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setsugekka · 1 year

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『atarashī 』 ; 07

❝ injudicious ❞ | mlist ｡

student!hongjoong x fem!reader, husband!yeosang x fem!reader — drama, dark romance, mystery, heavy sexual content [6k wc] ch cws: smut, a lot of lying, public sex, jealousy, becoming aware of the potential consequences of our actions, bff!seonghwa does not deserve this shit!

A month comes and goes in a flash, with no help from the husband meant to aid in putting the pieces of your marriage back together.

Yeosang's job ramps up again. Normal, small breaks that allow for him to make time to come home even briefly now forgone entirely and made to jet set from old work sites to the new without so much as a breath of air inside of your marital home. It makes you sad, you miss him. Dinner for one is so miserable in an empty home made much too large to accommodate only one.

A problem that's made easy to forget, however, by the smoothing of Hongjoong's soft palms across your skin, lips that insist and devour you each and every time. How simple it is to moan his name and forget the others.

When you're not with Hongjoong, you want to be, but you want to go off of him too. A unique push and pull of complicated feelings; when you're away from him the thoughts creep back in, about how you shouldn't be doing this, about how you have to stop.

But all it takes to quell that is one perfectly landed touch from the man in question, and then you're unraveling for him all over again, like every time before.

The sex would be one thing, if that was always how it remained. Over time, nights are spent in bed talking about the future, about the past—about a different life and a different world if things were just that. Hongjoong often idly drawing shapes into your bare flesh as you reminisce about your family, when they were alive, when Aurelia was busy and booming and not meant to be your responsibility entirely.

His lips ghost over your shoulder from behind as he listens to you speak about all of the aspirations you used to have. Don't have any longer. Can't have now.

"Why don't you still paint?" he asks one night, lights of his apartment dim and the gentle flicker of the television doing the majority of the work to illuminate the space. "You know all the right people, you could really make something of it. Of yourself."

You shrug slightly. "Gave it up a long time ago."

"For him?"

Turning just a bit, you glance back at Hongjoong from over your shoulder. Watch him press a light kiss to your shoulder again, pleading silently to not have to answer that question out loud.

So, you don't.

"I'm obsessed with you," Hongjoong whispers into you, much later in the evening and firmly settled between your legs. Just where you want him. "Don't think I could ever go off of you."

Not sure I could ever go off of you, either.

"We shouldn't be here."

Your words are hushed, under your breath and only meant for the ears that reside just beside you. A hand slips between your thighs to grab at the skin there—no other point to it besides simply reminding you that he is there.

As if you could forget.

Numerous patrons walk by your booth and you watch each and every one of them carefully, eyes lingering as if anticipating the proverbial hammer to drop with the next one that intends on making their way by. The truth is that nobody is paying attention to you—not especially, at least—and it's only when one of Hongjoong's ill-timed touches jars a sound from you that you may catch the glance of another who does not know either of you, nor has any intention of doing so.

It's something like horny teenagers who can't keep their hands to themselves; no private place to feel the skin of the other beneath their fingers and thus, public places will have to do.

Except you very much have private places to go to, and this idea being distinctly Hongjoong's for one reason or another.

"Relax," he says as you clasp a hand around his wrist and push his hand out from under your skirt. "No one is paying attention to us. No one cares."

"Still." Hongjoong nuzzles his face into your neck immediately thereafter, cuts the words off that had only just been in your throat. The breath of him tickles, and you shrink down with a smile to remove the sensitive skin of your neck from the availability of his mouth. "We're not far from the Akademiya. I have colleagues that could come here."

"Ooh," Hongjoong chides, sarcastic. "What if they see us."

Finally he settles in beside you, hands to himself but still mostly turned towards you. Boxing you in, an arm draped up over the back of the booth that the both of you sit in.

It feels too open, too on display for you, however. You have so much more to lose from being spotted here with him, like this, Hongjoong has nothing. You're not familiar with the reprimanding that a student of the Akademiya faces as a result of fraternizing with one of the staff—much less whatever grouping of people you happen to fall under—but you can't imagine it's anything close to the scrutiny that you threaten to find.

"Why did you want to come out here?"

Hongjoong smiles slightly, tongues over his teeth like he finds the question to be testing him in some way. A fight looming, but not really, not handled any differently than anything else the two of you engage in.

He leans in again, face close to yours and lips just beside your ear. "Can't I want to take you out?"

"Are we dating now?" you ask, equally sarcastic as him before. "I'm married, you know."

"So I've heard." Hongjoong's voice drops to something deeper, more enticing. The fact of the matter doesn't bother him, never has, though it's not something that you appreciate being brought up all that frequently if you're honest. For obvious reasons.

"So, are you going to get up and go home to your husband then? Or are you going to finish your drink and come home with me so I can put my hands on every inch of your body?"

Lips find your neck, and you allow yourself to melt into the feeling for a brief enough moment that you lose sight of your surroundings. Less aware, for a second pretending that what it is that you're doing and who you are doing it with is acceptable, and reveling just a bit in the ability to enjoy it outside of the confines of a closed bedroom door.

You don't wish to be with Hongjoong, nor do you wish to leave your husband. You believe that he in turn has no desire to have you for himself either. It's complicated in many ways, but relatively simple in that: you're not leaving Yeosang, nor does Hongjoong wish for you to.

But you've not yet reached a place where you can quit him, either.

Fingertips on your skin that feel just as hot to the touch as they did the first time, drunk on how dizzying it is to be wanted like this by another person. To not have been grown tired of, to still be new and exciting to someone.

When Hongjoong's hand comes up to your face—turns your head to face his and with such ease brings the reluctance to engage with him in a public place comes crashing down with the firm press of his lips into yours—you forget everything else around you. The lounge goes quiet, and all of the other people in the room disappear.

Perhaps only to you, however; and your presence to others? Still very much seen.

Rushing down the sidewalk on a windy Saturday afternoon, you turn to glance at your surroundings for a brief moment—the sound of a car’s alarm firing off just within close proximity of you—attempting to gain your bearings once again in this side of the greater city area just outside of the Akademiya lines.

Walls of apartment buildings and other such shopping and eating sectioned off into unspoken districts around these parts; the hipster parts filled with thrift shops and aesthetically run down cafes, the luxury parts often frequented by the students whose parents have paid their whole way, the environmental interest types—none too fond of the other groups and their willingness to partake in leathers and furs.

There are offshoots of each that settle within, and Hongjoong sits somewhere on the axis of hipster-luxury. A man with money, though you're not entirely sure about the how or why of that. Maybe you should ask. You don't know if you're allowed to ask.

Hongjoong spends much of your time together asking about you, finding out about you, enthralled by everything it is that comes together and creates you. Sometimes it even feels as if he knows just a tiny bit more than he lets on, but asks anyway—questions that couldn't possibly come from nowhere, needing some form of place to manifest from. A starting point.

Not that it matters to you, not that any of that matters to you now.

With your bag clutched to your side, you stop in front of the apartment building that you've grown so accustomed to by this point. The shoddy door in the front that's seen its fair share of graffiti art over the years and one of the six window panels at the front broken—you take a step forward to make your entrance.

"Hey!"

But your heart immediately jumps into your throat at the sound. You know the voice, know the word coming from that voice so well that it's etched into your memory for the rest of your life. Absolutely no way you could be mistaken, and so instead you put all of your effort into calming your nerves enough to be able to handle what it is that is soon to come, because there's no getting out of it. This is your reality now.

You turn, smile a big grin and feign shock. A different kind of shock than the one that you're actually experiencing; happiness, surprise, delight. Not horror, terror, displeasure.

Seonghwa is with someone, a friend of his you've met a couple of times out on the town. Mingi. Another tall guy, he seems to like collecting them in his off time. They're both dressed casually so not with any particular sort of business in mind, and instead of just casually passing by, your best friend settles in close—slings an arm over your shoulders and around your neck—pulls you in close like he's displaying friendship, not actually partaking in it.

"Look who we found," he says, something sly about his voice but you brush it off as you projecting your own misdoings and the knowledge of that onto him. Guilty people always think everyone else is up to no good too. "What are you doing on this side of town?"

"I could ask the same of you," you reply, groaning into the grip still. Your eyes calmly fall to the other guy. "Hey Mingi, long time."

"Nice seeing you, as always."

"We were just on our way to grab something to drink," Seonghwa says, holding you firmer in his grasp. "You should come with us since we've already caught you out here."

He finally lets you loose then and you stumble for a second before straightening up and flattening your coat with your palms. You flash him a disgruntled look which he ignores in favor of a happy smile, but awaits your reply to the offer all the same.

"Ah, I can't, I have somewhere I have to be—"

"Somewhere that can't wait twenty minutes while we sit down for a drink?"

It's only now that Seonghwa's pleasant and playful disposition falls away, though you're not entirely sure if anyone else would be able to discern the fact other than you. A man so good at playing the fence when it comes to this sort of delivery, his eyes sit onto you as if expectant, waiting for you to not only make a decision, but the correct decision.

He's not really asking you to come with them, he's informing you that you are, and part of that is because deep down he has a sneaking suspicion that he has caught you in the act of being up to no good.

And so, you have to relent.

"Yeah, it can wait twenty minutes," you finally say, glancing at Mingi again. "But I want you to know it's because I adore your lovely friend here, and it has nothing to do with a desire to spend time around you."

Seonghwa smiles, slow and calculated. "It's noted."

You send the message along to Hongjoong shortly after you are intercepted by the other two men. The cafe that you are taken to is only a stone's throw away from his apartment building anyway, thus, it's not the end of the world that you have to put off the debauchery that is meant to take place up a few flights of stairs.

A part of you expects some kind of snappy, displeased response from your lover as a result of the mishap, but instead, he says nothing in reply.

Probably busy working, not a big deal. The three of you settle into a small table in the corner by the window and listen carefully to Mingi explain about how he actually really likes this side of town, despite the reputation that it has. Frankly, you can see the appeal, but you've always been something of the art-adjacent kind anyway.

Seonghwa slips away to the counter when your drinks are ready, and the bell to the front door rings only a second later. With your back turned towards the barista and as a result—the action—you aren't able to catch much of the goings on behind you, but what you can see Mingi's eyes lingering on someone in a way that strongly makes you believe it is not Seonghwa.

"God, he is beautiful."

You reel a little bit, because your thoughts immediately go to Seonghwa still. He's the only guy you know that's behind you, so who else could the man be referring to, and your confused and slightly disgusted visage must tell the tale rather vividly, because Mingi nods in an effort to get you to look over your other shoulder. You do, slowly, and you might be able to find the humor in the whole thing if the circumstances were just a little bit different.

"If they got more guys like him living around these parts then I'm signing a new lease today."

Standing slightly hunched over the counter—leather jacket and brown slicked back hair—you watch Hongjoong greet the barista and most probably order something, you wouldn't know, because you feel a little bit too dizzy to be focusing on the details all that much.

Seonghwa sits back at the table then, all three drinks in hand. Hongjoong looks around the place, then glances down towards you for just a second as he brings himself off of the bar and begins to make his way towards the back of the establishment.

"They didn't really have any of those little sweet drinks you like so—"

"I'm gonna run to the restroom," you say, cutting Seonghwa off and almost with a little bit too much urgency to your tone. He stops the sentence, slowly looks to you as you're already pulling yourself up from your seat. "Been out all day, haven't had a chance to go."

Neither he nor Mingi have a chance to respond before you're off and down the very same walkway.

The loud bang of the bathroom stall door hitting the wall is almost so much so that you worry it will raise suspicion outside, but can't be bothered with it enough to halt Hongjoong's mouth on your neck and hands hurriedly digging at the button sitting at the front of your jeans. He presses you against the wall, shuts and locks the door behind the two of you as if it'll make any sort of difference should anyone find their way inside of the main door, and has your pants pulled down around your thighs without giving you even a second of time to protest. As if you would.

Hongjoong turns you around, face towards the cold wall and hands up against it—fingers of one hand prying your disjointed panties away and to the side, the other fisting himself out of his own jeans. It's so quick, so easy, so intoxicating. Like everything else is about being with him.

"We could get caught," you say, a groan taking your voice at the feeling of him sliding into you with a couple of quick, shallow drives.

When he settles into you fully buried, snaps his hips forward a few more times for good measure, the concern dies out in your throat and between your legs.

"And what if we do?"

Hongjoong asks the question lazily, like he knows that you don't have an answer for it, don't care. That must be true, because the thought of it falls away entirely to instead be fully encompassed by the feeling of him dragging inside of you with quick succession. One hand of his digs into your hips, pulling you back against him and holding your body firm in place to take him, the other sliding up to cover your mouth and the subsequent whimpers and moans that are already fast to fall from it.

"Sorry," you say, settling back into your seat at the table. "Did I miss anything?"

"We were starting to wonder if you fell in," Mingi jokes.

You laugh at the comment, body still trembling lightly from the goings on in the bathroom only moments before. A bit after the fact, you catch Mingi's eyes lingering on someone who makes their way passing along behind you, and you already know precisely who it is.

Seonghwa's eyes are set solely on you, however.

"God," the other says, still watching Hongjoong move behind you. "I might do utterly ridiculous things just to have a shot at that guy."

You know, you don't need to look behind you to figure it out, but you do so anyways to play along—glancing over your shoulder to find Hongjoong perched at the counter again and chewing on a toothpick like he's in some old western film. He must be waiting for a drink or something—you didn't really have a chance to ask.

"Yeah, I suppose I can see the appeal."

Laughable.

"You're both married," Seonghwa reminds. Firmly, too. Mingi shrugs, rolls his eyes like this other guy is just no fun at all.

"If things were different. Isn't your husband gone all of the time? You've never thought about it? Met anyone in passing that had you thinking maybe just once?"

That causes you to glance towards Seonghwa more than the other man, and he is frowning just as expected. This is meant to be a fun, light outing. It might be worth it to take some of the heat off of Mingi and partake in a little joking on the matter yourself. Besides, can Seonghwa even blame you? After everything that you've been through with Yeosang as of lately? Everything that he knows?

So, you take a slow sip of your drink finally, chuckle at the end of it before you go to speak. "I mean...I guess I have. The whole lonely housewife trope comes from somewhere after all, doesn't it?"

Mingi laughs, Seonghwa doesn't.

"Sometimes you think about it like...it's something that I could do just for me, that no one else needs to know about. Like a spin class, or tennis."

"No, having an affair is nothing like taking a spin class, or tennis." Seonghwa's looking fully at you now, and none pleased at all by the words that you are saying.

There's no humor in this to him, and you can't help but wonder why that is. Regardless, his judgment sits heavy in your chest and results in the swallowing down of any further comedy you might have expelled on the matter. Mingi catches the hint as well—eyes meeting your briefly to share a moment of feeling reprimanded before settling once again in silence and forgoing the conversation topic altogether.

"Someone always gets hurt," Seonghwa adds, a few beats of silence after the rest of the conversation has quieted down. "Everyone always thinks they have it under control, that it will come and go and it'll just be some memory that you jot down in your journal a few years down the line like it's a scene in a movie that you always wanted to live out but never could."

Someone always gets hurt.

You hear the door bell ring again, but you can't turn to check if it's Hongjoong making his exit or another random patron entering. The air is so thick with tension now, and with the words sitting so sternly at the front of you mind, you think of the man you are meant to see straight away after this excursion just that much more.

Can I go off of him? Will it ever be that simple?

The way that Hongjoong touches you, tends to you, hears you and makes you feel whole in a way that Yeosang doesn't, can't right now. You think about it with yourself in regards to the sex—what he has to offer you in the physical—but if you allow yourself to be just a little bit more honest with yourself, is that true? Is that the whole story about the affair that you're so willingly carrying out with this student of the Akademiya?

You like Hongjoong because he is addicted to you, obsessed with you in every way that makes you who and what you are. He can never get enough of you, probably couldn't go off of you if he tried.

And maybe you've let your obsession with him go just a bit too far, too. A need to be with him, to feel him, to bask in the way that he desires you so openly and endlessly. A delusional pursuit to think yourself any better off, or with any upper hand in comparison.

Mingi changes the subject, starts talking about a couple of the shops that he wants to stop into while they're on this side of town.

You nod along as if you're there, but really, you're already three floors up and locking the door of apartment 3B.

A little more than an hour after your outing with Seonghwa and Mingi, you find yourself right back in the very place you very much expected yourself to be.

This time doesn't feel as good, however.

Sitting at the edge of Hongjoong's bed, you watch him as he idly begins to disrobe in front of you; jacket first, then the lazy unbuckling of the belt that sits looped around his pants. All the while, his eyes remain on you, but you have a hard time meeting them with your own on account of the prior conversation that still weighs heavily on your mind.

Seonghwa's words sitting razor sharp and ringing in your ears.

There's a part of you that wants nothing more than for there to be no more of this. No more affair, no more Hongjoong in your life in the way that he has maneuvered. To say that it's over, be able to proudly and confidently say the words just as you have so many times before—always dying out with the simplest of touches from him, or the enticing prospect of what else you could be missing should you manage to do so.

God, you need him so badly though. How have you let it come down to this?

The excitement of anticipation paired with the already knowing; whether it's inside of this very apartment and in between these very sheets or across the street in the bathroom of a restaurant while your friends sit and wait none the wiser. Thoughts that make it feel almost impossible to ever put an end to this.

"You know," you finally say, voice quiet and even slightly humored in tone. Little force behind it at all. "We could end this now and nobody would get hurt. Go back to the way things were before we ever started this at all. Pretend this never happened."

Your eyes raise to find his, checking to see his response. An eyebrow raises on his face, small perk of the corner of his lips as he slips his shirt up and over his head and makes his way across the bedroom towards you.

"If we ended this now," he says, falling to the floor between your knees and hands finding the button of your jeans for the second time today. "Then I would get hurt."

Someone always gets hurt.

But the carefree admission is somewhat of a shock to you. Never has there ever been anything that could be taken as a romantic involvement between the two of you. It's always just sex—and sure, there is time spent outside of that—the before and after the fact where no one is in any particular hurry to escape the arms of the other.

Perhaps you have not been entirely honest with yourself in regards to what that entails to you either.

Hongjoong busies himself working your pants down your legs and as he does, you allow for your head to drop back idly to stare at the water-stained ceiling above.

"Is there no way that this comes to an end with no casualties to show for it?"

He chuckles under his breath, coming back up to smooth his palms under your blouse and pull the light fabric of that up and over your head. Stilling just in front of your face after discarding it to the floor, Hongjoong sits only inches away from your mouth—looks down at your lips briefly before finding your eyes again with the same intensity that he always seems to harbor for you.

"Not necessarily. There's a chance that we'll grow tired of each other naturally. The joys of a new experience must wear off eventually, after all. Nothing feels exciting and unexplored forever—" he quiets, kisses you deeply, passionately in the very way that always has you melting into him. Giving into him. "Not even us."

Mouth trailing down against your neck and nipping the skin carefully between his teeth, fingers make their way to nestle between your legs, so perfectly firm in just the way that he knows you like to be touched. Your eyes roll to the back of your head before closing, reveling in it all over again, and he doesn't even need to push you back against the mattress to have you finding yourself there on your own all the same.

Pants discarded at the edge of the bed, Hongjoong climbs up slowly to settle between your legs, hand fitted just where it had been before. Two fingers pressed in that have you groaning against the lips that have already made their way to kiss and bite at yours.

"I want nothing more—" you start, forced to stop by the pointed curl of his fingers inside of you in just the right way. Gasping out and digging fingernails into the bare flesh of his shoulders and back from where you lie beneath him. "Than to get tired of you. To go off of you entirely."

Hongjoong kisses you again, this time more urgency behind it, nearly sucking the air from your lungs and like it may very well be the last time. The thought of even just that awakens an ache in your chest that you've not ever wanted to grant any level of consideration to: that this is more than what it was ever intended to be.

Because once that happens, all bets are off.

"You're free to go any time," Hongjoong says in a whisper against your mouth, though the appropriately timed press of his hips up against your own and the subsequent glide of himself inside of you once more serves as evidence enough that you've not yet managed to find a place where that's a realistic possibility. "No one is keeping you here against your will. If you don't want to see me anymore, you don't have to."

Smooth, easy drives into you—slower, more time taken in between each one that has your head swimming perhaps even more than any of the other times before. You dig your fingers into his skin like there's a chance if you don't hold onto him tightly, he might not remain there with you at all.

And you simply cannot take the chance of that happening any longer.

Hongjoong's face settles into the crook of your neck, hot breath against the shell of your ear as you curve your back up and chest against his. The friction feels white hot, one of his hands tightly gripped at your hip and the other moved upward to dig into your hair.

It feels different this time, because it feels like he's making love to you instead of fucking you.

In the aftermath of your lovemaking, Hongjoong sits against the headboard of his bed with phone in hand and a handful of sketches strewn out along the sheets. Standing in the hall of his apartment that combines the bedroom and his bathroom, you remain there and watch him in silence as he appears to once again—like so many other times before—be lost in the work that will most likely get him so far. So long as he is able to get that one chance.

He deserves it.

"I heard the class that you did that garment for is doing the first showing next week," you say, smile painted across your lips as you lean against the warped wood. "Are you pleased with the outcome?"

Hongjoong looks over at you, eyes trailing your bare legs that end only at the hem of your barely oversized shirt in a way that implies you may not be walking out of here without going another round in bed with him. Not that you mind. Eventually he stops, however, and looks towards you with full attention on the subject at hand.

"Yeah, I did a fitting with her a couple of days ago and it looked good. Took some pictures and what have you but I'll probably stop by the day of to make sure everything goes according to plan and there aren't any huge malfunctions that will need my tender love and care to deal with."

"Oh," you say aloud, and before you're able to pull it back. You know this feeling well, though not in relation to him, and not having been felt in such a long time either. Jealousy. Nasty, ugly, and with no such place that it belongs here at all. So, you make the conscious decision to try to reel it back. Be mature about this, because what other option do you have? "Good. That's good then."

Ever perceptive, Hongjoong picks up on the tonality of that oh, and much to your displeasure. "What's that? Are you jealous? Weren't you just trying to end things with me only an hour ago and now you're livid at the thought of me putting my hands on another woman?"

His voice is calm, almost playful—as if amused by the fact of the matter at hand. You wish you felt much of the same. Instead, you cross the room and cozy yourself up in bed with him, head and hand against his chest to listen to his heartbeat and feel the warmth of his skin beneath you.

Because none of that matters—this is here, and now. This is what matters.

"It's not like that," you say at first, though perhaps realizing the absurdity of the lie, you pull back on it only slightly. "Well, it's a little bit like that, I guess."

"You're married, you know."

You have no room to be feeling any kind of way about this right now.

"I do know."

Hongjoong changes positions slightly then, curls himself up and in a way that he can gaze down at you as your head slides down to rest in his lap. Fingers toying at your ear, lightly tracing the outer edge in such a way that makes you shiver.

"So then what if I were?" he asks, curious.

"I don't know," is all you can muster up at a moment’s notice, but more than anything else, you want to end the conversation as quickly as possible. You pull up and away from him, clear your throat and look down at the side of the bed for your purse which is seemingly nowhere to be found. "Do we have to talk about that?"

He smiles, softly replies. "No, we don't."

The thought of losing him, seeing him in the arms or hands of another person makes you anxious, sick to your stomach almost. A sort of fight or flight response in your body that kicks up without a moment’s notice. There's little to nothing you can do to avoid such a thing ever happening, and even still, what is your plan? To engage in this affair forever? Unrealistic. To be the one with the upper hand someday who gets to call it off when it finally suits you and you alone? Similarly so.

Palms flattening over your face, you rub harshly and sigh—hopes of expelling all of these thoughts that plague you and the negative feelings that sit festering along with them.

How ill it makes one, the obsessive need to be the favorite.

"I was thinking," you say suddenly, though Hongjoong's expression changes little and remains calm all throughout the turbulence of your emotions thus far. "About the contacts list that I have for you. Give me a couple of days and I can probably have it cleaned up and ready to go out for you. I can even make some calls in your stead to put in a good word ahead of time if that would help."

A small, slow curl of his lips, Hongjoong's head cocks to the side just as calmly before leaning forward and closing the distance between the two of you. One hand cupping at the curve of your jaw, he bothers little with pulling you towards him and instead only leans forward to push you back against the mattress once again—kisses you unrushed and deliberate in his motions, just like all of the other times.

One knee hiked up just enough for him to fit himself between, Hongjoong reaches over to the nightstand just beside you, flicks the switch so that the room dims just a tad bit further, and then all over again and just as you had wanted; all of the attention is on you once more.

"What do you do on the days that we don't meet?"

A fascinating inquiry, Hongjoong drops the whisper of words into your mouth with a gentle simplicity as he once again carves out space for himself inside of your body. This question is easy though, because you think of it with a nightmarish frequency.

Your nails dig into his back once again, feeling the divots made from the previous encounter still holding their mark there. A roll of his hips and you're whimpering under your breath, bitten back slightly, even though you revel in the feeling of having won.

"Hate myself."

a/n: we gotta get seonghwa out of there besties...also, kinda feeling like he knows but doesn't know know 🤨 like he knows something is up but can't put his finger on it. ALSO! her getting jealous about hongjoong with another girl 😭😭🤭🤭🤣🤣🙄 when the obsession is making you ILL AND CWAYZEE.

if you got thoughts hit me up in the ask box let's discuss hehe 💗 hope you enjoyed!

#hongjoong smut #hongjoong x y/n #hongjoong x you #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong imagines #hongjoong scenarios #yeosang smut #yeosang x reader #yeosang x y/n #yeosang x you #yeosang imagines #yeosang scenarios #ateez smut #ateez x you #ateez x reader #ateez x y/n #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines

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the-name-is-z · 2 months

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SKELETONS | ch. 37

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: As the sickness begins to spread, Daryl and a small group leaves on a mission. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; walker swarms; illness spreading; group suicide by antifreeze; graphic descriptions of brutal flu symptoms; criticism of those who "opt out" of apocalyptic circumstances via suicide

Chapter 37 - Quarantined

Iris shuffled limply into the cell block, Daryl shutting the glass door behind her.

“Caleb?” She called weakly, staggering further in. Everything was grey, the shuffling of her feet accompanied by disembodied coughing and quiet moans. She turned to the left, watching a woman cough a clot of blood into the handkerchief in her hand. “Caleb!” She called a little louder. She jumped as the cell door beside her clanged, the person who died inside of it clawing at her through the bars.

“Iris. We have to tell them.” Caleb said, staggering over toward her, leaning on the iron staircase. “It’s starting.”

“It’s spread.” Hershel confirmed, sitting around the council table with the few remaining members alongside him. “Everyone who survived the attack in Cell Block D. Sasha, Caleb, and now others.”

“Iris?” Carol asked, turning to Daryl with a worried expression. He nodded silently, biting down on his thumbnail. “So what do we do?”

“First things first. Cell Block A is isolation. We keep the sick people there like we tried with Karen and David.” Hershel explained.

“What the hell are we going to do about that?” Daryl asked, recalling their problem with the charred bodies outside.

“Ask Rick to look into it.” Carol suggested. “Try to make a timeline— who’s where, when. But what are we gonna do to stop this?”

“There is no stopping it.” Hershel shook his head. “You get it, you have to go through it.”

“But it just kills you?” Michonne asked.

“The illness doesn’t. The symptoms do. We need antibiotics.”

“We’ve been through every pharmacy nearby.” Daryl shook his head. “And then some.”

“That veterinary college at West Peachtree Tech, that’s one place people may not think to look for medication. The drugs for animals there are the same we need.” Hershel explained.

“Thats fifty miles.” Daryl nodded. “Too big a risk before. Ain’t now. I’ll take a group out. Best not to waste any more time.”

“I’m in.” Michonne agreed.

“You haven’t been exposed.” Hershel protested. “Daryl has. You get in a car with him…”

“He's already given me fleas.” Michonne jested, grinning. Hershel chuckled lightly.

“I can lead the way.” He offered. “I know where everything’s kept."

“When we’re out there, it’s always the same.” Daryl shook his head, licking his lips. “Sooner or later, we run.”

“I can draw you a map.” Hershel conceded. “There are other precautions I feel we should take.”

“Like what?” Carol asked.

“There’s no telling how long it’ll be before Daryl’s group returns. Wouldn’t it make sense for us to separate the most vulnerable?” Hershel proposed. “We can use the administration building. Separate office, separate room.”

“Who is the most vulnerable?” Glenn asked.

“The very young.”

“What about the old?”

Daryl slung his vest over the hood of a car, hooking up the struts to keep it open. He pulled the dipstick out, frowning as Michonne meandered over.

“Son of a bitch is about a quart low.” He stated.

“You still keep it in the bottom of tower three?” Michonne asked.

“Yeah.” He nodded. She turned to go get the oil as Daryl planted his hands on the car, bracing himself. He was mad. Iris was sick. The worst part was, there wasn’t much he could really do about it. He could go on this run, get meds and other things from the veterinary college, but then what?

“You okay?” Michonne asked, turning back. Daryl looked up, nodding briskly. She paused, pursing her lips. “You worried about Iris?” He said nothing, pausing a moment before nodding again. “We’ll do what we can.”

“Feels weird going out without her.” He admitted. Michonne nodded.

“If anyone’s going to pull through, it’s her. She is one tough woman.” Michonne said with a soft smile. Daryl nodded. He knew that. Of course he knew that. But he would still allow himself to worry.

Iris watched as Carol herded more of the sick into the cell block. She and Caleb were doing what they could for themselves and the others. Iris watched as Carol hugged and consoled a little girl, Lizzie. Her father had died when Patrick got sick and asked Carol to take care of her and her sister. Carl said she was a creepy little kid. The little girl coughed into her elbow, Carol nudging her through the door.

“Lizzie?” Iris called. She looked up. “Want someone to tuck you in?” She offered. Lizzie nodded and Iris extended her hand, helping her inside the quarantine zone to find her a clean cot to sleep in. “You know me?”

“Iris.” Lizzie replied. Iris nodded. She helped her into a cot and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

“Yep. You come and get me or call for me if you need anything, okay?” Iris asked. She turned, coughing into her elbow before looking back. “Everything is gonna be okay.”

“Okay.” Lizzie agreed meekly. She turned over, facing the wall as she hugged the sheet to herself. Iris sighed, pushing herself to her feet and shuffling back out of the room.

“Iris?” Sasha called from across the room. She looked up. “Daryl wants to talk to you.”

Iris shuffled into a small room with a chair and a window with a curtain, a small speaker through the wall allowing people to talk through. This is where inmates on death row met with their families for the last time. Morbid, and unsettling. Daryl stood with his arms crossed, looking up as she entered the room, pulling a blanket tighter around her shoulders. He frowned at the sight of her, pallid and sickly, heavy bags under her eyes.

“Don’t look at me.” Iris groaned, pulling the blanket over her face. Daryl scoffed.

“Since when do you care?” He asked, trying to bring light to the situation, but the slight waver in his voice betrayed him.

“You’re right.” Iris sniffled, smiling sympathetically. “Miss me out there?”

“Damn near falling apart.” He replied, offering the slightest upturn of the corner of his mouth. It soothed Iris a little, and she settled into the hard metal chair. “How’s it in there?”

“Disgusting.” She replied. He frowned. “But better than it looks. I feel useless.”

“Nah. Sasha told me how you were helping everyone.” He stated. Iris shrugged. “We’re going on a run. Hershel drew us a map of that veterinary college.”

“That’s far.” Iris frowned.

“I know.” Daryl agreed. “But we could have medicine as early as tomorrow.” Iris looked up hopefully, and truth be told, it broke his heart. “Hang on a little longer, alright? We’ve got a chance.”

“Daryl…” She murmured.

“Get some rest. I gotta go.” He said, clearing his throat before turning away, not daring to turn back. Iris sighed, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. They had a chance.

Daryl made his way back outside, setting up Zach’s car for the run. It was a pretty nice Charger, and he’d kept it in good order. Iris had made a few slight comments about how Zach likely didn’t know how to drive such a nice car.

“Everything alright?” Bob asked, walking over with a can of gas.

“Yeah. Zach kept this thing running pretty good.” Daryl replied, wiping his hands off on a rag as he chucked his vest into the driver’s seat.

“This is Zach’s car?” Bob asked, his tone falling.

“Fastest one we got.” Daryl explained. “You alright?”

“You really want me coming along?” Bob asked. Daryl pulled out the list of medications Hershel gave him, walking over to Bob.

“What’s this word?” He asked, pointing to the first item on the list.

“Zanamivir.” Bob replied. Daryl nodded.

“Yep. We need you.” They both turned as Tyreese came over. “What’s up?”

“You still got room for one more?” Tyreese asked.

“Hell yeah.”

“Good. Just got to get my gear.” Tyreese replied, nodding as he jogged off to gather his things.

“Alright.” Daryl murmured to himself, loading up his crossbow.

The first half of the ride was quiet, anxious. Little conversation. There was a lot on the line, and each of them knew it. After a while, Daryl got fed up with the silence, punching the button for the radio.

“Hand me some of them CDs?” Daryl asked, gesturing to the CD case in the glove compartment. Michonne rifled through them before they all stopped dead at the sound of a voice on the radio.

“Was that a voice?” Bob asked. Daryl shushed him as he fiddled with the tuning, trying to zero in on the correct frequency.

He looked up at Michonne for a split second before the car hit a walker with a lurch. Daryl inhaled sharply as he jerked the wheel, trying to weave in between the sudden influx of undead pedestrians. They skidded to a stop as a small herd came out from around the corner, quickly surrounding the car.

“Grab something!” Daryl yelled, throwing the car in reverse, they ran over a few walkers, creating a small pile between the back tires.

“Go to the left!” Michonne pointed. When he shifted back into drive, the wheels were caught skidding in viscera as if it were mud. They were stuck.

“We’re jammed.” Daryl announced. “Make a run for the gaps right there, you two make a run for the woods and you don’t stop for nothing, you hear me? Now!” He punched the sunroof out of the car, climbing up and taking aim with his crossbow. He and Michonne created a path. “Move!” He slid down the windshield smoothly as he and Michonne made a break for it. Bob and Tyreese scrambled out of the car, bolting after them.

Tyreese quickly got swarmed, taking down each walker that came at him with the small hammer he had as a weapon. He screamed at them to go, for the walkers to come after him, boldly sacrificing himself for the medicine. Daryl reluctantly guided Michonne and Bob into the woods, leaving the swarm of walkers and Tyreese behind them.

They hurried through the woods, weaving in between brush and trees to eliminate the few walkers they encountered. Daryl paused, turning back for a moment to see Tyreese burst through the brush. He was covered in gore, but they couldn’t tell if he was bit or not. They hauled him along, continuing to run.

Iris coughed. She coughed a lot. She coughed mid-sentence, attempting to thank Hershel for the cup of tea he handed her. She accepted it greedily, enjoying the hot liquid soothing her aching throat. He also handed her a cool cloth and she held it to her forehead.

“Stay awake, kiddo.” Hershel murmured, patting her cheek as her eyes fluttered. Iris sighed, keeping her eyes open.

“Kiddo?” She asked, her voice hoarse. He nodded, smiling softly. She noted he no longer wore a mask over his face. “Thought I was supposed to be resting.”

“Not too deeply.” He replied. She smiled, nodding. Glenn appeared in the doorway of her cell, smiling weekly. “Keep each other awake, you hear?” The two of them nodded, Glenn coming in to sit on the cot beside her, intertwining their hands. Hershel left them to see to the others.

“You good?” Glenn asked, coughing lightly.

“I hate being sick. Always have.” Iris murmured.

“Doesn’t everyone?” He asked.

“Yeah, but I hate it with passion.” She replied, squeezing his hand for emphasis. He chuckled. “Always makes me think I took not being sick for granted.”

“They’ll come back soon. With the medicine.” Glenn assured.

“You seen Maggie yet?” She asked. “She’s been asking for you.” He shook his head.

“I don’t want her to see me like this. I keep asking Hershel to cover for me.” He coughed. Iris nodded in understanding. She suffered through an inhale.

“We’ll make it.” She whispered. Glenn nodded, his head lolling against hers as they leaned against the wall together.

“This is Turner Creek, so Barnesville must be a few miles downstream.” Michonne murmured.

“Sounds like our best chance at finding a new ride.” Bob agreed.

“Yo, Ty!” Daryl called from atop the small wooden bridge over the creek. Tyreese was kneeling on the bank, washing the blood out of his t-shirt. “C’mon, let’s go. Vámonos.” He made little move to follow them as they stood up, Bob staying back a few paces to make sure he came with. They’d lost a whole night in the woods because of the car. They didn’t have many more options other than press forward, but they were each taking it hard.

They found an old dirt road, following it in hopes they could find Barnesville at the end. Daryl stopped in the road, kneeling down and licking a finger before he picked up a stone, rubbing his saliva on it to clear away the dirt. It was pretty.

“Is that jasper?” Michonne asked. Daryl grunted, nodding slightly. “It’s a good colour. Brings out your eyes.” He looked up at her blankly, finding her chuckling silently.

“When Miss Richards went into A block and found out we were leaving, she asked me to keep a lookout.” Daryl explained. “I’m gonna use it for her old man’s marker.”

“You know all of them back there?” She asked, surprised.

“You stay in one place more than a couple hours, you’d be surprised what you pick up.” He replied. It was a little passive aggressive, but they were all disappointed whenever Michonne decided she was going to leave again. He kept on walking, leaving her to sigh before following.

They kept along the dirt road, soon finding a small building with corrugated steel walls. As they rounded the corner, the sign above indicated that it was a garage and gas station. A little overgrown, absolutely covered in ivy, but it had potential.

“See something?” Bob asked as Daryl stopped again.

“I don’t know, maybe.” He replied. He dove into an area of particularly thick brush, pulling a car door out of it as if from nowhere. As he climbed inside, the others tore off the ivy while Daryl tried to hot wire the car. He remembered when Iris taught him how, the two of them joking about misspent youths. She’d be thrilled to know Daryl always thought of her when committing this particular crime. When it started taking particularly long for the wires to catch, he sighed, climbing back out of the car. “We gotta find us a new battery.”

He turned around, finding a small, dust-covered window into the garage. It was open a little ways, but he couldn’t see anything inside. He spat into his hand to rub the dirt away, but a walker slammed against the glass from the inside first, causing him to jump back.

“Got some friends inside.” He murmured. “C’mon. Let’s clear a path, see how many we got.”

They cleared away branches and swathes of ivy, trying to find a door. They dug through the brush for a moment before a walker each lunged out through the foliage. Michonne made quick work of their heads, careful to avoid the limbs of their group. Tyreese found the door, ripping the wires off and pulling the latch open. Bob and Daryl filed inside, most of the walkers having attacked them. Michonne and Tyreese went back over to clear the rest of the vines off of the car. There was regular station equipment and product, nothing in particular they needed.

Daryl moved into the garage, finding a stack of car batteries. He pried the cells open with a knife to check them out, see if it was gonna work.

“Cells look pretty dry.” Bob muttered. A little distilled water will clear that right up. Iris’ voice said in his head.

“Just need some water.” Daryl grunted. They meandered back through the store, looking around. Daryl’s flashlight caught on some gross-looking brown liquid on the ground, directly next to a bottle of antifreeze and a red solo cup. “That’s puke.” Daryl mused. “Those douchebags in the vines took themselves out. Holding hands, kumbaya style.”

“They wanted to go out together, same as they lived. That make them douchebags?” Bob asked, frowning.

“It does if they could have gotten out.” Daryl replied, pursing his lips.

“Everybody makes it, till they don’t.” Bob stated flatly. “People nowadays are dominos. What they did, maybe its about not having to watch them fall.” Daryl glanced back at him over his shoulder and nodded.

“Right.” He replied slowly. He grabbed a bottle of distilled water off of the shelf, turning the corner. “Come on.” There was another walker across the aisle, an old man, freshly dead, pinned underneath a large shelf that’d collapsed. Daryl left him, Bob staring down at the dead. He took a screwdriver off the wall, putting the thing out of its misery before following Daryl out of the shop.

TAGLIST:

@heidiland05

@ryoujoking

@catlalice

@maxinehufflepuffprincess

@lowkeyhottho

@fadingpalacebonkpsychic

#thenameisz #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x original character #skeletons #the walking dead #the walking dead daryl dixon #twd daryl #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon x oc

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tameodesza · 11 months

Text

Dead Ends (BretShawn) ch.10

<<ch.9 | masterlist | AO3 link | ch.11>>

Summary: Shawn’s dreams continue to haunt him, and he and Bret experience a night they ever expected.

a/n: Gets NSFW towards the end 🫣

Date: May 23, 1996 Time: 7:49 am Location: Abandoned steel plant

Shawn was never good with apologies, but his actions always spoke louder than words.

Bret was slow to wake that morning, eyes squinting at the blinding light that filled the room. After rubbing his eyes clear, he was surprised to see that it was daylight. Had Shawn allowed him to sleep throughout the night?

After stretching, Bret turned his head to find two silver-wrapped sticks of gum lying beside him. He tilted his head inquisitively before sitting up and grabbing the gum in question. He toyed with them, turning them over in his hands in thought as a knowing smile crept onto his face.

Shawn’s gum was sacred to him, the blond never offering Bret a piece throughout all their travels. That combined with the fact that Shawn didn’t wake him in the night was enough to convince Bret that Shawn felt some kind of remorse for how he behaved, even if just a little.

Bret looked up towards the desk expecting to see the blond sitting there, but the spot was empty. He stood up and walked towards the window seeing Shawn outside sitting cross-legged on the ground, head resting sideways in one hand as he used a finger on his other hand to scribble mindlessly in the dirt.

Bret headed out seeing that Shawn was still sitting in the same spot, the blond now drawing circles in the dirt.

Bret sat next to Shawn, the blond not acknowledging his presence as he continued to scribble. Bret observed Shawn for a moment before saying, “I thought we weren’t supposed to leave each other alone.”

Shawn continued his illustrations, switching from drawing circles to swirly lines as he muttered, “Figured you’d want some space.”

With their tensions high, Bret could see why Shawn would feel that way.

Not wanting to dwell on their conflict, Bret said, “Thanks for the gum.”

Shawn’s finger halted, the blond thinking briefly before saying, “Don’t mention it.” He went back to squiggling lines in the dirt as the sound of chirping birds filled the air.

Bret made a move to stand thinking that would be the end of their conversation, but he still after hearing Shawn say softly, “You’re not a mistake, by the way”.

Bret raised a brow as his eyes landed on the side of Shawn’s face. The blond glanced Bret’s way before swiftly turning his gaze back to the ground, uttering, “What I said to you back in the woods, I didn’t mean it. I don’t think it was a mistake bringing you along.”

Shawn’s harsh words to Bret had been weighing heavily on his conscience ever since they left his lips. He’d said it purely from anger, just to get a rise out of the man. And it worked, but Shawn wasn’t proud of it. And with how volatile their relationship was, he never found a good time to tell him.

But with the blond in a repentant mood, he thought this time was as good as any.

Shawn didn’t elaborate any more than that, but it was enough to lift the weight from Bret’s shoulders, thankful that Shawn didn’t think so ill of him. “That means a lot, Shawn.”

Shawn nodded, not offering any more words as he shifted to drawing stick people in the dirt.

Bret watched him for some time, wondering what thoughts were swirling around in that blond head of his. That was always a hard guess as Shawn seemed to never express himself unless it was through anger. But Bret knew there had to be other sides to Shawn, a bit of that evidenced by Shawn’s actions that morning.

The question was if Shawn would ever allow him to find out.

With the heavy mood lifted, Bret felt a little mischievous, reaching out a hand and erasing over the lines Shawn had just drawn.

Shawn snapped his head up at Bret before grabbing a handful of dirt and throwing it Bret’s way. “You dick,” he said with not as much vitriol as Bret expected. “Why did you do that?”

Bret snickered, brushing the dirt from his pants before using his own finger to draw in the dirt. Shawn watched with curious eyes as Bret drew two vertical parallel lines and added two horizontal lines on top.

“Let’s play,” Bret said as Shawn looked to see that he’d drawn a game of tic-tac-toe. “X or O?”

Shawn’s brows were still furrowed at the audacity of Bret to erase his drawings. However, he agreed to play along, choosing to draw an X in the upper left box.

That’s how they spent their morning – getting lost in a game of tic-tac-toe.

For those short few hours, the world felt normal again. They weren’t two men barely making it by as they struggled daily to survive in a world full of Walkers. They were just two men enjoying a childhood game that reminded them both of happier times.

It wasn’t until the last few games that Shawn began to feel that it wasn’t so fun anymore. But only because he lost three times in a row.

After Bret won yet another game, Shawn kicked at the dirt complaining, “Man, this game is rigged!”

Bret let out a boisterous laugh, genuinely entertained by Shawn’s tantrum. “How? We’re only playing with our fingers and the dirt. Just admit that you suck.”

“I don’t-”

“And you’re a sore loser.”

Shawn lightly punched Bret in the arm, the older man still laughing at his misfortune. Shawn further frowned saying, “Shut up before I stab you in your sleep tonight.”

There was no seriousness behind the threat, but Bret still quieted down, raising his hands in defense in case Shawn wasn’t playing. He slowly lowered his hands, a soft smile spreading onto his face as he saw Shawn setting up a new game.

This was the Shawn he liked to see. The one that, although still a bit rough around the edges, could be lighthearted, playful, funny even. Not everything had to be a battle with the younger man, and Bret wanted to keep it that way.

He was still unsure of why the man was so upset the night before, but he brushed the thought away, deciding to just enjoy the few times he and Shawn seemed to get along.

After their game, Shawn spent the rest of the day keeping himself busy. He’d repacked his bag, loaded and unloaded his guns, went back to drawing in the dirt, napped, and anything else that would keep him from thinking about the dream he’d had.

And all seemed to be going well until nightfall, Shawn’s mind betraying him as he had yet another wet dream about Bret.

Bret stood by the window unaware of the turmoil Shawn was experiencing behind him. That was until he heard Shawn sharply gasp before breathing heavily in a panic. He turned to see the blond sitting up struggling to catch his breath.

After what had happened the day before, Bret was unsure if he should check on Shawn. But he was his partner, and there was no way he could leave him panicking like that.

Bret walked to Shawn and kneeled next to him asking, “Are you ok? Shawn? Hey,” Bret waved a hand in the blond’s face, finally getting his attention.

Shawn swallowed to alleviate his dry throat, saying raspily, “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look so g-”

“I said yes!”

Shawn threw the blanket aside in a move to stand up, but stopped when he noticed Bret looking at his pants. Shawn looked down as well, both men staring at the blatant tent.

Shawn quickly covered himself, laying back down on the floor and turning away from Bret.

Bret stared at Shawn’s back in shock, unsure of what to say. He said lowly, “Shawn-”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“But you’re…” Bret didn’t even know how to say it.

Shawn huffed. “I’ll sleep it off. Nothing to worry about.” But it was, his erection achingly present.

Bret crawled around to the front of the blond, saying earnestly, “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Shawn didn’t say anything, his eyes forced shut as he tried to make himself go back to sleep. But Bret could tell by the way the man squirmed under the blanket that he was uncomfortable. And he knew more than anyone the pain of blue balls.

Bret took a deep, not believing what he was about to say. He rubbed awkwardly at his neck, clearing his throat before saying, “I, uh…I could help you out. If you’d like.”

Shawn’s eyes flew open, shooting Bret daggers as he shot up in a fury. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I, well,” Bret struggled to gather an explanation. “We’re both men. And… what’s happening is only natural.”

“And what the fuck does it have to do with you?”

Seeing where this was going, Bret backed off. “You’re my partner and we have to look out for each other. It was only a suggestion, Shawn.”

Bret stood up and headed back towards the window praying they’d be able to move on from this.

Shawn laid back down trying to forget about it, but the situation in his pants was not going away. If anything, his tightly clenched legs seemed to only make it worse.

Shawn tried to recall the last time he pleasured himself, remembering that it was some days before Bret arrived at his cabin. So quite some time ago. And with Bret always being around, it’s not like he had much alone time to quickly rub one out.

But maybe that’s exactly what he needed. If it’d stop the disturbing dreams he’d been having, it was worth a try.

Bret was still trying to shake off what happened when he heard Shawn say quietly, “Ok.”

He looked over his shoulder, seeing Shawn sit up and throw off the blanket, his stiff problem still there.

“Ok, what,” Bret asked to be certain.

Shawn groaned to himself, feeling humiliated as he murmured, “You can…help me out. But you look the other way. I mean it.”

Bret swallowed as he nodded, “Ok.”

He got on the floor next to Shawn, giving a cautious look at the blond before undoing his pants. Shawn leaned back on his hands as he took in a deep breath. His nerves rose as Bret reached into his pants, breath hitching as soon as his cock was freed.

As promised, Bret didn’t look at Shawn, the older man focusing on the pretty cock in his hand standing proudly from its bushy base. He started slow, pumping along the shaft and keeping the pace steady as he twisted his hand up towards the tip.

Bret kept this up for some time as he listened closely to Shawn’s strained gasps, it soon becoming apparent that the younger man was suppressing his moans. After hearing Shawn’s breath quicken, Bret threw caution to the wind and looked at the blond in curiosity.

Shawn had his eyes closed, head thrown back and mouth slightly agape as a moan he could no longer hold slipped through his lips. His brows drew together as he slightly bucked up into Bret’s firm hand.

It was the hottest thing Bret had seen in months, and he couldn’t help being turned on himself. His thoughts then went back to Shawn at the camp stepping into the lake fully naked. Bret gulped, forcing himself to look away as his thoughts began to run wild.

His hand picked up speed, causing Shawn to let out more moans as he became wrapped up in his own fantasy behind his closed eyes. After a particularly hard tug, Shawn’s eyes clenched tightly as a warmth pooled in his stomach.

Shawn began bucking wildly into Bret’s hand, no longer self-conscious as he neared his finish. Just as he was about to come, he let out a strained, “Kev!”

Bret looked at Shawn upon hearing the unfamiliar name, but there was no time to think on it as the blond came, streams of white shooting out and trailing down his cock like a fountain. Shawn’s body trembled in a light shiver, his ears ringing at the intensity of his orgasm. His moans died down to light whimpers as Bret continued to milk him until he eventually softened.

Bret glanced at Shawn who looked completely spent, chest still rising and falling in short rhythms. As Shawn calmed down, Bret got up to retrieve an old, dried-up wipe off the desk to wipe his hand. He headed back to Shawn, catching the blond’s eyes that were following him in a lazy haze, watching intently as Bret kneeled next to him.

“I can do it myself,” Shawn said in a breathless protest as he reached out for the wipe.

But Bret pushed his hand away saying, “Stop being so stubborn,” before cleaning Shawn briskly.

As Bret wiped him clean, Shawn caught sight of the rise in the older man’s pants. That’s when reality set in for the blond, his post-nut clarity no longer fogging up his mind.

Shawn forcefully shoved Bret’s hands away before tucking himself into his pants. Without another word, he stood from the floor and headed towards the window, back turned to Bret as he sat on the edge of the desk.

And Bret guessed that was that. He sighed as he looked down at the bulge in his pants, not expecting Shawn to return the favor.

“I’ll be back,” he said as he headed out the room towards a nearby restroom.

“K,” was the only response he’d gotten from the blond.

Bret headed into a stall, quickly closing the door before unzipping his pants to pull out his cock. He leaned one hand against the door, his other hand pumping quickly as inappropriate thoughts and images of Shawn flashed across his mind.

He felt a bit creepy getting off just thinking about the man, but his attraction to Shawn had built up to this moment. It didn’t take long for him to climax, spilling somewhere on the floor in a heap as his gasps echoed in the tiny stall.

Bret stood there for a moment, head leaning against the door as he tried to calm his heart rate before tucking himself back into his pants.

This was hands down one of the oddest nights the two shared, tons of questions swirling in Bret’s mind. But as he made his way back towards the room, one question remained at the forefront.

Who was Kev?

#divider cr: @firefly-graphics #dead ends #zombie au #shawn michaels #bret hart #hartbreak #bret hart x shawn michaels #bretshawn #alternate universe #wwe fanfiction

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scalamore · 1 year

Text

Thoughts on RupeLali’s [touch] Pt 1

it amuses me that Rupelali are just so touchy in the manhwa. Novel rupelali is SUPER touchy after they become official, but before then, touch is used very deliberately and sparingly in comparison. But here’s some thoughts for fun from the manhwa perspective: My thoughts: I think, that Lari is originally the huggy and affectionate type, and that influences Rupert’s comfort level with touch as well. So as we know during Rupert’s backstory, is that his mother never gave him any sort of affection, whether emotional or physical. Tory never did, and there’s no way crazy emperor or the queen’s faction did either. He’s always been alone this whole time, and the only touch he’s received was physical violence from Arnulf and Crazy emperor. We can see this in Ch 32ish, where Lari reaches out to grab his shirt to slow him down, and he strikes out reflexively at her (no intention to hurt her, just a response). In Ch 45, he thinks about Lari and how she’s just so different - including how she’s always laughing, smiling, and just so huggy to the shabby Tory, or the boisterous raccoon that doesn’t like her. She just radiates “affection” to those around him. Like a typical noble girl working at the palace, for the most part, Lari is respectful to him and keeps a proper distance from him. Again, she’s cheerful and brightens up the atmosphere, but she doesn’t ever get close.

Meanwhile, Rupert’s the one that touches Lari first, whether it’s by pinching her cheeks or flicking her forehead when he’s annoyed with her. Those are all friendly actions imo. Also regarding etiquette, Rupert knows that it’s improper for someone to sit next to him without his permission, but Lari tends to do so anyways - In Ch 27,ish,Ch 29ish, Ch 59, Ch 68 (?), and the latest in Ch 92. Every time she does so, she wants to talk to him to understand him better, offer tiger balm, or help him out in some way. He may have berated her at the start, but lately he just lets her sit beside him without complaints.

Earlier in the series he tends to hold her chin, as she had a habit of avoiding eye contact with him, but as he grew more comfortable with her he tended to be more open with wanting to be with her more/continue the conversation, and would often grab her arm, stopping her from leaving, or pulling her closer and making her stop. After he became Crown Prince, he’s been uncharacteristically more touchy with her - often pulling her to his side in a more protective stance, claiming she belongs to him and to not lay a hand on her - which baffles Lari because he’s too close.

When Rupert needed her to get rid of the cursed seal in chaper 86 - both were flustered with the physical closeness; Lari was drawing on his bare skin, and him holding in his discomfort at the tickling sensation on his shoulder.

As a a reminder, it’s very improper for someone to dare touch the body of a member of the royal family member; that crime is enough to be punished by death or imprisonment. Yet Rupert’s always allowed Lari’s touch. Whenever he was sick (Ch 28ish, Ch 68, 86), he never admitted it to her, but he liked it when he was hurting or ill and he felt her hand oh his forehead, her placing a moist towel to reduce the fever, and how she stayed beside him to make sure he was ok. He was annoyed but also appreciative at the same time.

While previously he may have held her chin to force eye contact, lately he’s been more gentle and held/caressed her cheek, getting her attention that way (Ch 88, 92). He didn’t even mind how she pushed him away in Ch 88, 91, or how she gripped his shirt tightly. Lari as well, has started to naturally be more touchy towards him too. In Ch 92, I LOVED the focus on her holding his hand (manhwa only). As she tells him how she may have originally hated him, she doesn’t anymore and she truly wants him to be happy, you can see how she reaches out and hesitantly grabs his hand with a light touch, his hands relax and he allows her to pull his hand toward herself. Seeing that he was ok with her touch she tightens her grip and his hand fidgets a bit from the contact, but he still allows her to continue holding it for a bit before she lets go. Here’s some cute info from future content: Rupert is still not completely used to being touched by others, even Lari, even though he permits it. He still reflexively flinches slightly and tenses up whenever she touches him, but he recovers pretty quickly. I believe this is the first time she maintains skin contact via hand holding for so long in the manhwa (this is a separate vol 5 + 6 scene actually). He finds her touch just so different - in comparison to his tough, firm, boney, large hands, her hands are so small, soft, delicate, warm, and thin just like her. When she holds his hand tightly, he’s not just surprised because of the physical contact, but also how reassuring it makes him feel, and how it makes him worried that he might break her hand if he grabbed her too tightly. Tory is an alchemic doll, so she isn’t soft or warm, she’s always cool to the touch. But despite being both humans, unlike him, Lari is just so soft and warm, which makes him instinctively wnt to be extra careful as to not hurt her accidentally.

#rupelali #your majesty please spare me this time #rofan #otome isekai

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writingmysanity · 2 years

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Mistakes

Prompt: "Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day that has no mistakes in it yet?"

Pairing: Eskel x reader

Word count: 628

A/N: Again, soft... fluff. Eskel learning how to be soft. As always, unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own... for now.

Whimpers echo against the aging wood of the Inn you've settled in as the sun lowers, and the world fades into darkness. You've normally always found solace in the night. The whispers of the wind rustling the leaves, insects screaming from their branches.

Tonight, you whine. You can hear none of that behind the walls of the room you’re holed up in as Eskel stitches up your wound. Head resting on the mattress, in your arms, you bite back the sounds as best you can. You've sewed up worse on him, and he never seemed to complain. He sighs, laying a warm hand on your back when he pauses, voice soft as he calls your attention.

“Kit,” you look up warily, scared of the judgment you may see in his golden eyes. You never should have been there. He told you to stay back. But the rumble that escapes his chest is soothing, not angry. He rubs his hand up and down your back slowly, gently. He isn't sure exactly how to soothe you, this is all so new to him still, but he listens to your heartbeat- smiling when it slows, happy he did something right.

“I'm sorry, Eskel,” you whisper. He just nods, his hand pausing.

“I know,” he responds moving to brush some hair out of your face, the moment feeling much softer and intimate than he's used to, but he loves the light in your eyes when you look up at him. The movement makes you smile, relaxing under his hand.

“It won't happen again,” this makes him snort.

“Yes it will,” he chuckles as he finishes up the stitching before wrapping bandages around your thigh. You pout. He hasn't known you long, but he knows you're stubborn, and once you've put your mind to something, there isn't much he can do to stop you.

“Come now, Kit,” he starts, tugging the blanket up over you making you feel much younger than you are. He pauses, softening, his brilliant eyes melting into liquid gold in the candlelight. “It's time to rest, and tomorrow is a new day,” he promises, making you laugh slightly, the effects of the poppy he gave you making you sleepy, and a tad loopy.

“Isn't it wonderful?” you sing as he is about to step away, giving you some space. He pauses, waiting to see if you will continue on your own. You don't, you just stare at him through lidded eyes.

“What's that?” you just smile up at him.

“That tomorrow is a new day,” you begin, repeating his own words back at him. “A day with no mistakes in it, yet.” at this, he laughs.

“Yet. you’re quite diligent in that area, it seems.” you mean to pout, but you can't help but smile, because he doesnt seem to be upset about it.

“Someone has to keep me on your toes.” you shrug. He nods slightly.

“I thought that was Lambert or even the monsters- but I have to say, you give them a run for their money.” this makes you beam up at him, the darkness of your eyes shining like starlight in the low flicker of the candle’s light.

“Keep on like that, Witcher, and ill become convinced you actually like me,” you tease, eyes fluttering on their own accord, the medicine drawing them closed.

“Ah, and we can't be having that, can we?” he teases back as you fall, the last of his words, he is sure, were unheard. Relaxing, he sighs, a reluctant smile on his lips as he moves to find his place by the fire to relax. Sparing another glance at your sleeping form he doesn’t bother to hide the fondness there, now that you are asleep.

“Goodnight, Witch,” he whispers.

Tag list: @errruvande @thesleepy1 @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @queenxxxsupreme @screechingdreamercollectorsblog @open--till--midnight @one-eyed-captain-kinky

@seidenbros @cosmos-coma

If you would like to be added to the tag list, please send me a message or ask or something.

#eskel x you #the witcher #eskel #eskel x reader #basil eidenbenz #the witcher imagine #witcher eskel #eskel imagine #eskel witcher #netflix eskel #eskel netflix #eskel fic #eskel x y/n #eskel fluff #netflix!eskel x reader #netflix!eskel x reader fluff #netflix!eskel #game!eskel x reader #game!eskel

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tiramisiyu · 3 years

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Thoughts on Xia Yan’s Anniversary/Kiss Date

Not a translation, but rather an unleashing of the many thoughts I had for his date because it made me feel so many emotions and think so many things;;

Wordcount: 2.8k

Date Translation

Preamble

Tears of Themis’ 1st anniversary features one of the most significant in-story events you can view within an otome game - the confession event between MC and respective male leads. The gravity of this confession event, however, is intensified with respect to the ML Xia Yan, as their emotions towards each other is not the only focus of said confession - he must also reveal the heartbreaking truth that his life is likely to end in three years.

In the below sections, I will discuss the significance of various components that comprise Xia Yan’s anniversary date. My primary focuses will be on Xia Yan’s internal struggles, his care for MC, and the nature of the confession, and I aim to ultimately express why this date had such a major effect on me and whoa if you’re still reading this rambling part, I applaud you. I’m really just doing a fancy thoughtdump here.

The Nature of the Confession Event

From the beginning, XY never intended for the confession to be full of pomp and circumstance - and this was out of concern for MC, fearing that she would be too swept up in emotion to make it. Based on how the other guys’ cards look (them being outside and MC’s all dressed up), I assume that there was some ceremony-like aspect to their respective confessions, and I think that this draws a stark contrast to XY’s (who staunchly refused Yang Xiao’s offer to help make his confession just as ceremonial). In XY’s, MC’s not dressed up the way she is for the others, and both have been drenched in rain and are dissolving into tears of sadness as they speak. In addition, their desires are conflicting (rather than a situation where both parties confess and get together, and thus have coinciding interests) - despite what XY has said before, he does not want MC to be with him, while MC wants the exact opposite. It’s not a beautiful or gorgeous scene by design - instead, it’s very raw, very 狼狈 as the two lay bare their own painful emotions, discuss/cry about heavy topics, and show very vulnerable sides to each other, trying to get through to the other person.

Speaking of showing vulnerability, the fact that Xia Yan is so anguished by what he has to say that he has to sit down and cry hits particularly hard because he has always, always tried to put on a strong face in front of MC. Whenever his illness strikes and MC sees it, such as in aquarium date or Neruda poem date, he’ll smile and/or joke about it after. When the two were talking about his posthumous letters during the RRG date, he still had a calm smile on his face. Even when he talked about being shoved into a car trunk to be “disposed of”, he was still calmly smiling. As MC noted, his job has taught him to have extreme control over his emotions, so it’s almost overwhelming, trying to imagine how much sadness pushed him to that point.

Pathetic fallacy also plays a part in increasing the impact that the confession event had. In the days leading up to the last part of the date, storms keep striking suddenly, such that it’s even described as “strange”. Storms are, of course, generally associated with less-pleasant things, such as conflict, anger, depression, difficulty, and so on. The meaning behind why they appeared suddenly or frequently is a little harder to understand, but my assumption for the frequency of the storms (rather than an ongoing storm or gloom) reflects how things could not completely “clear up” (despite uplifts in emotion from time to time) until they confronted each other with their feelings. During the confrontation, not only is the storm still going on, but they’re also harshly drenched in the cold rainwater. It is only after the kiss, after their interests finally coincide, that the storm lifts and the beautiful starry sky casts its light on Xia Yan, who was holding the majority of the conflict/sadness/depression between the two of them. (This is also highlighted in how MC notes that Xia Yan feels slightly cold (during the kiss), and she tries to transfer her warmth over to him, trying to alleviate that heavy emotion that’s wrapped itself around him.)

The Location

The attic of their old home remains an important location for these two, and I pretty much can’t think of a better choice to set the confession. It contains their childhood memories, and it also came into play during Xia Yan’s first birthday after his return (i.e. the idea of continuing to make memories there). It’s also interesting to note that Xia Yan, from his rational mindset, did not intend to see MC… yet he still came to this place - a place that was equally meaningful to both of them, and a place where he’s likely to get lost in emotion. He may be restraining his emotions for MC’s good, yet they still show in small places. (At least, there doesn’t seem to be any logical reason for him to be there, since he wasn’t setting anything up there…)

The Humanizing and Internal Conflict of Xia Yan

I call it “humanizing” because I’ve done some commenting before on how Xia Yan has felt a little superhuman - so many skills everywhere, and rarely a moment of weakness. Now, this date really drives home that he is just human too, with the harsh reality of imminent death hanging over him (especially since we also learn a few more concrete details on exactly what his illness is). This point is brought into attention when he talks about how he’s neither able to be as brave as Schumann (who acted based on emotion) nor as silently strong as Brahms (who acted based on reason). He’s pulled in so many directions for all the things he wants - a desire to stay by MC’s side and do so much with her, whether as family or as something more, versus his rational mindset that tells him to not see her at all, to disappear from her life after, or to push her away even after her confession. There was also his “rationally” created plan in which he would give her the letter and let her decide, yet he still tries to convince her to not be with him.

The Schumann/Brahms comparison shows how he keeps getting pulled back and forth between reason and emotion. He reveals his feelings to MC (Schumann), but wants her to make the optimal decision, which he believes is to not be with him (Brahms). He then kisses her after hearing her conviction (Schumann) and then gives her the gift that’s linked to Brahms. In realizing that he’s not able to stick to either path, he calls himself a coward - but he doesn’t need to be like either person. As MC says, his restraint is a part of his own background, and his emotional wavering is because of his care for MC - all in all, his motivations are because he is Xia Yan, not Schumann or Brahms.

Personal Story Chapter 2 Parallels

In Xia Yan’s personal chapter 2, Yang Xiao sets up the story of 零/Zero and 玛丽薇莎/Marivisa to mirror MC and Xia Yan (respectively). The mention of what will bring Zero and MC happiness is starkly similar in these two situations:

⊳ Personal Ch.2-9

Xia Yan: 因为...这样，零会更幸福... 她不是在牺牲，她只是用自己的方式让零能幸福。Because this way, Zero would be happier… She wasn’t sacrificing herself. She was only using her own methods to make Zero happy.

MC: 但零的幸福就是她啊。But Zero’s happiness is her.

Xia Yan: 她已经无法给零幸福了。 It’s already impossible for her to give Zero happiness.

⊳ Date

Xia Yan: 如果你选择别的男人。。。只要他能给你幸福。我只会带给你不幸，我没有时间了。。。If you choose another man… As long as he can make you happy. All I can bring you is unhappiness. I don’t have much time left…

MC: 你怎么可能带给我不幸，你怎么可能做不到给我幸福。你在我身边，你的存在本身，就是我的幸福。How is it possible that you can only bring me unhappiness? How is it impossible for you to bring me happiness? You being by my side – your very existence – is my happiness.

Yes, the Zero/Marivisa story was intentionally made to parallel these two, so it might feel moot to compare them like this. However, I still really appreciated that they brought this discussion of what brings MC/Zero happiness back, especially since XY’s chapter 2 was very major in developing his character. Back then, MC is vehement in that Zero would have been happier spending all the time he could with Marivisa, as well as even having the choice to spend that time with her. I think that this part was instrumental in Xia Yan eventually deciding to tell her the truth and letting her make her own decision (as he explicitly stated to Yang Xiao in part 1 of the date). However, he still wasn’t fully convinced by what MC said back in chapter 2, so we satisfyingly see this discussion of happiness come full circle by the end of this date, when Xia Yan finally trusts MC to make the best decision for herself.

Xia Yan’s Considerateness

Xia Yan’s enduring consideration for MC displays itself in nearly every single action within this date.

The flashback, when he thinks about MC potentially having to go through what the widow is now experiencing, and how his own happiness for three years isn’t worth that

His conviction to give her the right to decide in this matter that involves both of them, because he can’t be the one to decide everything

He insisted on not making it a romantic event, because he wants MC to make the best decision without having a mind clouded by emotion. He’s also made peace with the idea of not being with MC, for the sake of her long-term happiness. All he wants is for her to know the truth of his feelings and illness.

His decision to still make MC a gift to retain some aspect of the romance in the confession (but he only gives the gift after MC has made her decision, again to ensure that her mind isn’t clouded). I think the concept of the gift is particularly beautiful - the little, happy holograms of them inside the glass, as if ensuring that he will always be by her side in some way; the music that brings back their childhood memories and alludes to an enduring, quiet, and protecting love that puts the recipient first (i.e. Brahms to Clara); and the rainbow, which has its childhood memories and treasure implications that are already mentioned in the date, but it also reminded me of the miraculous double rainbow in his Lost Gold date. That double rainbow was the trigger for Xia Yan to proactively seek out a future with MC, when he took the initiative to ask MC if she could be with him to seek out more miracles. Overall, there are a lot of beautiful memories and implications wrapped up in that music box/snowglobe.

The little comical segment where he worries about the optimal time to deliver the letter, worrying about MC’s sleep or if she’ll be able to eat well.

His stress over what he should’ve done after the letter was delivered, and how he immediately answered MC’s call out of pure worry, despite being so resolute about not answering her calls that he’d turned on airplane mode before.

Their ensuing discussion in part 3 is just full of Xia Yan’s consideration for MC at its peak -

Rather than being ecstatic about MC’s confession, his first instinct is to tell her to take a few days to think about it logically. (But really, emotions aren’t logical to begin with, so it’s not like MC would’ve stopped liking you after mulling it over for a few days, haha)

His immediate apology after yelling that he has to mention his death

His worry about how MC will cope after he’s gone, going so far as to saying that she would be better off with another man

I think that this particular (above) line got a particularly visceral reaction from Xia Yan fans, including myself. Because like MC, our initial thoughts fell along the lines of “How could I ever choose someone else when the only person I like is you? There’s just no way someone else could make me happier…”. Another reaction that I’ve seen among Xia Yan fans (yep, including myself) is how we originally viewed the story in third-person, seeing “MC” in the story, but this date (and this particular scene, where MC says nearly everything that I myself would want to say) dragged us into a first-person position.

The heartbreaking scene where Xia Yan cries from being unable to give MC the happiness that he wants to give her (or so he thinks).

He’s just so painfully selfless. I also really like the line during the kiss where MC tries to transmit her warmth to him, trying to balance things out between them and have him feel better, when he had already written himself off by thinking that his happiness is better off sacrificed for hers.

Jin Xian’s Voice Acting

Jin Xian’s voice acting deserves a whole section to itself, because I think that he did an amazing job of portraying the intense emotions Xia Yan feels during the date. Just going to list some lines that really hit hard - both because of the content, and because of the voice acting that really considered how Xia Yan would be feeling then.

我可以去追她，我甚至可以和她结婚。我可以把最后的三年过得很好，过的毫无遗憾，但是然后呢？她一个人要怎么办。。。谁陪她走出来，谁来照顾她。。。(“I could pursue her. I could even marry her. I could live my last three years happily, without the slightest of regrets. But what about after? How will she cope on her own… Who will be with her as she handles this? Who will take care of her…”) The ups and downs of this section’s voicing really hit hard.

The gentleness with which he speaks about what he plans to tell MC, especially the line 她从来都是这样 (“She’s always been like that.”)

He’s so cute in Part 2!! The tone’s a lot happier and relaxed and it’s really nice to see and hear.

In part 3, the vehemence with which he talks about how the risks of MC’s work aren’t comparable to his established time limit, which then softens into something sadder when he talks about how Yang Xiao’s efforts haven’t extended his time by much.

The intensity when he says 我必须说 ! (“I have to say it!”) (when MC reacts to him using the word “death”), and how he immediately softens his tone after. But then his voice starts to rise again as he worries for how MC will bear his death… and then he takes a break to calm down, and then makes the suggestion of MC finding another man with a near-inflectionless tone that gradually slips into a whisper

His whispering voice makes the impact of 我在乎。。。！(I care…!) hit even harder because it’s suddenly loud, and you can clearly hear the tears in his voice. Once again, he takes a breath to calm himself down and quiet his voice. But even as he keeps talking in a voice that descends into a whisper again, you can tell that he’s still on the verge of crying…

Also the 我也。。。好喜欢，最喜欢你. (I also… like you. I like you the most) line left me screaming with how it was whispered but really strong and adamant-sounding aaaaa

Anyways I could list more but at that point I might as well list Jin Xian’s entire script lmao. He did such a good job!!!!!!

Sound Effects

I’m laughing at myself for including this section - if you turn off the music that accompanies Xia Yan’s card, you’ll… hear some very interesting sound effects [狗头]

They’ve got to make the most of their limited time together, after all, and this is the only date out of the set of four that’s indoors… it makes sense…

Other Thoughts

Two kisses!!

What sort of treatment would leave Xia Yan infected with drugs with prohibited components? What were they even trying to do?

The date was short relative to the other, super-long Themis dates, but I’m personally alright with that because it places focus on the confession itself. It hit all the points that I personally was expecting for Xia Yan’s confession, including his past struggles with the idea of staying with MC, his confession about both his feelings and his illness, and how resolute MC is about staying with him vs. how hard he tries to get her to understand the implications of being him, considering that he doesn’t have much time left.

I think now’s a good time for the two of them to get married if they’re well aware that Xia Yan’s time is limited, so Xia Yan, where’s the ruby ring?

I wonder what implications this will have on the main story - e.g. will the rest of NXX find out about Xia Yan’s illness in Chapter 7.2? Or will they never know? Actually, I wonder if they’ll have MC be aware of his illness in the main story because… that implies his confession happened, which might anger fans of the other boys.

Conclusion

I love Xia Yan and I love this date.

#tears of themis #xia yan #luke pearce #rambles #this whole thing is kinda messy so kudos if you made it through

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lordoftermites · 4 years

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OF CLOVER & IRON

Part One

Pairing: Roiben x Kaye

Summary: fluff(ish), angst, obligatory smut (later). fluffish smangst, let's go with that.

My first fic for these two—and all around the first one I've ever written, period. I finally got to a point that I can confidently post parts 1 & 2 without obsessive editing so yeet haw let's fuckin go. Set the day after Ironside Ch. 13. {there's a slight deviation of the wound placements also, because I just really wanted to see Kaye lovingly take care of her Emo Black Knight™. Everything else is canon-compliant. I hope.}

Rating: M for suggestive themes, smut in future chapters

Also I was listening to Beautiful Crime by Tamer and If You Care by Evan Barlow the whole time and if those aren't the most Roiben songs I've ever fucking heard—

*buzzfeed voice* let's get into it

________________

Each step I left behind Each road you know is mine Walking on a line ten stories high Say you'll still be by my side If I could take your hand, oh If you could understand That I can barely breathe, the air is thin I fear the fall and where we'll land

"You realize I have attendants for this, don't you?"

Roiben was reclined, rather awkwardly, against the mountain of plush pillows on his bed. Their down stuffing jutted through the timeworn fabric and pricked along the sensitive skin of his bare back.

While the gash Talathain's sword had wrought the day before had since been cleaned and bandaged, the end of those feathers still managed to find their way through to jab at the still-open wound, eliciting from him a wince, as though he needed reminding of the events that had transpired had, in fact, transpired.

Ruefully, Roiben found that he did not need reminding.

"Mhmm, I know." Kaye replied absently beside him, drawing him back to the present. She was perched on the edge of the bed, inky-black gaze fixed on his hand in her lap; she was gently applying a viscous paste to the scarlet, angry line along his palm—another gift from Silarial's green knight. The mixture had a cooling element to it, not at all unpleasant against the dull burn of the wound. Kaye was careful, dedicated as she worked. Her tender, feather-light touches sent an involuntary shiver down the base of Roiben's spine.

“I admit, I do not mislike having you for a nursemaid instead of an ill-tempered hob." He grinned down at her as she finished, gently wrapping a milky-white cloth around the pad of his hand, tying it off in a small knot at the base of his wrist. He didn’t think anyone in his service would have tended to him with such attentive care; actually, they very well may have relished an opportunity to see him wince. Indeed, he much preferred this.

She glanced up at him through thick lashes and gave him a small smile of her own, but it faltered on her features, wavered there until it faded into something Roiben couldn't name. "I guess,” she began, dropping her gaze back down to his newly-dressed hand in hers. “I just wanted to do… something, for a change." Roiben's brow knitted at the sadness in her voice, the way the guilt, thoroughly misplaced, steeped her words. There was a twinge in his chest that was reminiscent of the arrow she had pulled from it not four months prior. Automatically, his hand reached up to touch the new scar, a rose-tinted indentation in the middle of his sternum. A phantom ache bloomed under his fingers.

She had been only a human girl then, guised as she was, and unfortunate enough to be the one to find him bleeding out, collapsed there against the gnarled tree he would have gladly let become his grave. She had saved his very soul that night in the rain, though neither of them had known it at the time. It was very likely she still didn't.

And here she was again, nursing the consequences of his own obstinate pride and blaming herself for it. Too often, too willingly did she take the weight of his burdens as her own, while he futilely sought to keep her safe from them. Safe from him. She was the most stubbornly kind creature he had ever known; a knight of her own design—a savior he had never had any right to.

Roiben reached out to tuck a loose tendril of viridescent hair behind her ear. The slight movement pulled at the lesion on his back, threatening another wince. He resisted. "Kaye," he started, and when she didn't meet his eyes, he crooked a finger under her chin and canted her head to him.

"There is nothing you have done—not since the moment I met you to now, that was not something." His thumb ran over her emerald jawline, the smooth skin silk in contrast to the roughness of his own. Kaye's eyes fluttered and she leaned into his touch. "I know it is my failure, in not telling you as such, that you mistakenly think yourself so inadequate. For that, I am well and truly sorry."

Through the burning discomfort of his wounds, Roiben drew her down to him and captured her mouth in a kiss. He had never been a master of apologies— or much else for that matter. And for reasons he was unable to name, his way of begging Kaye's pardon seemed to often be sought with his mouth, as if he hoped she could taste it on his tongue— and forgive him with her own.

Her lips, softer than satin and more delectable than any wine he had ever tasted, parted in a soft, lilting sigh. The sound, as it so often did, caused the muscles in his lower abdomen to coil with a rush of warmth. His bandaged fingers moved to tangle in her wild hair as her tongue danced between his teeth, languorous at first, then quickly shifting into something nearer to frenzy. He could feel his pulse quicken, the familiar strain across the front of his trousers when her hand splayed his chest, soft fingertips pressing into his bare skin. His breath hitched.

And then Kaye's lips were gone and she was pushing herself back up, away from him, her breathing ragged. He watched her dazedly, lamenting the abrupt loss of her closeness. She combed a hand through her mess of green hair, and Roiben realized she was trembling. He frowned.

"What is it?" he asked, drawing himself up to a sitting position, jaw clenched against the sharp tug of the bandage stretching from his shoulder to his hip. "Have I done something to displease you?" He glanced down, sliver gaze settling on a fraying thread of gauze on his wrist. "Perhaps my apology wasn't quite the one you were looking for, but I—"

"That's not it." Kaye cut him off, and when he looked back up to meet her eyes, he was disconcerted to find their pitch depths were suddenly glistening. He opened his mouth to speak, but Kaye raised a hand to forestall him. He pressed his lips together, obediently falling mute. "It… it's not you. I mean, it's a little bit you. Okay— maybe it's a lot you. But… I'm just…" She let out a frustrated groan, as though she couldn't quite manage to untangle whatever thought she was trying to get out. The back of her hand swiped angrily across her eyes.

Roiben knew she hated crying, but he was unsure whether it was explicitly crying in front of him, or if it was the act altogether. Whatever the reason, there was a nagging in his gut, a temptation to reach up and wipe away the glittering tear that rolled down the curve of her verdant cheek.

But he stayed patiently, painfully silent beside her, fingers worrying the fabric over his knuckles instead as she worked through unweaving her mind. Roiben found himself suddenly wishing he had the power to read it, if only to help wrench her free of whatever trap that held her there, apart from him. Finally, she sighed—a dispirited sound that reverberated through the otherwise quiet stillness of his chambers.

"Why did you come back? Why did you find me at the diner? Why did you choose me?"

The string of questions— rather, the way she asked them, whispered, bordering on anguish, stung him like the gilded edge of Talathain's blade. Roiben gaped at her, for a moment too stunned to respond. Her expression was contorted slightly, the emotions that coursed through her scrambling over one another to find purchase on her face. Still, she held his gaze with an unwavering severity that bored into his very being and rooted him to the spot.

He knew she would not accept his usual indirect summarizations, those with which he so carefully guarded himself. He was now well beyond the safety of that delicate thread of tightroped truths he danced.

She expected—commanded his unreserved forthrightness, with that look that held the power of his name without it ever needing to cross her lips.

#this is my pride and joy ok #i don't think i've ever written something with so much effort #i was terrified it'd be purple-prosey but i *think* it's ok?#whatever even if it is i fuckin love it #and miss black herself said to write what you love first #so there it is #roiben #rath roiben rye #kaye fierch #kaye x roiben #mft #tmft #modern faerie tales #tfota #the folk of the air #tfota fic

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lindalofbroome · 4 years

Photo

(tap for quality)

11 - Young

‘They are listening,’ she whispered. ‘Look at them. Wait till they hear what you did, Rowan. Wait till they know the dangers you faced to save the village.’

She puffed out her chest. ‘I hope they know I’m your sister!’ she added.

Rowan and the Travellers // Ch 7

im just so soft for how proud of her brother Annad is. she’s so full of love and admiration for her oddling (and yet not) of a brother.

i think she was too young to understand how different Rowan was to most of the villagers in Rin, and then when he brought the stream back home for the bukshah he became a hero to everyone, but no one more than Annad. i think she’s always loved him and has relied on his judgement and his knowledge.

‘If we do not act soon, [the bukshah] will die.’

‘Not Star,’ whispered Annad to her brother, who was the keeper of the bukshah. ‘Star will not die, though, will she, Rowan? Because you will give Star water from our well.’

‘Bukshah cannot drink from our well, Annad,’ said Rowan. ‘It is not sweet enough for them. It makes them ill. They can only drink the water that flows down from the Mountain. It has always been so. If the stream stays dry, Star will die like all the rest.’

Rowan of Rin // Ch 1

i love her boldness and her confidence in her big brother, but also in herself. she would 100% be down to fight for what she believes in and to defend her loved ones.

Rowan stared, open-mouthed, and did not move. He was terrified of Sheba. His mother nudged him. ‘I will go,’ piped up little Annad, beside him. ‘I am not frightened!’ Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Rowan of Rin // Ch 1

i like to imagine Rowan and Annad growing up and being very supportive and understanding of one another. they may not necessarily be in sync or understand each other on an empathy level, but they understand each other on a sympathetic and compassionate level. they know how each other will react to certain things and how to help each other and what they love and what they hate and such. they are best friends, filled with so much love and admiration for the other. and i hope they give each other courage, by showing different types of bravery and different ways to overcome obstacles.

this is Rowan and Annad in their wedding finery, on their way to Jiller and Jonn’s wedding 💕

also, the struggle of wanting to draw little Annad as big for her age, and Rowan small for his age, and ending up making them both look 8-10 or something oops

#im suddenly filled with so much love omg ;-;#//#lyn's roddacember prompts #roddacember 2020 #roddacember #emily rodda #roddaverse #rowan of rin #annad of rin #postlyn #postlyn art #digital art #character art #fan art

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izukukuzi · 4 years

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this is a question that i have in my mind since the beginning of bnha but i never asked anyone, but now i want to ask you: what do you think about the fact that midoriya seems to adore bakugou and to want to be his friends/at his side even if he bullied him and didn't even say sorry? idk if this is horikoshi's bad writing or maybe we have exaggerated bakugou's behaviour or idk, i'm really confused (sorry for the bad english, i hope what i said it's understandable!)

I thought about this ask for a looooong time. I usually kinda have a rough mental outline of the points I want to make when I answer any asks (especially when the answer gets really long jbdwujwjnw) but to be honest with you, nonnie, I kind of don’t know? however, I still want to honor the fact that you asked me (which... thank you??? you could have sent this to anyone, especially since you’ve probably been thinking about it for a while now), so I’ll give you some of my thoughts!!!

the very first thought I had when I got this message was the context I usually see the “izuku didn’t stop hanging around bakugou despite what he did” argument being made in. a number of people have tried to make it a point that izu deserved the violence/bullying he was subjected to at bakugou’s hands because he was trying to force the other into a friendship, or he was following him around (or my least favorite take: izu was being stalkerish :/)

and, while that’s not what you’re saying or asking, it does kind of lead me towards thinking of why, as you asked, izuku stayed at his side (and why the previously mentioned argument is wrong).

coming out of the isolation that comes with being diagnosed “quirkless,” I do not think we can fault izu for wanting to hold on to a friendship that’s been there for however long he and bk had known each other prior to the age of four? I mean, realistically, in this equation, you can’t take a four, five, six, seven, or whatever-year old child’s attempts to maintain his social connections as a fault of his own. he’s a kid, a lonely one at that, and if bakugou was who he knew as a friend before he was secluded, I’m not surprised he tried to keep it that way (though I don’t think he kept it that way for long)

some of the very first images we get in the manga are of izuku putting himself in the line of danger to protect another child from bakugou. while I don’t think that was something he “followed” him around for, I do think that izuku ended up around bk more times than not because he did things like this. being able to intervene, even at the cost of his own safety, would mean being around bk, so I figure that contributes to things (in some way or another dnedjnwjnd)

at some point, while I don’t think izu ever stops seeing bakugou as a figure of strength more obtainable to him than his favorite hero All Might, it seems like he does stop seeking bakugou out? from the way we’re introduced to bk/izu’s dynamic in junior high for example (i’m thinking about the moment their teacher said that both of them were aiming to apply for UA), we see that izuku tries his best to make himself small, to not draw attention, let alone bakugou’s attention, to himself... so it’s bakugou, then that initiates their interaction (though he does so with violence, a theme that’ll be followed into the start of their career as students at ua :/). so that then moves away from the “izuku following bakugou” rhetoric and, instead, shows how bakugou’s... irritation/obsession/call-it-what-you-want with izuku keeps them around each other, despite the understanding that bk wants the other at, as we see in ch. 284, “arm’s length.”

and while there’s more I could probably say about their physical closeness, I do want to kind of address some of the other points you brought up sooooo:

I can’t say this for sure, because I have no real way of knowing and can only base my understanding of it off of things I’ve experienced, but I think there’s some things that could explain why izuku “adored” bakugou, despite the way he was treated.

on a narrative level, hori may have done this to 1) show the goodness of izuku’s heart (because, tbh, if I had to deal with half the shit he did, I wouldn’t be able to muster up a quarter of the kindness and continued grace that izu has). as the audience, we understand how good he is when we get to see him interact with bakugou despite everything, not with bitterness or malice, but with care and, when the moment calls for it (like the sludge attack or bk’s kidnapping) protectiveness. I also think it could be 2) a product of seeing bakugou as an obtainable symbol of heroism. i’m looking over the scene where they fight in ground beta and izu says some things that I think play into what you’re getting at with his admiration (also???????? these boys neeed t h e a r a p y oh my goodness):

(as a child, in a flashback) “Wait for me, Kacchan!”

“... like I said before, because I had nothing at first, along with the parts I hated about you, I saw vividly all the amazing things you could do!”

“You, who had so much that I didn’t have, were an amazing person much closer to me than All Might!”

“It’s because I thought you were amazing... That’s why... I kept chasing after you!”

(and so you get the idea eubfrunejjs). again, I don’t see it as illogical for a child who wanted nothing more than to be a hero (for someone who kept that dream alive despite everyone telling him it was impossible) to use someone close to him personally (bk) as a model of strength. there’s other role models, like the pro heroes, but bakugou was tangible to izuku; he was within his sights for most of his life. if everyone was constantly showering bakugou with praise, telling him that he has what it takes to be a hero, why wouldn’t izuku also internalize that, hence making the foundation for his nod of respect towards bk? I don’t think it’s a problem of exaggerating bk’s behavior (because he was SHITTY to izu. that is just... not up for discussion???), but more of trying to really get into izu’s mind enough to understand why he may prioritize the things he does, and why his heart is good enough to give bk the kindness that izuku was under no obligation to provide (and I am... working on that point. I love him for it, but it does boggle me at times).

Now... my last two points (because I’ve kept you here long enough dubwdjnwj). first, I have my opinions about where things are going currently in the manga (like with bakugou’s “atonement” and all that good shit) as well as how izuku’s trauma is portrayed coming out of his past with bakugou, but... I don’t want to speak ill of Hori and his writing abilities or anything. I’m here to enjoy the content he releases and, in doing that, all I can really do is trust that he’s telling the story as he sees best (because it is his story, not mine dbjndwjn).

and lastly, I think that if we’re moving towards a place in the narrative where bk finally a p o l o g i z e s, then that may give us a chance to explore these ideas more! with bakugou finally owning up to what he did, and telling izuku about it, that may be a chance for izu to also open up himself and share a bit more on where his mind’s been with overcoming/forgiving the past.

I hope some of this was helpful to you, nonnie!!!

#anti bakugou #no proofreading #because I'm an absolute piece of shit dbswjdjnjwd #so sorry for any mistakes dear #feel free to hit me up again if you want to talk about this more #or about anything really!!!#thank you again for sending this question my way!#I hope my nonsense helped with some of your confusion!#anon #bnha 285

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serenasoutherlyns · 3 years

Text

Full of Surprises ch. 1-3

casey/alex, past alex/olivia. semi-au & fuzzy timeline, set post season 9. cross-posted from ao3 so the first three chapters are coming at ya all at once. TW for series-typical violence, SA, and discussions of mental illness. less graphic than the show. Fluff, romance, angst! First three chapters are totally SFW.

And yet, as she scanned the place, she caught someone she recognized. Sitting at the bar, bent over a notebook, was Casey Novak; her deep red hair tied back in a casual ponytail, an empty highball glass in front of her, chewing on the end of a click pen.

1 .

This wasn’t where Alex would usually find herself. Or at least, it didn’t used to be. Maybe it was now.

Emily had spent her evenings sat at a booth in the back of the local pub, watching and sketching. The books she’d filled, she kept them safely tucked in a box in the back of her closet, initialed “EC.” Alex couldn’t find it in her to draw much anymore.

Anne was alone more than not, spent long evenings reading philosophy, went running early mornings, yoga classes, taught herself guitar, filled hours on hours with ideas and exhaustion. Alex didn’t spend much time poring over The Republic these days, her guitar was long covered in dust.

In law school, her friends had a favorite table in the window of a little cafe, they would go from morning coffee to afternoon study to sharing bottles of red wine, coming and going as they pleased, debating with hopeful glimmers in their bright eyes. Late into the night, arm wrapped around Sylvia’s waist, listening to her classmates carry on, she’d watch the candles burn down. Sylvia had called her Lexi, whispered in her ear on night walks in the cold Cambridge air to their little apartment, gentle hands soothing her most anxious times. Alex hadn’t felt like that in years.

College weekends were spent at punk shows in basements, though she knows now nobody would believe it, young Alex Cabot (the nickname had been coined in those years, sharper edged than the elaborate Alexandra) knew how to have some fun, at least back then. She’d dyed her hair black and worn studs on her collar, had a reputation for being a player, and it seemed like the back of her right hand was constantly stained with marker residue. Sticky floors and lipgloss on her neck, so many firsts all at once.

Her evenings during her years in the DA’s office were usually full of work, except the odd night when she’d meet the detectives for a drink at their haunt or head out with the other ADAs to some upscale cocktail bar. Two different crowds with two different mentalities, the detectives were dedicated to a fault, while the prosecutors were insufferably full of themselves. The detectives would tire her out by 11:30, but she’d find an excuse to leave the ADA excursions before 9. Far more special were the many evenings spent in Olivia’s apartment drinking two beers each and filling the quiet air with soft laughter and conversation.

But a little library themed speakeasy? Not her typical place. Well. No time like the present to change one’s habits. She’d been recommended it by an old law school friend a couple weeks ago, bumped into him on a whim in a coffee shop, was surprised she wasn’t dead, had been there last night, said it was right up her alley. Its illicit vibe wasn’t exactly to ADA Cabot’s tastes, no. But it scratched something in Alex, that hadn’t been satisfied since those basement nights and cozy cafe afternoons. From the place’s shelves she’d pulled a book of Pre-Raphaelite poetry and sat in a comfy chair with a scotch and a San Pelligrino, pleased, at least, to be out of the apartment for the evening.

She didn’t need the money, but she’d been copyediting textbooks freelance, filling up her time with grammar and word choice. She’d been reading a lot of fiction. She adopted two extremely fluffy cats. It was a pleasant, if mundane, life. It turned out, Alex had realized, that there were plenty of eager and capable young attorneys who could do her former job as well as she ever had. She felt, finally, like she deserved a bit of a rest. Needed one, really. Someone would do the prosecuting. The thought of stepping back in the courtroom, looking at the bench, examining witnesses, made her feel sick to her stomach, though she had once loved that life. It wasn’t her anymore— maybe it never really had been. She decided this was her kind of place after all. This iteration of Alexandra Cabot would drink bubbly water in secluded speakeasies while reading poetry.

Alex didn’t expect to see anybody she knew, not somewhere you needed a password to get into, where the music was indie folk and old jazz from a vintage record player, the drinks had names like the “Lady Brett” and the “Daisy Buchanan,” and most of the patrons were dressed in flannel with their noses buried in old books. And yet, as she scanned the place, she caught someone she recognized. Sitting at the bar, bent over a notebook, was Casey Novak; her deep red hair tied back in a casual ponytail, a half-empty highball glass in front of her, chewing on the end of a click pen.

This was surprising. Alex, though she hadn’t ever known Casey well, before her first brief return to life as Alex Cabot, only as one of the white collar ADAs (they ran in a bit of a pack, didn’t shy away from imitating the lifestyles of those they prosecuted). After knowing her as a prosecutor, Alex would expect to see Casey in a sports bar watching a game, or in some chrome-gilded bar with high ceilings drinking designer cocktails and cheering on a verbal showdown between her colleagues. Or in the center of a showdown like that. Not alone, writing in a moleskine, wearing a red flannel over a simple black dress. Casey was striking, Alex realized, before she realized she’d been looking a little longer than was considered normal. She hoped she didn’t seem like a creep watching from afar. She considered getting up, saying hello, but felt that Casey may not even remember her, may not want to be disturbed as she wrote, may not even recognize her anymore. She’d changed her appearance when she’d gone back to being Alex Cabot, cut her hair in a short bob, dyed it dark brown, wore thick rimmed glasses and simple clothing, too painful to be the formal blonde she used to be. Barely the same woman who’s once-murderer Casey had put behind bars those years ago.

Alex didn’t have to consider talking to Casey, however, because almost as soon as she returned to her book, she heard the sound of rubber soled sneakers against the old hardwood floors and a voice beside her.

“Hey stranger,” she said.

“Hi Casey,” Alex said as she slid her bookmark into place and looked up at the familiar face with a smile. “Care to join me?”

2 .

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Casey said as she sat down. “I’m allowed to, uh, talk to you right? Though I guess if I wasn’t you wouldn’t acknowledge me, which would be fine, by the way.” There was the Casey Alex remembered, her words getting ahead of her.

“It’s fine, I’m me again,” Alex said calmly, “It’s really good to see you, though I wouldn’t have imagined you to be the writing type, or the underground-library-bar type” Alex gestured to the leather notebook in Casey’s left hand.

“I’m full of surprises, Alexandra Cabot.” Casey said in a tone that suggested she was sarcastic, yet convinced Alex she was telling the truth. Alex sipped her water.

“What were you working on?” She asked, not wanting to pry, but very eager to catch up, to know why she was alone in a place like this.

“Oh, nothing, nothing interesting. Just some little bits and pieces.” Casey replied.

“Not argument notes on a Saturday night, I hope?” Alex asked, though she knew that she would’ve done the same thing back when she was in the DA’s office. Casey looked pale, uncomfortable for a moment. “I’m sorry,” Alex said, trying to soothe any pain she may have caused, though she couldn’t fathom why. “I don’t mean to bring up work when you’re trying to relax.” At this, Casey just looked confused.

“Alex, have you not heard?” Casey said, searching for signs of recognition in the woman’s eyes, but finding only further confusion continuing, her voice low, “I was censured a few months ago. I can’t practice law for at least three years.” Alex’s eyes opened wide and she set her glass down on the table between them. “I’m surprised the rumor hasn’t reached your circles yet, though I admit I’m glad I get to be the one to tell someone for a change.” Alex noticed Casey cross her arms together over her chest, closing herself up, making herself seem smaller.

It was quiet for a while, the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald on the speakers, quiet conversations, and pages turning filling it. “I’m sorry, no, I hadn’t heard. That’s too bad. Do you want to talk about it?” Casey grinned at the suggestion, oddly intimate for the two women who, while they hardly knew each other, had shared some of the most intense moments either of them had experienced in a courtroom.

“I think I’ve gone over it enough in my head, but uh, thank you.” Casey said, her voice wobbling on the thanks, “You know, you’re the first person so far to actually ask me that?”

“I’m sorry.” Was Alex’s reply. Surely Casey had people who were interested in her feelings?

“The circumstances were,” Casey trailed off as she looked for the right wording, “I was at fault, for sure. But I was just trying to do the right thing, and I made a mistake.”

“Nothing shocking, I hope?” Asked Alex, still trying to ascertain the nature of the censure, wondering about what the woman sitting across from her could’ve done.

“I violated due process, technically.” Casey replied, attempting to gauge Alex’s reaction, but seeing that it continued to be contemplative rather than condemning, continued, “I shouldn’t’ve, but I think all of us have done worse in our time. But I was not in Donnelly’s good graces, so…” instead of ending her sentence, Casey sipped the last of her drink and looked up at Alex nervously, hoping the woman wouldn’t judge her too harshly.

“Oh man, Casey. That’s really tough. I’m sorry.” Casey searched for any sign of disapprobation in Alex’s tone, but finding only genuine concern, relaxed.

“So I’ve been doing other stuff for a little while. Using my undergrad,” she said, truly sarcastic this time. “What about you Cabot? What’s keeping you from your old haunt? And what’s with the brunette look?”

Alex wanted to answer, but wasn’t going to let Casey get away completely with deflecting. “You didn’t answer my question, Novak. What’s in the notebook?”

Casey laughed. “You really are relentless.” Alex just raised an eyebrow smugly while sipping her drink, as if to say, go on. “It’s a poetry journal. I’ve kept one since college.”

This admission broke the unflappable Alex Cabot’s reserve and she couldn’t keep herself from a few giggles. “I apologize,” she said, “for laughing at you. Just, the idea of Casey Novak the poet would not have occurred to me.”

“Like I said,” Casey started, “I’m full of surprises. And nobody has laughed at me in a long time,” she continued, beginning to laugh herself. “Believe it or not, I have an English degree.”

“Ok, ok, stop. I’m not sure I can take many more shocks tonight,” teased Alex.

“And you, didn’t answer my question. What’s with the brunette? You look beautiful,” Casey said before realizing what she was saying, shutting herself up before she said anything embarrassing.

“I needed a change,” Alex said, “Something to distance myself from my old selves. I never dyed my hair before, or switched up my look at all really. Just, a change.”

“I get that.” Casey said, and Alex felt like she really did get it, somehow more than anybody else had to this point. She’d seen a few old colleagues and friends, and they all had looked at her with this mixture of fear and pity that made her wish she was invisible. But Casey seemed to say something deeper in just three words.

They talked together late into the night, about books and drinks (Casey had been a bartender in college, her knowledge on pairings was unparalleled) and everything but law. It was close to 2:00 am when Casey started to yawn.

“I’m really glad I ran into you, Alex,” she said as they left the bar, her voice scratchy from talking quietly, a subtle accent that Alex couldn’t quite place showing through under the influence of sleepiness and her light buzz. It was adorable, Alex found herself thinking.

“Me too, Casey,” Alex replied, and before she could turn to start walking towards her apartment, only a block or so away, she was met with a hug. It was brief, but Alex took in the scent of Casey’s coconut shampoo, sweet and pleasing.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be much of a hugger either,” Alex said as she pulled away, brushing her hands on Casey’s elbows.

“I guess you have a lot to figure out,” she said, playfully, as Alex handed her into a cab.

As Alex walked up the stairs to her apartment (she could afford a bigger place, but this one, this one felt right), Alex replayed the evening and regretted not asking for Casey’s phone number before she left. When she pulled her keys out of her pocket to unlock the door, she found a piece of paper, with a number and a note:

text me, so I can learn some of your surprises.

3 .

Alex was awake.

The same old dreams kept her restless. It had been a bad night, she’d slept less than 3 hours before she woke, startled, as the sun just began to rise, 5 am on a Saturday in September.

Foggily, she attempted to reconstruct the details of her pieced together dreams, her therapist, Julia, had convinced her to keep a journal. She said the nightmares of being shot, of nobody recognizing her, those made perfect sense, classic PTSD symptoms. With what happened to her it would’ve been stranger to not suffer it. But these hadn’t been those dreams.

Clare Cartwright, age 15 stood in line at the coffee shop. Her face was pink with tears but nobody saw anything out of the ordinary except for Alex, watching her from a table. Clare’s cheeks were wet and covered in running mascara but the barista didn’t bat an eye as she ordered an iced chai and sat down alone with her laptop. Tears turned to sobs turned to screams, thrashing, but she just kept typing, sipping her tea, nobody did a damn thing. Alex tried to rise from her seat, go to the girl, hold her and scratch her back while she cried, but the heavy weight of her own body kept her seated, powerless to do anything. She tried to yell across the room, tell her that it was going to be ok, she was going to put whoever hurt her behind bars, protect her from them forever. But when she opened her mouth all breath was sucked out of her lungs, she collapsed. Clare’s cries echoed ceaselessly.

Trevor Hamilton, a 20 something pro, had been turning tricks all night but one guy had taken it a little too far. He was sure his neck, hips would be covered in nasty bruises the next day. Oh well. Nobody believed a pro who cried rape. He stuffed his cash in his briefs and made his way towards the van he slept in with three other guys but before he could get there, he fell, body bloody. Nobody heard a sound but Trevor must have been shot. His blood was cold as it poured out of him onto the sidewalk but he stood up. He wasn’t dead. In the morgue, Melinda Warner ruled the cause of death a fatal gunshot wound to his back, probably a stray bullet, but he’d had sex the night he died, maybe an angry John. Alex told everyone that he wasn’t dead. Trevor whispered in her ear, asked her how could she let them say he was dead, how could she let them get away with saying such a thing like that, how could she let them call what had happened to him sex. Alex repeated herself over and over but all she got in return from the detectives were sympathetic looks of confusion as they sent her home for the day. She must’ve been too tired, Alex heard Olivia tell Elliot, maybe her mind was acting up again, sleep deprivation can kickstart psychosis. Someone would check in on her that night, make sure she wasn’t relapsing. Alex knew she wasn’t hallucinating, because Trevor had spoken to her in the clearest voice she’d heard in months. Alex wept for Trevor the whole way home and then some but nobody seemed to notice.

Annabelle Lamm wore a fuzzy pink nightgown when her grandmother brought her into the precinct one snowy night. Olivia called Alex to come to the precinct, they needed a warrant for the apartment, they found fluids in the girl’s hair of all places, grandma handed them an envelope full of pictures of Annie that nobody in the family admitted to taking. It was a no brainer warrant, Alex didn’t even mind waking up a judge for it if it meant getting whoever had been hurting this little girl as soon as possible. When Alex arrived to the building, Olivia wasn’t there and all the lights were off. Alex clicked on a lamp, wondered if Liv had found another ADA and rushed off without telling her anything. But the room was unfamiliar, empty, concrete. In the center of the room standing perfectly still was a 5 year old girl in a pink fuzzy nightgown. Alex ran to her but couldn’t get any closer. The little girl had a hollow expression and didn’t move an inch. Alex kept running and running but her feet stayed in the same spot, powerless.

Yeah. Powerless. As she awoke she felt like she was still running, head still spinning, still heard screams.

She wrote it all down in her journal. Julia had said that it was unusual for people whose jobs involved consistently levels of high stress and disturbance to have the severity of symptoms she had; that there was usually a tolerance that was built up to being horrified. Alex had either never had that tolerance or it had been washed away during the years she’d spent in WITSEC because her very brief return to the practice of law had nearly broken her.

“Sleep deprivation can kickstart psychosis,” Olivia had told her once when they first worked together, ostensibly referring to a case of statutory rape where the perp didn’t recall a single piece of the event; but Alex knew the comment was pointed at her, not the perp. Olivia could tell that Alex’s patience was growing thin, her mind unfocused; she must’ve deduced that Alex wasn’t sleeping much. But Alex already knew the warning signs.

Alexandra Cabot, age 16, sat shaking in a hospital room. It was almost finals week, she’d pulled a few all nighters, it was nothing serious, she’d told her school counselor a week prior when her friends had noticed her speech patterns growing muddled. She stayed up another 24 hours and the last thing she remembered was her roommates grabbing her wrists and pulling her inside off the balcony. After that, the school had installed locks on all the windows. Alexandra was freezing in her hospital gown, brain numbed out from the IV antipsychotics she was attached to. A few days in the hospital to take care of her injuries (she was informed that she had thrown herself against the wall while school officials took her to the ER), then a summer of residential treatment, hopefully she would be able to return to boarding school in the fall. Her father looked at her with a shattered expression, her mother treated her with cold indifference, her friends didn’t talk to her. Major depression with psychotic features.

Alex knew the consequences of not sleeping enough. She considered taking her cup of mint tea and heading back to bed, cuddling up to her cats, reading a book maybe, just trying to screw her head on right. Her body fought her though, nervous energy ran through her veins, so she elected to have a walk instead. Besides, it had been years since she’d had any serious episode. Anxiety, sure, and the occasional month or so of depression, a few close calls, but regular therapy and medication kept her more or less in the clear since college. Her family, her therapists, had suggested she go into a different kind of law, something stimulating but less distressing like, intellectual property, but she had refused, felt called to prosecuting. But her experience was what made her a great prosecutor, and it was why she had been so adamant about the proper handling of cases involving those suffering from mental illness, especially victims, but perps as well. She knew how it felt, more than she admitted to almost anybody, but she also knew there were paths through it.

The same old nightmares, but Alex was a different person. The old Alex would’ve thrown herself even harder into work than usual, won her cases even more viciously, assuaged her feelings of powerlessness by asserting control. This Alex knew that complete control was unattainable.

The September air was cold this early in the morning, but bracing. The contrast between her thermos full of hot tea pleased her, she pretended she was a dragon as she breathed steam. She smiled to herself at the thought and at the bright orange sun rising through the treetops in the park by her apartment. This had been the right choice, sunrises were her favorite magic. Content covered her like a well fitting dress, shaking off the nerves slowly. The most dedicated joggers and newsstand operators were the only other people out this early, the quietest time in the city. Alex’s phone buzzed.

Casey: Nice coat, Cabot.

Alex looked up from her phone, confused. What? Maybe it was delivered late. She’d seen Casey two days ago for coffee— they’d developed a friendship. Texts, coffee, nothing too deep; but then it had only been a couple weeks since they’d run into each other at the library bar. Alex liked Casey. She was funny and a good listener, and she always had something to say. She didn’t walk on eggshells around Alex either, making Casey unique among her friends. She’d tried to meet up with Liv right when she’d gotten back to the city the second time, but the way she looked at her cut way too deep, like she was a hero, like she was a victim. Both of those she may well be, but she needed to be treated as a friend. Casey did that for her, down to playfully teasing her over her eccentric habits. Another text:

Casey: Turn around, Clueless.

Not many people had ever called Alexandra Cabot clueless. Alex turned around, and Casey waved at her excitedly from the jogging path and without waiting for Alex’s reaction began to run up to where she was sitting. Alex was surprised to see her, happily so. She knew Casey was athletic, but didn’t take her to be the 5:30 running type. She wore tight leggings and a running jacket, and the biggest smile Alex had seen from her. She looked beautiful in the soft early light, Alex thought, then immediately blushed at that thought.

She’d never been one to shy away from her sexuality, especially when she realized the destructive role repression had played in her life before she came out. Alex had been out since college, but she tried very hard not to crush on straight women. She knew she couldn’t control who she was attracted to, but it always made her feel a bit dejected, so. Nip that in the bud.

Alex didn’t have much time to consider the ethics of her thoughts, because Casey was right in front of her, grabbing her hands.

“It’s so good to see you! A second surprise encounter, must be fate, Cabot,” Casey said in a quiet voice, a wink in her words.

“Something like that,” Alex replied, “What are you doing out so early?”

“I could ask the same of you; I’m just finishing up my run. You are wearing a fancy coat and looking deep in thought, in fact, you are being far more suspicious than I am, look at how many people are out here jogging, I mean,”

“Oh my god,” Alex cut her off with an eye roll, “Ok, stop cross-examining me.”

Casey gave Alex a genuine laugh, “Old habits die hard.” She paused for a second. “You look pale, did you sleep?”

“Thanks, Casey.” Alex gave her a playful glare. “If three nightmares in three hours counts, then yes, I slept.”

“Oh you poor thing. I’d hug you but,” She gestured to her sweaty figure. “You wanna get breakfast? I’ll pop back to my apartment, shower, and meet you at yours in say, half an hour?”

Alex started slightly at the familiarity, but responded, “Yeah, sure, sounds fun. Uh, here I’ll text you my address.”

Did Casey blush? Alex couldn’t be sure due to her post-run glow and the chill in the air. “Sorry if that’s too familiar, I know we usually plan these things out, and I guess I just assumed you didn’t have plans, it’s totally fine if you don’t want to, you know, runner’s high and all,” but Alex cut her off again with a raise of her eyebrows.

“Are you retracting the offer, Novak?” Alex couldn’t resist the urge to tease the woman in front of her. “Because if I recall correctly, I said yes.”

Casey grew more flustered, replied with a quick, “Nope, still happening, see you in half an hour,” and took off running, leaving Alex behind as she laughed in disbelief.

#law and order svu #calex #cabenson #alex cabot #casey novak #olivia benson #svu #svu imagines #alex cabot x casey novak #alex cabot x olivia benson #svu fanfiction #fanfiction #author #casey novak poetry nerd

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hesesols · 4 years

Text

For Queen & Country

Day 17 of Ichiruki month 2020: Coronation

Summary: She knows her place. She is merely a pretender to a princess and marries the King in the former’s stead.

Rating: M

FF/ao3

"Father, what is marriage?"

Byakuya Kuchiki, Lord of Western Rukongai – father, duke, kingmaker; stilled.

Bright violet eyes stared back defiantly, wisps of midnight black hair teasing her nape; taking after his late wife in both temperament and appearance. She was tiny- barely reaching his knees and he easily picked her up, setting her on his lap.

"It is what happens when two people decide to live together forever," he told her.

Here, the child frowned. Forever, sounded far too long. A quarter-hour for lessons and a day for songs under the sun- those were reasonable terms of engagement. She couldn't even sit still for her lessons much less consider something that would mean longer than a day.

Still, she thought of the potential advantages to the arrangement. Miss Hinamori gave her sweets if she behaved during her lessons and sat very very still. Some days, when she was especially good, she would ask Miss Hinamori for chocolate.

The governess had laughed and called her a word- shrewd, she wondered what it meant.

Her eyes narrowed, if she could endure her lessons for sweets and desserts- surely that must mean that there are greater things to be gained from a long-suffering pact as this?

Folding her arms very solemnly, she asked her father to name the price.

"What would it mean for me?"

A bride- fine gossamer silk, bolts of colourful fabrics woven of every colour known to man, bone-china, her mother's pearls; blessed, cherished, happy, loved.

A wife- bearer of the world, the silent matriarch, keeper of secrets, manageress of a household and an empty bed; tried, dignified, wise, experienced.

But those are visions of a man old and weary of the world, she will learn of the Truth at her own pace. He gave her something less tangible- facts.

"When you marry, you take on your husband's last name and share your fortunes with him, take care of him, obey him, give him ch-"

He caught himself just in time. As fascinating as the conversation was, Lord Byakuya did not fancy a conversation with his daughter on the matter of baby-making and answer her queries on how children were made.

That would come much later and at the hands of an experienced governess, preferably.

He cleared his throat loudly and looked at his daughter who had the most thoughtful expression set on her face while chewing on the ends of her braids. The cogs in her brain turned.

Everything?

Her young mind was devastated- that meant her favourite cakes and sweets, even that sweet little rabbit that she had rescued, half of everything she had was some horrible boy's future property?

Boys- like Renji, were horrible and mean, they had no appreciation for fine, pretty things like her drawings, they liked to tug her hair and call her names. They were rough, rude and were more wont to destroy than build.

Her dolls- china, and straw-made, still bore scars as a testament to their ill-treatment at the hands of her unruly siblings.

"Must I?"

"Are you a good person?"

She nodded vigorously. She obeyed Miss Hinamori instructions and did what she was told (most of the time). There was also the time when she saved a rabbit from the cook's horrible dogs. The rabbit- she called him Chappy, now lives in a pretty cage and was served fresh carrots daily. Miss Hinamori had praised her and called her kind, so she must be.

"Then you should," he said.

The raven-haired noblewoman in-the-making made a face.

"That is absolutely mad, Father," she tugged on his sleeves and fixed him with her strongest gaze, "why would people do such things?"

"For duty, honour and sometimes, love, my dearest."

The girl frowned- 'duty' and 'honour'. She held both words in contempt with a vengeance unbecoming for a Lady of noble status, for it was used with relish when seven year-olds were made to do what they were told.

It was her 'duty' as a future Lady of noble birth to be in bed early, to share her toys with her visiting cousins, to find dancing and other leisurely activities like playing the piano-forte as natural as breathing. And much to her dismay, she would find that as the years passed, the list too grew. Now, her 'duties' even included making 'scintillating' and 'polite' conversations with even the rudest of her associates. The words did not gain any favour at the hands of her father- who was a far more eloquent speaker than Miss Hinamori and infinitely more superior in his knowledge of the world.

Rukia was made to feel stupid and insignificant when they come out to play.

Renji says 'love' with a tone that sealed it as the most despicable thing under the sky and she supposed she would agree with her adopted brother for once- it must be a dangerous and strange thing indeed for some people to willingly share half of everything they owned with another person, especially with icky boys and their grubby hands.

Furthermore, she was reminded of the cloying sweet smell of perfume that her older cousin favoured upon the arrival of her betrothed. The older girl with her sudden airy, breathless tone of voice and her betrothed with the oddest smile on his face that frankly made him look foolish. Miss Hinamori had claimed that it was because it was a love match between the young couple and it did not happen often in people of her circle.

She wrinkled her nose and prayed that she never succumbed to it.

"Father," she began solemnly, "I do not think I shall ever marry."

The normally stoic noble smiled at her. Children have such amusing ideas and thoughts. Keeping his face straight and trying very hard to remain stern, he told her.

"We shall see."'

Inevitably, she learns.

Love is tradition- Kuchiki Manor in all its daunting glory and untouched forest, family- her brothers, insufferably rude as they may be, warmth- her father, in his infinite wisdom and sagacity, companionship- Miss Hinamori, her surrogate mother and confidante.

It is like wine- aging well with the passage of time and a fruit of labour known only to those who have endured and triumphed together and then content in the arms of each other, have stayed. It is tender- kisses on the cheeks, bear hugs and booming laughter, and it grows out of the fondness of one's heart and intimate wishes.

Marriage on the other hand is sudden and tempestuous. It is the unsuspecting storm that came with all the fury known to God, the end to unspoken promises and ill-kept vows.

It comes when a Royal Princess flees the machinations of her own Father. It comes at the bidding of a Mad King with even wilder ambitions- thinly-veiled threats and open affronts. It comes with her dowry-horses laden with riches, ballads and tapestries, rolls of expensive furs and leather skins, a procession of servants, craftsmen, artisan- bearing coat of arms, her motherland's pride, the history and culture of her people- an entourage befitting of a Royal Princess; and ends with her hand offered on a golden pedestal.

It is duty and honour, the sealing of two nations bound now in kinship- it is momentous, sweeping and public.

It is anything but her wedding.

She knows her place. She is merely a pretender to a princess and marries the King in the former's stead.

She stood tall as she said goodbye to all that she has ever known to be home. Her brothers said very little and too much all at once. Her sacrifice burnt them and that mark singed the family tapestry. Hath they hung their heads down for shame or sorrow?

Her father appeared- stoic and wordlessly pressed her mother's pearls into her hands.

She ascends the steps to the throne room looming ahead- a sea of unknown faces and stunned silence. She is veiled and shrouded in white- made to stand next to a man she was to call husband for all eternity and become mother to his nation. She hears the words and murmurs of the clergyman, gives her consent when the holy man bids her to, bows when it is expected of her- but processes very little.

Her husband-she stares at the brown-eyed stranger with wild hair and watches with muted horror as he slides the golden band onto her finger.

"Play the game as you were taught to," he told her. Scarcely daring to meet her eyes, he gripped her hands tight. Yes of course, the charade must hold- should the truth be made public, the consequences will be severe. He laid another necklace- heavier in weight and heritage; around her neck and clasped it shut.

It felt like a sentence- a Deadman's noose hanging around her neck. He kissed her cheeks.

"For duty and honour- Lady Rukia Kuchiki."

"For as long as I live, I shall cherish you and it is my hope that our union shall beget a prosperous future for both kingdoms."

His words sound like a scripted play. She grips his hand perhaps a little tighter in response- a show; she must always let them see who they want to see- a bride, a happy, beautiful, willing bride who is elated at her marriage to a young King.

She smiles and he places the jewel-encrusted tiara upon her head- her crowning glory.

The heavy weight and the gravity of her decision sink into her. She will serve the Crown and her King- she will be a good wife, she will honour her vows, and she will be Queen.

"My kingdom is now your home and the fate of her people- her people shall honour you as their Queen."

"Remember your lessons," he whispered as she turned to leave. The Court across the sea may have different heralds and customs, may style and culture themselves differently, and favour soaring towers instead of domes, but all Courts are snake pits. Know one and you know them all.

She looked into his eyes and nodded.

She marched out of the centuries-old manor- head held high, shoulders squared for upon it laid the fate and honour of her household. She spared no further glances at the Manor as she climbed into the carriage- within her Kingdom at least, Lady Rukia Kuchiki has ceased to exist the moment it was decided that she would marry a King in the eloped princess's stead.

She keeps her gaze on her husband- high cheekbones, strong jawline, thin lips, deep set eyes of a curious shade between brown and gold. She sees a man in his prime, broad-shouldered and tall- shaped and molded as though he was one of those heathen Gods.

She is young but not naïve. Trepidation lines her thoughts.

What does he have in mind for her- Queen, envoy, impostor?

He bends down slightly to unveil her and kisses her on her lips chastely. When he draws away, he remains expressionless and she reads nothing from his eyes. The erupting cheers from the crowd distract her and she heaves a breath of relief.

How odd it is that a duke's daughter who has never even dreamt of seeing the blue sea, would someday find herself heralding a procession of her nation's finest to a Court so many leagues away, of taking part in a scandalous hoax for the better of two kingdoms.

First princess, now queen to a gilded nation of hyphenated names and odd houses, married to a man whose first name she doesn't even know.

Perhaps such is the strange way of life.

It is as expected, a politically-fuelled marriage between him and his foreign bride.

His ministers of course, waxed poetries of her beauty and grace. She is to bring with her the riches from the Court beyond the sea, skills and knowledge from another kingdom, books written and inventions made from the best amongst their contemporaries, spices and trade.

Her blood is old, the noblemen of his Court reminded him- a scion of a noble and powerful kingdom, steep in tradition and a well-known history of bearing prodigious sons. She will bear him strong heirs- sons to carry forth his name and legacy.

What more should a young king, still childless and only sisters for siblings, desire? It is no secret of course, should he die now, issueless- the throne will go to a viscount from another kingdom- a son of his great-grandaunt's bloodline, a man who has never even set foot on this land.

Yet as he regards his young wife, he frowns; she is not what he expected.

"Who are you?"

She stiffens but the smile on her face doesn't falter. If nothing else, he at least commends her on her acting and composure.

"What do you mean, my lord?"

He rolls his eyes, takes another sip of the wine as he keeps his hand on the small of her back, leaning in to whisper to her ears only.

"You're not the Princess."

He has seen the Princess Orihime once. Though from afar and hidden in the shadows, while he was passing through a neighbouring kingdom under the guise of a different name. A serendipitous affair that ends with a dance for the two of them, and a kiss on the back of her hand as is proper.

This woman in front of him, heralded by so many as beautiful, virtuous and kind, and a million other things associated with that of the paragon of queenliness, and for all intents and purposes, his wife and future mother of his unborn children; is not that woman.

The two are nothing alike.

Her smile quivers- it's the first crack in her defences.

"You are mistaken, my lord. I am the Princess Orihime."

They're surrounded by courtiers. Each one more devious and sycophantic than the other; Rukia is determined to clench her teeth and bear through the confrontation. To any and all onlookers, they must appear to be, at all times, unruffled and polished.

He says nothing more after that.

A lord so-and-so comes forward to present himself and Rukia contents herself by letting her mind wander while the portly man dawdles on about the festivity of the occasion, on what a grand wedding it was, repeats the word 'grandeur' and 'blessed' for at least three more times before the King sends him away and in parting, flourishes with a deep bow, murmuring how he wishes only the very best for the royal couple.

Neither of said couple deigns to utter a syllable more to each other as the festivities and merry-making continues.

The King's Bedchamber is where they retire for the first night to they consummate their marriage and mark their beginning as a pair- from henceforth, princess and daughter no more, but a Queen she will be- till Death spares them the misery.

Moonlight pours forth from the open window into the darkly lit room. Rukia is clad only in the sheerest of silk and bare underneath it. She feels vulnerable under his gaze, more so when his hands grab her by the wrist and tugs her towards him.

Alone with no interruptions from her ladies-in-waiting and his stewards, he continues with the unrelenting rounds of questions, fingers digging deep into her flesh.

He asks her again.

"Who are you?"

She sighs, lowering her gaze respectfully, recites it all with an even tone.

"I am Princess Orihime. I—"

He laughs- mirthless and cruel, cutting her short when the hold on her arm becomes tight enough to bruise. She hisses in response.

"No more lies. Or would you prefer me calling you by another woman's name even when we are in bed?"

She clamps her mouth shut.

"It's not that hard. I only need a name."

Silence still.

"Well if you are so unwilling. Perhaps a member of the entourage would be more forthcomi—"

"My name is Rukia."

The glare she shoots him is fierce and not at all like the simpering front she puts up.

"Who are you, Rukia?"

She bites her lips.

"A nobody."

"And why would they send me a nobody instead of the Princess, Rukia?"

Her breath hitches when his arm brushes against her side, glide across the rise of her breasts and leans in close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath on hers. Fingers busy themselves with the hemline of her nightdress, cut far shorter than she is used to.

"I don't know."

"Where is the Princess, Rukia?"

She keeps quiet, clenches her fists tight enough that her nails dig into her palm. She mustn't say a word or give away the unfortunate circumstances that brought her to him, to this country and Court. The Mad King is watching even now, his spies lurking among her entourage and numerous attendants.

Her family- her father and brothers are all under his mercy.

She can't.

The price of failing is much too steep for her to bear.

"I-I don't know."

She looks at the young King dead in the eyes and lies anyway, uncaring if he sees past her lies or takes them at face value.

"Oh, is that so?"

There is a rip in her gown. The flimsy material gives way with a rough tug and Rukia steels herself, looking into her husband's eyes- amber, dark, knowing; as she steps out of the puddle of ruined silk and kisses him.

He tastes of wine- the richness of it lingering on his lips; and secrets- many of which she will never be privy to, but that's fine too. She has no use of his heart. The stiffness in the set of his shoulders gives way when she winds her arms around his neck and cards her fingers through his hair.

Sex, she has been told, serves as a good distraction- if nothing else.

He doesn't fight her.

There's a growl of approval as sinewy arms snake around her slim waist and pulls her flush along his body and under him on the bed as he does away with his clothes. Underneath them, he is broad-chested and beautiful- the lines of his body carved and sculpted like a work of art with perfection in mind. A scar here, a mark there; a trail of wispy golden hair that marks the length of his torso, leading to the –

"My eyes are here," he teases.

A collision of lips, teeth and tongues as his lips find hers again. There is heat there, a fire that she stokes when her hand brushes against his arousal- intentional or artless, she doesn't know; not when his molten gaze strips her down to her very core of neediness.

The suppleness of her flesh and her tender sex is his to do as he sees fit. His fingers tease at her nipples, parting the folds of her dripping sex and she gasps as they slide knuckle-deep into her.

"Ichigo," he tells her in between heavy grunts.

"W-What?"

She is more than a little breathless under him and the way her sex clenches and tightens- she hisses. How meaningless words have become.

"My name. You should know. That's the name you should be screaming out when I make you come."

She doesn't remember much after.

The rest of the night is a blur and blend of heady emotions, the stickiness of his spent on her inner thighs- soft moans barely recognizable as hers while he sinks into her- heavy with want, and makes a home in her warmth. Oh quivering muscles, the tight coil of nerves unravelling, the snap of his hips and the gleam in his eyes- golden and wild.

She soars and peaks with him in tandem until dawn is but moments away and he withdraws with a soft murmur.

"Sleep."

In the morning when her ladies-in-waiting find her, she is covered in bruises and bites. The ruined silk- a weak excuse for a dress to begin with- is in tatters on the floor and the unmistakable stains on the sheets mark the sharing of sins and desires.

She is sore and aching over patches of black and blue. She doesn't want company.

But company stays.

The King's orders they crow and the smiling ladies titter, nervously ushering her into a warm bath with scented oils and rose petals. The nice-smelling blend they lather into her hair sooths her tired body, enough for her to regain thoughts and some use of her limbs.

The King is an ardent lover and thorough in his exploration of her. Even now, Rukia doesn't think she has the energy left within her to even crawl unless prompted.

"Is he everything you had imagined?"

Rukia flashes back to her childhood memories. Of her at her father's lap- on the transactional nature of marriages and bridal price and dowries, and the meaning of duty, honour and love; she laughs—

And doesn't stop until tears stream down her face.

FF/ao3

Sneak peek for IR royalty AU dedicated to the lovely @animeokaachan.

I couldn’t resist.

Review, like, comment, reblog or drop me an ask to send some love my way.

#ichiruki #ichirukimonth2020 #ichiruki month #irmonth2020 #mine #for queen and country #fanfic #royalty AU #rukia is an impostor and ichigo knows #day 17: coronation

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missdreamsalot · 4 years

Text

The Queen’s Guard- Ch.1

A/N: Hello, everyone! This is my first attempt at a Fanfic and I’m both nervous and excited about finally posting the very first chapter. I’m still quite new to this platform and haven’t been quite active up until now but I love Choices and want to be a little more lively here. Thank you, and I hope you guys like this!

Book: The Royal Romance

Main Pairings: Leo x OC, Liam x OC.

Future Pairings: Maxwell x OC, Bastien x OC, Drake x Olivia

Summary: A rotten apple in the family threatens their lives and there is only one way to get rid of bad blood.

Masterlist

Warnings: Violence, Language, Sexual Content, Angst, Dark Situations, Character Death

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of The Royal Romance, or Rules of Engagement; they belong to Pixelberry. I only own my OC’s.

Enjoy~ *ヽ(◕ヮ◕ヽ)

CH 1: Ghosts

In the Ramsford Estate, Elle sat quietly at the vanity of the room she occupied for the past summer. She stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror. Her long, brown hair had dulled, olive skin had paled, and the light of her green eyes had been extinguished.

A month had passed since the day of the Coronation, 30 days since the man she loved broke her heart, and the 720 hours of self-loathing had crippled her at last.

A broken cry escaped her lips as she hugged herself tight. How could she had been so foolish to think that it could work? He had his place and she had hers – a place that she hid from everyone in order to protect them, to protect him.

She knew she couldn’t stay much longer, no matter how much she wanted to fight for him, it simply wouldn’t be possible. Her enemies would only continue to draw them apart. The pictures that were published was only the tip of the iceberg and from there it would only spiral into darker depths, unleashing more suffering and heartbreak.

‘It’s over’, she thought.

Out on the patio that same evening, the night air danced through Elle’s hair as she stared up at the sky. She returned her eyes to Maxwell’s face that had dropped into sadness upon her declaration of leaving and returning home.

“I want to fight with you on this” the younger Beaumont brother started, “and I want to say to give it a little more time, that things will get better, but-“ he sighed, rubbing his face in frustration, “I don’t know when or if it will. I blame myself for putting you in this position, and I’m sorry-“

“Maxwell,” Elle placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. None of us could’ve predicted this. It’s out of our control.” It truly was. The capacity of which they can change things was out of their hands.

Suddenly the world swayed, she grabbed the front of her dress as her stomach churned and she groaned miserably.

Maxwell perked up in alarm as the color drained from her face. “What’s wrong?”

Elle waited until it passed while contemplating if she should express the truth to Maxwell-A truth that even herself could not come to terms with.

She shook her head, “Nothing, I just-”

“Forgot to take your iron?” Maxwell finished.

Her eyes met his and she smiled faintly. “Yes,” was all she could muster. A few moments later he returned with a glass of orange juice and an iron pill.

“Don’t tell me you forgot you were anemic?” Maxwell stated lightheartedly as he handed her the supplement first. “You need to take better care of yourself!”

“I do,” she spoke softly. After gulping down the last drop of juice, she gave the glass back to him and again her eyes found their way back to the starry sky. For an instant, she found herself drifting away and, instead of the stars, there were two of the brightest eyes looking down at her- tender, iridescent, and blue…” but I can’t do that here.” She continued, “Thank you for being there for me, Maxwell. You’re such a great friend. Honorable at that...”

“You make it sound like I’m never gonna see you again,” Maxwell pouted. She blinked away the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

“I-AH!”

He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tightly against him. “Don’t worry! If you ever need anything, I’ll always be here for you!”

“Okay, okay!” she exclaimed, patting his shoulder soothingly. “I’ll keep that in mind…”

Before they knew it, Elle was walking the tarmac to the plane that would whisk her way. She looked back, giving one last wave to the Beaumont brothers, Maxwell waving enthusiastically, while Bertrand stared as intensely as ever, giving her a final nod of acknowledgement.

As she took her seat, the tears finally spilled and her eyes never burned so painfully.

The jet began its departure, rising into the brilliance of the clear, blue sky and leaving behind a man who could only dream to be with the woman he loved.

6 Months Later /// Present Day: Cordonia ///

Liam sat at his desk hunched over a flood of papers. He was in the middle of finalizing a public statement when there was a knock at his door. “You may enter.” He called out; his attention glued to the paper in front of him. With a dramatic swirl, he signed the parchment in satisfaction.

“Hello, baby brother.”

Liam looked up with a smile that didn’t quite reach his once lively blue eyes. “Leo.” He stood up and they shared a hug before parting. “How are you doing?” He began rustling through the documents, piling them haphazardly until they were neat enough that he placed his main piece front and center; ready to go.

“Well, if you checked your phone every now and then you would know.” Leo teased, wandering over to the drink cart.

“Sorry, it’s been a bit hectic lately,” Liam grabbed his coat draped over the back of his chair and dug into the inside pocket. As he pulled his phone out, his keys fell out and hit the floor. He bent down to pick them up and gazed over them for a moment, his eyes settling on a particular keychain. He ran his thumb over the miniature statue of liberty before placing the keys back.

His older brother chuckled, “I was only messing with you. No need to apologize.”

Liam turned to face his brother who was already holding out a glass of bourbon for him. “Thanks.”

“My life is viewed as a bit of a train wreck but,” Leo shrugged with a gulp of his drink, “it’s a wanted one.”

“Always the devil may care attitude huh, Leo?”

“You’re surprised?”

Liam shook his head as his lips quirked up in a grin while he scrolled indifferently through his phone.

Leo peered at him over the rim of his glass, taking note of how exhausted he looked. His once-tamed blonde hair was disheveled due to the many times of running his hands through it, and he was hunched forward with an unseen weight on his shoulders.

“Li?”

“Hm?” Liam met his brother’s gaze, his phone closing with a click.

“You know I’m here for you, right?”

Liam chuckled, but it was an empty one. “What brought this on?”

“You look like shit for one.”

Liam opened his mouth to retort, but what escaped was only a breath of air. He gazed somberly at the dancing flames in the fireplace. The door to the study opened then and Queen Mother Regina walked in. She smiled softly upon seeing her stepsons.

“Well, I’m glad to see us all here.” She took the couch in between them, setting a thin folder down on the low table. “What was it you wanted to discuss, Liam?”

“Hello to you too, Regina. I’m okay thanks for asking.” Leo interjected nonchalantly.

“I thought you would appreciate me getting straight to the point. I’m sure your itching to get out of here.” Regina stated. “You look well though. I see the divorce holds no ill will for you among other things.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “Still giving me shit for that? Of course, you are.”

“I warnedyou about her and looked what happened.”

Liam shifted uncomfortably.

“Right, I’m sure you predicted that she would cheat on me with the bartender. I appreciate you looking out for me.” Leo uttered with contempt.

“I’m leaving.” He blurted out. Both parties turned to Liam at his announcement.

Regina was first to respond, her eyes glimmering with concern. “What do you mean by ‘leaving’?”

“On a break of sorts.”

The Queen Mother relaxed internally. For a moment she thought he was abdicating the throne and that would not have boded well for the kingdom. “First and foremost, Liam...” she started. “Have you spoken to Madeleine about this?”

“No. I wanted to disclose it with you two first.”

“She’s your wife. I think she holds precedence.”

Liam exhaled sharply. “Regardless, I plan on leaving in two days. I’ve already scheduled a press conference for tomorrow morning.

Regina remained silent for a moment, considering his words. “I suppose I should’ve seen this coming. You’ve been opting out of important social events and avoiding the press. Your absence has already become noticed by the people. However, do you know how this is going to look? The people will question ‘why all of a sudden’. So, why now, Liam?”

Liam stared at the now empty tumbler in his hands. “There is nothing to it. I simply need some time to myself. They’ll understand. A lot has happened.”

Leo’s heart bled for him as he looked at the shadows that settled underneath his brother’s eyes. He didn’t know the particular details about what happened following the events of the social season, only that the woman that had captured his little brother’s heart left without a word, taking a bit of it, if not the entire thing with her. Leo knew better than to allow Liam to deal with it on his own, but he couldn’t quite find the right words to say without it awakening a considerable amount of pain. He had approached Drake about it and Leo was only met with a biting remark from the snarky man.

“Maybe if you stuck around long enough, you’d know...”

Leo knew better than to fire back, taking into account that it was situation that made Drake react the way he did and that, well… his words stung more than Leo would like to admit.

When the scandal had surfaced at night of the Coronation, Leo knew that it was nothing but a despicable ruse to get the foreign woman out of the running. If it was one thing he regretted the most it was leaving his little brother to endure it on his own. Liam had his close companions, yes, but there was a bond between the brothers no one else can reciprocate. In the end, Leo had selfishly decided to leave, having had enough of the royal crowd. He had taken advantage of his brother’s selflessness asking Liam if he wanted him to stay knowing well enough the he wouldn’t allow him to do that. Liam knew of his distaste towards the royal lifestyle and its overbearing rules. He had insisted that it was alright and was quite determined to figure it out and that, more importantly, he didn’t want Leo to miss out on the motocross tour that was starting in the following days. In turn, Leo did not hesitate to pack his bags and leave.

Leo remembered him saying, ‘Everything will be fine.’ He would only find out later that it would turn out not to be.

Regina sighed before continuing. “Liam, I understand the pain of losing someone you love. Go on, take the time you require to heal your heart. Nevertheless, don’t forget, what is important. Following your father’s death, the Cordonian people need you right now. You cannot abandon them for long. It is your duty to represent our kingdom, bestow strength and trust within our people, but they are beginning to lose faith in you as a king. You need to prioritize their needs and reestablish stability,” Regina paused for a breath, carefully thinking about her next words. “But you needn’t do it alone...Liam, you have your queen and now it is time to consider other things…”

Dread seeped through the blood in Liam’s veins. He knew he couldn’t delay the inevitable much longer. He understood his duties as ruler for a country he loved dearly, but the past 7 months had been hard on him and his father’s death only added to the unrelenting agony in his chest.

“…an heir will bring on tremendous rapture…a flourishing kingdom…”

Liam stopped listening as her words continued. They trailed off in echoes and swirls inside his head with no grasp.

Liam wanted her. The woman that visited his dreams every night. He dreamt of a life with her. There was love, laughter, and endless bliss. That’s how he pictured his future once and thinking about it now made his heart ache much more. He felt like he was suffocating. His chest was tight and his eyes burned from the swelling of unshed tears.

Liam swallowed his anguish and forced out his next words, “I will…proceed with such circumstances when I return.”

“Liam-” Leo began, but when Liam looked up at him with sadness his gaze and half a smile, he realized there was nothing he could say that would make him feel better. He slumped in his seat.

A heavy silence descended them until Regina cleared her throat. “Is there anything else you wanted to address, Liam?”

Liam shook his head. “I have said everything that needed to be said. Thank you for your time. You may be on your way now.”

Regina gave a curt nod. She reached over for the folder on the table and opened it. Removing an article, she stood and faced Leo.

She handed him a pastel green envelope. “I received a correspondence from Evangeline, your mother, several days ago and it’s addressed to you…”

Leo stunned, didn’t know what to say. He grabbed the letter with uncertainty.

“What you decide to do is up to you.”

“Thank you, Regina.”

The Queen Mother gave him a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry about earlier. You didn’t deserve that. I just don’t like seeing you get hurt- either of you. Life is not an easy tread…” She looked over at Liam for a brief moment. Although he was hunched over fiddling with his wedding band, his gaze was a million miles away. “you simply have to do the best you can. Anyways, I’ll leave you boys to it.” She exited the room, leaving her sons with their thoughts.

Leo flipped the letter around in his hands contemplating what to do. Why contact him after all these years? She never made an effort to contact him before. Did he really want to reconnect with the woman that abandoned him? The one that left him feeling alone and unloved? His gaze shifted, descending thoughtfully on the bright flames crackling in the fireplace. He stood up and sauntered over to bring the letter above the blaze.

“Leo!” Liam gasped. He felt his brother’s hand enclose his. “Think about this.”

Against the illumination, Leo could make out the scribbles of black ink etched across the paper- her handwriting. He sighed heavily, his heart and mind in a battle of emotions-anger, hope, sadness, or elation. He didn’t know what to feel.

“At least read what she has to say.”

Leo withdrew. “You’re right, I suppose.”

“’You’re right, as always’ is what you meant to say.” Liam added humorously. Leo shoved him playfully, packing the letter in his jacket.

“You’re not going to read it now?”

“I’ll do it on my own time. I need to process this.” Leo poured himself another much-needed drink and immediately chugged it down.

Liam’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. He peered at it inquisitively as it flashed the familiar unknown number. This was the third one from the mysterious caller this past week. He answered the call. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello? May I ask who’s calling?” Leo locked eyes with Liam, brows raised in curiosity. Liam shook his head. There was nothing but white noise at the other end. “Hel-” The call ended abruptly with a ding.

“That was strange.” Leo commented.

“It wouldn’t be the first peculiar occurrence. I’ve been getting them randomly over the past three months.”

“Have you had Bastien look into it?”

“My King.”

The two men turned as the head of the king’s guard made his presence known.

“What is it, Bastien?” Liam inquired. He sensed something was wrong.

“It seems there has been a breach in security. An intruder-a woman. We have her contained if you would like to see her.”

Leo whistled, “This day just keeps getting rather interesting.”

Bastien looked grim,

“She says she is here to kill the King of Cordonia.”

#choices #choices leo #choices liam x oc #choices liam #choices leo x oc #trr leo #leo rys #prince leo #king liam #choices trr #trr fanfic #choices the royal romance #trr #pixelberry #the royal romance #trr liam

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5lazarus · 4 years

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Winter in Amaranthine, Ch. 3: Nathaniel Howe

Winter in Amaranthine: The Wardens' companions decide to leave, and Warden-Commander Arana Mahariel cannot find a reason good enough to tell them no. Meanwhile, letters between the Warden and Leliana get lost in translation, and Arana makes it worse.

Chapter 3, Nathaniel Howe: Rendon Howe's son requests leave. Arana is glad to see him go.

Read on Archive of Our Own here. ch 1: Anders & Justice ch 2: Velanna & Sigrun ch. 4: Oghren gentle reminder that this is written from the specific perspective of this warden, Arana Mahariel, and so gives her opinions on the character of Nathaniel Howe. She does not like him. please do not give me a lecture on the character, I went through all his scenes and banter and background before writing this. my Cousland and my Aeducan have a very different relationship with him, and this scene would have played out very differently with them--and that is the point, that this is how it plays out for Arana Mahariel. this is not an invitation for character hate either--it’s just a story, and a portrayal of two people’s difficult working relationship.

Often Arana wishes she had executed him. His voice is grating, his attitude snide, and Nathaniel still walks about her keep as if he owned the place. She knows she is being irrational. He was the heir, and he is a better man than his father. But most men are better than Rendon Howe, and Ashara has little respect for a man who took so long to accept that truth. Oh, he has grown and he has changed since the battle of Vigil’s Keep. The Joining matured him. Exposure to other ways not his own--most of the world’s ways--has mellowed him and taught him to hold his tongue. Unfortunately it took the gritted patience of his forced companions--herself and Anders, Oghren and Sigrun and Velanna--to teach him, and they were not willing mentors. Perhaps Sigrun and Anders were, Ashara allows. They have more patience than her, and Justice too. But she does not like the way he spoke to Velanna. She does not like the way he spoke to her. He may not dare insult them anymore, but she remembers what he dared before. Keeper Marethari once offered her a reflection from an old Dalish oligarch, after a bad fight with her aunt: “In the gymnasium, someone may have scratched us with his nails or have collided with us and struck us a blow with his head, but, for all that, we do not mark him down as a bad character, or take offence, or view him with suspicion afterwards as one who wishes us ill. To be sure, we remain on our guard, but not in a hostile spirit or with undue suspicion; we simply try to avoid him in an amicable fashion.” She keeps that in mind, as she tries to fill the silence Anders, Velanna, and Sigrun left her. Oghren invites her to drink with them on rainy nights where no one wants to be left alone; she demures, gently. She has the dispatches, always the dispatches, and though she begins to hate her office, with those letters she is at least never alone.

Leliana does not write her back. Scratch, get scratched back: Arana smarts, pacing around her office, avoiding the decisions she must make. Stroud is frustrated at her delaying sending men, but they need to build up recruitment in Ferelden first, and Dirthamen only knows what Clarel is doing at the Orlais-Tevinter border. The Chantry is displeased that she is recruiting so heavily from the Circles, and Tabris sends her a message coded in the thieves’ argot of the Red Jennies warning her that diplomatic ties are once again breaking down between Anora and Orlais. A twist that she is not expecting: that Anora and Alistair have become such a united front, and that Tabris with her baby on the way does not mind it. The issue is, as always, the Hinterlands: the Dalish clans who heeded her call have settled happily, but are having issues with pilgrims raiding their stores on the way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes--and all of this right at the Ferelden-Orlais border, of course. Anora wants a show of force, Alistair does not think they are ready, and the People are stuck in the middle. Clan Alerion still does not write her, nor does Clan Sabrae. She could use some reassurance in times like these. She should have brought books, or had them copied, now that she has the money and the power to have books copied: but risk them falling into shemlen hands? Arana throws herself into her chair. She wishes Tabris were here, or Surana, or Leliana. She can almost smell the sweat and leather and gentle softness of Leliana’s own scent, under all that steel--that sprig of Andraste’s Grace. Arana groans in frustration, fingernails sinking into her thighs, skin too sensitive. She has all this anger and nowhere to fuck it out. She casts an eye at the pile of papers on her desk, but she’s too worked up to work through the diplomatic niceties. If only it were so easy, to walk from Amaranthine to whatever grand bedroom the Divine resides, and slit her throat and carry Leliana away. Arana resolves to just go to bed and masturbate when she hears a knock on the door. “For fuck’s sake,” she says. “What is it?” Someone attempts to push the door in, rattle the doorknob, but it’s locked. Arana says helpfully, “It’s locked. Who is it?” She does not make a move to get up. She waits a beat, and just before she is about to reach for her sword, a voice says reluctantly, “It’s Nathaniel. Ser. Commander, may I speak to you?” Arana sighs. “Make it short, Warden,” she mumbles, and crosses the room to open the door. Nathaniel stands at her threshold, looking sullen and uncomfortable. “Do you need anything, Warden?” Mahariel says crisply. “May I come in?” Mahariel gestures to let him into the room. She situates herself at her desk. He stands before her, and she raises an eyebrow. “To what do I owe the...pleasure, Warden Howe?” “My apologies for disturbing you so late, Warden-Commander,” he says. This is the framework they negotiate, to keep themselves safe. He has learned to defer to an elf. Arana has accepted she cannot take it out on his hide. Still, she cannot help but think of the lives lost in the Denerim alienage--Tabris’ cousins, her cousins, sold to Tevinter as slaves once again. Her mouth thins. When will the People be free? Having Rendon Howe’s son’s life in her hands does not make any one of those captives free. Nathaniel shifts, uncomfortable on his feet. He continues, “I would like your permission to go on a recruiting mission. In Tevinter.” “Why?” Mahariel thinks, this would be an easy way to get rid of him--unless it is some sort of ploy. She wishes briefly that Aeducan was here, to tease out the plan--one of her companions who is cannier than she is. Leliana, she thinks, and stuffs that thought away. Nathaniel says, “Queen Anora has a list of those missing from the alienage. Whom our fathers sold to Tevinter. I have the ship manifest, and it will not be difficult to find out who the buyers were.” Arana flinches at that, being owned, being property, the long sea voyage and the dazed march into Minrathous on wobbly legs. Nathaniel pauses. “I humbly request your permission to use the Rite of Conscription to bring the Ferelden elves back home. They don’t necessarily need to go through the Joining if they’ve been conscripted, do they? The writ is rather vague.” He’s talking to Anora, does Alistair know, does Tabris? Loghain would have seen them on the throne, more easily controlled, and while Nathaniel has his code he is still shem, blind to his own arrogance, and thus can be humiliated. These men who think they have a natural right to an answer, to the land, to the people’s fruit of their hands--Mahariel draws herself up in her chair and tells herself not to panic. In her time as arlessa, she has not been outmaneuvered yet. She will write to Alistair and Tabris both--or she will write to Velanna, in Dalish, who can deliver a message to them. Someone is reading her mail, someone always is, it is best to keep it secure. Nathaniel says, “Here. I brought the letters. Queen Anora told the King about it, it was his idea.” He makes a face, and they both suddenly see how this could have come about: the two of them fighting furiously after a council meeting, Alistair talking about his mother, Tabris’ family, a united Ferelden, and Anora finally realizing elves are people too. She wonders why Alistair did not write her too. She has not gotten a personal letter in too long. Mahariel says, “Fine.” Nathaniel pauses, with the sheath of parchment in his hands. “What?” “You may go.” She takes a piece of vellum from her desk, and scrutinizes it so she does not need to see his face. “Just that?” Nathaniel says. “Does your redemption need witnesses?” Arana snaps, and then she breathes out heavily. “Go, Warden. Bring my people back home.”

#dragon age fanfic #mahariel & nathaniel howe #mahariel #nathaniel howe #winter in amaranthine #dao #awakening #fanfic #mahariel/leliana #arana mahariel

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rosethornewrites · 3 years

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Fic: the thing with feathers, ch. 15

Additional Tags: Transmigration, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Illnesses, Family, Scars, Memory Loss, Angst, Crying, Music, Nosebleed, Fear, Recovery, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Flirting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Parent Yú Zǐyuān, Referenced Sexual Slavery, Blood and Gore, Monsters, Sexual Tension, betrothal

Summary: Wangji speaks for himself. Wei Ying wakes. Communication ensues.

Notes: I might be wrong on this, but when I rewatched The Untamed with my mom, it seemed the town was named Lotus Pier and the sect grounds and Jiang home were named Lotus Cove, which is why I’ve been differentiating the two here. Even though yuanfen is often associated with the red thread, it isn’t always associated with romance. It’s not even fate, really, as that implies a higher power. It’s simply fateful coincidence and often simply associated with good or bad luck. In this case, it’s a potential relationship—whether friendship or more, Lan Wangji isn’t really thinking about right now. He just believes that his second meeting with Wei Wuxian means they are meant to have import in each other’s lives, and he wants very badly to protect him.

AO3 link

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

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Wangji felt like he had been in a daze since Wei Ying had abruptly gotten a nosebleed and panicked when he was talking to an older Jiang disciple. When he had tried to take his friend to the healer, he insisted on being taken to Madam Yu instead.

As improbable as it seemed, Wei Ying’s vision of a monster yao had apparently been correct, the adults had informed him when they returned. And it put him in danger.

He was disappointed to have missed the practical lesson shufu had given on the proper disposal of yao corpses, but he would rather be at Wei Ying’s side.

Wei Ying was still unconscious, and Wangji was aware of the conversations happening around him despite the daze, as they tried to determine how best to protect him—if he truly had precognitive visions, Madam Yu argued, he would be seen as an asset to acquire by certain other clans.

Madam Yu’s arguments regarding his protection made sense, particularly official adoption, and though shufu was balking and displeased with her second idea, it too was truly logical, could throw off any suspicion from the Sun that saw all, could protect Wei—or rather, Jiang Ying.

And what if Wei Ying’s dream of being cast into Luanzang Gang… What if that was a premonition? The place was warded and managed by the Wen sect, after all. If they wanted him and could not have him, would that be the result?

If he could do anything to prevent that from coming to pass, he would.

Shufu was turning angry colors, seeming to be too overcome to speak properly, starting and stopping and sputtering when Madam Yu countered his half-formed objections, completely unruffled.

“I agree,” he said firmly—during a pause, so as not to interrupt.

“Wangji!”

Shufu looked outraged, and Wangji wondered if he had been expected to stay silent on the matter. Madam Yu, on the other hand, looked pleased.

“I want to help him,” Wangji insisted. “I wish to help prevent his nightmare from coming to pass.”

He could see from the stricken look on the adults’ faces that they knew what he was referring to. Wangji was glad he didn’t have to elaborate further, and that they understood the gravity of his concern. For a moment, there was dead silence as they digested the idea, but he was also unsurprised when his uncle spoke again against the idea of betrothal.

“You’re too young to—”

“A-Li has been betrothed since she was a toddler,” Madam Yu cut in swiftly, what little patience she had spent. “I only hope her betrothed doesn’t grow to become as egregious a pig as his father. I trust my sworn sister will do her best with him.”

Wangji couldn’t help but gape, unused to gossip in general and absolutely shocked to hear such words about a major sect leader.

“A-Ying is kind and intelligent,” she continued, unfazed. “Don’t tell me you disapprove of him because the mother he doesn’t even remember once shaved your beard off as you slept.”

The statement seemed to hang in the air. Shufu was turning an alarming color, and Wangji couldn’t help contemplating what he would look like without his beard.

All told, it was probably for the better that they were interrupted by Wei Ying waking, though the fact that he woke with a scream and immediately started sobbing was more than a little upsetting. It took time for the Jiangs to calm him down, for Madam Yu to assure him no one died, that he had done the right thing telling her so they could take down the yao without anyone being hurt.

“Perhaps you should tell us what you ‘saw,’” shufu said once Wei Ying was calm.

“It was big, and like a dragon, but not like a dragon,” Wei Ying started. “Like a snake, maybe?”

He remembered only that about the creature. His san-shixiong had grabbed him and Jiang Wanyin, propelled them to shore with a burst of spiritual energy, and had been promptly eaten by the yao.

“It bit him in half,” Wei Ying said, his voice trembling. “And then it started killing the others.”

He lapsed into silence, his jaw trembling.

“I ordered the disciples out of the water,” Madam Yu told him. “Your shushu and I battled it with Jinzhu and Yinzhu on the river. San-shixiong is fine, as is everyone else.”

She patted him on the shoulder, clearly trying to comfort him.

“You did the right thing, A-Ying,” she said. “You kept them safe. Now we need to keep you safe.”

Wei Ying blinked, his eyes darting as he processed that.

“Because I saw,” he said eventually. “People will want that.”

Madam Yu nodded, looking pleased that he understood.

“I’m sorry for bringing trouble, shenshen.”

The smile disappeared, her face tight and downcast for a moment. Wei Ying’s words hurt her, but Wangji didn’t understand how.

“A-Ying, you can trust that your shushu and I will handle any trouble. You are not at fault.”

The boy nodded, but still looked uncertain, as though he wasn’t sure whether to believe it wasn’t his fault.

Jiang Fengmian seemed to sense that, and patted Wei Ying’s head.

“A-Ying, we decided the best way to protect you is to officially adopt you into the Jiang clan.”

“As our son,” Madam Yu added. “And A-Lian as our daughter.”

“It won’t be unfilial?” Wei Ying asks softly after a moment. “My mama and baba… Would they be mad at me?”

The Jiangs looked startled at the question, but Wangji understood.

Shufu almost fulfilled the role of a father for him, but his true father was still alive, though he’d never met him that he could remember. So to refer to shufu as such would be unfilial; even if his father was dead, it could be unfilial.

“Your father,” Sect leader Jiang started hoarsely, and had to clear his throat before continuing. “Your father was my sworn brother, and I loved him as though he was my blood brother.”

“If you would be more comfortable continuing to refer to us as shenshen and shushu, rather than a-niang and a-die, you may,” Madam Yu told him. “Legally you would be our son, to protect you, but we wouldn’t be replacing your mama and baba.”

Wei Ying nodded, biting his lip.

“It’s just… I forgot them—everything about them. I don’t want them to be hungry ghosts.”

Yu Ziyuan gathered him to her, and he let out a soft sob.

Wangji couldn’t imagine forgetting his mother, who had been one of the brighter points of his life until her death. Wei Ying, as a homeless orphan in Yiling, had smiled so much like her. Back then, he could remember his parents. Now they were lost to the void where his memories once were.

“You didn’t lose your memory on purpose,” Jiang Yanli offered softly. “I’m sure they wouldn’t blame you for that.”

“They will not be hungry, A-Ying,” Madam Yu murmured to him. “Their tablets are in the ancestral hall for you to leave offerings and burn joss paper whenever you wish. We are not replacing them. Fengmian and I can tell you stories of them, if you wish. And Lan Qiren was acquainted with your mother and may be willing to share stories as well.”

“The stories may help you remember,” Wangji added.

“Maybe a-die and a-niang can draw them, too,” Jiang Cheng said. “I bet that would help.”

Wei Ying sniffled and nodded, his nose running as he seemed to fight the urge to cry. Wangji pulled a cloth from his sleeve and handed it to him and received a watery smile.

That seemed to remind Yu Ziyuan of the other part of the plan.

“It’s possible this is just the effect of the resentful energy still in your mind,” she said. “Learning the songs of the Lan and further help from them might make it fade. To avoid suspicion about why you will spend time in Gusu, you will be betrothed to Lan-er-gongzi.”

“When you are older it can be dissolved,” shufu added.

Wangji watched for Wei Ying’s reaction, feeling oddly uncertain—after all, it was an unusual arrangement, and he might not welcome it—but when Wei Ying turned to him, it seemed like his own uncertainty was reflected back.

“I don’t want to prevent you from meeting your fated one, Lan Zhan,” he said softly. “You don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I already agreed. Our meeting again was yuanfen, and I wish to help protect you,” he assured him. “It is no burden.”

He knew Wei Ying often saw himself as a burden, or at least referred to himself as one. He always seemed conscious of how much he was relying on others, always seemed to try to make up for it. Wangji wanted him to know he was not a burden, not trouble, not anything other than worthy of protection.

“You’ll let me know if it is?” Wei Ying asked solemnly. “Like Lan-xiansheng said, we can dissolve it later.”

“It will not be a burden,” Wangji insisted. “But if I am wrong, I will tell you. But you also must tell me.”

Wei Ying smiled, strangely wistful.

“Ah, Lan Zhan. You’re so good.”

“W—Jiang Ying is also good.”

It was hard not to think of him as Wei Ying, but Wangji would do his best to adjust. His friend looked startled at the name, then smiled almost bashfully.

“You can call me A-Ying,” he said softly. “If it’s easier.”

Wangji knew friends often referred to each other, and he nodded, happy that he considered them close.

“Then you may call me A-Zhan,” he said.

No one aside from occasionally xiongzhang called him so informally, but he thought it would be acceptable if it was A-Ying.

Shufu, he noticed, watched their exchange, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

“Madam Yu’s idea is that the two of you will act as second in command to both sects, according to the betrothal contract,” Lan Qiren says. “Half of the year in Yunmeng, half in Gusu.”

“Thus you will have an excuse to receive further treatment in Gusu and to learn more musical cultivation that may help,” Madam Yu added.

Jiang Fengmian reached forward, patting A-Ying’s arm.

“We will negotiate the terms, but only if you’re okay with it, A-Ying,” he said. “People may say rude things.”

A-Ying seemed surprised to be asked, but he nodded.

“I know people might be weird since it’s a cutsleeve betrothal, but people find something to be weird about all the time. I’m fine with it if A-Zhan is.”

“I am,” Lan Zhan said.

“Excellent,” Madam Yu said, looking pleased. “We will discuss this with your uncle and draw up terms. But first we will perform the adoption rites and announce you and A-Lian as Jiang.”

Wangji understood she meant letters would later be sent out to the rest of the gentry later about their betrothal. Though he preferred not to be the object of gossip, he understood the betrothal announcement would concretely ally Gusu Lan and Yunmeng Jiang and serve as protection for A-Ying. He would manage somehow.

A soft knock on the door prevented any further conversation, and Madam Yu dispelled the silencing talisman. She opened the door to reveal a servant, and the scent of food wafted in, making his mouth water. It was long past dinner now.

The servant bowed.

“Madam Yu, the townspeople learned of the yao. Some witnessed the battle. The businesses came together and delivered food as thanks. We are serving the disciples as well.”

Several more servants entered the room, efficiently clearing the table and setting up far more communal dishes than normal. It was clear that the food was from both restaurants and the Lotus Cove kitchen, and so the array was much more varied than most meals. He did notice that there were far fewer dishes from the Jiang kitchens, and realized the yao attack had likely even interrupted dinner preparations by the servants, making the gift from the townspeople all the more apt and appreciated.

Sect Leader Jiang murmured about reimbursing the restaurants to the ranking servant who had knocked, and the rest of the Jiangs moved to the table while he did. Wangji offered a hand to A-Ying to help him out of bed, and they went together.

Many of the dishes were heavy with spice, but Jiang Yanli was already putting together a bowl of rice and lesser-spiced dishes, which she handed to him with a smile. Xiongzhang and shufu were filling their own bowls in a similar manner, while A-Ying filled his with a base of noodles almost fiery-looking with spice and other dishes that were tinted red, orange, and yellow with spice, then settled on a cushion a little away from the table.

Aside from the sound of utensils on porcelain, the room was unusually silent, everyone focused on eating after so much energy was expended on the yao. Where normally the Jiangs chattered during supper, the meal was almost as quiet as those in Gusu. It felt odd, as Wangji had become accustomed to listening to the conversations around him, even if he didn’t participate in them.

Wangji settled beside him to eat, quietly considering what should be done to make A-Ying comfortable in his visits to Gusu, and the first thing on his list was acquiring spices and spicy condiments from the Lotus Pier market. His friend would find the fare at Cloud Recesses entirely too bland, but he wanted him to enjoy Gusu as much as he had come to enjoy Yunmeng.

Perhaps he should ask Jiang Yanli to teach him recipes, as well.

Mind set, he focused on eating, taking comfort in the warmth of his friend beside him.

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