on the western border.”
“A defense against an invasion,” Ophelia said.
“Perhaps. But you still killed for your own benefit.”
“Where the alternative was letting my people die.”
“And it is the same now.”
“Foul thing,” Ophelia hissed, ripping it off the vanity. “You do nothing but spur poisons into my ear!”
“I give you the truth. Once, you valued this - now, your age gives way to pride!”
“My age gives way to your true intent - you only enjoy the final stages of one’s childhood! I’ll send you to Hell!”
Ophelia strode towards her window, opening it up - and at the same time, the door to her own chamber unlocked. And yet, she did not notice, so focused on the vile instrument in her hands.
She only noticed once a pair of pinpricks found their way into her neck - she found raven black locks covering the identity of her assailant. The mirror fell from her hands, cracking, but not shattering.
Ophelia began to feel faint - she could feel whatever had attacked her draining her of blood. She couldn’t move or call for help, only watch in anguish as colour drained from her hands, from her body, as the ivory veil she wore became stained in crimson.
The assailant eventually let go, allowing Ophelia to finally fall to the floor, and get the only good look at her attacker. Her fading mind recalled the poem the mirror had recited on the first night it had told her she was no longer the fairest.
Lips red as a rose,
Hair black as the night.
A pale, beautiful face,
the young maiden, Snow White.
There was no doubt in Ophelia’s mind - it was her. Snow White had wiped the blood from her lips on Ophelia’s veil, and yet, her lips still shone ruby red. Raven hair hung in ringlets, and the girl was pale as moonlight - too pale, save for the sudden rush of blood at her cheeks.
As Snow White raised her hand towards Ophelia, she noticed another thing - a marking on the palm. But not one from any nearby kingdoms - in time. Snow White bore a tattooed criminal marking from the old republic of Rome - almost 800 years into the past. These markings were only taught of in the most scholarly of books - a farmer’s daughter would’ve never learned of such things.
Ophelia couldn’t dwell upon it. Snow White’s hand dug its way into Ophelia’s chest, pushing past her ribs, until Ophelia felt, in the throes of her absolute agony, Snow White’s hand close around her heart. Within seconds, it was carelessly ripped from her chest, dyeing Ophelia’s dress, her floor, her skin, and her soul in blood.
The last thing Ophelia saw was Snow White picking up the mirror and leaving, both it and Ophelia’s heart in hand.
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