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shady-tavern · 1 year

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Part 2 of this short story.

You magicked some blood splatters away after teleporting home, stretching your fingers until they cracked in dark satisfaction. You were getting closer and closer to figuring out just where the Brotherhood had its headquarters.

To your dismay, you had to realize that this infernal organization had grown very, very big. Big enough to have kings and queens on their side, being supported by other royalty and even a thieves guild you had done business with in the past. And here you had thought their leader was one of the smart ones.

A brief glance into the kitchen showed that Melina was working on an advanced healing salve. She looked incredibly focused and one of your constructs was lingering nearby, ready to be of aid should she need it. The girl had things well in hand, however and you couldn’t help but feel that warm curl of pride filling your chest.

You had never thought that having a student was like this. You yourself had probably been more trouble than you were worth growing up and you knew your former teachers were all collectively horrified by what you had done, both to yourself in order to become a lich-mage and everything afterwards.

You ducked out of the kitchen without disturbing Melina, closing the door quietly. She’d be done soon, you had come back just in time to avoid worrying her. The skulls you passed by were silent and empty, devoid of a certain ghost’s presence. You had no idea where Mortimer was, but sometimes he just seemed to be…somewhere, doing whatever ghosts did.

You entered a separate study room on the ground floor, one you had repurposed for the task of keeping track of the Brotherhood. You marked off another camp of theirs you had left in ruin and set down the stack of papers you had liberated. Sadly, those guys had been small fry, but at least you had another name of a high ranking member now. Soon you’d have enough information to take them all down.

It was tedious but necessary work if you wanted to root this organization out root and stem. Such nastiness was not allowed to come back while you weren’t looking. Melina’s life would never be threatened by the likes of them again.

A crackle along your wards made you pause in surprise. A visitor? And one so brazen as well. Ah, there was only one person who walked into your home fearlessly. Or rather, two, now that you had Melina living here.

You stepped out of the study just as the front door got thrown open and Priscilla swept inside in all her powerful sunshine glory. She easily could have become a lich-mage herself, but she had the unfortunate habit of taking deep breaths and making rational decisions. Most of the times at least.

Priscilla had taken you under her wing when the two of you had been students and she had remained a steadfast, loyal, annoying and kind friend over all those years. The world would shatter before you would not aid her should she ever need or want your help.

She had been there the day you had become a lich-mage and had stood guard over your prone body for twenty days and nights. Forgoing sleep and food, she had kept herself awake and standing with magic alone, willing to drain herself down to her last dredges to defend you.

She had also woken you with incessant poking and a lot of cackling laughter when you had flopped around like a wriggly fish, having to regain control of your body. The moment you were reasonably stable on your feet, she had promptly passed out.

"Oh, you’re home, how lovely. How are you?," she asked cheerfully, forgoing any sort of greeting, but her smile did not reach her eyes.

The way she asked made you narrow your eyes at her. The upside to knowing each other since being eleven was that you were aware of all her tells and habits. And right now she was burning to ask you something and yet, for some reason, held back for the moment.

It must be important if she had come to visit. The two of you saw each other often enough, but since you both weren’t tied to the whims of time, months or even a year could pass until one checked up on the other.

"I am pleasantly well, I suppose," you answered, still eyeing her. She looked as well as ever, dressed in shimmering finery and jewelry.

"So you haven’t been burning things and people down left and right," she remarked offhandedly.

"How did you find out?" You hadn’t been subtle in the least, but it was surprising that she had noticed. You had once razed an entire warrior clan to the ground and she hadn’t known until you had told her about it over a cup of tea.

Similarly, Priscilla had once gone hunting a dangerous order that tried to crack the world open like an egg and free some kind of ancient god or evil or whatever without you being aware of it. Which you had learned over that same cup of tea.

You waved her into your study, gesturing at the table with the large map and the research strewn about. "I’m hunting down the Brotherhood."

"Yes, I could gather as much," she said and you tipped your head as you watched her skim over your notes. You knew that glint in her eyes.

"Did they piss you off as well?" you asked and she hummed softly in agreement.

"They tried to recruit me yesterday, did you know?" she asked and it was a purely rhetoric question, since you did not know and you both were aware of that fact. If you had known she had spoken with these cretins you would have kicked down her door at the ass-crack of dawn. "They said there was a lich-mage they might have to take down to get at a cursed child."

At her words, any kind of easygoing mood evaporated immediately. You felt your magic curl up, an unspoken threat, not for Priscilla, because she’d never do anything to harm you, but to the monsters out there. Monsters wearing human skin and convincing people that there were terrible, cursed, awful children that needed slaughtering.

They were not going to touch your student, no matter what. You would burn the world to the ground before that happened.

"I may have used a teeny-tiny bit of a truth serum, entirely unintentional of course. Followed by an absolutely accidental stasis spell," she added and you felt your magic settle again as dark amusement found you. "The fellow is still in my cellar, by the way, in case you want to interrogate him as well."

You couldn’t help but chuckle. "You are my favorite for a reason."

She snorted. "I’m your favorite because I snuck out with you when we were thirteen and let you stand on my shoulders in a stinking bog, all to help you collect the nastiest sap I have ever seen in my damn life."

Now you did laugh. "Yes, so you keep reminding me. And thank you, I would love to speak with your guest."

"Just don’t leave any trace behind once you kill him," she said, leaning back against a small table. "I don’t need those fanatics knocking on my door again." Her gaze briefly slid over the map and settled on you. "What did they do?"

It was a fair question. For all your power, you didn’t often bother to go to such lengths when someone angered you. The people you interacted with generally knew not to fuck with you and if they didn’t, they were swiftly and easily taught otherwise. You had more important things to do than topple monarchies every other year or wade through the underbelly of a city to take care of something.

You were powerful enough that people did not, generally, make an enemy of you. Besides, many desired your aid and wanted you and your power at their fingertips. There was only a tiny handful of mages even willing to perform the sort of spells you liked to play with.

You just had no idea how to tell her you had a student. The last time the two of you had spoken about such things, you had both snorted derisively at the poor fools who burdened themselves in such a way.

Well. You had never shied away from a challenge. You opened your mouth, about to answer, when a knock at the door made the two of you pause. Melina poked her head in after a moment, her excited smile slipping into a hesitant, questioning expression.

Right, she hadn’t met many people since she had come to live with you. You certainly hadn’t introduced her to any other mages, since most of them were annoyances anyway.

"Melina, meet Priscilla," you said, gesturing at your dearest friend. Who was simultaneously also the only person alive who’d mock you without hesitation if you were being an idiot. It was strangely reassuring sometimes. Though, you could do without her and Mortimer teaming up. "We’ve been friends since we were young."

"It’s nice to meet you," Priscilla said, sweeping into an elegant bow and Melina clumsily tried to curtsey back, a jar clutched in her hands.

"Let me see," you said and she quickly handed it over. It took a single glance to know she had brewed it perfectly. "Good work," you said.

Melina perked up, a smile appearing back onto her face. You were also glad to see her less wary around other people. She had used to hunch down, trying to become invisible through sheer force of will, when you had first visited a market together.

"I’ll join you in a moment," you told her when handing the jar back, only realizing your voice had gone and done that soft and patient thing again when you finished speaking. "Please wait outside."

Melina nodded and quickly ducked away, closing the door again. When you turned back to Priscilla, she had her palms pressed together in front of her face and was squinting at you over her fingertips.

"I wasn’t gone so long that you went and conceived a child, right?" she asked with the sort of sceptic hesitancy that told you she was genuinely unsure. For just a brief moment you considered fucking with her, but you ended up rolling your eyes.

"We saw each other a year ago," you reminded her, but that only made her squint harder.

"You do a lot of questionable stuff," she said, a fact that had never bothered her. Priscilla had about as many morals as you did, which was to say, very little. "You still have that jar of strange flesh."

Ah, yes. You would not explain where you had gotten that. Or why it was still alive.

Then realization hit and her face brightened. A wide grin swept across her face and you resigned yourself to relentless, if kind, teasing. "Wait here!" she gasped and disappeared in a small shower of sunlight sparks.

Blinking, bewildered, you had no idea what that had been about. You were about to go and join Melina, when Priscilla reappeared. This time, she wasn’t alone.

"Tada!" she exclaimed, gesturing grandly at a reed-thin girl, dressed in all black. The girl’s slim shoulders hunched up uncomfortably and she inched closer to your friend, hugging a book anxiously against her chest. "Meet Caitlin!"

"Hello, Caitlin," you said, offering a polite bow of your own. The girl hesitantly returned it. "Welcome to my home."

"She and Melina should meet," Priscilla said. "Remember when our teachers introduced us?"

You mostly remembered years of mayhem and giggling in hiding spots and lying for each other and helping each other. And a pet toad that had died an unfortunate death and you had held Priscilla as she had cried.

"Of course," you said. Actually, this wasn’t a bad idea. If the girls got along, Melina would have a friend. You had worried a bit about that recently. It wasn’t healthy to be cooped up inside so much, even if the girl accompanied you to the nearby town to buy supplies.

You motioned for them to follow you and you found Melina waiting in the hallway, fiddling with her jar. She looked up and paused when she saw who followed you.

"Melina, meet Caitlin," you said, gesturing at the girl who still tried to do her best to either turn invisible or somehow fold herself into a tiny shape. Though now she seemed hesitantly curious as well. "Why don’t you show her around a bit?"

"Alright," Melina said and Caitlin stepped away from Priscilla, glancing back once worriedly. Priscilla smiled encouragingly and calmingly, shooing her onward with silent gestures.

You heard the girls starting to talk as they disappeared around the corner. Slowly and cautiously at first and then with a bit more confidence. Priscilla nudged you.

"So, you got a student, huh?" she said with a grin and you cast her an unimpressed side-glance.

"Pot, meet kettle." She laughed at your words and briefly bumped your shoulders together, before noticing your curious look and growing solemn.

"I found Caitlin in a ditch," she said quietly after a moment and you saw dark anger burn in her eyes. "Her parents were the sort to think magic was nothing but evil temptation and they decided to get rid of her."

Those parents were no longer alive, you were willing to bet your eyes and tongue on that.

"I did find out where the Brotherhood’s headquarters are," she said suddenly and you felt yourself turn still and dangerous, a side effect of becoming a lich. A very wanted and welcome side effect at that. "We could go check it out once we’re sure the girls get along."

You tipped your head in agreement and after some looking around, you found the girls in the gardens. It was a warm, sunny day and you saw that Caitlin no longer clutched her book as tightly and was smiling hesitantly at something Melina said.

Mortimer had shown up as well in the meantime, since you could see the purple glow filling the eye sockets of a nearby skull. The skull you kept outside for whenever he wanted to look at the gardens. When you glanced at him, the skull dipped the slightest bit in answer, the glow darkening in a way that promised he’d look after the girls.

No teasing today, not when you could already feel hot blood dripping off of your fingertips. You’d never tell him, but Mortimer really was the best housemate. Even if he sometimes got on your very last nerve.

Melina was talking animatedly, something that had taken her a while to do around you. She had been so careful for so long. Afraid even, at first. You found something soft and happy unfurling within you, almost like weightless wings, whenever you saw her happy. Whenever she could simply be herself, healthy and at ease, knowing she was safe.

A glance at Priscilla revealed a soft expression on her face, a small smile gracing her lips. You had no idea what your own face looked like, but you were certain some of your emotions showed. Especially since there was no reason to hide anything around your dearest friend.

The two of you watched the girls a moment longer to ensure they’d be comfortable in each other’s presence for a while longer. When Caitlin made Melina giggle, both of them examining poisonous plants, you saw the first bloom of a beautiful friendship right there. You nodded at Priscilla and she smiled, bright and cheerful.

"They’re going to be menaces when they’re grown up," your friend said with great satisfaction as you stepped back inside.

You couldn’t help but laugh. "If they’re raised by us, they better be."

This, you decided, would be your greatest legacy. Not your spells and magic nor how you had given up your mortal body, letting ancient, dark magic change it forever. No, your greatest legacy would be helping Melina grow into a competent, confident woman who had the power to make the world tremble at her fingertips.

And, well, you had no intentions of dying anytime soon. If anyone gave her any trouble, you’d gladly offer your aid to squash those fools.

"The Brotherhood is after Melina, isn’t it? That’s why you’re on a rampage," Priscilla said and you hummed in a low tone in agreement. Priscilla looked at you and you saw her magic start to glow beneath her skin as though her veins suddenly filled with light. "Want to destroy them together?"

When you grinned, you knew it was the sort of teeth-baring, awful smile that had sent your old teachers skittering back frightfully when you had seen them last. "With pleasure."

#my writing #fantasy #part two of a writing prompt #in all honesty I never expected to continue their story #this is very much a spontaneous thing #I hope some of you might like it!#and that I managed to find all the spelling mistakes #I hope you have a fun read!#edit: please forgive that I forgot the 'read more' thingy #brain was afk for a moment there

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neonthewrite · 1 year

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Grey Landing (Part 6)

The prompt "Stargazing" made me think of Isaac Grey for some reason. The sailor who found himself in a strange land of giants returns, which is fitting considering his original few snippets came about in GT July last year. He's still working on figuring out how to communicate with the giants, who so far haven't shown much interest in returning the effort.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5)

(Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10)

~~~

“A need a good bed,” Isaac muttered to himself. Instead, he had a coil of rope around him, a thick twist of fibers that all together was thicker around than his waist, and a bunch of fishing trash. It would be some time before he had a chance to sleep. He could probably lay himself down among the ropes and tackle and catch some rest, the rocking of the boat a reminder of how at home he usually felt on the sea. It was no hammock, this pile of ropes, but his weary bones promised not to complain.

The temptation couldn’t hold up against the looming presence not ten meters away. The giant sitting so close, his companion not far beyond him, ensured Isaac couldn’t rest just yet. He couldn’t let his guard down, not around a pair of giants he couldn’t trust yet, no matter that they hadn’t hurt him so far. He couldn’t control where he’d wake up, if he woke up at all.

So, to keep his mind off the exhaustion and the helplessness of his predicament, Isaac assessed his latest surroundings. Tangled wires lay in an angry mess under a few broken wooden objects with faded paint that looked like fish eyes and fins. Many dips in the salty water had robbed them of their colors and they’d lost the hooks that could secure them to the end of a fishing line. Old broken fishing lures that couldn’t be thrown away.

He dismissed those in favor of the few metal pieces in the pile. Moving gingerly, he sifted through them, ever wary of sharp edges and points on broken hooks and tackle. Moving things about, he found pieces in all states of disrepair.

The giants, it seemed, weren’t willing to get rid of anything, and he could hardly blame them. Back home, everyone felt the squeeze of supplies and prices, everyone knew the value of at least trying to repair and repurpose things.

Well, if Isaac was going to be dropped among the rubbish, he’d repurpose things himself before they got around to it. It was only fair.

His first pick was a three-pronged fishing hook that had lost two of its prongs just above where they branched off. The remaining barb was as sharp as ever, while the two broken off parts stuck out just enough that he was sure they could be useful somehow, but not enough that they would rest uncomfortably against his side when he claimed the thing in his belt. The barb tucked safely against his thigh, and so long as no giant grabbed him too tightly, they wouldn’t be stuck by that hook.

Otherwise, well, they’d get a lesson in some manners.

Also among the scraps, Isaac found a metal disc with holes spaced evenly along it. From the look of it, it had been part of a reel on one of those fishing poles at some point before breaking off. They’d kept the scuffed metal, and he decided to claim it as a good-sized shield just in case. Some scrapped leather cord woven through some of the holes created a handle on the inner curve of the disk and also gave him a way to sling it over his shoulders.

A shield, even a small one, could prove critical in a place where even the fish outclassed him. He’d been through enough in his life to know that over-preparation was impossible. Having some supplies to his name, even borrowed from a giant’s discard pile, eased his mind a bit.

The boat rocked and shuddered as the giants finally reeled in their latest catch. They sounded excited, and Isaac couldn’t blame them. From his low vantage point, he saw the younger giant straining with the net as a fish the size of his arm thrashed about.

A fish that size would probably feed hundreds back home. It’d only feed a few giants, but still. Isaac counted himself impressed. He settled down against the piles of rope where he’d been consigned to wait. He had the patience to hold out a bit longer.

~~~

Isaac woke with a snort as something knocked into the hull and shook through him. His heart fluttered with a momentary shock as he realized he’d dozed off after all, but he forgave himself when he remembered the ache running through his limbs. He blinked and rubbed a rough hand down his face to hasten his waking.

There wasn’t a giant hand rushing at him. Instead, one of the giants stood far overhead, looming and leaning over the boat at a vertiginous angle. Isaac stared in shock for a moment, realizing that the young giant stood on that enormous dock and the fishing boat, its sails stowed and a lantern lit, was rocking gently against it. The older giant took some rope handed off to him, doing the busy work of lashing the boat securely. The fish coolers, each the size of warehouses, already sat on the dock. Night had fallen softly around them, broken by enormous lanterns on the dock.

He didn’t have much time to think about how he’d slept through a good portion of the work of making port. The sky overhead caught his attention. The clouds had finally cleared away.

Stars, a thick blanket of them, spread over the dark canopy above. A broad cluster of them looked like a swipe of dust overhead. Isaac had never seen such a clear sky.

Not a single star among the many looked familiar. Isaac scanned as much as he could see, his skin crawling for the wrongness of the sight. It didn’t even look like the stylized charts his father had shown him from his homeland in India. Wherever he was, he hadn’t seen a chart for it.

In the midst of his startled stargazing, the older giant leaned over the bench of the boat and blocked his view. The man wore a familiar suspicious frown. He scanned over Isaac, eyes lingering on the hook at his belt. Isaac narrowed his eyes right back, not moving from where he reclined. Something about that man’s look reminded him of an uppity first mate on a ship Isaac did not miss. “Can a help you? Don’t tell me ya expected me to carry my weight‒”

The man’s hand appeared and rushed at him, cutting off his ornery complaint. “Stunt sbew, nei̯fitblei̯nd.”

Isaac flinched. If he weren’t so tired and hungry, he was sure he’d be able to leap to his feet before being grabbed up. As it was, he barely managed to move before the giant hand gathered him up in a fist, deftly avoiding the hook he wore. “A don’t know what you want,” he protested, squirming while the giant stood and exited the boat at last. “Happy to take my leave if ya’d stop with the manhandlin’!”

The giant handed him over to the other one with a grunt. Isaac found himself deposited in a pair of cupped hands before the older giant hoisted up one of the fish coolers and stomped past towards the shore. The younger giant sighed in some kind of defeat, and Isaac frowned up at him. “Don’t suppose I’ll convince you either, eh?”

The giant glanced down at him, and then rolled his eyes in what looked like exasperation.

“Aye. I’ll wait, then.”

#gtjuly #gtjuly2023 #mywriting #gt #g/t #g/t handheld #giant tiny #handheld #giant sailor #ocean #giant fish #language barrier #isaac grey

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wariocompany · 2 years

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Do you have a strong opinion on the Uderzo comics?

Thank you for asking! I've actually had a few thoughts flying around my head for a while about this so I'm appreciative of someone giving me a chance to ramble about them.

I honestly like them. They're nothing to write home about, but I genuinely enjoy quite a few: Le Grand Fossé, L'Odyssée d'Astérix, and La Galère d'Obélix isn't too bad either... and I actually genuinely enjoyed La Rose et Le Glaive and can respect him trying something new.

But I feel like a lot of context is lost when discussing them. "The writing isn't as good/isn't the same". Uhm, duh? Uderzo was the illustrator. I don't think anyone would be nearly as offended by this fact if it were Goscinny who had to do the drawings himself, with people crying "why doesn't it look as good!". Uderzo hadn't spent nearly 20 years up to that point writing the books. Even the writing in the collaborative days took several years to grow into its greatest stuff, if you ask me. To expect Uderzo to perfectly replicate a style that had been developed over years and years by someone whose craft was not that of Uderzo is just... silly.

The fact that entries like Le Grand Fossé and L'Odyssée are (for the most part) so in line with the tone from the first 24 is in and of itself quite the feat. To be sure, it's not perfect. The resolution of the Le Grand Fossé plot feels a bit wrong, because it sort of just happens: the Romans are defeated not because of any cunning but because of unforeseen side effects to the magic potion nobody mentionned until later, Ségregationix and Tournedix stop fighting because they just so happened to be the same in strength. Compare this to, say, Jeux Olympiques, where it's Astérix and Panoramix's plotting that actively brings about the Romans' loss all the while making a point about their dishonesty. But things like "le village, c'est moi", neutral families splitting their house and falling into the rift, Obélix crying at love stories, etc etc; that feels right, that feels Astérix.

Other stories like Le Fils d'Astérix are fun on their own, but you can't help but wonder what exactly the point was; other stories involving raising children within the stories are closely related to how it actually feels to raise children. Sure, it certainly implies raising a newborn is not easy, but it feels less like a caricature of that fact and rather a hypothetical story where it's even harder. It isn't exactly a satire of anything in particular that the entire Roman army is trying to kidnap a baby.

I think the best way to summarise it is that the original 24 books were a "it's just like", whereas Uderzo era was a "what if". What if life was like this? Not "the humour is in that these ancient people are acting just like we do".

And, I hate to bring it up, but... the emotional implications, you might say, of continuing Astérix at all likely contributed to the descent into cynicism the series took under Uderzo's watch. Around about Latraviata, it starts to feel like Uderzo doesn't really care; the characters act strangely, gags aren't repurposed but rather recycled, the story does nothing of note except, I suppose, the reference to the Oscars at the end. Nothing feels logically connected, either; ideas are sort of just thrown in, in any order.

And to that I say: of course? Goscinny was one of Astérix's fathers. The process was collaborative not only because they worked efficiently together but because they were best friends. The series is a representation and product of their friendship. Yes, you can take that out of the equation at some stage, and yes, it would still keep going, but it loses the love behind it. It's hard to have a good natured laugh by yourself. Especially when coupled with that it's not just as though Goscinny quit, he died, and somewhat young as well; I don't think it's fair to be mad at Uderzo for eventually becoming cynical and uninterested in the series that represents the time he was alive. That's grief, son!

So I guess my main thoughts are that it's important to maintain sympathy for Uderzo throughout all this. Sure, good writing is nice, and it's why we love Astérix, but it's not really reasonable to expect it to be the same after Goscinny's passing.

#hi de ho #Parlons peu et bien. Le temps c'est des sesterces.

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flandevainilla · 11 months

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So I've been waiting over a year for my dad to make me bouyon and he said today that he would. He picked us up and we're at his house. Although I am grateful for him doing this, things have just gotten worse since we've been here.

For reference: During the pandemic I was kicked out by my mom and lived with my dad. He was in a two bedroom apartment and my three brothers shared a room. It became too much so he and his wife got a house with four rooms: theirs, for the twins, for the oldest boy, and one for me (and my sister for when she comes over.) so that I wouldn't be without a bed and actually have a space to live. At the moment I am back at my mother's house due to school.

At first our dad got us some fast food sunce the bouyon usually takes a while to cook. The cashier messed up our order and we didn't notice til we were at the house so we drove back and she tried to deny what we order but then saw the receipt...

Anyways, I ended up napping for a bit because I haven't slept much the last two days. When I woke up one of my brother's was near me and said that his mom told him that since we (sister and I) aren't living here that she would give him my room.

I could see where she's coming from so I was like okay. I figured I should probably go look in my room to see what I need to remove then since there were things I was gifted by others and bought myself. She had let both of the youngest boys and several of their cousins into my room to do whatever. This resulted in stuff getting things spilled on them, stained and a lot of my stuff just ripped up or scribbled over and thrown on the floor.

I went to ask my dad for a box and he got upset after I explained that I need to put my stuff away to keep it from getting damaged anymore because he apparently had no idea. So I take this box up there and start trying to store my stuff away while my sister is getting upset. She doesn't come over here often due to my stepmom treating her differently so she was really frustrated finding out that the one drawing she left here was ruined by these kids as well as the large blanket I got for her (she's anemic and its really hefty) was covered in stains from whatever was put onto it and has a bad scent. (We're not sure if one of the kids peed on it or not.)

My dad kept trying to calm her down but he has this belief that because she's over here to spend time with him that everything else, including how my stepmom acts shouldn't mean anything to her. This just doesn't make sense to me at all though. It's been over a decade now and we shouldn't have to face maltreatment just to see and spend time with our dad.

He also tried to say something like "this is what happens when you don't come over, if you come over more people wouldn't do this." It just left a weird feeling because I never got to choose who I lived with and the whole reason I am back with my mom is because of school because I didn't want to overwork him since he would drive my to school (in the state over) then either wait or drive back to get me when my classes were over while also managing the boys and cooking so it's like, I'd prefer if he got that extra time to at least try to sleep since he works graveyard.

I just feel very gross because it's like if she wants to repurpose the room then fine. I think I should still at least get a chance to move my stuff out before she allows other people in there, especially kids. I walked in there and for some reason some of my clothing, including my undergarnments were on the floor..

I don't know, this whole situation is just really awkward.

#life update #daily life #vent

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kpopfanfictrash · 4 years

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Raise the Barre (Ch. 1)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Creative Content Contributor: @baebae-goodnight (WHO MADE THIS PERFECTLY GORGEOUS MOODBOARD)

Pairing: Jimin / Reader

Rating: 18+ (Eventual Smut)

Genre: Enemies to Lovers / Dance Academy!AU

Word Count: 7,003

Summary: You and Park Jimin have been rivals for as long as you’ve known one another; ever since he tripped you in the front row of your first dance convention. When you graduate from high school and enter Russet Ballet Academy, you tell yourself you’re leaving all past quarrels behind. The main problem with this though, is that your past seems determined not to leave you alone.

Worse still, the obstacles you face while out in the real world might prove more challenging than anything your enemy has to offer.

Thumbs hooked beneath the straps of your backpack, you paused on the sidewalk to tilt your head up. A sign reading Russet Ballet Academy hung from the building above, detailing the location of the next four years of your life.

It was the dream of many to attend and yet, few ever came to walk these halls as its students. Only eighty dancers were accepted to their dance program each year; the fiercest competition from all over the globe.

Somehow, you were amongst them.

The day you’d received your letter still felt like a dream but here you were, standing under the sign and knowing you’d made it. You stared at it a second longer before your mom came up and squeezed your shoulder.

“Wow,” she said, also reading the sign. “Seems like just yesterday you fell on your ass at Hall of Fame, huh?”

“Mom!” You laughed, the moment effectively broken. “Why would you bring that up now? I was twelve!”

She grinned and glanced in your direction. “You just had such enthusiasm! Picked yourself right back up and kept going. I should’ve known then you would make it.”

Despite yourself, you felt your insides soften again. It sounded like something your old dance teacher, Miss Katie, would’ve said. She’d always had faith in your perseverance and ability. You hadn’t started competing until the age of eleven; in dancer years, this was considered late and yet, you grew quickly through the ranks. By the time you reached high school, you were known on the competitive dance circuit as one of the elites.

Your parents joked it was your contrariness that kept you going. Growing up, you’d never much liked hearing the word no – something your parents applauded and bemoaned in equal measure.

Hiking your bag higher, you turned to face your parents. “So, are you going to take a photo, or what?”

“A photo! Great idea.” Scanning the sidewalk, your mom found your dad. “Honey, come here! Honey! Hone – honestly,” she huffed, waving both arms overhead.

Finally, your dad noticed and hurried in your direction. “Have you seen the gargoyles?” he asked, clearly impressed. “The architecture of this building is incredible, Y/N. When you get settled, maybe you can find out for me who the builder –”

“Take the picture, darling,” said your mom, handing over the camera.

She moved beside you, hugging you tight enough to make breathing difficult. You were happy though, smiling brightly as your dad took the shot.

“Okay, okay,” you said, laughing after the tenth frame. “I think you guys have embarrassed me enough for one day, don’t you?”

“Debatable,” said your dad, grabbing your luggage to haul up the steps. “We’ve got to make up for all the days we won’t see you. You’re not coming home until the holidays, right? That’s a long time!”

At this, a small pang went through you and you nodded. He was right – your parents lived a plane flight away and you’d never been the wealthiest of households. You wouldn’t be able to return until three months from now, which was the longest you’d ever spent away from your family.

It was such a strange thought, you didn’t know what to do with it. As crazy as it was, since they often drove you crazy, you hadn’t ever lived far away from home and the thought made you sad. It was just another way your life was being upended.

As you entered the arched door of Grace Hall, your soon-to-be home, your head spun from the newness. In your small suburban town, you’d had a reputation. The best dancer, the straight-A student, the person with her act together – never mind what you did behind the scenes to make it appear that way. The point was, you were known.

Here, you were just another small fish thrown into the big pond. It wasn’t that you were a bad dancer – far from it – but here, everyone was the best. Everyone at Russet had passed the same bar, which meant the stakes would be higher than ever before. You had never danced under that kind of pressure and scrutiny.

Stomach churning, you once again wondered if you’d made the right choice. You’d been accepted into other Universities; ones without dance programs where you’d have a more secure future. Instead, you chose to pursue dance as a career.

It wasn’t that other majors were without risk or difficulty, but there was a certain physical and mental exhaustion associated with dance which most found to be a deterrent. You once had a teacher who said if you needed to think twice about dancing, you shouldn’t do it. Way too many people never made it to the top; if you weren’t prepared to make sacrifices for what you loved, then this wasn’t the path for you.

At the time, you hadn’t thought twice about your decision, but that was before the events of Senior year.

A week before the final dance competition of the season, your tendonitis grew so bad, you physically winced whenever you landed a jump. Your teachers finally caught on and forced you to see a doctor, who forbade you from dancing in the upcoming competition.

It had been the last one of the year; your final chance to compete and show everyone – well, someone – why you were considered the best. You went to the competition despite your injury, determined to cheer on your teammates, but something hollow settled into your chest as you watched, realizing your time on the stage would someday come to an end.

You realized how tenuous your body was and, by extension, your career. Of course, you’d known this before, but it had been your first time to face this knowledge head-on and it scared you. Tendonitis wasn’t something that went away, although it was a condition you could work through and manage. Still, your body would only get worse and although you knew you wanted to dance, now you had doubts.

As you stepped through the doors of Russet Academy, these doubts reared their ugly heads once again.

Hiking your bag further up on your shoulder, you plastered a smile on your face and pushed these thoughts away. That was last year. You were better now, fully recovered and approved to dance by your doctors. So long as you took care of yourself, there was nothing to fear.

More suitcases waited in the trunk of your dad’s rental car, but your roommate had already texted her arrival, so you headed upstairs. Noelle Carmichael was from California, a Sagittarius, had begun dancing at the age of three and loved caramel popcorn more than anything else in the world. All this information had been thrown at you during your first text conversation, which might have seemed like a lot, but after a summer of talking, you knew it to only be Noelle.

As you lugged your bag from the elevator – the singular service vehicle had been repurposed for move-in – a head poked itself from a room down the hall.

“Y/N?”

When you nodded, your roommate whooped and leapt into view.

“It’s me – Noelle!” she called.

She rushed to help you with your bags, chattering excitedly as you walked down the hall. Noelle’s move-in time had been yesterday, and her parents had already left, but they couldn’t wait to meet you the next time they visited.

You found her enthusiasm contagious and before long, most of your worries had been banished to the sidewalk outside. It felt like you’d known Noelle for much longer than the few months you talked over the summer. This greatly relieved you, since you’d been worried about making friends at Russet Academy.

Dancers weren’t always the friendliest, especially when it came to institutions like this. So much of dance was competition – competition for that ranking, that medal or that place in that dance company. It was hard to make teamwork a priority when so much of success was judged on the individual.

Noelle didn’t seem to think this way though, which helped ease some of your fears. You had both entered the ballet track at the Academy. You weren’t naturally a ballerina, but Russet recommended those who wanted to go into jazz or contemporary start with ballet. Smaller majors existed for tap and hip-hop, but those had never been your forte.

Meeting Noelle was enough for minimal tears to be shed while saying goodbye to your parents later that night. Your dad ended up crying, which of course set you off, but by the time they got in their rental car and turned the corner, you’d managed to mostly pull yourself together.

Noelle remained in the dorm while you said goodbye, lounging on her bed with a book in her lap.

You paused on the threshold of your room when you returned, taking in the strangeness of all your surroundings. Your old comforter on a lofted bed, your laptop perched on a strange desk, your clothes hung in an armoire. It was both strange and familiar; the sight of it brought tears to your eyes.

“Oh, no!” Noelle said, hopping down from her bed. “Don’t cry, Y/N! I only just stopped crying this morning. If you cry, then I’ll cry and people will think something terrible is happening here.”

You laughed when she hugged you, hugging her back in the middle of the room. It was comforting to know someone else felt this way; after a moment, you pulled back to wipe your eyes.

“I’m fine,” you groaned, shaking your head. “Damn. I didn’t expect that.”

“I know.” Noelle smiled. “I was so excited to leave I forgot that deep down, I’m a gigantic baby. Huge mama’s girl.”

Stifling a laugh, you crossed the room to grab a Kleenex.

“If it helps,” Noelle said. “Some girls down the hall are having people over tonight. We could go and meet some of our classmates before orientation starts tomorrow. It should be fun!”

“That does sound fun,” you said, and you meant it.

A few hours later, you found yourself seated on equally horrible carpet in a room down the hall. Several other freshmen were seated beside you, sharing similar parting stories, which lifted your spirits.

“I bawled,” said Irene, clutching her chest. “I’ve had this giant countdown in my calendar all summer. I crossed each day off with a marker and then suddenly, I’m here and I miss my sister. Pathetic.”

Noelle laughed. “I’m just glad I was part of yesterday’s move-in day. It means only half of you heard my gigantic breakdown last night. Mad embarrassing. Pretty sure I told my brother I love him.” She shuddered. “He’s only supposed to get that honor on his birthday!”

The room cracked up, another girl chiming in and you swirled your cup, happily buzzed from the drink in your hand. You hadn’t had alcohol many times before, but it seemed appropriate for a night of new experiences. No one here was drinking to get drunk, since orientation began tomorrow, but some social lubricant tended to help in times like this.

Ballet wouldn’t start until Monday morning, so this was your last chance for a while to indulge. It wasn’t that you couldn’t drink during the semester, but you’d learned the hard way hangovers made for terrible class the next day. You’d only done it once before deciding to ban the idea of alcohol the night before dancing.

The other girls on your floor did their best to put you at ease. Aside from your roommate, there were five other girls who’d congregated in the room.

Ari and Jasmine lived in the room you all sat in. Ari lived within driving distance of the city, had the largest collection of gel pens you’d ever seen and had started dancing later in life (at age ten), which made it all the more impressive that she’d gotten in. Jasmine was from a tiny city in the south and was also a studio dancer; you recognized her the moment she spoke, having run into her as a teacher’s assistant at a dance convention you went to.

Also present were Irene, a ballerina from Chicago and Lia, who was on the hip-hop track. They were also roommates and although you probably wouldn’t have many classes with Lia, orientation tomorrow would be the same. As you got to know them better, the bubble of trepidation in your chest slowly deflated. Everyone here seemed nice – intense, but not as though they were out to get anyone.

As though conjured into being by your very thought, a girl appeared in the door.

She was tall, slim and had her hair pulled back in a French twist. Everything about her screamed ballerina, from her light blue warm-ups to her arched expression. The moment she appeared on the threshold, several people in the room quieted.

Noticing this, you glanced at her with renewed interest. It seemed the girl’s reputation preceded her, but you honestly had no idea who she was. Rather than introduce herself though, the girl merely sighed.

“I thought I heard something,” she said, her tone piqued.

Forcing a smile to her lips, Jasmine rose from the floor. “Hey, Sabrina!” she said, making her tone bright. “We were just getting to know one another. Did you change your mind about coming? We have room if you want to join.”

Despite her forced smile, you detected a glimmer of want beneath Jasmine’s words. Clearly, this Sabrina was considered a big deal. Jasmine’s hopes were immediately crushed the second Sabrina opened her mouth.

“No, thanks,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room. “I need to get to sleep soon. I want to wake up early and get in a quick barre before breakfast.”

Noelle, seated beside you, stared at Sabrina in amazement. “You already have access to rooms?”

Sabrina turned; a faint, amused smile crossed her lips. “Yeah. I went to Russet Prep. I’ve known most of the teachers here for years.”

Hearing this, your stomach sank to the floor. You’d known, of course, there was a feeder school into Russet Ballet Academy. You’d received the same audition letter many years ago, but the cost and distance had been too much for your family to consider.

While you’d understood the fact that you’d be amongst great dancers, you hadn’t thought specifically about Russet Prep ballerinas. Sabrina’s presence instantly dampened your mood, since the way she glanced at you confirmed what you already knew.

She had a leg-up, she knew it and she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

Leaning back on the futon, you slowly sipped your drink. “Did you just come here to say that?” you asked. “Or did you want something else?”

Multiple heads turned to face you. Irene’s lips twitched and beside you, Noelle let out a laugh. Based on their reactions, you got the feeling that Sabrina wasn’t very well-liked by her peers.

Smile vanishing, Sabrina met your gaze. “That was all,” she said. “Just wanted to ask if you could keep it down. Some of us are trying to take this opportunity seriously.”

With that, she turned and stalked from the room. The door slammed shut behind her and silence lingered – until Noelle snorted and others began to laugh.

“Some of us are trying to take this opportunity seriously,” Noelle mimicked, rolling her eyes. “Give me a break. Like we all didn’t bleed into our pointe shoes to be here.”

The rest nodded in agreement and slowly, the conversation shifted to other topics. Although you joined in, uncertainty lingered in the back of your mind. It seemed some of dance’s cattiness had followed you after all. You weren’t truly surprised by this; after all, you were barely three months older than you’d been in high school. It was too much to expect people to become adults overnight.

Still, at least there was one cause for celebration this evening. The fact that you’d arrived at Russet meant you no longer had to compete against your most fierce rival.

For the next four years, Park Jimin, utter bane of your existence, would be nowhere in sight.

Early the next morning, you stood in line for registration at Danley Hall and awaited your schedule.

“Honestly.” Noelle stood on her toes to peer down the hall. “Why do they insist on handing these things out in person? We could easily get them online and skip all this nonsense.”

“We need to take our ID card photos,” you pointed out. “But yeah, it sucks. You’d think they could’ve at least assigned us time slots.”

“Dancers.” Noelle shook her head. “Great at conceptualizing abstract choreography – not so great at administrative tasks.”

You laughed, facing forward as the line started to move. It stopped shortly thereafter, as did you, rearranging the bag on your shoulder. You recognized several people from last night and waved hello to them all, receiving greetings in turn.

When your phone vibrated in your pocket, you jumped in surprise. Pulling it free, you smiled when you saw the name of your boyfriend.

“Oooo.” Noelle peered over your shoulder. “Who’s that? Boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” you laughed, swatting her arm as you opened his text. “It’s my boyfriend, Finn.”

“Finn’s a good name.” Noelle moved forward in line. “Strong. Noble. Damn, though – are you two doing long distance? Brave souls.”

“No – thank god. Finn’s at Redfield University. His orientation was last week, so we’re planning to meet up later tonight.”

“Redfield? That’s so close!” Noelle gushed. “Wow, you two are so lucky. And Redfield is a great school, too. I wholeheartedly approve.”

“Well, as long as you do,” you laughed.

“What’s he saying? Wishing you luck with registration?”

“That, and asking where I want to get dinner tonight.”

“Sickeningly cute. I’d be jealous if I weren’t such a great person.”

You snorted, about to respond when someone called your name.

“Y/L/N, Y/N?”

Head jerking up, you saw a man at the office waving you forward. It seemed your time had finally come.

“That’s me!” you said, stepping from line.

The first stop at registration were two, tiny desks set before the main office. Past these, you could see someone finishing up their student photo. A bright flash went off, momentary blinding as you winced and faced forward.

“Here you go!” you said, placing your paperwork down. “Everything should be in order.”

The paperwork man barely nodded, grabbing the folder to rifle through. He seemed content to take his time and you quickly grew bored, glancing around the lobby. Much of your class was waiting in line, looking amusingly enough like a middle school dance. There hadn’t been general orientation yet, so most people had only met those in their (single-sex) dorm last night. Groups of boys and girls awkwardly faced off from across the hall.

While you waited, you began to size people up. It was unintentional, but you knew you’d be paired with someone for ballet and it seemed better to get a head start than not. Most people were unfamiliar to you, and you’d made no meaningful progress when a new voice said your name.

“Y/N?”

Freezing in place, you continued to stare at the hallway before you.

You knew that voice. It was one you could’ve identified in the depths of Tartarus itself – which honestly, was the only place you’d imagined hearing said voice again, since it belonged to Park Jimin. Top hellion of the underworld.

Slowly, you turned and had your worst suspicions confirmed.

Park Jimin stared back at you in the hall.

He wore a jean jacket, white t-shirt and golden sunglasses perched on his head, despite being indoors. Every part of his attire screamed pretentious, but no one around you seemed to notice. Instead, a buzz spread over the crowd as more and more people realized who you were talking to.

Before you could compose yourself, you demanded, “What are you doing here, Park?”

Jimin’s smile disappeared. Slowly, he walked forward and closed the distance between you.

“So, you’re not even going to try and be pleasant?” he asked, coming to a stop. Casually, he looked you up and down. “Surprised to see you here. Thought you’d stopped dancing, or something.”

Subconsciously, your hands balled into fists. Jimin had a way of getting under your skin that no one else did – even though admittedly, you could’ve just said hello. You didn’t have to act like he was the anti-Christ, even if he was.

“I didn’t stop dancing,” you said to him through gritted teeth. “You know that perfectly well.”

Jimin shrugged. “How was I supposed to know that? The last time I saw you, you were limping around like you were on your last legs. I just assumed.”

“I… was not limping,” you said with as much dignity as you could muster.

“Weren’t you on crutches?”

“My doctor made me use those!”

“Aha!” Jimin grinned, triumphant. “So, you were injured.”

“I had tendonitis,” you shot back. “Hardly fatal, Park. I’m fine now.”

“Right.” Jimin glanced at your feet. “Hope it doesn’t come back.”

From anyone else, you might’ve taken the words at face value, but this was Jimin. He’d never wished for your success before, so it would be foolish to imagine otherwise now.

Gaze hardening, you took another step forward until you stood nose-to-nose. Well, nose to chin was more like it. Jimin had grown since you first began competing against one another. You remembered a time when you both were the same height. This had once been a source of great amusement for you, choosing to stand directly before him at awards ceremonies.

You opened your mouth to tell him off when the paperwork man said your name again.

“That’s me!” you blurted, spinning around.

Jimin would have to wait, you decided as you strode forward. The paperwork man looked at you in alarm, clearly not used to having such enthusiastic participants.

“Uh, I know,” he said slowly. “You confirmed your name earlier. The photographer is ready,” he added, nodding towards the room Jimin had vacated.

Cheeks burning, you accepted your paperwork and nodded. Although you purposefully didn’t look at Jimin as you left, you could feel him smirking at you from behind.

Refusing to give him the time of day, you brushed past – or you would’ve, but the space was too small for dramatics. You nearly elbowed him in the spleen as you went, forced to squeeze against the wall in an undignified fashion.

Still, you didn’t look back as you entered the ID office. Some of your anger became transparent in your photo-taking, though – this much was obvious when you were handed your ID. Staring at this in horror, you remained frozen in the hall when Noelle finished and joined you.

“Oh, shit,” she said, glancing at your ID. “I feel a lot better about my photo now.”

“Hey!” you said, hand curling around the photo.

Despite this, you laughed, since she was right. On a scale of model to mug shot, your ID was definitely on the latter end.

As you walked away, you shook your head and shoved the ID in your bag. In the corner of one eye, you could see Jimin lingering while he talked with other students. You recognized no one in his group, except for a guy you thought you’d seen on YouTube. Hope on the Street, or something. Probably on the hip-hop track.

“Seriously, though.” Noelle looked at you sympathetically. “What happened? Photographer tell you he was going to murder your family?”

“Ugh, no,” you groaned. “Just got in my own head.”

“Uh-huh. And the fact that you were talking to Park Jimin right before had nothing to do with it?”

Blinking, you glanced at her in surprise. “You saw that?”

“Kind of.” Noelle looked a bit guilty. “I mean, it’s hard not to notice Park Jimin wandering the halls.”

You couldn’t help but scowl at this.

It was unprofessional, but your feud with Jimin went back so far, it was hard for you to be completely impartial. Your rivalry had begun when you’d both been picked to demonstrate the combination at NUVO dance convention and Jimin had tripped you while in the front row. He’d apologized afterwards, claiming ignorance, but you’d seen enough of his dancing by then to know Jimin didn’t make mistakes.

He’d tripped you on purpose.

Jimin was known on the competitive dance circuit, like you, but he had an almost cult-like following on YouTube and TikTok. Rumor had it, he’d been asked to join Ariana Grande on tour the previous summer, which was why you’d thought for sure you were rid of him. It seemed this was no longer the case.

“Yeah,” you grumbled as you neared Jimin in the hall. “He’s here, alright.”

Noelle hid a smile. “You don’t like him.”

“He’s an ass.”

“Yeah, he does,” said Noelle, gazing wistfully at his butt as you passed.

“Noelle!” you snorted. “That’s not what I said.”

“Huh?” Blinking innocently, she returned to you. “Oh, you said – oh. Sorry. Though you said something different.”

The smile she gave was incorrigible though and, despite your best interests, you laughed.

“I mean, he does have a nice butt,” Noelle argued. “Come on, Y/N. You have to admit that,” she continued once you were out of earshot.

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Liar.”

“I mean, he’s a dancer!” you sputtered. “We all have nice butts.”

“Valid counter-argument,” Noelle said as you walked outside. “But seriously, he’s not a good guy?”

Paused on the sidewalk, you turned to glance at the building. Danley Hall rose above you; the location of class every day for the foreseeable future. Some of that now felt tainted by the prospect of seeing Jimin every day, as well.

With a sigh, you met Noelle’s gaze. “No,” you said at last. “We were rivals all throughout high school and believe me, there aren’t enough terrible superlatives to describe Park Jimin. He’s the most annoying, most childish, least humble–”

“–biggest suck-up, least trustworthy, mind-numbing idiot,” you finished, stabbing your salad with a fork.

Finn laughed at you from across the table. By this point, your feud with Jimin was old news to him. Shaking his head, curly brown hair flopped into his gaze.

“Damn, Y/N,” he said sympathetically. “That sucks. Can’t believe that jerk had the audacity to follow you to Russet. Sounds to me like he can’t get enough of you.”

Ignoring this, you rolled your eyes. “Believe me, it’s not that. Park Jimin doesn’t care about anyone but himself. It’s just Russet, you know? The most prestigious dance academy in the country. I just don’t understand how I didn’t know this,” you sighed, still troubled by the thought. “How come I didn’t know he’d be in the freshman class?”

“I don’t know.” Finn shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t have a Facebook?”

Most of the freshman class had connected on Facebook, at least before someone made a What’s App chat for the group. Finn was probably right about Jimin not giving out his social media.

“That’s probably true,” you grumbled. “But still.”

Finn laughed at your expression. Reaching across the table, he squeezed your hand in his. “Hey,” he said gently. “You beat him for what – four years? So, this is just another four years of putting him in his place. You’ll be fine.”

He was right, although in all honesty, Jimin had won about fifty percent of the time against you. It was one of the reasons you’d pushed yourself so hard in high school.

“You’re right,” you said, somewhat mollified.

“Of course, I am,” Finn said, letting go of your hand. “You’re talking to a man who put his loft bed together alone. By hand.”

You looked at him in alarm. “Did you at least use the manual?”

“Please, Y/N. Men don’t use manuals. We don’t believe in them, much as we don’t believe in cleaning, cooking, or coming in second.”

“Gross,” you groaned, throwing a cherry tomato at him. “Worst ad ever for the male sex. Besides, it’s not true – I beat Jimin in dance plenty of times.”

“Oh, come on,” Finn laughed. “He doesn’t count.”

Something about the way he said this made you sit a bit straighter. Finn resumed cutting into his steak, but you continued to stare at him across the table.

“What do you mean by that?”

Finn looked up in surprise. “Well, you know. It’s not like he’s super manly.”

You stared at him, bewildered.

“I mean, he wears tights, Y/N.”

At this, your eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like you were Jimin’s biggest fan – you despised him, actually – but Finn’s argument was just stupid, even if he meant it as a joke.

“And?” You tilted your head. “He also bench-presses women above his head for fun. Are you being serious? Just because he –”

“Whoa, wait – I was kidding,” Finn said, looking stricken. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I just meant it as a joke, you know, since you hate the guy. Truce?”

You hesitated, still miffed, but ultimately deciding it wasn’t worth it. Finn truly looked sorry and this was Jimin, after all. Not that this made it better, but sometimes you grew tired of lecturing your boyfriend. Sometimes, it was just easier to let things go.

“I – yeah,” you said after a long pause. “Fine. Truce.”

“Come on.” Finn smiled and reached for your hand again. “You’re not really mad, are you?” He looked hopefully at you from beneath his curls. “Jimin’s the worst. What’s got you this upset?”

Sexism and toxic masculinity, you wanted to say, but he was right. This was Jimin and you hated that guy. It felt kind of weird to want to defend him to your boyfriend.

Still, though. Finn’s comment was annoying; it was one thing for you to insult Jimin. You did it based on Jimin’s merit, his talent, and the way he kept beating you. You’d never once insulted Jimin because of his gender. In the oddest of ways, it felt like your boyfriend had insulted you when he put down male dancers.

“I’m just annoyed by the whole situation,” you said at last, settling on a half-truth. “I hate the fact that Jimin won our bet.”

Finn nodded in sympathy, settling back in his seat to eat the rest of his meal.

You stared at your salad, no longer as hungry as you had been before. Remembering the bet had thoroughly ruined your appetite.

The bet had been made Senior year, a consequence of years of competition with no real declared winner. Jimin had been the one who suggested it, albeit after you goaded him into it.

It had been your first competition of the season and you’d taken home the top trophy – First Overall in the Senior solo category. Jimin had come in second and when you met backstage, both holding your awards, you’d come to a stop to size one another up.

“Nice trophy,” Jimin said, his tone dripping with derision.

“Right?” Turning it over, you examined it. “Not sure where I’ll put it, though. My shelves at home are pretty full.”

“I think you’ll be fine,” Jimin said. “Competition is pretty stiff this season. I doubt you’ll win again.”

“Are you referring to yourself as my competition, Park?”

“Who else?”

“I wouldn’t worry about me,” you said, stepping closer. “After all, I beat you today. I can do it again.”

“Really?” He smirked. “What competitions are you going to this season?”

You told him, listing them off one by one without looking away.

Jimin listened and nodded. “I’ll be at four of those. How about a bet, then? Whoever wins First Overall at three of the five competitions declares themselves the winner.”

“Hm. What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

You paused, considering the implications of such a bet. “I don’t get it, though. What does the winner win?”

“Uh, our rivalry? Bragging rights for eternity? Pride? Take your pick, Y/N.”

“Pride,” you said with a snort. “Like you have any of that.”

“I don’t. Let me win it.”

You had to clamp your lips together to keep from laughing; it would’ve ruined your image to laugh at your declared enemy’s joke.

“Alright, fine,” you said with a shake of your head. “But here’s what I want in return – are you listening, Park?”

“Trying to.”

“At the end of this season – when I win – I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me I’m the better dancer.”

Jimin’s smile widened. “And what if I win?”

“Impossible. But if you do,” you allowed. “I’ll tell you you’re the better dancer. Deal?”

“Deal.”

And that had been that.

Shaking your head, you returned yourself to the present and took another bite of your salad.

“We were tied,” you said, the same anger returning. “Jimin had won twice and I had won twice. It wasn’t fair that he just got to win because I forfeited the last competition. I was injured!”

Finn nodded in agreement, just as he had every other time you’d told him this story.

Feeling a little bit guilty, you pushed your tirade aside and tried to focus on dinner. A bet from Senior year wasn’t really important in the long run. All that mattered was that you and Jimin had ended up at the same place.

Still – you couldn’t help but worry he’d pop up one day to make good on the promise. You still hadn’t told him he was the better dancer; it’d be even more humiliating to do so now, surrounded by all your classmates from Russet.

“Anyways,” you said with a sigh. “Enough about him. How was your day?”

Finn began a story about the supposed shower-caddy thief on his floor and you settled back, nodding and laughing at all the right times. Listening to Finn talk was comforting. He reminded you of home, of family dinners and long drives and date nights at the movie theatre.

Being in his presence felt like second semester Senior year – that invincible feeling of knowing where you were headed and feeling unstoppable. Having him in the city made the transition to Russet slightly less terrifying. He was your single known in a future of unknowns.

Well, except for Jimin. Jimin was also known, but in the opposite way. The thought of him was anything but calming; he made your jaw clench, blood pound and heart start to race.

Even in looks, Jimin was the complete opposite of Finn. Where Finn had floppy, brown curls, Jimin’s blonde hair was usually swept back from his face. Finn was a light-hearted guy, always talking with his hands and laughing at nothing, whereas Jimin was nothing but intense. Every time you saw him at competitions, he was either practicing or sleeping. There was no in-between.

Finn took things one day at a time, which was something you envied. You always felt you were hurtling towards something, the days passing by too quickly to do everything that you wanted. It was part of what made you a good couple, you decided. Finn took things slowly and you sped him up.

Aside from his major, Finn’s future was wide open. He had no real direction other than to learn and have fun, which you also envied. As much as you wanted to have fun at Russet, you knew there wasn’t much time on your chosen career path. Each second counted and you couldn’t afford to waste one.

Starting that night.

Finn walked with you back to campus, dropping you off at Grace Hall with a lingering kiss. It became more heated than you anticipated, each of you panting when you broke things off to head inside. It had been a week since he’d come to Redfield, which was the longest you’d been apart since you lost your virginity to Finn at the start of the summer.

The sex had been good as of late, but Noelle was inside and you had no desire to hook up with your boyfriend in the bushes outside your dorm.

Once you’d returned, you collapsed on your futon and groaned when you read the schedule for tomorrow.

Noelle laughed from her bed. “Copson’s ballet class?”

“Copson’s ballet class,” you agreed with a sigh.

Vlad Copson was known, even to the incoming freshmen. He was a brilliant dancer and choreographer, but utterly terrifying as a teacher. Rumor had it every freshman was assigned to him their first year just to lower the class number from eighty to seventy.

You didn’t believe this, of course, but that didn’t keep your insides from churning. As you tried to fall sleep later that night, you realized with certainty that this was a beginning. Everything you’d done before now, everything you’d once achieved no longer mattered.

Everyone at Russet was on the same foot and all that mattered was what lay before you. Not at all cheered by this thought, you pulled up your covers and eventually fell asleep.

Vlad Copson turned out to be exactly what you had pictured; an immaculate man with a stern demeanor, wearing the exact same dress code he expected of his students.

He stood before the class the next morning, next to the stereo with both hands clasped before him.

“Welcome,” he said, looking over his students. “I’m Vlad Copson, but you may call me Mr. Vlad for the duration of class. This is Ballet, Level 1.”

Approximately twenty faces stared back, caught in a mixture of certain awe and terror. You knew yourself to be among them, standing at the back of the room with Irene and Noelle. You’d been relieved to find them both in your classes, since there were two other schedules they could’ve been sorted into.

Unfortunately for you though, prep school Sabrina and hellion Jimin were also part of your schedule. They stood at the front on the opposite side and you did your best not to look at them, knowing no good would come from it.

Everyone in class was dressed exactly the same. The women wore leotards, buns, ballet belts, tights and pointe shoes. By this stage in your career, you were expected to do the entirety of ballet class on pointe. There had been much rosin-ing and banging of shoes before the class had started.

“Thank you to those who were on time,” Mr. Vlad said, casting a pointed glance at a boy near the front. Said boy had entered the room a few seconds after 8:00 AM. “For today, I’ll be lenient and let everyone stay. From now on though, class will start promptly on the hour. Those who aren’t ready will be asked to leave and come back when they can respect my time. Understood?”

A ripple of voices chorused yes.

“Good.” Mr. Vlad arched a brow. “You may have heard I’m a tough teacher. This is true. I am hard on my students, since you’re expected to be the best. Do you know how many applications Russet received this year alone? Nearly two thousand, and these were only from those who felt qualified to apply. Russet is a once in a lifetime opportunity, so I expect everyone who enters my classroom to act like it.”

Listening to him speak sent a bead of sweat down your neck. Although he didn’t say it specifically, you knew what Mr. Vlad meant. There were two thousand qualified individuals waiting to take your place if you failed. And that didn’t even include other students at the Academy, or even other dancers who waited out in the real world.

“For those who make it to the end, this will be a life-changing event.” Mr. Vlad paused. “There are teachers here who are far better than I – and I’m considered to be one of the best in the world. You’ll be pushed to your limits, but you’ll also grow at a tremendous pace. We gave you a spot because we believe in each of you. Prove us wrong, though,” he warned. “And that will be that.”

A lingering silence fell and in that quiet, you and Noelle glanced at each other. Again, you were glad for a friendly face. The entire speech would’ve been unbearable without one.

The boy who’d been late was as red as a tomato, clearly embarrassed at having been singled out. You would’ve felt bad, except you knew it wouldn’t be the last time Mr. Vlad put someone on the spot. The attention could easily swing to you before the end of class.

“That’s enough chit-chat, I think.” Mr. Vlad turned towards the stereo. “We’ll start at the barre.”

No one moved and once he’d reached the music, he arched a brow. “Why is everyone still standing in the center, gawking? Barre!”

Had you been watching from outside, it might’ve seemed comical how quickly everyone scattered. You and Noelle chose a barre near the front, setting water bottles down and moving to stand at the center.

Placing yourself in first position, you turned your head and surveyed yourself in the mirror.

“Eyes on me, not the mirror!” Mr. Vlad called, forcing your gaze his way. “Before we get started, I’ll assign your ballet partners for the semester. You won’t do anything with them until across the floor, but I hate to disrupt our flow later on. When I call your name, raise your hand.”

Your heart sank as you turned to face forward.

This was something you’d known was coming. Ballet partnering was part of the set first year curriculum, but you’d been under the severe misimpression you’d be allowed to choose your own partner. Information on the process had been limited and you’d heard conflicting accounts from upperclassman before your arrival. Apparently, the teachers did something different each year.

“Ahn, Irene!”

Irene raised her hand, waiting awkwardly to hear her partner’s name.

“Olson, Brian! You two are partners.”

The red-faced late boy looked at Irene in alarm, then nodded. Irene nodded as well, lowering her hand and Noelle winced.

“Sucks,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Already paired with trouble.”

Privately, you agreed. It’d be unfortunate to be partnered with someone who’d already been singled out. You could only hope your assigned partner would be better than that.

Mr. Vlad turned. “Y/L/N, Y/N!”

Your hand immediately lifted, waiting for what seemed like forever, until –

“Park, Jimin!”

Author’s Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMIN! Thank you for reading 😊 New chapters of Raise the Barre will be posted weekly; dates are listed on the series Master List. Requests for updates will be deleted.

RAISE THE BARRE MASTER LIST

#btsbookclub #smutcentralnet #bangtanarmynet #bts fanfic #jimin fanfic #bts series #jimin series #jimin writing #bts writing #bts e2l #jimin e2l

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eelhound · 2 years

Text

"Dex leaned against a massive rusted vat, taking the weight off their tired feet. 'How many other robots are you made from?'

'Three immediate predecessors, but they, too, were made from others. My ... I guess you'd say family tree is comprised of many wild-built individuals, descended in total from' — the robot counted on its fingertips — 'sixteen factory originals.'

'So ... if the parts still work after all this time, and you can keep repurposing parts over and over, why take the originals apart and mix their pieces up after they break down? Why not fix them?'

Mosscap nodded emphatically, signaling a good point made. 'This was discussed at length at the first gathering, after originals began breaking down. Ultimately, the decision was that would be a less desirable path forward.'

'But that's ... that's immortality. How is that less desirable?"

'Because nothing else in the world behaves that way. Everything else breaks down and is made into other things. You — you are made of molecules that originated in an unmeasurable amount of organisms. You eat dozens of dead things every single day to maintain your form. And when you die, bits of you will be taken in turn by bacteria and beetles and worms, and so it goes. We robots are not natural beings; we know this. But we're still subject to the Parent Gods' laws, just like everything else. How could we continue to be students of the world if we don't emulate its most intrinsic cycle? If the originals had simply fixed themselves, they'd be behaving in opposition to the very thing they desperately sought to understand. The thing we're still trying to understand.'

Dex put their hands in their pockets. 'Are you afraid of that?' they asked. 'Of death?'

'Of course,' Mosscap said. 'All conscious things are. Why else do snakes bite? Why do birds fly away? But that's part of the lesson too, I think. It's very odd, isn't it? The thing every being fears most is the only thing that's for certain? It seems almost cruel, to have that so...'

'So baked in?'

'Yes.'

Dex nodded. 'Like Winn's Paradox.'

'I don't know what that is.'

Dex groaned softly, trying to summon a book they'd had to read as an initiate. 'It's this famous idea that life is fundamentally at odds with itself. The example usually used is the wild dogs in the Shrublands. Do you know about this?'

'I know there are wild dogs in the Shrublands, but I don't know where you're headed,' Mosscap said, looking fascinated.

Dex shut their eyes, dredging up dusty information. 'Way back in the day, people killed all the wild dogs in Bluebank, because they wanted to go fishing and hiking and whatever without maybe getting mauled.'

'Right. And that wrecked the ecosystem there.'

"Specifically, the elk wrecked the ecosystem there. They ventured into places they hadn't before, and they ate everything. Shrubs, saplings, everything. Soon, there was no ground cover, and the soil was eroding, and it was fucking up waterways, and all sorts of other species were thrown out of whack because of it. A huge mess. But if you think about it from the elks' perspective, this is the greatest thing that ever happened. The whole reason they never went into those fields before is because they were afraid. They lived under constant fear of a wild dog jumping out and eating them or their young at any moment. That is an awful way to live. It must have been such a relief to be free of predators and eat whatever the hell you wanted. But that was the exact opposite of what the ecosystem needed. The ecosystem required the elk to be afraid in order to stay in balance. But elk don't want to be afraid. Fear is miserable, as is pain. As is hunger. Every animal is hardwired to do absolutely anything to stop those feelings as fast as possible. We're all just trying to be comfortable, and well fed, and unafraid. It wasn't the elk's fault. The elk just wanted to relax.' Dex nodded at the ruined factory. 'And the people who made places like this weren't at fault either — at least, not at first. They just wanted to be comfortable. They wanted their children to live past the age of five. They wanted everything to stop being so fucking hard. Any animal would do the same — and they do, if given the chance.'

'Just like the elk.'

Mosscap nodded slowly. 'So, the paradox is that the ecosystem as a whole needs its participants to act with restraint in order to avoid collapse, but the participants themselves have no inbuilt mechanism to encourage such behavior.'

'Other than fear.'

'Other than fear, which is a feeling you want to avoid or stop at all costs.' The hardware in Mosscap's head produced a steady hum. 'Yes, that's a mess, isn't it?'

'Sure is.'

'So, what was done?'

'You mean about the elk?'

'Yes.'

'They reintroduced wild dogs, and everything balanced back out.'

'What about the people who wanted to go hiking and fishing there?'

'They don't. Or if they do, they accept the risks. Just like the elk do.'

The robot continued to nod. 'Because the alternative outcome is scarier than the dogs. You're still relying on fear to keep things in check.'"

- Becky Chambers, from A Psalm for the Wild-Built, 2021.

#becky chambers #quote #quotations #ecology #environmentalism #fear #restraint #solarpunk #impermanence #change #interdependence #interconnectedness #mortality #dependent origination #climate crisis #climate change

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one-real-imonkey · 3 years

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Wild anon with far too many ideas is back! Have you seen @thatfunkyopossum's headcanons for the Guard being dumpster divers (post/621942185340846080/coruscant-guard-culture-hcs)? It's so interesting! Does anything similar happen in the Corrie Guard AU? Now I'm just imagining clones organizing furniture / clothing drives for the refugees in the lower levels. Or having a huge system of trade and bartering for supplies / bacta / etc. There's a lot of potential!

Hi anon with so many ideas, I love them all and I'm adding to my answers for all of them, some of which will be fics some will just be notes like this one. Anyway, thank you so much for asking, and here we go...

———

Yeah, my Corrie Guard AU has some very similar things.

Overall, they're opportunistic, and they don't waste things or look down on what they're offered. They get very good at repurposing and fixing things. They don't actually have a lot of oversight, the Senators and nat-born Senate Guard don't care about the Guard barracks or what they do in their free time, so their base and their free time is theirs.

A lot of what they get is donated though. Some of its from the lower levels, started up by people who realised what the Corries were going through and decided to act, and it's often not much, but a pad and some colouring pencils or a homemade meal can go a long way emotionally to show you someone cares. Thanks to Palpy and the Senate, just giving them money isn't easy, not to mention many of the people in the lower levels don't have the money to spare. However, even if they can't be given credits, they can be given other things.

One of the most amazing things the Corries managed to get is access to food from the upper levels. Hound managed to wrangle a deal in which all the day old food that none of the rich snobs would buy because it was 'no longer fresh' from some of the high end patisseries near the base would go to the Guard instead of being thrown away. The Guard noticed all that perfectly good food going to waste and decided it was stupid that the food would be wasted when they didn't have enough. They managed to sort out a few deals like that, and while some of it is a little stale or has a little mould, most of the food is perfectly fine and the Corries are more than happy to have it.

A lot of the items that are donated from people rather than businesses are also things they can use to create things to sell, including toys for kids and pieces of art (and a few tattoo designs or just tattoos (Inky goes down to the lower levels twice a week to do tattoos and their costs are reasonable and fair)). A haberdashery sells their hand made dolls and soft toys in exchange for a small cut and a discount on the cost of the materials. That same haberdashery also gives them all the left over offcuts of materials for them to do with as they wish. They get sewn together or hung off of things and just generally used to spruce up the base.

They Corries do a lot of charity work and give a lot away to help others, if there's been a large accident like a fire or public transport crash or an outbreak of some sort of illness, supplies from the Guard may go 'missing'. They often spend their free time creating things they can donate or sell, especially to people who need them.

They also ended up in weird situations where they do favours for people in exchange for small but weird things. It started with Pup breaking off of a patrol to help a little old lady called Mirka carry some bags she was struggling with, and then she made an off hand comment about how very strong he was and how useless she was at doing things nowadays in her old age and he volunteers to help out. (He doesn't quite believe she's as weak as she claims, but he's not rude enough to doubt her aloud).

Pup was happy to help move some furniture for her, especially when she gave him a whole huge box full of home baked cookies ('Because you young boys deserve it') and then he offered to help again if she needed, and she told her friends about it...

Within a month a great deal of the Corries were going down to do all sorts of things these elderly citizens couldn't manage, and being rewarded with all sorts of things. Sometimes it was credits, sometimes it was food, sometimes it was books or fabrics or hand made clothes (theres a knitting group dedicated to making a jumper for every single Corrie) and sometimes it was even more random things, included but not limited to a day at a spa for 20, 4 gallons of homemade jam, a karaoke machine and a slightly broken but still working hydroponics device for growing plants.

And of course the plotting of conspiratorial little old ladies is never containable, so quickly all sorts of other opportunities are set up for the Corries to earn money without stress or danger, including youth clubs, charity drives and anything else they can 'disguise as work'. It's not like the people on 998 can't use the help but similarly they want to help people. Especially other people the Senate treat like dirt.

Mirka, the little old lady who Pup had first helped, gave him her extensive amount of sewing and knitting equipment, claiming her hands just shook too much nowadays and oh, her eyesight, surely some of your lovely siblings will be able to use them better than little old I. She also gave him her old curtains, which she claimed she no longer needed, along with several blankets and old pieces of clothing and any fabric she could find.

Weave and Loom just about cried when Pup handed them over.

A few weeks later all of those pieces of fabric returned to level 998, either in the form of clothes worn by the Corries so they didn't have to be in their blacks or armour, or as soft toys to sell (or donate) for the little kids.

Weave and Loom finally made their way down to level 998 with several head-scarfs for Mirka as a thank you, which she wears frequently. Her children moved away long ago, her siblings and other family members are gone, she saw her grandchildren maybe twice a year before the wars started, but they live on a Separatist planet, and travel is limited. Its why she started looking out for the Corries and why she roped in a tribe of other grandparents to join her.

Oh no, I'm going to have to do something about level 998 aren't I?

As for trading things to like bacta and supplies, they're selfless. If they get ahold of them, they'll make sure those things go to people who need it. They'd never take the food for themselves when there are children without, they'd never take medical supplies for themselves when there were people who needed it more. They had the Guard's limited amount, they had their own medics, they could make do, but not everyone on the lower levels had the same access, and with the war and Senate forcing things like the Jedi-operated Clinics closed in favour of those supplies and staff going 'where they're needed' every little helps.

Anyway, yeah, the Corries do a lot of scavenging, a lot of repurposing old items, fixing broken things to make them work. Curtains don't always get cut up and made into clothes or toys or other fabric items, sometimes they're put in the med bay to work as dividers, or in the bunk rooms to add privacy for the bunks themselves.

Any item they can give a new lease on life, repurpose, or fix and sell, they do. They fix up the hydroponics device so they can grow some herbs and spices for their food, they create clothes for themselves so they don't just have to live in their armour or blacks, and they spend a lot of time helping people who need it.

———

Thanks for the ask, this was a little longer than I meant it to be, and I kinda went off on a tangent, whoops, but the 998 are becoming a thing, haha. But yeah, long story short, they're incredibly pragmatic about things, will not waste a thing and are utterly selfless.

Inbox is always open. (-:

#i think thats everything #star wars #my corrie guard au #coruscant guard #the corries don't need a dad they need a tribe of babushkas #level 998 #thanks for the ask #all the asks #ill get to them all i swear lmao #my corries build up good relations with people because theyre lovely people #oc clone Inky #oc clone pup #oc clones weave and loom #star wars oc Mirka #anti republic senate #protect the coruscant guard #anon response #anon ask #thanks anon

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mc-lukanette · 3 years

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- Luka sees the bees coming and warns Marinette. Marinette pushes him, demanding that he get on his bike and go. Luka hesitates because she's basically asking him to leave her, but Marinette asks, "Do you trust me?" which Luka does and bikes away while she runs in the opposite direction.

- Meanwhile, Adrien and Kagami's kiss goes through. They both see the bees and, similar to Luka and Marinette, head off in different directions.

- Both Aqua Ladybug and Aqua Chat Noir re-find Luka and Kagami, then bring them into the water/have them jump in and give them the breathing apparatuses.

- They go to the battle taking place with Miracle Queen. The only difference in the Miracle Queen scene is that Luka and Kagami aren't there and Nino also looked up at Master Fu when he was told to get his miraculous, making his identity as Carapace obvious (that was always weird to me in the episode how Nino didn’t really do that).

- Ladybug still feels like this is all her fault. Luka and Kagami can't offer verbal help, but Chat helps and Luka+Kagami place reassuring hands on each of her shoulders.

- Ladybug devises a strategy. She pulls out the dragon, asking Kagami to help one more time because she has an idea.

- Cut to Miracle Queen. Out of nowhere, they hear, "WIND DRAGON!" and the bees are thrown a massive distance away. Miracle Queen clutches the Miracle Box for protection and we see the snake disappear from its slot. When everyone starts looking around, Miracle Queen notices that Max isn't Pegase anymore.

- Hawk Moth is shocked, then hears a sound coming from inside Fu's Shell-ter. Aqua Horse-Chat pokes his head through with a Cheshire grin. "Don't mind me. I'm just here to pick up my grandfather." Fu grabs Chat's hand and Chat pulls him inside.

- With everyone still in the water (Fu holding his breath), Ladybug gives Fu a hug and explains that they'll need Shell-ter since Ryu Kenshi (the new Ryuko, decked out in a new outfit to protect her identity: "kenshi" is the word for a practicer of kendo but it can also mean "swordsman"/”swordswoman”) can't use Wind Dragon again. However, Fu slips off the turtle bracelet and hands it over to Ladybug, metaphorically symbolizing the future transfer of guardianship.

- Everyone leaps out of the water, Chat carrying Fu. The aqua transformations drop. Luka transforms into Viperion. Ladybug feeds Wayzz with a macaron and has him unify with Tikki.

- They land on the battlefield. The bees charge forward and the butterfly sentimonster gets into the fray (due to no longer having Fu's shield to break into). Turtle Bug (that's apparently the naming theme so why should I bother? :P) smirks at Hawk Moth, then uses a combination of Shell-ter and ladybug to make a large pink shield that seems to have the spinning effect that the yoyo shield does, making it hard to peer inside.

- Hawk Moth shouts to get the guardian, Miracle Queen chiming in with, "YEAH, WHAT HE SAID."

- Fight ensues. It's Rena Rouge, Roi Singe, and the butterfly sentimonster (technically Nino and Max too but--well--you can imagine how useful that is) against Turtle Bug, Chat Noir, Viperion, and Ryu Kenshi. Fu is a distraction of sorts since the mind-controlled heroes want to get the guardian.

- It’s also the most even team Chat Noir will ever be on since he knows both Kagami and Luka’s hero identities, which is a nice bonus for him.

- Similar scenario happens to before (the set-up using Roi Singe), but there's more tension because one single part of the shield can't be opened like in the original. The shield is dropped, the bees charge forward, but Chat gets Roi Singe to throw the power-disruptor at Miracle Queen (who's been comically circling the shield this whole time, trying to figure out what's going on). The bees explode into confetti, Turtle Bug pulls Miracle Queen in, and Chat Cataclysms her object.

- (note that Miracle Queen could also have been participating in the fight provided that she can't summon her bee minions)

- Since she's already used Shell-ter and doesn't need it anymore, Turtle Bug dismisses Wayzz. Same happens as in the episode where Ladybug tries to convince Queen Bee not to be on Hawk Moth's side and Queen Bee, in response, starts throwing on miraculouses. Fu shouts at her not to do that, but she's not listening. The butterfly sentimonster (worn down from the fight but still able to move) tries to attack again, but Ladybug ties it up with her yoyo.

- Hawk Moth is confident with Queen Bee throwing on the miraculouses, but same thing happens where the kwami won't transform Chloe since she doesn't know their names. Fu makes a speech about how you can't get a miraculous you feel entitled to. Hawk Moth comments on how he's still going to win and force Fu to tell him the heroes' identities.

- Ladybug smiles, pointing up at him. "Really? Because Ryu Kenshi looks ready to fight you up there."

- Hawk Moth and Mayura turn around to see Ryu Kenshi (yeah, really should’ve thought about the whole “being on an unprotected roof when the superheroes can jump” thing), who's grinning at them. They pale and Ryu Kenshi uses Lightning Dragon to zap them, knocking them off the rooftop. The butterfly sentimonster reacts and frees itself from Ladybug's yoyo, catching the two and immediately flying off. Ryu Kenshi, angered by the retreat, starts to shout for Wind Dragon before remembering that she's already used it. She and Chat go off to see if they can catch the villains.

- Queen Bee tries to escape with the Miracle Box. Ladybug gets her with her yoyo and Queen Bee falls over, dropping the box. Master Fu walks over and picks it up gently, giving Queen Bee a critical look as Queen Bee rants about how the miraculouses are rightfully hers.

- "I'M Queen Bee, I'M the rightful owner of that box, and I--" Suddenly, the de-transformation light washes over her. She turns around, seeing Viperion holding the bee miraculous with a Did you seriously forget I was here? expression.

- Chloe is enraged, flipping out as she removes all the miraculouses and tosses them to the ground since she's surrounded now. Viperion and Fu are in the process of picking them up (absolutely ignoring her like this is just a typical Monday) while Chloe rants to Ladybug about how she betrayed her.

- Chloe leaves in a huff. Ryu Kenshi and Chat Noir return, disappointed that they couldn't catch Hawk Moth or Mayura. Ladybug uses Lucky Charm to prepare to use Miraculous Ladybug, summoning the key ring that she does in the original. Fu recognizes it and admits that, even though she may have made a mistake, she couldn’t have predicted Hawk Moth following her and he would've seen her identity had she gone to de-transform. He adds that this is also partly on him as well; he took far too long to start training "his protege" (being vague about who that is because the other heroes are here) and he clung to the Miracle Box because of it. Though, he adds solemnly that Hawk Moth has the tablet with the translated grimoire. Ladybug gasps, but Fu assures her that he still has his phone (the thing he used to take pictures of the grimoire pages in "The Collector"), and he can easily translate the pages over again since he's already done it once.

- Ladybug uses Miraculous Ladybug and everyone parts after Viperion and Ryu Kenshi give back the miraculouses. Fu stops Ladybug from leaving and simply states that it's time he pass on the guardianship to her. He hesitantly goes to recite the phrase, but Ladybug stops him and reminds him that he already changed the "dumb guardian rules" in order to teach her, so why can't they do that here? They then smile at each other and Fu hands over the box, promising to send Ladybug the translated grimoire over text.

- Fu still goes off with Marianne, the two promising to go back into hiding together just in case Hawk Moth thinks to go after them. Marinette is a little sad to see them go, but Fu assures her that she can call him if she needs anything. He also gives her the non-Lucky Charm version of the key, assuring her that everything she needs (like the thing he used to hide the Miracle Box in, though Marinette would repurpose/repaint it to fit her room and look stylish) is in the locker that the key fits into.

- Same scene with the ice cream happens, but while Luka still plays his song, Marinette is considering the stuff Fu wrote in the letter in the locker (it's still all philosophical and stuff even though no memory wipe ended up being needed) and Fu had noted that the burden Marinette carries is heavier than ever now and she shouldn't be afraid to rely on others should she need it (you know, like he should’ve).

- Finally, Marinette looks over to Luka and says, "Luka, do you remember what you said to me when you were--" She blushes lightly at the memory of them hugging. "--you know?" He nods, and she pauses before adding, "I do actually have something to tell you."

- The next scene is Marinette taking Luka into her room and revealing the location of the new Miracle Box, signifying that Luka is essentially Marinette's confidant now.

- Cut to Gabriel with the fixed peacock miraculous for tension and the episode ends.

#type: ideas #Flower Arrangement Shipping #episode: Miracle Queen #Pro LukaMari #Lukanette

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dovechim · 4 years

Text

lost in the funhouse (m)

⇥ 9.7k

⇥ warnings: psychological manipulation, spitting, slight blood play, oral (both receiving) unprotected sex (y’all know to wrap it right), impregnation risk, cream pie, dirty talk, name calling, Daddy kink

tldr; prisoner Namjoon is here

⇥ a/n: if you had any plans for the Valentine’s Day weekend, throw them all out the window. Happy Valentines Day from yours truly 💌

You’re used to the world being in different shades of grey. Both in the literal and figurative sense. Everything around you is doused in that dull colour, from the austere steel gates every 20 metres, to the security guards in their grey uniforms twirling their batons and sporting the big guns. This place is crawling with security cameras, with the state-of-the-art technology designed to keep the madhouse in order.

Hope World Mental Asylum for the Criminally Insane. A slightly ironic name, seeing as one couldn’t find an inkling of hope in this place no matter how hard they tried.

The prison orderlies bow as you walk past them, and you give them a smile in greeting. The staff here are nice enough. The security guards always treat you with respect, but you’ve seen the way they rough up an inmate who steps out of line. Though you suppose they’re trained to only react that way to the criminally insane. Still, they keep order in the asylum, and with the rowdier inmates that you see, you feel a bit better knowing that they have your back, although you could never believe that any of these people would ever hurt you.

Like you said, your world isn’t black and white, and neither are these people. They come in many shades of grey, and it’s your job to see them for who they really are, not for what the world has labelled them as.

Your heels click along the concrete floor as you walk past the cells of all the inmates, braving the catcalls and hoots along the way. In your white coat that conceals your figure, you feel secure, confident, not in the least bothered by the rowdiness and lewd comments thrown at you. The pristine white of your coat stands out amongst all the grey like a blinding light, painfully out of place, and the prisoners know that. They jeer as you walk past them, but you only give them your angelic smile, greeting them and asking how they’ve been.

You are late to your 2pm slot. A last-minute scheduling, a case that has been dropped by many junior psychiatrists until it was handed to someone more senior, like you. You’d thoroughly familiarized yourself with his case file last night, but when you step inside the cell that you always use for consultations, nothing prepares you to face your newest patient.

He is not bedraggled or covered with the dirt and grime that seems to be everywhere in this place. On the contrary, his blonde hair is slicked back neatly, parted on the side and revealing his forehead. His glasses are perched high up on his nose, even his prison issued jumpsuit seems to fit his lithe frame perfectly. The grey material is pulled tight over his shoulders, rolled up to his elbows in a manner which emphasizes his biceps. The front of it has its buttons undone to reveal a thin, white undershirt that clings to his chest. The rest of his body, however, is concealed behind the desk he is sitting behind.

But what pulls you in is the look on his face. Many of your patients are often broken products of the system, some of them don’t say a single word with you during your session, others ramble on incoherently. One of your patients had a condition where they’d laugh uncontrollably every other sentence. It’s all part and parcel of your job, nothing you haven’t seen before. But this man looks… interested.

He is well put together, intelligent, bright looking eyes tracking your every movement. His hands are laced together on top of the cold metal table that might have been repurposed from an operating table. His unwavering stare unsettles you as you take your seat. For the first time since you started working in this place, you feel uncertain, like you missed that last step coming down the stairs.

For a moment, you wonder if someone looking in on this scene would be able to tell who the psychiatrist is.

“Good afternoon, Mr Kim,” you place your manila folder down on the table.

He smiles serenely at your greeting. If he is surprised at the formal way you refer to him, rather than his prisoner number, he doesn’t show it. “Hello, Doctor. Nice of you to make time for me today.”

“It’s my pleasure,” you nod at him, already even more impressed with how well-spoken he is. His voice is smooth, he sounds as if he could be giving a speech at the UN.

“You know, you have quite the reputation here,” Namjoon leans back in his seat, entirely at ease as he takes in your appearance from head to toe. His stare feels intimate, and then it occurs to you that just as you are here to evaluate him, he is appraising you as well.

“Oh really? Do tell,” you are genuinely interested now. “I figure you probably have an in with the rest here. You could really be helping me out.”

“Well.. let’s see. Graduated from college at the top of your class. Could have gone on to become a prestigious surgeon, have your own hospital and all that. But no. You chose to go into psychiatry. Chose to damn yourself, sully your pretty little self working in a place like this, just to figure out madmen like me.” Namjoon says all this in a matter of fact tone, as if he were reading an instruction manual. But the scary thing is, he is spot on. “So now you spend all your time locked up in this madhouse, talking to men who think about doing the most perverse, fucked up things to you while you sit right in front of them.”

“Is that what they say, or is that what you think?” You maintain a smile on your face. You’ve heard far worse before, but you never let any of them faze you.

“You caught me there,” Namjoon’s façade breaks into a sheepish smile. “Most of it, yeah. My assessment of you, doc. The angel in the madhouse.”

“You’re right. Mostly, anyway,” you admit with an easy shrug. “I did choose psychiatry over general surgery. You’re good at reading people.”

“It’s what a psychopath like me specializes in,” he says this easily, as if he is talking about being good at math or how quick he is at learning to ride a bike. “We read people. Just from their mannerisms alone. We observe them, get into their heads, and we get inside of them. In the most intimate way possible.”

“You know, that isn’t too far from what a psychiatrist does either,” you twirl your pen, watching his eyes follow the motion like a lion stalking its prey. “You and me, we aren’t too different.”

Namjoon lets out a loud, full bellied laugh. “Oh, doll. We couldn’t be any more different. You’re so… good. A good girl. And I’m anything but.”

“What are you, then?”

Instead of answering, he fixes you with an amused look.

“People aren’t black and white, Namjoon. Just because you’re not good, doesn’t mean you are evil. Life doesn’t work like that.”

“I beg to differ. You know, here you have the guys who think they’ve done nothing wrong. In their point of view, they are the good guy, right? But then you have guys like me, guys who knowwhat they’ve done.” He leans forward now, sliding his hands along the table until you are painfully aware of how close they are to touching yours. “Who enjoy breaking people.”

You can feel his breath on your skin.

“Oh, I’ll enjoy breaking you, doll.” He finally sits back with a smile that sends the slightest hint of nerves fluttering in your stomach.

The buzzer rings, signaling the end of your session, and he gets up of his own accord, holds his hands out for the handcuffs that are slapped onto him by the prison orderlies. Before he leaves, though, he shoots you a salacious smile over his shoulder.

“See you next time, doll.”

“Tell me, doc. Aren’t you curious at all?”

“About what?”

In this room, there are only two of you. But you know that at any one point in time, there are eyes on you. There are armed guards keeping watch outside this cell, ready to strike should anything go wrong.

“I said last session that I was thinking of doing the most perverse and disgusting things to you while you sit in front of me, all prim and proper. Don’t you want to know what they are?”

He wants to elicit some sort of reaction out of you. Namjoon is watching you closely for any reaction at all, but you know his tactics all too well. He is trying every trick in the book, starting with the one he thinks will work best. Practically dangling bait in front of you, hoping that you will bite.

Today, he is wrapped up in a straitjacket, his arms crossed over his front because of a transgression committed earlier this week that deemed him a threat. Yet, his mannerisms aren’t the slightest bit affected. He speaks with the confidence of a foreign diplomat, his eyes roving about your person as if he owns you.

“I thought you said it was the others who were thinking of me like that. Not you.”

Snagged, Namjoon lets out a small chuckle. “You got me there, doll.”

His admission does not fool you. Someone like Kim Namjoon wouldn’t let themselves get backed into a corner or admit something that they weren’t already willing to give away. It’s all just a game to him.

“You’re so pretty. As always,” Namjoon smiles, a charming grin that makes your heart beat a little faster. “You know, we all love seeing you. It’s the only thing that brightens our days in here.”

Seeing him face to face like this, it’s so hard to differentiate him from the Kim Namjoon that you know from his casefile. Multiple homicides, drug use, violent crime, and worst of all, the torture he subjected his victims to.

Looking at him like this, he could be your English professor in college.

“Do me a favour will you? Just one, tiny little thing,” he implores, an innocent look on his face.

Wariness creeps in at the edges of your consciousness, but you find yourself pushing it away.

“It depends on what you’re asking for.”

“My favourite colour is purple.” His next statement catches you even more off guard, because you expected something outrageous like demanding to shorten his sentence or get him on parole. “But everything is just so fucking grey in here. The only spot of colour we- Iget to see is you.”

He leans forward, with some difficulty now with his straitjacket. Namjoon’s voice has dropped to an intimate whisper, his eyes dipping down to linger on your lips. It prompts you to lean forward as well so that you can catch his next words.

“Wear something purple for me, won’t you, babydoll? I just need some colour in my life,” he begs so prettily, and it’s such an innocent request, you can’t find anything insidious in it. “But for our sessions only. It’ll be our little secret.”

His voice trails off, and you can see the hint of possessiveness in his eyes that sends a thrill down your spine, that holds dark promises of what would happen if you wore that colour for someone else.

The buzzer rings. He doesn’t wait for a confirmation from you, just gets up obediently and turns to the guards. The heavy doors close, and you are left alone in the cold, sterile room.

“Dr _____... I live for these moments with you.” Kim Namjoon isn’t his usual, composed self today. His eyes are alight, dancing with mirth the moment you walk into the cell.

He spots the lavender blouse that you have on today, covered by your doctor’s coat, of course. Namjoon only has a few seconds to take in the lemon-yellow pencil skirt that you have on before you take a seat opposite him. He is smiling like the cat that caught the canary.

“Thank you for honouring my request,” he says with another charming smile, and today because the straitjacket is off, he reaches across the table with his hands, long and slim fingers laced together.

“It was a minor inconvenience, of course,” you sigh dramatically. “Didn’t have anything purple in my wardrobe, I realized. Had to go on a shopping spree and treat myself for the first time in a long while.”

“I’m sorry you enjoyed yourself because of me,” Namjoon banters back, and you giggle with your hand over your mouth.

He watches you laugh with a smile that crinkles the corners of his mouth, emphasizing his dimples.

“What is it like outside, doctor?” He asks with a beguiling smile, tilting his head as he watches you digest the question. “What’s the best thing you love about being outside? Is it the colour of the sky, or the warmth of the sun on your skin?”

Again, his questions are so innocent, that you can’t possibly believe how many people he’s tortured and murdered. How many of his own gang members he killed. Kim Namjoon’s innocent dimples are on full display as he searches your expression.

“I like… I like how the sky is boundless. At any one time, if I look up at it, I feel… free. Like I can go anywhere I want to.” Your thoughts wander, taking you outside of this sterile, heavily guarded prison cell until you can almost feel the breeze on your cheeks. But then, the heavy clank of a prison door somewhere outside brings you back to reality, and you realise what you’ve just said in front of someone who’s been sentenced to this mental asylum for life.

A part of you expects him to lunge across the table for your throat. But Kim Namjoon has not moved a single muscle. Instead, the smile on his face is ever present, dimples and all, and you can’t help but detect something sinister in it. But instead of making you feel uneasy, it thrillsyou.

Is this what it feels like to be dancing with the devil?

He lets out a contented sigh, as if he’s living in the memories you just described. “So innocent, doctor. That’s what I like about you. You remind me of how the world would look like if everything was good.”

Somehow, his approval feels good. It feels right.

“Do me a favour, will you?” Namjoon opens his eyes from his brief escape into fantasy. “Dance for me, little swan.”

“Dance?” You hesitate. “I can’t dance… I don’t know how to…”

“Then twirl,” he says, not giving you time to fumble about in your own lack of self-esteem. “Twirl for me, pretty thing.”

You reluctantly get up, seeing the hope in his eyes as he watches your every move. You are more self-conscious than you’ve ever been in this place, especially so when he bids you to take off your doctor’s coat. Without it, without the sense of validation and authority it affords you, you begin to feel like the tables have turned between you and Kim Namjoon. That really, he’s the one evaluating you.

You leave your coat on the back of the chair. Placing your feet together, you start to spin slowly, feeling the brush of your skirt against your thighs elevate your heart rate. You go faster, feeling the breeze of your own making caress your hair. All this while you are aware of his eyes on you, tracking your every movement like a predator stalking its prey. A laugh escapes your lips as you put your arms out for balance; but all it takes is one misstep, and suddenly you find yourself in the arms of a mass murderer.

Kim Namjoon sets you upright again, his lithe arms feel strong as you clutch his biceps. His frame towers over you, and it is only then that you realise how much power he exudes, just from his aura alone. How did he even move that quickly?

“Careful, Doctor. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt, now would we?” The beats of your heart count off the seconds that he holds you in his arms, and it feels like an eternity before he lets you go. “Only I get to do that. Only I can hurt you, babydoll.”

His eyes dip to your lips, and he places his hand on your chin, running a thumb along your bottom lip. You feel the pad of his thumb dampen with your saliva, and you can hardly breathe.

“You would look good with red lipstick,” he comments casually, dropping his hand from your face and taking a step back.

As if on cue, the buzzer rings, and the prison orderlies rush in to corral him into his handcuffs, lead him back to his cage. He keeps his eyes on you as he is dragged out of the room, on the way your chest heaves as you struggle to catch your breath.

A knock sounds at the door of your office. A little hesitant, but more insistent the second time round.

“Doctor? You’re late for your session with Prisoner 120994.” It’s the intern who does the administrative scheduling for the psychiatrists, Jeon Jeongguk. The number catches you off guard for a moment, until you connect the dots. You haven’t thought of Kim Namjoon as Prisoner 120994 for the longest time.

You take a moment longer as you stare at your reflection in the small hand mirror, contemplating the red lipstick on your desk. But it clashes with your violet cardigan, and the whole look is just messy.

The knock comes again, and you hastily throw off your cardigan, apply your lipstick, and gather your white coat.

“Dr _____, you’ll be la- oh. Um, Prisoner 120994 is waiting, Dr _____.” Jeongguk awkwardly swings the door open wider so that you can get past him. “You look… you look different today. New lipstick?”

“Just trying something new,” you shrug it off casually as he follows behind you like a puppy.

“Not only today, you’ve been looking different lately!” Jeongguk is quick to add on.

You are almost halfway to your consultation cell, but Jeongguk is still following you. He doesn’t let up until you stand before the armed guards. They open the door, and you see that Namjoon is already seated in his usual seat. He cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of you, his usual charming smile primed to greet you, but it fades when he sees Jeongguk.

“… the new style looks really good on you!” Jeongguk is bright eyed as he grins at you.

You cast him a cold glare. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to work, intern? I don’t need an escort to walk me to my sessions.”

Without waiting for a response, you enter the cell, the door slamming behind you. Shooting Namjoon an apologetic smile, you sit down across him, arranging your files on the cold metal table in front of you.

“Who was that?”

“Oh, it was…” your voice trails off upon seeing the dark look on his face. “It was our admin intern. He’s young, so he’s still pretty immature. But he gets work done, so…”

Namjoon is no longer interested in your answer. Instead, he is appraising your person, from the way you nervously arrange the papers on the desk, to your inability to meet his gaze.

“The lipstick doeslook good on you, Doctor,” he relents finally, and you are able to relax for the first time since you stepped foot in this cell a few moments ago. His gaze feels more intimate than ever as he practically eye-fucks you, lingering on the low neckline of your light blue strappy top. “But it seems like you wanted Jeongguk to see it instead of me.”

“No! Jeongguk is… he’s no one. No one compared to you,” Feeling like a scolded child, your cheeks heat up in shame.

“Aren’t you forgetting something else, too?” Namjoon is relentless, raising a brow at your outfit of choice today.

At once, you jump to your own defense, but your voice trails off in uncertainty. “It clashed with the lipstick! And so I didn’t know…”

“Did it?” He expresses doubt, his eyes still eating up every inch of exposed skin on your chest. It ignites a fire in your lower belly, makes the entire room heat up.

“But I wore something else that’s purple,” you’re quick to continue, eager to earn back his approval.

His eyebrow perks up with a lazy, lethal interest, like a jaguar flicking its tail, contemplating a potential kill. “What is that, babydoll?”

Your heart is in your throat. Knowing exactly where the security cameras are located in this room, you angle your body as you scoot your chair closer to the table. Then, you lean forward ever so deliberately until you’re sure that he can get a good peek of your lilac lace bra down your shirt, and the smirk of approval sends adrenaline singing through your veins.

This is so wrong. You could be fired for this.

But then why does being wrong feel so right?

“Fuck, you’re such a good girl for me,” he lets out a single, vehement curse, his eyes unable to leave that sweet spot of your cleavage pushed together by your bra. “Today it’s your bra, but next time… next time I’ll be sucking on your pretty pink nipples.”

Hearing him praise you is the best feeling in the world. And even better is how he can’t take his eyes off you.

Taking advantage of the fact that the security cameras in this room are only filming your back, you reach into the sleeve of your coat and lower the straps of your top, so that it falls down your chest, fully exposing your breasts in your lilac lace bra to his view.

“Now I’m not forgetting anything, am I?” You voice is breathless as you watch his eyes travel greedily across your cleavage, licking his lips. “We should continue our session like this.”

Namjoon lets out a chuckle. “Oh, babydoll. You think I can concentrate on what you’re saying if you look like that?”

“Then don’t,” the words come out of your mouth, and you didn’t even realise you were this brave.

“Remember those perverse, disgusting things I mentioned during our first session, Doctor?” He leans forward for a better look at your breasts, watching as they begin to heave up and down because of your heavy breathing.

“Yes. I want to hear them.”

“You’re so… good,” Namjoon whispers, as if to himself. “I want to hurt you so, so bad, babydoll. Fuck every single hole you have until you are brimming with cum. I want to tie you up to the bed, legs spread permanently and make you my little cum slut. Just a receptacle for holding my cum, and if you dare to let any spill out, I’ll choke you with my cock until you pass out. When I finally let your pretty little pussy have my cock, it won’t be vanilla sex like you’re used to with that loser Jeongguk. I’ll brand you with my cum, and you’ll be my breeding slut. Forever reduced to carrying my babies. I will own you. I will break you so good, baby doll, and I will hurt you really, really bad.”

“I can take it,” you answer eagerly. “Anything you want to do to me. I can take it. I want it.”

He laughs again, almost in delight at your compliance. “So obedient. So innocent. You don’t know how badly I can hurt you, babydoll.”

You shake your head vehemently, leaning forward to offer him a view of your cleavage. “I don’t care. I want it.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across Namjoon’s face. “If you really want it, babygirl…”

“Yes, I want it,” he has reduced you to incoherency.

“… you’re going to have to help me with it.” Namjoon reaches forward to trace a pattern on the top of your hand, and it feels like your nipples are so hard, they’re aching for his touch. The single point of contact between you and him has your entire body heating up, your thighs rubbing against each other, and your panties drenched.

You nod immediately. “Anything. Whatever you need.”

“If we’re going to fuck, we need a place where we won’t be watched. As much as I want to hurt you, that sight is for my eyes only. I don’t like sharing my toys with others.”

“I understand-“

“Now, there’s going to be a system maintenance next Monday, exactly three days from now,” Namjoon continues calmly, his eyes razor sharp as they lock in on you, no longer clouded with lust. “All the security systems will be offline until the first bedcheck at 6am. At exactly 3.05am, there will be a change in shift, and there won’t be anyone watching my cell. It takes 9 minutes. You need to come and get me out of my cell. And then… then we can talk about how bad you’re willing to get hurt.”

“How will I… how will I get the key?” It doesn’t even occur to you to question how he knows all this information.

“You’re smart, babygirl. You’ll figure it out,” he strokes your chin with his thumb, admiring how your red lipstick smears when he brushes it against your lips. “Already a mess for me. I can’t wait to wreck you, baby girl.”

“I’ll do it,” you reassure him, only to be rewarded with his approving smile.

“Cover yourself, babydoll. The buzzer is about to go off.” Namjoon sits back in his seat as you snap back into reality, following his instructions as you pull the straps of your top back on your shoulders. He looks a little sorry to see you covered back up.

As predicted, the buzzer rings, and the doors fling open.

The guards come in to take him away, and you don’t even question his near supernatural ability to keep track of time so accurately, even though there isn’t a clock in this room. Even you lose track of time during your sessions with him, forgetting to look at your watch that you keep hidden.

All you can see is him.

“Everything okay? You’ve been stirring that coffee for the past five minutes.” A voice jerks you out of your daze.

Min Yoongi, the head prison warden, strolls in lazily, twirling his all-access card in his hand. You almost salivate at the sight of it. It’s all too convenient. His access card is the only way for you to get into the room with all the keys to the prisoners’ cells.

He slips it into his back pocket carelessly.

There’s no one in the common pantry that all the staff in the mental asylum share. It’s the perfect chance.

You turn around, immediately spotting how his eyes are drawn to the low neckline of your top. So the rumours were true. Just a little bit of cleavage and the man will roll over like a puppy begging for a belly rub.

“Just tired, is all,” you smile jovially, dropping the empty coffee sachet on the floor not so accidentally. When you bend over to pick it up, you make sure he gets a good look down your shirt.

As you straighten up, you catch a glimpse of his dazed stare. You take it as an opportunity to step closer so that your bodies are almost pressed up against each other.

“Say… what are you doing this weekend? Are you free, by any chance?” You let your eyes linger on his lips, angling your head so that more of your neck is exposed to him. You can feel his breath, hot and heavy on your skin.

“Th-this weekend? Su..sure, I’m free, yeah,” he stumbles over his words, hands coming up to hover around your ass, still unsure of himself.

You gently coax his hands, his right hand resting on your butt cheek, and the other on your waist. He gropes your ass immediately, unable to control himself. In return, you giggle playfully, sliding your hand down to his ass in a show of flirting as well.

Closing the gap between your bodies, you press your breasts against him, lowering your lips to his ear. “You should come over. My roommate is out and we’ll have the whole place… to- our-selves.”

You emphasize the last three syllables, noticing the way his breathing picks up as a result. You deftly slide your hand out of his pocket, patting his ass as you wink at him. “Call me!”

As he watches you go with lustful eyes, your step has an extra flourish, hips swaying to give him a good show. But what he can’t see is the satisfaction on your face as you kiss the access card, sliding it into your bra for safe keeping.

Having worked in Hope World Mental Asylum for the Criminally Insane for the past nine years, you know your way around it like the back of your hand. The guard routes, security camera positions, emergency exits. Basically, you have the map of it memorized.

Earlier that week, you signed yourself up for the graveyard shift, which of course no one wanted. No one even asked why you wanted that shift, all too glad to clock off and leave you alone in your office.

The silence is deafening as you watch the minute hand crawl closer and closer to the ‘1’ mark. At 3.04am, you get up silently, having dressed in a black hoodie and black jeans, with sneakers to go along with it. You let yourself out of your office, clutching the access card as you make your way to the control room where all the keys are kept.

From your office to the control room is only 50 steps. Less than a minute later, you are in and out, grabbing the keys from a hook labelled ‘120994’.

From the control room to his cell is another 80 steps. It takes you one minute to get to his cell, and you see him pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. He stops as he spots you, his features lighting up with a dimpled grin.

Another 10 seconds to unlock his cell. And then he is out.

The caged beast is no longer so.

You expected him to sweep you into his embrace at once, kiss you until you can’t remember your name. But all he does is take your hand in his, breaking into a run and forcing you to keep up with him. Your footsteps are silent as he leads you down the rabbit’s hole, twisting and turning until you lose track of where you’re going.

Down flights and flights of stairs, out of a door labelled emergency exit that you never came across before. And then it is down a dark tunnel that never seems to end.

When he finally stops, you are out of breath. “Wh-where are we?”

Namjoon is not winded in the slightest. It’s obvious that he is at peak physical condition, and he turns to you, front buttons of his grey prison issued jumpsuit undone. “We’re underground, babydoll. A place where they’ll never find us.”

A quick look around tells you that this might have been a medical ward a long time ago. Operating tables, not unlike the one you have in your consultation room, are strewn about. Only thing is, these tables have limb restraints attached to them. Broken syringes lie on the floor, electroconvulsive therapy machines are abandoned in the corner. Years of disuse has not done this room any good.

You should feel vulnerable in a place like this that could have come from one of Stephen King’s novels. Trapped in close proximity with a madman who prowls the room’s perimeter.

But all you feel is exhilaration and anticipation for what is to come.

You watch his biceps tense as he runs his fingers through his hair, turning around to face you. “A place where you’re all mine.”

He stalks towards you, eyes glinting in the darkness. “We have all the time in the world, babydoll. And I told you before. I’m going to break you so, so bad.”

“I want it,” your voice comes out in a near whisper as he backs you toward the wall, caging you in with his lithe arms.

His broad shoulders pin you against the wall, and he forces your chin up so that he can finally kiss you. Namjoon’s lips are rough, his teeth not showing mercy as he owns your mouth. His hands roam the expanse of your body, groping first your ass, then palming your breasts in his large hands.

He is like a drug you can’t get enough of. Every lick of his tongue is intoxicating, his lips pull you in deeper into your descent. There’s no going back now. But of course, you knew this all along.

Namjoon pulls away with swollen lips, toned chest panting as he picks you up around the waist. His strength only serves to make you even more beguiled by him, and you have to touch his biceps to feel how they tense and strain under your weight.

He treats you like a ragdoll as he tosses you onto the metal table, climbing onto of you and spreading your thighs with his legs. Namjoon takes a moment to admire how pretty you look with your hair all splayed out across the metal table. In a single motion, he strips your body of your black hoodie with a crazed look in his eyes, annoyed with not being able to see and touch your bare skin. He brings both of your hands up by your head, straps them in with the restraints before you even realise it.

Namjoon has his thumb on your chin. “Open,” he orders, and you obediently part your lips.

He spits right into your mouth, admiring the way his saliva is collected on the back of your tongue.

“Swallow, then show me,” he demands, and you swallow down his spit, opening to show him an empty mouth. “That’s my babydoll.”

He kisses down your body, looking for the first time, unhinged as he feasts on the sweetness of your skin. Namjoon fascinates himself by spitting on your breasts, watching his spittle run down the crevices of your body, into your cleavage, soaked up by your lavender lace bra.

Then, in a sudden movement, he tears your bra to pieces, the underwire ripping your skin and making you gasp in exhilaration. The raw display of strength, the primal desire in his eyes as he sees the crimson stain on your pretty, smooth skin. One finger swipes across the newly made wound, gathering the blood and bringing it to his mouth.

“Sweeter than I imagined,” he says as if in a trance, mesmerized by the way your blood tastes.

Then he dips his finger in the crimson liquid once more, tracing patterns down your belly as he caresses your waist, until he comes to the waistband of your jeans.

“I had hoped you would be in slightly more suitable attire… but I guess this is for practicality’s sake,” he muses, flicking open the button with practiced ease. Namjoon slides your jeans down your legs, hands lingering on every inch of exposed skin as he goes. He tosses your jeans somewhere on the floor, leaving you in your flimsy lace panties that are already soaked to the core.

He brushes two fingers experimentally against the wet patch. “Tell me darling. How would you like to live dangerously?”

When he pulls your panties down, you are so wet that you can smell yourself. Embarrassment heats your cheeks as Namjoon scents your arousal, biting his lower lip in response.

“Look at you. Already so wet, your pussy is begging to be destroyed.” He spreads your pussy lips with two fingers, exposing your delicate insides lewdly as he examines you thoroughly. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Y-yours, it’s yours. Forever. If you want it.” You respond immediately to the warning tap on your inner thigh.

Namjoon chuckles, a low, dangerous sound that you can feel directly in your core. “We’ll see how well it can take cock first. I’m going to tear your pussy apart, then we’ll see if you still want to offer it to me.”

When he reaches your ankles, he imparts a kiss to each one before he straps them in. You can feel the leather restraints tight against your skin, so that you are left spread-eagled on the metal table.

“So perfect,” Namjoon smiles to himself, licking your essence off his fingertips. “Just waiting for me to break you.”

Every second that you don’t feel his touch on your body is a moment of torture. “Namjoon,” you sob, arching your breasts to the ceiling.

“Beg for it,” he whispers, slapping your breasts roughly so that he can watch them bounce under his force. He pinches your nipples hard, reveling in your screams as he tweaks your pleasure. “All you have to do is say the word. ‘Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty…”

“Please,” you gasp, thighs aching with the strain of trying to rub against each other. You can feel yourself dripping onto the table underneath you already. “Pretty please.”

“Good girl,” Namjoon sighs in delight, taking in the trails of dried blood on your tummy. Your hardened nipples are begging to be tasted, but he isn’t done with them yet.

He spots what he’s looking for on the floor a couple of paces away. Leaving your side to pick them up, he attaches the electric clamps onto your nipples, causing you to wail out in pain and pleasure. Of course, there’s no current active between them, since this place has been abandoned for god knows how long, but this will have to do.

“Now, let me eat my babydoll’s pussy.” He finally invites himself to feast on the delicacy in between your legs that he’s been dreaming of ever since the first time he set eyes on you.

The first lick has you thrashing on the table, tears leaking and streaking your mascara down your cheeks. His tongue continues to probe your clit, circling it torturously as two fingers plunge themselves into you without warning.

Having this intelligent, well-spoken man who could probably run for president in between your legs makes you heady with desire. The lust filled moans reverberate in the empty, abandoned medical ward, mixing with the filthy sounds of Namjoon as he tongues your cunt. Two lithe fingers are buried deep, thrusting and seeking out that sensitive spot inside you.

The word slips out before you realise it. “Daddy… let me cum. Wanna cum.”

He pauses at this, letting out a harkened laugh with your juices still dripping from his mouth. “A pretty little girl like you, with a Daddy kink? Oh, this is too perfect. I’ll fuck all the daddy issues right out of you, babydoll.”

And then his tongue is back on your clit, he adds another finger to your cunt to stretch you out even more. Your thighs are twitching, heels banging against the metal table as you convulse under his touch.

“Don’t cum.” He commands, slapping your clit sharply. “You’re not allowed to cum until Daddy says.”

“Please, please stop, I can’t hold it back,” you beg and please, thighs straining to close. You are almost at the edge of your orgasm, one more lick of his devious tongue would send you right over.

Namjoon gives a disappointed sigh, eyes flicking to your tear stained face. Like a predator toying with its prey, he decides to let you off just this once.

“Fine. Meanwhile, I’ll use your pretty little mouth.” A series of movements follow, and you strain your neck to catch a glimpse of what he’s doing.

And it is a glorious sight. Namjoon pushes the sleeves of his prison issued jumpsuit down his well-muscled arms, exposing the thin white shirt underneath. It clings to his defined chest, slightly matted with sweat. But the real prize comes when he pushes the jumpsuit below his waist, and you realise that underwear is probably the only thing that is not prison issued.

The sight of his long, hard cock, angry and red greets you. One hand pushes the rest of the jumpsuit down, the other strokes his length and gathers the precum on his palm to provide a better glide. He catches you staring with a smirk, his abs tensing as he puts on a show for you.

Namjoon kicks his jumpsuit off, walking to the head of the table. He strokes your cheek gently, then slaps it hard, leaving a red imprint behind. He digs his fingers into your cheeks, forcing you to tilt your head up uncomfortably to make eye contact with him.

“Open,” he says, as if you were nothing but another orifice to pleasure himself with.

You can only imagine how much he’s been dying to do this. When was the last time he got off? Your lips part obediently, offering your throat as a vessel for his pleasure.

He rests his cock on your bottom lip, smearing his precum all over your chin. Namjoon grasps himself and moves the tip of his cock to your reddened cheek, spreading the precum over the imprint of his hand. Satisfied with his handiwork, he finally slides his cock into your mouth, and then you are filled with the taste of him.

His cock is hot and heavy on your tongue, his pre cum fills your throat with its saltiness as he thrusts hard. The tip of his cock hits your throat, and you can already start to feel how raw it is as he face fucks you. His balls are hitting your face repeatedly with every thrust, so you have to close your eyes and surrender your mouth to him completely.

“Your every breath belongs to me,” Namjoon emphasizes his statement with every thrust of his cock. “If you breathe, it’ll be because I allowed you to. Got that, slut?”

He punctuates this with a slap to your breasts, causing your nipples to twinge from the clamps. Namjoon then releases the clamps and tosses them aside so that he can bend down to take an abused nipple into his mouth while he fucks your face.

Every few thrusts, Namjoon buries his cock all the way in your throat, forcing you to deepthroat him. Your throat convulses around him as spit and precum drip out the sides of your mouth. Then, he decides to push his cock all the way in and keep it there, actively depriving you of your air supply. His balls are heavy on your face, smothering you.

“Shit!” He pulls his cock away from your mouth after what seems like eternity. “You have such a good mouth for cock-sucking, babydoll. Do you ever suck Jeongguk’s cock like that? Hmmm? Tell Daddy what a cock slut you are.”

You shake your head vehemently. “No! I’m just a cockslut for you. Only you.”

Namjoon chuckles darkly, before shutting you up as he places his balls on your chin. “Shut up and suck my balls, slut.”

You lave your tongue around him, taking one of his testicles into your mouth and playing with it, careful to keep your teeth from grazing them accidentally. By now, your makeup is smeared all over your face, sticky precum coating every inch of your skin, and he has rubbed his balls and cock all over your face, treating you like a sex doll.

You can feel how heavy his balls are as you switch to the other one. Namjoon groans, almost in pain as you suck dutifully.

“Fuck, I have so much fucking cum for you, babydoll. I want to fucking drown you in cum. But the only place I’ll be putting it is in your pretty pussy. Good girls like you love having a cum filled pussy, don’t they? You can’t live unless your pussy has been well-fucked and creamed. You’ll let any random man fill your pussy with cum, won’t you?”

You make a muffled sound in your throat, and Namjoon sighs impatiently, as if anything you have to say is an inconvenience to him. He pulls his balls from your mouth. “What is it, slut?”

“I’ve- I’ve never let anyone cum inside me before-“

“Oh? Never let another man cum inside you?” He reacts with genuine surprise, slapping one breast harshly again. By now, your tits are red and swollen with his handprints all over them. “Never felt a man’s cock pulse as he paints your womb with his cum? Never felt the warmth of his semen in your pussy, travelling through your pretty little body in search of your egg?”

“Never,” you say truthfully, entirely enraptured by his dark, gleaming eyes.

For a moment, he is silent, and you almost think that you can see a glimmer of something that you haven’t quite seen before when it comes to Namjoon. It is soft, tender, but gone in a split second before you had a chance to ascertain that you saw it for real.

“Then I’ll be the first, babydoll.” The luscious grin is back as he makes his way in between your legs, cock probing your inner thighs and staining them with pre-cum. “Beg for my cock.”

You perform for him, as if on cue. “Please, please, please, fuck me. Fuck me so hard and break me, Daddy. I can take it, I promise. Be the first man to cum inside me.”

“What would your parents say if they saw you like this, hmmm?” Namjoon runs the tip of his cock against your slit, slapping it a few times. “All bound up, legs spread, mouth used and begging to get fucked by a madman. Begging for a criminal’s cock.”

Your laugh sounds foreign to your ears. It resounds in the dim room, it is unhinged, on the verge of catatonic.

“They would be proud of me,” you say with a wide grin, and it prompts a belly laugh from Namjoon.

“Give it to me, Daddy,” you bite your bottom lip, canting your hips up in invitation. “I want it all.”

Namjoon gazes down at you with a look of deranged pride at your bruised and broken body, finally feeding you his cock one inch at a time. He spreads your pussy with two fingers as he thrusts the rest of the way in, marrying your hips together with a flex of his thick thighs.

“So fucking tight, I’m going to have so much fun ruining this pussy,” Namjoon all but cackles as he begins to fuck you, every stroke deep and purposeful.

You can only giggle, all caution thrown to the wind as you watch the sweat start to collect on his body. “I’m already broken, Daddy. Use me as you please.”

So Namjoon doesn’t stand on courtesy. He pumps in and out of your cunt, watching your breasts bounce violently from the force of his thrusts. Your walls mold around his cock as if you were made for him, made to take his fucking like his very own plaything.

He places his hands on either side of your waist as he ruts into you like a filthy animal, and you can see from the way his muscles strain and flex that he is putting every single ounce of energy he has into fucking your pussy. Namjoon’s eyes glimmer with a primordial urge, and you let yourself fantasise that you are his last meal. That he is an inmate placed on death row, and his last, dying wish is to fuck a baby into you.

Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Namjoon slaps your cheek hard.

“What were you thinking about, slut?” He demands, keeping up the brutal pace as the head of his cock assaults your cervix with every thrust.

“M-making you a baby daddy,” you confess with a sinful leer, mouth open and gasping in pain as he slams into your cervix again.

“Oh? Babydoll read my mind,” Namjoon’s lips curl into a nefarious smile. “Ever since you walked into my cell, all I wanted to do is get you pregnant with my child. Fill you up with so much cum so that there’s no way you won’t get pregnant by the time I’m done with you.”

“Do it, please,” you beg, pussy dripping at the thought of him making you heavy and round with his child. It would be your greatest pleasure to carry his baby, to feel a part of him grow inside you, to walk around in public carrying the baby of an insane criminal.

“I’m gonna make you remember how well I broke you,” Namjoon growls into your skin, his voice is a deep rumble as he brands you with his cock. His girth feels as if it is splitting you apart, you can feel the head of his cock so deep, that if you were to touch your stomach, you might feel his cock there. “For the rest of your life, babydoll. I’m gonna cum so deep in your womb, gonna put a baby right here.”

His hand comes to rest on your lower stomach.

“Then I’m going to let you go with a womb full of my cum, and you’re going to walk out of this place with my baby inside you. You’re going to grow so big and swollen that when people see you, they’ll know you’ve been fucked by a psychopath,” Namjoon licks a stripe up your neck, his teeth sinking into the lobe of your ear. “Inseminated by a madman. Bred by a criminal.”

“I’ll give you all the babies you want,” you are desperate to feel him pulse inside you. “Visit you in prison and let Daddy knock me up over and over. Be your little prison breeding slut.”

A derisive chuckle comes from him as he fondles your clit. At this stage, you are so fucked out, cock drunk and desperate for his cum. You couldn’t possibly have any idea what he’s planning.

“That’s right, babydoll. Now stay still and let Daddy do his job. We only get one chance, so Daddy’s got to make sure he fucks a baby into you now.” The urgency in his voice is lost on you as his hips start to hammer into your cunt, driving his cock so deep until you are crying from the intricate mix of pain and pleasure.

You have no idea how you managed to get this far without cumming, but the tension in your lower belly is right at the brink of snapping. Still, you wait for his permission, and judging from his breathing, he is getting close. His thrusts are getting sloppy, his face buried into your shoulder as he chases after his release.

“Cum for me now. Squeeze my cock like the whore you are,” Namjoon breathes into your shoulder, finally giving you the go ahead.

His resounding groan as he fucks into your tightening pussy encourages you to let him hear how good he’s making you feel. Your screams of his name echo inside the abandoned room as your pussy clamps down around his cock, trying its best to milk him dry of every drop of cum.

“Milk me, you fucking cumslut, squeeze me dry,” he demands, slamming into you one last time before he releases with a loud groan, every pulse of his cock sending spurts of semen deep into your womb where it belongs. His fingers tighten around your thighs, leaving behind blue black bruises. “You better get every drop of cum if you want to get pregnant, whore.”

And you work for his cum, the aftershocks of your orgasm making your walls clench around him rhythmically. He is so deep, you can feel the spurts of his cum directly at your cervix, bathing it generously as your womb swallows it down greedily.

When you feel as if the spurts of cum have stopped, you expect him to pull out. But you realise that his cock still remains hard in your well fucked cunt. Namjoon’s chest is heaving, sweat dripping off every crevice of his muscled torso as he slowly begins to thrust his cock in and out of your creamy pussy.

“Daddy’s got to fuck his cum inside your womb,” he says with his eyes glued to the mess between your legs, watching his semen froth up on his cock. “Be a good doll and don’t let any of it escape.”

His thrusts are slower, but deeper now as he makes sure that his balls hit your ass with every thrust. You can feel how sloppy your pussy is, even if you can’t see the cum on Namjoon’s cock. Your inner thighs are wet and sticky, and you whine like a spoiled toddler.

“Daddy… you’re fucking me so hard.It’s all coming out,” you say with a pout. “How am I gonna give Daddy a baby if he fucks all his cum out of my pussy?”

A definitive throb of his cock inside you tells you that you hit his soft spot. “Daddy’ll have to fill you up again then babydoll.”

This time, a finger circles your clit, pulling the knot in your belly tighter as he fucks into you. You tense up immediately, feeling incredibly sloppy as he fucks the cum deeper into your pussy.

“Can I cum? Daddy, can I cum?” You beg, feeling his cock twitching as he hits you with deep thrusts.

“Cum for me, babydoll. Pull all that sweet cum deep inside your womb where it belongs. Give us a baby,” he cajoles, and the squeezing of your sweet, cum slippery walls in your orgasm rewards him. “Fuck, take my fucking cum. Take all of it!”

For the second time that night, you feel his cum flood your pussy, and he tilts your hips up as he roars his pleasure, fucking your cervix raw and open. His thrusts slow as his spurts of cum weaken, and soon, he is plugging your pussy up with his cum.

“My pretty babydoll,” he runs his tongue up the side of your face, kissing the side of your mouth. “Took my cum so well. It’ll be a miracle if you weren’t pregnant after tonight.”

“Daddy…” you eyelids flutter in exhaustion.

He gives you a final kiss on your forehead, smearing the precum on your face one last time before he pushes himself away from you.

You hear him fiddling with the restraints at your wrists and ankles. A moment later, your limbs are free, and you adjust your position so that your thighs are close together, cradling the precious gift of life that Hehas bestowed you with.

“Rest, babydoll.”

You hear his voice getting more and more distant as he moves about the room. Attempting to open your eyes to follow his movement, you see him rummaging for something in the drawers, and then the sound of paper tearing.

“Wh- what are you…?”

Then, he is back by your side, a large, warm hand on your forehead, forcing you back down again. A pinprick on your arm, and then everything goes black.

When you wake up, it is to darkness and musk.

And god, the ache in your entire body.

You move your legs, grimacing at the stickiness in between them. When you sit up, you can feel globs of cum leak down your inner thigh. You run your fingers through it reverently, bringing it to your lips for a taste and closing your eyes in sheer pleasure as you lick every bit of His cum.

How much time has passed? How long were you out cold for?

Glancing around, you slowly recall the events that transpired. The warmth in your slightly swollen belly that reminds you of the life that you have been tasked to nurture. The used needle on the ground beside you that is probably the reason why you were knocked out.

A giggle passes your lips as you scan the room for any traces of Him, but of course, he isn’t here anymore. But it doesn’t matter. He’s long gone, escaped into the night like thin air.

But he chose you.

You want to jump up and down, hug yourself in delight. But you mustn’t spill any more of His cum. You have to make sure it takes, make sure your belly becomes swollen with his child, just as he intended, so that he can see from wherever he is.

You throw your head back as catatonic laughter takes over you, peals of it resounding in the dark basement of the abandoned medical ward.

EPILOGUE

Your lips curl up in a secret smile when they ask. Words of ‘Congratulations! Who’s the baby daddy?’ only make your heart race.

Your swollen stomach is increasing in size with His gift, slowly, day by day.

Min Yoongi’s curious eyes linger on the swell of your belly. “You know… you never gave me your number that night.”

But you ignore him, stirring your coffee serenely.

“And, next up on the nine pm news. Sightings of mass murderer Kim Namjoon in the vicinity have been reported, but two months after his escape from the Hope World Mental Asylum for the Criminally Insane, police still haven’t been able to track him down. The state has initiated a full-scale manhunt for the criminal, but all efforts have proved to be futile…”

You stroke your belly with a peaceful smile, looking at his picture on the television screen. Handsome as ever.

They should just give up. No one in this entire world can find Kim Namjoon. Not even you.

But you’re not worried. Because you know he’ll come back for you, and meanwhile, you’ll proudly show the world how swollen you are because of Him. And when he does come back, it’ll be to fuck another baby into you.

Because after all, you are his chosen. His one and only.

#bts smut #bts rm #namjoon smut #bts namjoon smut #btssmutclub

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the-melting-world · 3 years

Text

As Above, So Below

~ In which a humble gardener celebrates the life of a fluffy magician...

Asra x Kipling

~ 1.3k words

Determined to write a poem for Asra's birthday, Kipling escapes to the Magician's realm for some inspiration...

Kipling sat on the astral beach of the Magician’s realm, looking out at the water as the tides came and went, lapping gently at her toes. Time wasn’t really relevant when it came to this place, but Kip judged that she had been sitting in the sand for about an hour. Her eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the way the glistening ocean pulsed and flickered with all the different dimensions breaking and interrupting each other, pretending to be waves.

Kip had her knees propped up, journal open against her brown, salt-flecked thighs. Not a single letter lived on the lined, creamy surface of the pages. She was running out of time.

Kipling closed her eyes, bowed her head against the blank pages and tried not to think about the other gifts Asra had received. The night before, Nadia had, with the help of Aisha and Salim, thrown Asra a Zadithi-style dinner party with all his favorite traditional dishes. The entire royal garden had been transformed into that of the date palm orchards from the temperate Zadithi oases.

Muriel had woven a miniature tapestry for Asra, equipped with depictions of bears and foxes and two small childlike figures huddling close by the fire, keeping each other warm.

Ozy had repurposed one of the books from his subterranean library into a gift for Asra. It was an old tome on all the different kinds of water magic from all over the world. Khleo’s gift was still in the works, but they were working with Basil to design a nonalcoholic cider ale that incorporated flavors from Asra’s favorite fruits and nuts. The skilled barhands were determined to make the cider give off a deep lavender glow, the same as the magician’s eyes.

“Stop it,” Kip muttered, knowing that she would drive herself crazy if she kept comparing her gift to everyone else’s.

But I don’t even have a gift for Asra yet.

“There you are.”

Kip straightened up suddenly at the sound of the greeting. She was not at all prepared to see Asra walking towards her barefoot, his trousers rolled up to his shins. The magician sat down next to his gardener and dropped a tender kiss between her eyes.

“Is this where you’ve been hiding all this time?”

Kip sighed. “I’m not hiding. I’m…” She looked down at her blank journal and bit her lip. “I was trying to write you a poem for your birthday.”

Asra’s fluffy tassels tickled her cheek as he wrapped an arm around her waist and looked out at the glittery waves. “Lucky me. I can’t wait to add another one of your poems to my collection.”

Kip shook her head and fought back the tears that wanted to escape.

“Asra, I’ve been trying to write this thing for weeks. I’ve lost count at the number of times that I had to start and stop. I thought that coming here would give me inspiration, but,” she tossed her head back and groaned at the magenta sky, “I just can’t pick something to focus on.”

Kip steadied herself with a deep breath before she turned to meet Asra’s gaze. He seemed both a little concerned and somewhat amused. He didn’t say anything in reply, which made Kip feel the need to keep explaining herself.

“I have too many ideas. For example, the first day we met or our visits to Nopal. I thought of writing a poem about how you helped me become comfortable with using magic again. Or how you stood by my side when I rediscovered grey magic.” She lowered her eyes to the teardrop necklace resting against Asra’s golden brown chest. “Then I thought about when you sacrificed everything so that my heart could beat again.”

She looked up into his amethyst eyes, which strangely, were unreadable in that moment. Asra looked like he wanted to speak, but he didn’t.

Kip huffed, “Or should I just write about you, Asra the Magician – As Above, So Below? Traveler of the realms and lands far and wide on the search for magical enlightenment, blah, blah, blah?”

That got her a chuckle. “That last idea must have come from Ozy.”

Kip tugged on one of his tassels. “I might have asked him for advice at one point.”

Then the gardener took advantage of the drop in tension and leaned toward Asra. Her lips found the reassurance she needed. In the heat of it all, Kip whispered, “You know I’m not good at grand gestures.”

She expected Asra to say something back, or at least make some kind of indication that he had heard her. When he only grew still and quiet, she leaned back and fixed him with an arched look.

“Asra, what? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Once again, to her surprise, the magician smirked. “Are you done?” He didn’t wait for her to respond before saying, “The Magician taught me a lot of things over the years.”

Asra gently pried the journal out of Kip’s hand and set it off to the side. “Do you want to know what has stuck with me the longest?”

Kip wasn’t sure where this was going, but she took the bait anyway. “What’s that?”

The magician looked out at the water again. “It’s about magic. They taught me that magic doesn’t belong to any one person or entity. We will always have to call it into existence from another place. The illusion that magic comes from within is only because we ourselves are made up of dust and further, stardust.”

He pointed to the galactic lightshow overhead. “You see, magic moves through the mortal and the arcana realms, and thus it moves through us. So no matter how adept of magicians we become, there will always be gaps in our knowledge – parts of magic that we cannot transform or create from willpower alone. Because you can’t completely shape the universe unless you know all its parts. We don’t. We never will.”

Kip still wasn’t sure what to make of Asra’s speech, but she remained silent as he took her hand and drew it up to his chest, right over his heart.

“Those words that you’re always reaching for, trying to grasp and shape in a way that shows how you truly feel, it brings me back to the nature of magic. Remember how you were so lost when it came to your own understanding of magic? Yet it was inevitable that you should come to master it. Those words that you regard as elusive are inside of you, they always will be. They’re not going away. The universe could never bleed itself dry of magic, so what makes you think you’ll ever run out of something magical to say?”

By now Kip was blushing and struggling to maintain eye contact, especially with Asra’s heart thrumming just under her fingertips.

The magician went on. “Someday you’ll know exactly how to transform the words inside of you. But until then…” He used his other hand to lift her head up by her chin. “As Above, So Below. Heaven reflects Earth. Those words move through you, just as they move through me. Because... well. You know why.”

Maybe Kip imagined it, but something electric flashed under her skin where it connected with his heart. She thought she felt the same sensation in her chest too.

With a knowing smile, Asra dipped his chin. “So all the things that you’re feeling about me, about today, about the future... you don’t have to worry, Kipling because I feel them too. All day you’ve been here on the astral plane while I was back in our realm, but I still felt it.”

Asra’s words compelled Kip to close the distance between them, but he caught her just before she made the connection all the way. A soft whine found itself fighting to get out of her throat. Asra echoed hers with one of his own, holding her back despite the need in his eyes.

He said, “And since magic is timeless and eternal, that means that everything I feel, I know that I will feel it always.”

Finally he kissed her with everything he had. And when pulled away, all the sounds of the waves were eclipsed by the thundering of their hearts.

“Always.”

#asraweek2021 #the arcana #asra #asra alnazar #kipling the apprentice #asra x kipling #kipasra #happy birthday asra #my writing #asra the arcana #asra fanfic #the arcana fanfiction #the arcana fanfic

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biot08 · 3 years

Text

THUNDEROUS

The Miqo’te woman had rather preferred when it was quiet.

The castrum was under attack, and she was finding the noise overwhelming, find it hard to think. She could feel the aether, thick in the air, from magitek weapons fire and thrown spells being flung around her.

She felt as though she could breath it in, feel it, hot in the air, hot in her chest and belly, flowing through her. She felt as though if she would just stop a moment, she could grab it somehow. She wanted to.

She wanted Liana and Papanan and herself to survive more.

A nearby wall exploded inward, with thunderous noise, and all three of them were flung unceremoniously to the ground. Liana was quick to crab crawl her way behind a nearby caltrop. The Miqo’te woman had though she had seen a hint, the false gray of an image of the wall exploding, and she managed to roll with the hit, coming to rest on her hands and knees, shaken but uninjured.

Papanan had not been so lucky. She could see him nearby, staggered, blood flowing from a wound on his head. He was still conscious, and still moving; she saw him slowly try to lift himself off the ground, holding a hand to his fresh wound.

She also saw one of the hostile soldiers moving towards him.

She could see it, in her mind’s eye. Possibilities coalescing, appearing to her as greyscale images. Less likely ones were lighter in shade, threatening to vanish into nothing. More certain ones were darker, with sharper contrasts. It was as though she could see the soldier as they considered their options.

And then she saw one in particular coalesce, and she sprinted forward, intent on ensuring it could not happen.

The soldier’s sword came up just as she tackled Papanan out of the way, and behind her, she heard it clash as it hit the ground heavily, the soldier having spent too much energy in a heavy wind up for what he thought was a sure kill. She wrapped her body around Papanan to protect him, and planted her feet.

The aether called to her. The warmth was overwhelming, now. She could feel it in the air, she could feel it in herself. It was already alive, but just needed a bit more.

It just needed a spark, and a focus, and it would aspect into something more, something not at all etherial.

Power.

She was connected to the land through her stance. She was a conduit between the earth and the sky, she was a pass through which the energy could flow. She could feel it whelming up within her now.

She spared a glance for the soldier, and she saw the future possibilities.

They all ended with his sword in her.

She closed her eyes, and ignited the power she felt within. It was hot, so hot. It felt sickly, sticky. It felt like so much pressure, needing release.

She just needed a focus, and she opened her eyes, and looked at her hand, and then, in a smooth motion, she swept her hand towards the soldier’s face before he could bring his sword down again.

She felt the power inside of her ignite, light up. It flowed into her violently, rushing, sweeping in from the ambient aether into her, where she pumped it, excited it, and it coalesced in the palm of her hand, a dark vibrating orb of barely restrained aspected aether. Black whisps of smoke poured out of her hand, and she saw it become partially unmade, the black vapors rapidly coalescing into the black sphere of energy that was sustained there.

And then the moment was over, as she snapped her focus to the soldier. The black sphere snaked away from her, faintly trailing its black mist, and slammed into him, igniting into a fireball. She heard it more than she felt it, a thunderous roar inside of her very self, and she felt it plenty, her hand continuing to be unmade in the aftermath of the spell.

The soldier fared far worse, however, as he was blasted back. He went down amongst the rubble, and stayed there.

She curled over on herself, grasping her hand to her chest, and she took deep, gulping breaths. Inside of her, she felt expanded, somehow. As though she could do that again, pull on somehow greater energies, could perhaps follow up with an even mightier spell. And if not for her hand, perhaps she might try-

Beneath her, Papanan groaned. She looked up to where she had last seen Liana, and saw Liana’s eyes go wide, but they were not looking at her. They were looking past her. She turned, and saw more soldiers in the breach.

She saw a cascade of future possibilities, and she did not like any of them.

She looked down at her hand. The effect on it had slowed, but still. She could see black wisping off of it still. She could see muscle and tendons. They were splotchy, disjointed, unnaturally unmade.

She took a deep breath in, and planted her feet again. She could feel the aether once more, hanging thick in the air. It was so close to ignition. It was excited. It was as though it wanted to be remade, repurposed.

As though it wanted to be made real just long enough to unmake everything.

She was dimly aware of tears drawing down her cheeks as she planted her feet, and drew in once more. The energy filled her again, and once more, demanded purpose, pressing against her insides, pushing itself out, crowding her, wanting to be set free.

She held it until she felt as though she might explode, and then she unleashed it once more, pointing her hand at the nearest soldier she could see. Again the black energy formed, but this time, it was mightier, more powerful.

And this time, it demanded more.

She watched as, seemingly in an instant, her entire forearm was unmade, the the entire world exploded into a roar she could not hear over. Black smoke poured off her forearm, disappearing into a sphere that shot towards the enemy, and then -

Explosion-

Fire-

Heat-

Destruction, all and more was delivered.

The world went to grays and sharp contrasts as she fell to the ground. She could not hear anything except the roar. Above her she saw Liana’s concerned face come into view. Lips moved, but she could not hear what they were saying. Papanan appeared shortly after, moving towards her, but looking away. He waved his arms animatedly, and both he and Liana were then looking, and she could see a few more soldiers, still approaching.

The first one she had spotted had been eager, running forward, bodies down, swords out. These ones were more cautious, shuffling forward slowly, shields up.

“RUN,” she yelled. Or she thought she did. Or she tried to. She wasn’t sure.

They should have left her. They should be leaving her. Why were they staying? Her arm was ruined, and she was weak from the exertion, and she was not worth risking themselves for, didn’t they know that?

She thought everyone knew that.

She was having problems seeing the possibilities, now, but one more entered her mind. If Papanan and Liana wouldn’t abandon her, wouldn’t run from it, there was one more thing she could try. And perhaps it could stop her arm from continuing to be unmade, as she was certain she could still feel it unravelling.

She placed her one good hand on the ground, closed her eyes, and focused. She imagined a little circle around her and Papanan and Liana which was inviolate, but beyond that, she could reach out, and feel the aether, still excited, still rushing, still roaring.

All she had to do was try to control it once more, but this time, instead of encouraging it, to discourage it. To calm it down. To bring it into the ultimate form of focus and order.

To still it, and freeze the world.

She could feel the energy flows inside of her slow, and then reverse, sluggishly at first, but then quicker, shifting to a different aspect. She could feel her body grow colder, she could feel ice forming on her skin, but she could not stop. She had to do this one last thing.

The aether built up, but it was different this time. She could feel it, in a circle around her. It just needed focus. She sucked a deep breath in, and then held it.

Everything slowed for her.

And then, with a crack, the ice snapped into existence, a thousand thousand shards, and exploded.

The roar in her ears was overwhelming, now, and she could take no more. She felt her skin split in a dozen dozen places. She was broken, she was battered, and she had done all that she could do, more than she thought she knew how, but…

It would be alright.

Papanan and Liana would be safe.

She collapsed as the roar reached the heavens and the world went to a steady slate of gray.

#202109-16 #ffxivwrite2021 #thunderous #the miqo'te woman #spell weaving #content warning: violence

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baodurs · 3 years

Text

“nick wiseman has collapsed!”

button & nick, with some button & glitch. 3.9k words. set late chapter 5, on a hypothetical extra day before returning to aeon.

Good morning! For you: a question and a clue.

‘How funny you are today [Chicago]…’

There’s your clue. Guess the question?

Glitch’s texts arrive six minutes after their recipient steps into the shower. Phone silenced and hair lathered, Sabrina lingers obliviously behind the curtain, amid the warm water and warm vanilla scent of her soap. She emerges eighteen minutes later and smiles at her flashing screen, but decides that Glitch’s mystery can wait until she gets dressed.

Thankfully, Nick waits too. But as soon as she is dried and clothed, avoiding full body mirrors until she can at least throw on a robe, the fraternal voice in her head pipes up.

More poetry games? She can’t see his face, obviously, but she can feel his psychic nose wrinkle. How did you get “coffee date” from that?

Nick had done such a good job pretending not to exist for half an hour that she almost forgot they shared every thought now, and she had unwittingly dragged him along on her half-unconscious poetry explication.

“She’s quoting Frank O’Hara,” Sabrina explains, unsure why she says this aloud. She’s alone, though, so she keeps going: “The end of that poem is something like, ‘getting out of bed and having coffee and cigarettes, and loving you so much.’ I don’t know. Point is: coffee.”

Ah, yes. The famous lines from one of O’Hara’s finer works, thinks Nick, faux snootily. Love poetry, though? How do you know she wants to get coffee and isn’t trying to woo you? Or maybe she wants to smoke too many cigarettes with you. You’ll have to let her down easy—about the smoking, I mean. I like Glitch; you’d be cute together! But don’t start smoking.

Sabrina is parting her hair now, with a wide tooth comb and surgical precision, and she rolls her eyes in the mirror. “I just know. Poet’s intuition.”

You’re not a poet.

“Critic’s intuition, then.”

Another flash of her phone screen halts any further defense of her close-reading skills: The question is actually time-sensitive, so I hope you’re not asleep. Then, another repurposed O’Hara quote: ‘Oh [Sabrina Wiseman] we love you get up.’

Sabrina Wiseman, already up, replies: Coffee sounds great! Primping as we speak.

As Glitch texts back with more details, the idle whirl of Nick’s thoughts becomes too vague and unvoiced to follow. Sabrina gets ready as slowly as punctuality will allow, basking in the late morning’s quasi-normalcy. Braiding her hair, picking out her favorite boots, making plans to meet… a friend?

Admittedly, the growing social circle and coffee plans are less familiar prospects than her morning routine, but it all feels normal. An utterly unremarkable day awaits her, it seems, and promises to leave her with that elusive sense of neutral contentment. Her psyche heaves a sigh, half-bemused and half-relieved, before she can suppress it, and it mingles with the soft hum of Nick’s presence in the back of her mind. She feels a guilt she doesn’t recognize, until she realizes that it’s his.

Sharing a mind with her brother is not as difficult as she thinks everyone imagines it is. Nick has always been here, stepping gingerly among her thoughts like a house guest through their host’s messy storage room. Steps light, smiling ruefully at his intrusion, arms braced to catch any fragile trinkets that his passage may send tumbling. The only difference, now, is that she can’t sit in the next room and pretend not to hear the crash behind the wall. Sabrina feels her own guilt, at making Nick listen to how convenient it is for her that he is without a body, and Nick’s guilt, at making her feel guilty for feeling her own emotions inside her own head, and their regrets mingle and multiply like so much shattered ceramic at their feet, making the tiny storage room even more treacherous than before.

Nick hesitates. She feels him like a slight pressure against the wall of her skull, straining to give her room to think.

“It’s fine, Nick.” Sabrina finds a mirror and holds her own gaze. “And I really don’t want to talk about it.”

We just did, Button. Don’t worry about it. Just have fun today.

A million other thoughts lurk behind the ones he voices, and they both ignore every single one.

As she leaves the house, Sabrina mentally recites the few snippets of O’Hara that she remembers verbatim. Nick tries, only once or twice seriously, to guess what the missing words might be. Her expression doesn’t shift as she walks down the street, but in the back of her mind where no one else can see, they share in every silent laugh and hidden smile.

...

The morning with Glitch is not—and Sabrina feels she should have anticipated this—the epitome of lazy normalcy.

She arrives to find that Glitch had already claimed seats and ordered for them both, which is nice. Two identical mugs are still warm on the table, next to the poetry anthology that Sabrina had plucked from the lending library on her last visit. (“Who do you think I should quote in my next selfie caption to start the most fights about pseudo-intellectualism in my comments?” She had asked, pondering O’Hara and Ashbery while taking advantage of the venue’s excellent lighting. Glitch nominated Ginsberg.) The book is open, but at the sound of the door opening, Glitch looks up from its pages, grins, and makes a show of closing it to give Sabrina her full attention.

You know, Button, Nick muses as they approach the table, I’m surprised you agreed to meet her again.

How are you surprised? You’re in my head. You know every decision as soon as I make it.

That’s true! Nick concedes. Another thing about being in your head, though? I can tell when you’re trying to avoid a conversation by pretending to miss the point.

I don’t have time for a conversation, Nick. I’m talking to Glitch instead, because I agreed to meet her a second time, which is perfectly in cha-

“I said, ‘Hi Sabrina!’”

She blinks at Glitch, then looks awkwardly around herself at the table, where she had sat without quite realizing. Glitch laughs at her. It reaches her eyes, which gleam with humor and something else, more like the glint of a knife. She holds Sabrina’s gaze as if she can see behind the curtain of her eyes and recognize the second mind within her skull.

On instinct, Sabrina stares back and thinks of frog guts, then remembers just as Nick tells her: She can’t read your mind, Button. Not even without me here.

I know.

And you told her about me, anyway.

I know.

“Left speechless by my thoughtfulness?” Glitch grins, sweeping a hand towards the mug on Sabrina’s side of the table. “I can’t blame you. Failing words, though, tears of gratitude are an excellent substitute. Maybe a hand over the heart?”

Matching Glitch’s grin, Sabrina comes back to herself. She reaches for her coffee, disguises a steadying breath as an appreciative sniff of its aroma, and takes a sip. Glitch raises an eyebrow when they lock gazes again over the rim of her cup, but neither speaks until Sabrina has replaced the drink and slouched back against her chair, eyes closed and arms dangling.

“I cannot yet speak, struck dumb as I am by your thoughtfulness, and now also the taste of coffee, which is always sweeter when you buy it for me.” She cracks one eyelid to look at Glitch again. “Good enough?”

“Good enough!” Glitch confirms, with a wave of her hand. “I wouldn’t have minded a quote, honestly. And you probably should have said that coffee is sweeter because of my company, not because I pay for it. Actually, maybe you should just leave the poetry to me.”

“With pleasure.” Sabrina mimes the burden of poetry falling from her shoulders as she sits up. “I mean it, though; it’s good coffee, and you’re very nice to me. I’m sorry for being distracted when I sat down.”

She takes another sip. Glitch reclaims the poetry book she’d been reading and, without opening it, drags a thumb along the fore edge. That curious glint returns to her eyes, but this time Sabrina is present enough to suppress her discomfort at being scrutinized.

“Not your fault.” Below Glitch’s voice, there is still the drumming of her thumb along the pages. “‘My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent and carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.’”

Sabrina blinks. “That’s… O’Hara?”

Glitch pretends to roll her eyes hard enough that her head is thrown back with the force of it. “Sabrina, I’m going to start a fight about pseudo-intellectualism in your Instagram comments.”

“There’s no room for intellectualism up here!” Sabrina taps her head—carefully, mindful of the pleats of her braid. “The man in my quietness is not very quiet.”

Hey!

“And it’s more like I’m carrying him.”

Well, it’s no gondola ride up here, Nick thinks wryly.

“Lucky you have me, then! Feel free to outsource all intellectualism right here,” Glitch advises, tapping her own head. “I’ll happily lend my brainpower to a worthy cause. My first act of charity: yes, that was O’Hara. I was reading it when you came in.”

Glitch opens the book—finding her page on the first try, and it hadn’t been bookmarked—then slides it across the table. The words “quietness” and “gondola” are nowhere to be seen upon inspection. Sabrina looks up, confused, but Glitch redirects her attention to the book with a shooing motion before she can question whether it was the right page, after all.

“‘Just Walking Around,’” she reads aloud. “‘John Ashbery.’ This isn’t O’Hara.”

Glitch downs the rest of her coffee and pushes out from the table, braced to stand up. “No, it’s another clue. Do you want to go on a walk with me or not?”

With a snort, Sabrina reaches for her own drink and takes a few gulps. That’s answer enough for Glitch, who smiles wide and turns away to replace the poetry volume on its shelf.

...

The stroll begins both silently and aimlessly. Glitch had explained as they walked out the door that, if Sabrina had bothered to read the Ashbery poem, she would have realized that the last three lines of the second stanza made the invitation especially clever. Something about repurposing “the secret smudge on the back of your soul” as a metaphor for the secret brother inside your brain, and something else about silence and preoccupation and wandering. Regardless, they both seemed content to live briefly in the spirit of those things and simply walk beside each other.

Sabrina amuses herself by trying to subtly attract the attention of passersby. Glances that cross each other, the blink-and-miss-it motion of a braid thrown over the shoulder, the scrape of a boot toe on concrete. Her eyes are normally straight ahead, expression blank, to ward off even fleeting interest. But now, when a stranger meets her eyes, she smiles blandly and looks away as if her attention has been caught by something in her periphery. Do they wonder what she is looking at, even for a moment? She lifts her head towards the late morning sun and openly basks, thinking all the while how much she hates the heat, hoping all the while that someone will see her pretending to love it and believe it. There is a stranger, who loves the sun.

Preoccupied as she is by building her own shroud of mystery, Nick’s presence fades once more to an indistinct hum, after a period of dutiful but conspicuous silence. But Glitch, still beside her, catches onto her game. The next time Sabrina meets someone’s eye, Glitch slings an arm around her shoulder. She leans towards her ear and whispers, “Take a left here, towards the station. I have to catch a train,” then pulls back and laughs. Sabrina laughs, too, pleased to have been placed at the center of some secret joke. But the fantasy ends when she realizes that Glitch has read her with a glance, tearing through her paper-thin secrets.

Sabrina stares straight ahead. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her denim skirt, but doesn’t shrug off Glitch’s arm.

“What are you going to do the next time you want to hang out, but you can’t find a line of poetry to make the invitation for you?” She asks.

The hand resting on Sabrina’s shoulder reaches awkwardly around to her face and swats at her forehead. “If I can’t find it, it doesn’t exist. If it doesn’t exist, I’ll write it! Don’t insult me, Sabrina.”

She laughs. Her shoulders relax as she removes her hands from her pockets, and Glitch lets her arm slide from its perch. Before it rests back at her own side, though, she loops it through Sabrina’s and swings their elbows back and forth.

“It wouldn’t kill you to brush up on your New York School, you know.” She disrupts the rhythm of their elbows to nudge hers lightly into Sabrina’s side. “I’ve been learning O’Hara and friends ever since you said you liked him, and you can’t even recognize the quotes? Thankless work.”

“You can’t convince me you needed to ‘learn’ them.”

“Right you are!” Glitch says, cheerfully squeezing Sabrina’s arm. “Casual quotation is an art, however, and requires not only a perfect memory, but excellent conversational skills and a sense of drama.”

“I don’t see how any of that relies on me being able to-”

“-And an appreciative audience. A poet cannot bloom in barren soil.”

“I’m very appreciative,” Sabrina assures her, grinning. “Just not genuinely intellectual enough for poetry, as you might remember.”

“Oh, I won’t forget,” Glitch laughs. “The comments section of your next selfie, starting fights, 7:00 PM sharp. You can’t miss me!”

They’re coming up on the station now. Glitch takes a step back but hasn’t dropped her hand yet. “Well, I hope you and your brother had a good time.” She walks backwards towards the stairs, not relinquishing Sabrina’s hand until both their arms are extended and they’re being a nuisance to fellow pedestrians. “See you!”

...

I like Glitch, says Nick, a ways down the block from the station. Sabrina nearly jumps, but keeps walking.

Instead of responding, she hopes he can feel her agreement. There is a warm sense of acknowledgement and a general contentment—if she can ignore a foreign, simmering anxiety. He’s working up to saying something, so Sabrina relinquishes as much of her own brain space as she can to give him time. A few more moments of steeling himself, and then-

I’m sorry for earlier.

She is surprised enough that she physically furrows her brow, as if he could see. Sorry for what?

What I said about you meeting Glitch. At the coffeeshop, before you sat down. I think I- He wants to say that he thinks he knows why she was upset, but hesitates, knowing that voicing how well he knows her often just upsets her more. Her treacherous mind confirms it, fear and frustration prickling in some dark corner, but she does her best to dampen it. She thinks, without voicing it, that she’s sorry. Please keep talking.

I didn’t mean to imply that it was weird, or anything, that you were seeing her again. You’re allowed to spend time with friends who aren’t me, Gray, and Salomé.

It’s very generous of him to count Gray as her friend, but—

It’s not. We all care about you. Glitch does, too, and I’m glad you had a good time. I was just… pleasantly surprised. To see you encourage a new friendship. Maybe that’s patronizing. Sorry if it is, but it’s true.

She does feel a little patronized, but it’s a feeling she is so used to that it barely registers. Before she can take offense, she’s thinking of frog guts again, then wincing at the drastic measures against her brother (again), then grasping for half-remembered shreds of poetry to fill her spinning mind.

My quietness has a man in it, and I carry him through the streets like a gondola. What is all this vessel shit anyway. Nobody saw me through the gates. Now I am alone and hate it. I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly—

I would leave if I could, Button, comes Nick’s voice, both gentle and frustrated.

She knows that. Her mind falls eerily silent, as both of them try not to think anything that would upset the other. She breathes deeply, tries to get three different songs stuck in her head, and wishes she had memorized as much poetry as Glitch. By the time Sabrina has carried them both to the front door of Nick’s home, neither has thought another word. The silence is fraught, but the tension eases as she crosses the threshold.

It’s barely noon, and Sabrina is exhausted. She leaves her boots at the door and sinks into the couch, stretching horizontally across its cushions.

Glitch isn’t my friend. It’s her first coherent thought since they retreated to their own respective corners of her brain.

Button, that’s-

I don’t mean what you think. She hugs a pillow across her stomach. I wouldn’t hang out with her if she was my friend. That’s what I think every time we meet. Not because I don’t like her, I just- You and Gray and Sally know me, you know? Especially you, and I hate it sometimes, and I know you know that, too. And I like Glitch, because she’s smart and fun to be around, and because we just met this week, so she doesn’t know me. Except she’s too smart, because it feels like she already does. Like she can see into my mind, in a way that I can’t even blame my zero for. Just once, I want to make inane small talk with a vague acquaintance who doesn’t really know anything about me.

She places the pillow over her face and contemplates screaming, but doesn’t. I wouldn’t be telling you this if you weren’t trapped in my head, you know. So don’t… I don’t know. I don’t even know what you could do with it. Never mind.

What happens if Glitch knows you? Nick asks. He feels more than he thinks—love and guilt and sadness, a thousand unvoiced thoughts behind the one question he asks.

I don’t know.

You cut off the friendship because she cares about you too much?

Knowing and caring aren’t the same thing, Sabrina tells him, fingers worrying the edges of the pillow. Maybe she does both, but they’re still different.

Okay. He’s not trying as hard to hide his frustration anymore, but it softens in the mingling with his other emotions. So they are. But what then? You just stop?

Why not? She thinks. I always had you, so I never cared who I left.

A warm, deep affection crawls out from beneath his sadness and leaves her so full that she holds back tears. If she cried, would they be hers or Nick’s?

It’s not a choice between me and other people, Button. Glitch and I can both know you and love you a whole lot.

I don’t want to talk about Gliiiiitch. She draws out the single syllable of Glitch’s name as petulantly as she can psychically communicate, then tosses the pillow away. It’s complicated, and I’m trying to tell you you’re a good brother.

I know. I love you, and I hope you’re appreciating the restraint it takes to not start bawling like a baby and leaving tears all over your brain.

“Don’t you dare,” she laughs, finally breaking the silence of the living room. “I will go through the cabinets and cry in your vanilla extract.”

Aww, and then my next batch of cookies will be filled with extra love!

Sabrina rolls her eyes and, eventually, makes her way upstairs to her bedroom. She contemplates another shower, to fully reset from the morning she’s had, but lacks the energy. Instead, she lets her hair down and changes into pajamas, in spite of the early afternoon. Nick’s constant mental presence even feels normal—as if he’s just downstairs, popping into her brain to chat rather than brave the climb to her room.

Nestled comfortably as she is beneath her sheets, she doesn’t have the heart to walk over to her bookshelf. Glitch will have to be content with a review of the first three poems produced by googling Frank O’Hara’s name.

‘Poem?’ Nick reads the first search result. Come on, no title? I hate when they do that.

From what I remember, he does it a lot. Sabrina taps the offending text, trying to guess which untitled poem it might be, and nearly drops her phone.

“God,” she mutters, rolling onto her stomach. “Of course it’s this one.”

Which one? Nick pipes up.

“Just look.” She focuses on the portion of her screen occupied by the capitalized text, ‘LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!’ “That’s a headline. It’s about… I’m not a poetry professor, okay? But it’s about a celebrity collapsing in some freak emergency and people gossiping about it. Sound familiar?”

You can read it if you want, he is quick to assure her. It won’t bother me.

“That’s not the point. The point is… it’s just stupid! ‘Oh Lana Turner we love you get up?’”

Hey, Glitch quoted that this morning!

“Yeah, to get up out of bed. Not up from the hospital.” She’s too incensed to keep lying down, and she’s pacing around her room, ranting before she can stop herself. “Do you know what that nurse said to me? ‘Chicago won’t lose our Justice.’ Just imagine, ‘oh Justice we love you get up.’ Isn’t that stupid? Who’s ‘we,’ anyway?”

Sabrina. Please, it’s-

“And it’s not even mine to be mad about. I know. And people love you, and that’s great. But I- Lana Turner was fine, you know? And she got up. But they didn’t love her.”

I really don’t care what some random nurse said about me, Nick says. I’m sorry that people are talking to you like they know me; that pisses me off. But the rest is fine.

“Could you let me be selfishly angry for a minute before talking me down, please?”

You’re not being selfish. You’re working yourself into a rage on my behalf, and you should stop. Sabrina flops back onto the bed, phone on her stomach, but kicks the air a few times in protest. Pick up the phone. I want to read the poem.

“I really don’t.”

Okay, is all he says, until moments pass and Sabrina’s anger is replaced by embarrassment. She wants to use her phone again, to find another poem, but she doesn’t want to face the capitalized text that nearly launched her into a grief-induced tantrum.

Well, if Frank O’Hara won’t, Nick says, and she can feel the overwhelming mental energy of his smirk, I need you to tell me how my people love me.

His tone is intensely dramatic, and clearly satirizing all the pomp and ceremony Chicago has devoted to mourning the concept of a comic book superhero. A validation of her bitterness without fueling it, another ploy (like so many others) to make her feel better. She pretends not to notice as unlocks her phone.

I can’t speak for Chicago, she thinks, closing the “Poem” tab. I love you, though. Get up soon.

#mind blind #i Know nick knows some poetry ok i Know!!! but im banking on the fact that someone who learns shakespeare n neruda for seduction purposes #would not be into whatever the new york school was up to #anyway. i havent posted fic on tumblr in years and this is a deeply embarrassing ordeal for me!!! thank you everyone for witnessing #i am pretty happy w this minus the last scene. but i felt the need to include it bc... otherwise why am i talking so damn much abt ohara #goodbye. it's 1 AM here but i wanted to post something for sabby before the patreon update! :D #oc: sabrina wiseman #my writing

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shreddedparchment · 4 years

Text

Pseudo Princess Pt.22

A Worrying Revelation

01/01/2020

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 5,595

Warnings: smut, smidge of angst, lots of fluff, blood

A/N: Happy New Year! Enjoy! Let me know what you enjoyed. And if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work. xoxo

Steve’s lips graze your brow. With your arms thrown over your head, resting limply against your pillow, you’re wide open for affection.

His lips trail down along your temple to your cheek, your chin, then up towards your lips.

He lets his own hover over yours, warming them with his breath.

Then he moves higher and presses a small peck to your nose.

“Wake up, my sweet blossom.” He gushes, deep voice still thick with sleep.

He must have just woken up and rolled over to kiss you.

Your heart flutters sending tickles into the base of your tummy.

My tummy! You’re pregnant! You always forget. Just for a few moments while you’re waking up. Especially when your dreams are plagued by the truths of what your marriage used to be.

You smile as Steve traces the shape of your shoulder then slowly he moves closer to your breast. He tickles your nipple with his thumb and it pebbles underneath his touch.

He leans down, latching to it, suckling gently as your lips part and your body eagerly responds.

Steve throws your blanket back to expose your still naked body.

Clothes has hardly been worn since the two f you holed yourself up in this room to explore your renovated relationship.

“Mmmm.” Steve moans, wrapping his arms around you to hold you closer as he suckles your breast.

You wind your hands into his messy hair and softly caress the curve of his head.

He releases you but then trails sloppy kisses between your breasts, up along your neck to your ear which he nibbles on gently.

The scratch of his beard, growing in since it’s been days since he shaved, pimples your skin with pleasure.

You laugh, enjoying the rough sensation.

Steve pulls back to look at you, resting on his left elbow as he lays practically on top of you.

“What? Why do you laugh?” He wonders, tilting his head curiously reminding you so much of the stray dog you'd had as a child. Golden fur and chocolate eyes.

This puppy has blue and you’re happy to say you love them. Storm blues that gaze down at you in reverence.

Reaching up you cup his jaw and he leans into your hand.

“I miss your beard.” You admit, liking the feel of it against your skin.

“Oh.” Steve’s brow narrows. “I’ll grow it back.”

“I want you to be comfortable.” You relent. “You don’t have to.”

Steve smiles, crooked and beautiful and your heart nearly breaks it’s so lovely.

“I want what you want.” He counters.

“I want…” You think on it, then your stomach growls. “…oh.”

You chuckle, amused with your own body.

Steve however doesn’t. He springs up, rushing to his dressing gown to pull it over himself. He covers you with the silver sheets of your bed before slipping over to the fireplace where he pulls a long cord that disappears into the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” You ask, a little miffed that he ruined your snuggling.

“Feeding my loves.” He says, sliding back over to you.

He hooks his hand behind your head and kisses you dizzy. Then he pulls away and while you recover, he leans down and cups the side of your teeny bump making it visible through the sheets before he kisses it too.

“Good morning, my little one.” He coos.

You melt. Heart soaring. You smile.

~~~~~~~~~~

If Steve’s arms were the only place that you could ever be again, then that would be a good life lived.

They’re strong arms. And though you’d once feared them, now they are only gentle. Reassuring. He squeezes you closer, your head resting against his chest as it rises and falls. You splay your hand against it, gently tickling the fine golden hairs of his chest.

You find a scar, small but raised and faded. You trace it. As you move your hand around, you find another. And another. Each one you make note of but you’re too consumed by his presence to focus on them just yet.

He smells like smoke from stoking your fire, and raspberries from kissing you after you ate. There’s something else in his scent, something fresh, like mint but softer.

You groan as he squeezes you, relishing in his heated embrace.

“Why did you agree to do as Tony asked?” He wonders, pulling your dozing eyes open.

You think for a moment, trying to recollect the day that you’d made what would turn out to be the best choice of your life.

“How long have you been wondering?” You ask him, and he rubs your back with his left hand, his right tracing circles along your elbow.

The skin where the two of you are connected, knees, thighs, his hip against your pelvis as you rest your leg over his, stomach against his side, breasts just under his pecs—is sticky from laying so close for so long. Wet from the perspiration that several rounds of lovemaking has caused. Glistening from the fire still heating the room as the winter storm outside rages on. The snow hasn’t stopped once since it began to fall when Steve had first made love to you.

Steve hesitates, taking in a deep breath before he answers.

“Too long.” He admits.

You let that settle, wondering just what kind of woman he really thinks you are. There’s no doubt in your mind that he loves you. But…maybe he also isn’t sure of who you truly are?

“I did it because he asked me.” You answer honestly. “I did it because as his subject, it was my duty to do what my king needed.”

You think for a moment.

“I didn’t do it for money.” You assure him, turning your face up to look at him, searching for that uncertainty that you’re imagining.

When he meets your eyes, you don’t see suspicion. Just curiosity. He smiles down at you, reaching up to stroke your chin. He runs one fingertip along the curve of it, slowly, burning you with his touch.

He leans down and you meet him eagerly to give him his kiss.

It’s only a peck and when you pull away, he relaxes, and you return your head to its spot on his chest.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that thinks of money less when it comes to their own needs. But you do think of it quite often when it pertains to others.” Steve reminds you. “Your charities…the program you started for the poor in my kingdom has truly prospered. I am very proud of you, Y/N.”

His praise heats your neck and cheeks. You try not to smile but you can’t help it and you’re glowing with pride too.

“I hope it’s helped.” You sigh. “Truly. I know what it is to be hungry. I don’t want my people to feel that way if I can possibly help it.”

Steve is silent for so long, you begin to drift off again, snuggling in closer when he tightens his arms.

“Tell me about your life before you came to me.” He says, forcing your eyes open once again.

“My life?” You ask, drowsy.

“Yes. What did you do? You say that you know hunger…”

“Oh.” You realize what he’s asking.

He wants to know what hardships you’d endured before you married him.

“Well, I…I’ve been an orphan since I was about six? Perhaps a little younger. My mother and father became sick with the plague and were the reason there were so few casualties in Malibia. Because of their deaths, King Anthony was able to fight the disease much faster.” You think, trying to remember the next part of your story. “Then I…I sort of just kept living. Alone.”

“All alone?” Steve asks, his hands caressing the parts of you he can touch. A comforting gesture.

“For a while the lady in the house across from ours would come to check on me. Every day for almost a year, then her son got very sick and she came once a week. Then once a month. Then she stopped coming. Her son got better, and she never came back.” You still remember the lady. Kind but a little reluctant to take care of you.

“How did you eat?” Steve asks, sounding calm but you can also hear the shock in his tone.

“I didn’t sometimes. Other times I would sell a trinket or piece of jewelry from my mother’s small collection and I’d buy some bread and greens. But the jewels ran out eventually. Then the landlord came, and he took back the house.”

“You were kicked out?” Steve asks, his voice tight but controlled.

“I was given two options. Go to an orphanage or linger. I chose the latter. The Bright Rise was my only home. How could I leave it? I ended up finding an old broken building near the woods that had once been an old storage shed for firewood.

“I repurposed it as much as I could. Fixed up most of the broken wood and eventually got the holes in the roof patched up. I took the odd job here and there to buy a small mattress and some clothes when I needed it. I was…thirteen when they took the house. Within the year I was standing on my own two feet.

“Still hungry more often than not. Still cold in the winter, wet in the spring, baking in the summer, and starving in the autumn. But I was alive. I began to stitch again. My mother had taught me when I was little, and it took time to perfect my skill. I miss it.

“It’s the one thing I can truly claim as my own.”

Steve gives you a squeeze.

You look up at him to find him staring at the shirt you’ve been working on the two weeks the two of you have spent here at the cottage. The broidery stands out. Neat stitches that many would pay handsomely for.

“I’m yours.” Steve says, surprising you.

You smile and then reach up to smooth the wrinkle between his eyes as he frowns at your story.

“I should stop.” You whisper.

“No.” Steve asserts quickly, turning to meet your eyes. “No, don’t stop. I want to know you.”

“You already do.” You huff a laugh.

“Not truly. I know you as you are in our home. I need to know what made you as you are.” He points out.

“Nothing made me as I am. I just am.” You sigh, a little confused by what he means. “The old woman I brought to the castle was my only friend. I didn’t know her. Not truly. And many people in the village said that she was a witch and warned me to stay away from her. But when I was ready to give up. When I was so hungry that I felt I might finally die, she would feed me.

“Grandmother gave me hope when there was none to be had. She helped keep me going. If I owe anyone for my positive outlook on life, then I suppose it’s her. Is that what you mean?” You watch his face as he shifts through several emotions. Confusion, anger, relief, worry.

“Yes.” He nods. “I’m sorry that your childhood was so tough. If I’d known-”

You smile, nearly laughing by the beginning of his thought. “You wouldn’t have cared. You were with Margaret.”

Does he really need the reminder?

“I would have cared.” He assures you.

“For a lowly girl? An orphan?” You challenge.

“Yes.” He nods. “I would have cared that you were suffering. Perhaps I wouldn’t have loved you as I do now…”

He squeezes you again, as if the thought of not loving you is almost torture.

“…but I would have cared that you were hungry. I would have cared that you were alone.” He nods and you find it very easy to believe him. You’ve seen that care, that worry.

You shut your eyes as you’re overcome with the terrible thought of having found Steve someday as the girl you’d been. If he’d still been with Margaret, he wouldn’t have looked at you twice.

The pain it gives you makes you tremble, and Steve reacts to it, sitting up a little more and pulling you with him so that he can look at you better.

“What?” He wonders. “What is it, my flower?”

“I wonder what my life might have been if I’d never crossed paths with father. If he’d found someone else to pretend to be his daughter? You and I would have never met. Or maybe Margaret had never died?

“You would have still been married to her. You child born. We might have crossed paths in the road, and I would have bowed down as your carriage rode past.” You sigh, your heart breaking for some reason.

It’s silly, because you’re here. In his arms. This is your place. You’re his Queen and the mother of his heir. Yet, the image is so clear it chokes you with emotion.

With sorrow in your voice, you continue.

“You would have ridden past me and never given me a second glance. Perhaps not even a first?”

“No.” He protests, but it’s weak.

“Yes.” You nod, feeling his hand on the sides of your face as you try not to let your stupid feelings make you cry. Why does it feel so real? “You know that it’s true.”

He swallows hard, shaking his head not in denial of your words but hating your sadness.

“My petal…” He begins, but you don’t let him finish.

“And I…I would have married someone in my village maybe? Or Phin might have finally succeeded in his attempts to take me for himself? I would have been spoilt for anyone else and no man would have married me.” You shake your head, hating the image.

“What?!” Steve demands, pushing himself up a little more to take firm hold of your face and make you look at him. “What do you mean?”

“He tried so hard. He almost succeeded once or twice. But I fought harder. And he was very drunk.” You nod, “But he would have had his way eventually. And maybe I would be having a bastard instead of the heir to a throne? I would have been alone, until the end of my days, raising the son of a monster?”

“This is pointless, Y/N. Why are you saying these things?” Steve gasps, shocked by the weight of your words but also the way that you’re suddenly crying.

“I don’t know!” You sob, reaching around to wrap your arms around his torso and bury your face against his chest.

He wraps his arms around you, caressing the back of your head as he kisses the spot he can reach.

“Maybe you’re right.” Steve admits, nodding despite his disgust with the idea. “Maybe that is how thing would have happened, had Margaret never died. But she did.”

You feel terrible suddenly for making him talk about her when he’s been so good about not bringing her up around you.

“This was always where I was supposed to be. You were always meant to be my wife. I your husband. And this little one was meant to be our heir. You are my choice. You are my love. You are my future. I…I wish that Margaret hadn’t died. How can I wish anything else? I loved her.”

Steve’s admission makes you cry just a little harder, but he forces your face up to look at him.

With a trembling lip, you stare into his storm blue eyes, both of them boring into yours.

“But I can’t find it in me to wish that anything had happened differently. I meant what I said before, my flower. You are the rightful Queen to serve at my side. You deserve to stand beside me. You are my love but more importantly, you are more than qualified to rule our people. You think for them. You place them first even when I cannot. You are my one and only.”

He means it too. His eyes tell you just how much he means it. So much. It’s pouring out of him in waves.

Leaning down, he kisses you hard. All of the fear and glee that this is where you two find yourselves in life crashing down upon your lips.

You return his kiss, eagerly pulling him closer.

In one swift move he turns you over, laying you down as he settles above you. The soft mattress hugs you as Steve’s hand moves down to grasp your thigh. He hooks it behind your knee, hiking it up around his waist as he nudges the other aside so that you’re open and bare for him again.

There’s no muss about it this time. He slides into you in one slow glide.

You gasp, breaking the kiss, mouth wide open as Steve breathes into you.

He licks your lips and you search for his mouth again as his cock begins its impaling dance.

“Mmmm.” You moan into him, and he gets faster.

The slap of your skin, still sticky from your lovemaking before, is tantalizing and you lean to your right to look down at his massive body over yours.

His thrusts are fluid, despite their speed, and he buries his cock within your cunt to the hilt before he grinds then resumes his motion.

“Steve…” You whimper, and he grunts, tugging your leg more tightly around his hip as he flips you over again.

He lands on his back and you’re straddling him, hips temporarily unmoving as you fall onto him and he hits a whole new spot within you that shocks your body into quivers.

While his hands trace the shape of your body, wandering up to tweak your nipples into peaks, you wiggle on him, wondering just where to start with this new sensation.

“Move for me, my flower.” He instructs, then reaches back to grasp your bottom.

He pulls you back a little and you feel him slide out of you, just enough to make you shiver, then he pulls you towards him and fills you up again.

You curl in, wondering if there is any end to this feeling.

With his guiding hands, you move as he wants you to.

“Mmmph.” Steve grunts, throwing his head back, eyes closed as your body bends to his will.

The sight of him in ecstasy dries your previous tears but you still can’t move on your own. Your body is in slight shock.

You just need a moment.

Steve stops, tracing your sides up to your neck where he holds your head still so that he can meet your gaze.

“You okay?” He asks, worry beginning to paint his beautiful face.

You nod.

“F-feels good.” You stutter. “Different. I-I need a moment.”

Steve slides his hand back behind your head to pull you down and kiss you.

It helps clear your mind, his tongue exploring the soft pad of your own.

It takes a few minutes, but soon you’re moving on your own. Eager to get going again, you slide back as he’d wanted you to, and forward again.

He breaks your kiss this time, throwing his head back again as he groans.

He thrusts upwards and it feels so good you fall forward onto his chest, laying there as you break into pieces.

Mewling, you dig your nails into his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, my sweet little bud.” He promises, then reaches down to grab tight hold of your bottom.

With startling speed, he begins to piston up into you, hitting you over and over in that one little spot that makes you see white.

You’re a mess, trembling and shaking against him as he fucks up into you.

He pumps faster than he has before, and you don’t feel a buildup this time when you suddenly explode against him. Toes curling hard, you stop breathing as your mind clears, your body stiffens for a few seconds as he continues to ram into you.

When you breathe again, you gasp and shake your head as your body becomes overstimulated, twitching with each of his thrusts until he finally pulls you down hard against his cock and fills you with his heat.

He bites you this time, nipping your neck as he comes within you.

The two of you stay that way, catching your breath until finally Steve’s hands begin to stroke the length of your back.

“My flower.” He whispers, sighing happily before he shifts onto his side, taking you with him.

Face to face, he nuzzles his nose against yours.

“You’re mine.” He declares, no argument to be made—not that you want to make one.

And just when you think you can’t love him more; he reaches down to place his hand on your stomach.

“Mine.” He declares. “And I am yours. Both of you. No more talk of a life without each other. I won’t have it.”

He raise his eyebrows, waiting for you to respond.

“Agreed.” You breathe, exhausted again.

“Sleep, my flower.” He urges you, kissing the tip of your nose. “Sleep.”

Happily, you obey.

~~~~~~~~~~

Steve gets up while you’re sleeping. He watches you for a moment.

You look so peaceful. Your mouth is slightly open, your eyes shut softly. You’re on your stomach, right where he’d left you when he got up, slipping out from beneath you.

As he stands there watching, his heart aches. He reaches up to run his hand against his bare chest.

He didn’t know that loving someone could be this painful.

With Margaret it had been so easy. The only pain he’d felt was when he’d lost her. While he had her, every day was simple. Easy.

There was much more to make it complicated. His work, Margaret’s involvement with it. Their lives were more complicated and yet still their relationship remained straightforward and simple.

With you, things are harder. Not in a bad way. He wouldn’t give up this difficulty even if his life depended on it. You are his world and he would kill to keep you. Which goes against his very core morals.

How did you come to mean so much more than any other person he’s ever met?

He’s dressing as he watches you sleep, pulling on dark pants and a dark shirt. He pulls from his wardrobe a blue and red stripped tunic but rolls it up and shoves it into a seat where you can’t see it. With it he throws a tattered red cloak that still looks fine and expensive but torn and frayed at the ends with long strips missing around the front.

Dressed, he crawls over to you, hovering over you as he kisses the center of your back and trails soft kisses up along your spine.

You moan, waking up slowly until he reaches the back of your head where he kisses you and you turn to look at him, exposing your beautiful body for him.

He watches as you eye him up and he devours the sight of you naked and relaxed in his bed. Your shared bed.

With an echo of agony, Steve realizes that this is how it should have always been. From the very beginning, this is the life he should have given you. This is how he should have loved you.

Better late than never?

Brow furrowed, he settles over you as you wrap your arm around his neck and pull him closer. Your fingers find his collar and you frown, looking down to see he’s clothed.

“You’re dressed.” You croak, voice still thick with sleep.

“I have something I need to do.” He tells you, watching as the sleep threatens to take you again.

You’re awake but he’s worn you out. He’s proud of that fact. The amount of pleasure he’s given you in the past week has been important. He needed you to see that he could do that for you. That Thor wasn’t the only one who knew how to make you happy in bed.

You’re his wife.

“Right now?” You wonder, looking towards the windows to see that darkness is thick outside, falling snow still blanketing the ground.

“It can’t wait, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, my flower. I’ll be back before you know it.” He promises.

You sigh, hating the idea of parting with him so openly that Steve’s heart swells.

“Will you miss me?” He asks, allowing himself the pleasure of these intimacies with you.

This relationship has grown by leaps and bounds and he’s excited to be this couple with you. To show you off proudly. To watch you grow round with his child and to know that the world will see it.

You’re his. And he is yours.

You nod slowly, bringing your gaze back to his.

“I’ll be cold.” You explain, and Steve laughs softly.

He pushes himself back to sit on his ankles as he gathers the blankets of the bed and then proceeds to wrap you up in them. He makes sure that you’re covered from neck down, arms trapped underneath so that you can’t hold him anymore. Then he settles back over you, smiling wide.

Your eyes dazzle him, happiness radiating from them.

“There, now you won’t be cold.” Steve reasons.

“This isn’t what I meant.” You huff a laugh, and he could die happy, knowing that he can bring you to laugh.

“I know.” Steve nods. “But I do need to go.”

You think for a moment, your expression darkening.

“Please be safe.” You whisper, eyes more awake now than before.

“I will always come back to you.” He promises and leans down to kiss you.

Your lips are eager, lapping over his to taste him as he caresses the sides of your face to hold your head still while he gives you a proper goodbye.

The energy in your kiss begins to fade and he pulls back to see that you’re falling asleep.

He runs one finger down the length of your chin before placing one final peck upon your lips. As he stands, you’re already fast asleep, bundled up in the blankets he’s wrapped around you.

Steve stares at you for a minute longer before he takes his cloak and tunic and leaves you under Peter’s care.

~~~~~~~~~~

Steve had promised that he would be back before you wake and yet…he isn’t.

“Where is he, Peter?” You demand, irritated because you haven’t eaten.

“He might have been caught in the storm.” Peter reasons, moving to you with a tray of hot beef stew, bread, cheese, and a few fruits. He sets the tray on the table beside you.

You don’t know if you can eat while you’re this worried.

You put your book aside and turn to look at the food.

Practicing your reading is also exhausting mentally. You’ve become much better at all of it but it’s still a chore. And this library is so full of books. Old ones that your home castle doesn’t have.

This library with its multicolored tiled walls and floors, large fireplace to keep the space warm, and the dark brown furniture, the seats cushioned with plump orange pillows is by far the most comfortable room aside from your bedroom.

There is also a large set of windows to the South side. The focal point of the room with tall curving bookcases that line each side. Outside you can see that the ground is indeed covered with several feet of snow.

The white stuff continues to rain down on the castle grounds even now only it’s worse since the blizzard started. Now it comes down sideways, fast and painful. Ice piercing skin. The wind is biting. As soon as it hits you, your face is raw.

You hate it. Officially.

Before it had bee perfectly fine. But now? Now it’s keeping you from Steve and you hate it.

“You have to eat.” Peter chastises you, reaching to take your spoon to offer it to you.

You stare at it.

“He’ll be angry with me if you don’t eat.” Peter reminds you.

You stare.

“What about the baby?” Peter guilts you.

With a sigh, you take the spoon and fill it up, blowing gently before you shove the food into your mouth.

You’d been sure that you wouldn’t eat until Steve came back, but you’re shoveling the stew into your mouth with a fervor, the taste exquisite. The bread follows, and you dip that into the stew. Cheese broken off and placed into the hot liquid where it melts.

Peter smiles. Proud of himself for making you eat.

“Don’t worry, your Majesty. Steve knows how to take care of himself. He wouldn’t have left you unless it was urgent, and he’ll be back as soon as he can because you’re the most important person in his life now.” He says with confidence.

You lick your lips, loving the taste of your meal, but curious.

“How do you know?” You wonder.

Peter smiles. “Because before he left, he came and threatened me with death if I didn’t take care of you while he was gone. Take care over my wife and child. If I find them in a bad state, I’ll kill you.”

You scoff.

“He was being a little dramatic. He can get like that.” Peter shrugs. “I think he was just scared to leave you.”

You eat in silence until all that is left is your fruit. With a cup of tea to keep you warm, you nip at the apples and grapes. A slice of honeyed banana speared on your fork as you think.

“When will the others come?” You ask him, finding him watching the snow fall.

“Soon. I’m sure this snow has slowed them down. They should have been here tomorrow, but I think it might be another day or two.” Peter nods. “Do you miss them?”

You nod. “I miss Natasha most.”

Your friend, your confidant, your sister. You have so much to tell her. You can’t wait to see her.

~~~~~~~~~~

It takes hours for you to fall asleep. You toss and turn until you send for some chamomile to hopefully send you off to bed.

Sleeping in a bed without Steve after the two weeks you just spent in his arms is difficult. You want to be with him. You want him always at your side. Though you know that it isn’t possible for him to always be with you, you still want it. Desperately.

When you finally fall asleep, it’s a tenuous slumber. Every crackle of the logs in your fireplace startles you awake. Every whistle from the shivering wind outside force your eyes open.

It takes hours. Finally, you begin to drift off.

You’re almost asleep, the edges of a summer’s day dream begins to take hold when you ear a grunt. A shattering of glass as something—the vase by the doorway?—falls and breaks. You hear shuffling feet and the hot smell of iron fills your nostrils.

Eyes shooting open, you gasp and sit up, searching for the source of such commotion.

Your heart turns cold at the sight before you.

It’s terrifying but there’s also something very familiar about the figure as it stumbles towards the chairs in front of your fireplace.

The gleam of armor on its shoulders and on its head are what hold your gaze.

In his arms he holds loosely a round shield made of metal. On it is the insignia you’ve worn around your neck since almost the day you were married. Three rings, red, white, red, at the center is a blue circle that holds within it a stunning white star.

In this moment, you know without needing to ask.

The Freedom Knight… “Steve?” You ask, voice trembling.

He freezes, holding his side with his free hand and as he turns to look at you, your eyes find the spot.

It’s gushing blood, dripping onto the floor and seeping into the tunic and cloak he wears.

You’re on your feet, racing to him as he tries to reach out for a seat but misses completely and falls to the floor in a clatter of armor and shield.

You land with him, catching his head before it can hit the floor.

In a flurry of trembling fingers, you pull off his helmet and let it fall with a loud clang. The bottom half of his face is dirtier than the half he kept hidden, but his hair is everywhere, grimy, and his skin is sticky with sweat, dirt, and blood.

You shove his hand out of the way and press down hard on the spot that still bleeds. It’s a heavy flow and the paleness in his face gives you worry.

“This is what you meant when you said that you fight the evils of this world?!” You demand, angry at him suddenly.

He stares at you, reaching up to touch your cheek and leave a bloody trail.

“I thought you meant on the battlefield with soldiers and knights. Not your bare hands!” You chastise him.

He smiles. “I missed you.”

His eyes roll back into his head and his head lolls to the side.

“No! HELP!” You shout, knowing that only one person will be able to hear you. “Steve, wake up, please! PETER!”

As Steve continues to bleed out, you press harder, leaning down to rest your forehead against his. Willing him to heal.

“Don’t leave me.” You whimper and press harder.

#king!steve x reader #king!steve x you #king!steve rogers x reader #medieval au #royalty au #arranged marriage au #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers x you #steve x you #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction

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doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

Hell is just a beat away (2/9): Keen to show you the unhappy ones below you

Despite early promise, young Maul has turned out to be a disappointment, willfully delaying his training with secret attempts to make himself friends from scrap metal. He must be properly motivated, and so Darth Sidious sends him to a slave market on an impossible mission. It backfires. (A Star Wars: Darth Maul (2017) comic AU)

Warnings: accidental underage alcohol consumption, body horror, mention of sex slavery, violence against children, minor character death.

The attendant bends gracefully, smiling as she refills fine translucent cups. The first one is in front of Master Zalandas Fyaar, so the standard diplomatic protocol of privileging the Jedi emissary and guest apparently holds true even on this tiny corrupt world, and then comes that of the twi’lek’s own employer. The man who is Zalandas and Eldra’s new charge. His name is Martrey Woobudg, a tall harried human just like Fyaar, and the upstart frontrunner candidate for mayor of the capital of the Outer Rim planet of Teth. A second passes—a wriggling suspicion in the back of her mind, and then Eldra smooths it over—and then the beautiful twi’lek looks at Master Zalandas and bows and tops up the cup in front of Eldra, too, even though that one has barely been touched.

Woobudg and Master Zalandas pick up their drinks immediately, taking a break from hurried planning to praise the olid tea within. Eldra nibbles at the porcelain edge of her cup. The twi’lek attendant does not drink. She doesn’t even have a cup. Or a biscotti. Or a seat, and when fine hot droplets of tea splatter Eldra’s padawan tunic, and she realizes she’s actually biting down hard now on her crockery.

It’s not the fear of getting poisoned that holds Eldra back from enjoying her tea, although, considering they were called here after the third assassination attempt on Woobudg… maybe a little caution should be in order. It’s a serviceable excuse should Master Zalandas ask, anyway, even if it’s not the true reason, and neither is what Eldra privately decides is the painfully obvious and pointless braggadocio inherent in Woobudg serving imported Chandrilan tea, despite the well-publicized price-hike after last year’s ruined harvest there, and the fact that it absolutely genuinely does taste like unfiltered bantha piss. He’s serving his pricey swill to a couple of Jedi, moreover: to his protectors bound by duty, who do not revel in wealth.

It’s not that, though.

It’s not even really because this is only Eldra’s second diplomatic mission, and she’s sworn she’s going to take her job more seriously this time around. She’s going to make sure no-one, not even once, peeks in unnoticed through the doors and windows. That isn’t it either, and truthfully she’s paying attention far less than she means to.

It’s something far more petty and profane: the subtle spiced fragrance of the attendant’s perfume as she bends over Eldra to reach the china. Her dress, as expensive as the tea, made from rippling opaque silk in a slightly lighter shade of blue than the woman’s skin. It’s a fairly modest cut. Barely any flash of cleavage, despite Eldra’s vantage point. Chosen expressly for this meeting, Eldra thinks sourly, and who do you think you’re fooling?

It’s the attendant’s bearing, calm and open and as serene as any Jedi Master.

It’s the fact that Eldra’s still thinking of her as ‘the attendant’ even though she’s been flitting around the room for two hours now at least. It’s that she wasn’t introduced. It’s that she doesn’t have a cup. A biscotti. A seat.

It’s her teeth.

What would happen, Eldra wonders, if I asked her to come sit and have a drink with us? Besides the obvious, of course: Master Zalandas’ abject disappointment at Eldra’s dearth of diplomatic skill. Would the attendant keep smiling? Displaying her teeth? Or would she flinch the moment the hot nasty leaf juice hits them?

Because her teeth are white-lacquered, dainty, tiny, horrifying stumps. Eldra can’t stop looking at them. They’re almost worn down to the gums. Twice-sanded at least, probably. Once, to sharpen the natural edges further—Eldra runs her tongue over the edges of her own canines, her pointy incisors, like she’s been doing ever since researching for a class project the customs of the peoples of the polar tip of the northernmost continent of Ryloth, the place where she was told she’d been born—teeth sanded once, sharpened, and then, they were ground down again mercilessly to make them blunt.

“Another biscotti, Padawan?”

Watch your feelings, Eldra. Remember that you are a Jedi. Remember your duty. That’s what Master Zalandas means, and Eldra startles, self-conscious and guilty. She must’ve lost her bearing, been grabbing attention even with the question bitten back behind her lips. She nods, a quiet thanks for the reminder. She studies the window again, on guard for any assassin. She tells herself: this meeting is important. Martrey Woobudg is a reformer, an anti-corruption juggernaut, and his rise a chance to wrest Teth from out the criminal syndicates’ control and, ultimately, bring it into the regulatory orbit of the Republic once more. If he keeps his promises after he wins, the election will spell a sea-change for the poor, who’ll finally be able to go about their lives without paying massive bribes to every single government official they have the misfortune of meeting, and it will aid the rise of a stable middle class. It’ll keep out the Hutts, too. It’ll be a triumphant sign of progress. Woobudg is important. His safety is paramount. His fate determines the future of so many people; it’s so much bigger than the life of this one attendant. Eldra knows the brief.

And still, her eyes are drawn back to his twi’lek servant.

To his slave.

That’s why you sand down someone’s teeth until there’s barely anything left. Why you keep at it long after it hurts. Why the sharpest teeth are so popular on Ryloth in the first place.

No-one wants a sex slave capable of biting their throat out.

Dutifully, she attempts to listen again, to keep watch, but looking at Woobudg’s face it’s still all she can think of. Slaver, slaver, slaver. He’s important, and Eldra must protect him, and he’s a slaver.

Looking back at the attendant, she’s met by the serene smile again, full of awful tiny teeth.

Looking at her Master, she feels her own inadequacy.

Looking down at her own hands is no escape. They’re darker than the attendant’s, callused and oil-stained and nails half-covered with flaking black nail polish. They’re the hands of someone far too slowly growing into the knowledge that her body is a shell, a vessel, that she is a luminous being of higher purpose. They’re a Jedi’s hands, or will be, and through them the force flows and shapes the galaxy. They are the hands of someone who will know no emotion, but peace. They are the hands of someone who neither covets nor disdains expensive Chandrilan tea. They are the hands of a faithful servant of the Republic. They are the hands that will protect Woobudg from his enemies and facilitate the rise of Teth, come what may, because she knows right, and she knows duty.

She forces herself to meet Woobudg’s eyes when he looks at her, feigning attention, and hopes he didn’t just ask a question.

She fidgets with her twi’lek girl fingers.

⁂

Hiding and curled and dirty under the stranger’s ship in the now-deserted hangar, two hours after he crawled down there, Maul finally realizes he’s been underestimating his Master. This mission on Nar Shaddaa is not just a chance for the apprentice to prove himself. No, Master is wise and efficient, and he wouldn’t have a single purpose for anything He does when He could, instead, have a myriad. It’s not just a test of Maul’s skill and loyalty.

It’s also a series of lessons.

Yesterday, Maul had been so sure he knew the meaning of cold.

He’d read about it, after all, memorized all the ice worlds in the galaxy and the medical texts on hypothermia and studied the schematics of atoms bouncing ever more slowly off each other. He’d looked at holos of skin blistered and sloughing off from unwise exposure, and he’d been impressed. A little scared, maybe, and very excited to progress in his studies so one day he’d have a chance to experience winter. But Maul’s been hiding under the stranger’s ship for hours now, and Nar Shaddaa is cold. It’s not flashy, the cold, like the holos of icebergs and boiling water thrown up and coming down powder implied. It’s not exciting at all. The cold of Nar Shaddaa is quiet. It’s the floor leeching into Maul’s back and legs, until he can’t tell anymore where wet dirt ends and he begins. It’s uncontrollable shivering. It’s his nose leaking, leaking, leaking. It’s making him tired.

Mustafar bubbled and smoked, and even inside the training complex with its sophisticated uncounted layers of insulation—Maul had dug into the wall once, tunneling almost a quarter-way through with a droid’s breastplate repurposed into a shovel—even inside, during some of the periods that Maul had taken to calling ‘seasons’ after researching the planet of Naboo, it was often so warm Maul wished he was allowed to tear off his tunics, and an additional layer or two of skin with it. Sweating, panting, he’d read the word cold, and he’d wanted it badly. He’d dreamt, open-eyed, for so many hours, of himself rolling around in the cold white snow and chasing ice-weasels. But back then, on Mustafar, it was hot. And Nar Shaddaa is real, and it’s now, and it’s so so cold.

Maul can’t stay down here forever, or even for another minute. He wants to sleep. He wants to run, at the same time, to fight the Jedi apprentice until he meets victory or glorious death. He wants to have completed this mission already. He wants a lightsaber of his own, so he can hold it and bask in its warmth. He wants to sleep. Force, he wants to be asleep. He wants to wake up in his small boiling cell and realize this has all been a dream.

(He wants someone to hold his hand and say, “I’ll help you,” but that’s the most impossible thought of all.)

There is no point in wishing for anything, though. There has never been. He must act. He must stop sneezing. The slave auction will be in four days now, a short strip of time he just needs to overwinter somewhere, Maul tells himself, and even if he doesn’t want to go anywhere near Master’s Star Courier now that it has killed the teenagers that could have been Maul’s friends and the mangy brachno-jag besides, there are many other options. Many other ships. He’s curled down here, in the cold, under just such a ship.

He knows how to pick locks.

It’s not hard at all to gain entry to the ship, now that he’s thought of it. He could have done it in less than thirty seconds, if his hands were shaking less and he had the proper tools, the ones he’s been meaning to build himself for years but in Master’s complex on Mustafar there was little point and then he had to construct stilts and the vocoder-mask for his mission and he forgot—Maul could have sliced the lock in under twenty-five point five seconds, he decides, with the tools, but the ten minutes he actually fiddled with it were acceptable too, because neither the training-droids nor Master himself were there to witness it, and besides, he doesn’t have much practice yet. (He should lock the door again and re-slice it, and over and over, until he’s quick enough. He should. But there’s no-one here to watch, and Nar Shaddaa is cold…)

This one looks almost exactly like Master’s ship, on the inside. Maybe all starships do: a few red-plush benches around a low table in the main travelers’ compartment, overlooked by a massive idling viewscreen, two small side rooms with pairs of sleeping berths, a refresher with a sonic shower and a kitchenette and, most interesting of all, an unlocked engine room and a cockpit with a slightly different layout than the Star Courier had. Maul shall explore them in detail, as soon as he’s warmed up and fed and made sure there are no hidden traps in here. He didn’t dare take apart his Master’s property, but this ship belongs to someone who won’t, can’t, defend his claim against Darth Maul, heir of the Sith—soon-to-be Darth Maul, he corrects quickly—and power is the only true right in the galaxy. Through power he will gain victory, and what is victory in this situation but access to a stranger’s ship’s mechanics? A fuel tank blinks enticingly, and soon Maul shall learn its secrets.

Food first, though.

He upends his satchel over the low table and picks through his haul from the ill-fated convenience store visit. Bottles, ordered by color, to the left—a toxic orange looking one the furthest away, then brown, then the two water bottles with their beautiful waxing gibbous shape when seen from the top and the yellow labels with red writing—and the crinkly chips packages to the right, joined by the sandwiches and the jaw-mask and two pairs of huge glasses with dark lenses and wide red-black frames.

The orange drink is bitter and sickly sweet and probably poisoned, and when he pushes it away it tips over and spills all over the carpet. It deserved that ending, though. It was vile. It didn’t have the right to be drunken by a Sith Lord.

Trying to rinse the taste off his tongue is unsuccessful: the fancy water is bitter, sharp, oily, and Maul shudders. At least the sandwiches smell bright and meaty through their flimsi wrapping. They’ll mask the awful water he’ll have to sip from to avoid dehydration, and so he picks one, to devour while he explores the sitting area.

Perched in an overhead nook is a flickering holo of a weequay male kissing the top of a young weequay’s head, and he turns it off as quickly as he can.

The two blankets and five little pillows are far more welcome spoils, and so is the datapad wedged underneath one of the benches. Someone’s taped a scrap of flimsi securely to the back, too, with two neat rows of handwriting. A name, and then a series of numbers.

Maul types them into the datapad, and it lights up.

“Good evening, Johen,” the pad greets him.

There are pages opened already on the datapad, a search for restaurants on Coruscant and a school’s newsletter and—two catalogues. One of them is Grakkus’ slave auction, and Johen is already logged in.

It’s… in three days?

There must be a mistake. Master said it was in eight days, four days ago, and Master is never wrong, but there’s no slave auction on that date no matter which button Maul presses and where he navigates on the catalogue, just the one in three days, and then five days after, and another five days, and another…

Master doesn’t make mistakes. He knows everything, studied the secrets of the galaxy that the Jedi would keep suppressed, and the hidden weaknesses of far-off planets’ politicians, and every single one of Maul’s minute failures except for the secret dreams, and He would know the true date of this slave auction. He would not err, not when this mission is so vital to the grand plans of the Sith that he sent his own apprentice to complete it. He would never…

He wouldn’t…

But what He would do is test Maul.

A true scion of the Sith does not trust blindly in dates and dossiers, and Master knows that. He must have told Maul the wrong date to pass on this wisdom. He must have, and He didn’t even fear the risk that this momentous mission might fail, because He trusted that Maul would understand.

And Maul did.

Master made the right choice. It’s as if someone had pumped Maul’s chest cavity full up with helium, pulling him off the upholstery and into the cool air: he found the correct date, with time to spare. He procured food and drink and shelter by himself, anticipated the need to hide his childish face under a mask. He built a vocoder. He is powerful and devilishly clever, and more prepared to serve the Sith than anyone has ever been, in all the history he knows, and Lord Sidious knew this when He sent Maul to Nar Shaddaa.

Master has never put His true pride into words; despite the considerable skill of His tongue He likely never will, but this mission is plain proof of the sort Maul never dared to yearn for.

His Master trusts Maul’s skill.

The emotion is overwhelming, and Maul wraps himself up in his blankets, to trap the acknowledgement for a while before it can dissipate.

He is victorious already. He is vengeance. He is Sith.

He’s won three days early.

After half an hour, though, basking in his glory gets boring. His face is growing warm. He’s eaten two sandwiches, too, and forced down seven gulps of awful water. He should sleep, but he isn’t tired yet.

Maul doesn’t exactly know what to do with downtime. Or: he does know. On Mustafar, he had long stretches with nothing to do. Apparently, it’s physically impossible to keep training all the time. SRT-X (or Strut, as Maul had called it in secret) once put itself in front of Maul and showed articles to Lord Sidious, about a vain bodybuilder on Corellia whose arm muscles had eventually started breaking down from overexertion, and he’d nearly poisoned himself with the waste of his own overbulged dead muscle tissue. Strut didn’t survive that confrontation, which in retrospect Maul admits was completely fair. (At the time, he’d cried his eyes out, no matter how much Master had tried to make him to stop, but that too had been a valuable lesson: the Master is always right, and contradiction suicide. Even if the frequency of lessons had tapered off somewhat after that. Lord Sidious had probably independently decided to make Maul train less. He was wise that way.)

He’s had long stretches where he didn’t even feel like tinkering with his droid projects, or meditating, because occasionally the hatred just wouldn’t come. That was before Lord Sidious showed Maul what the Jedi had done to the Sith: nowadays, it’s much easier to feel hatred. (Or what passes for hatred, anyway. Mostly it’s nothing but protective anger, but that is just another failure he cannot admit even to himself.)

During those times when there was nothing to do, Maul often researched people. Master is a politician in His spare time, of course, as Maul overheard some years ago, and He makes people dance and shiver and obey with a single word. It’s almost more impressive than being a Sith Lord. To manipulate people… to talk them into being your friends… Maul might need that skill, especially in the future when he will become the Sith Lord and teach his own apprentice—he would need the skill just to find an apprentice—and so he started his research project. Which admittedly consisted of looking at the hololessons that Master left for him. But that was the best way to observe natural behavior. Which was why Maul watched them. Over and over.

He’s not brought the hololessons with him now, but he is in someone’s ship. Johan had a picture up with his child. Maul already learnt so much today, about cold and efficiency and never trusting anybody and stealing from supermarkets, and maybe there is something additional to learn here, about people. He wobbles back over to the small holo and brings it down to his nest.

There’s nothing else on the datadrive, though, nothing but the toddler cradled in her father’s arms. No instructions. No meaning. Maul tries to imagine what it would feel like, to be that small or that big, but nothing wants to move in his head except for the water strangely threatening to blur his eyesight.

His chest hurts.

His chest hurts, and pain is a message.

Maul wishes he knew what he’s being told.

He moves closer and closer to the holodevice—there must be some power trapped in there, to make him react this way—and then his nose bumps against the plasteel.

It hits the off button, and Maul is alone again.

He tries to fall asleep.

He counts: he nearly finished his mission. He learnt about cold, and efficiency, and not trusting, and probably something about babies. He found food and water and shelter. He nearly made friends with hooded aliens and a brachno-jag. He—

Maul shoots upright and logs back in to the datapad.

He’s forgotten to search the database for the padawan.

⁂

There is one location on Teth even worse than the tea room: the stage out in the open air where Candidate Woobudg is stubbornly campaigning for freedom.

That’s what he keeps shouting.

Freedom, with the might of the Republic guarding his back and his twi’lek slave kneeling at his feet.

Freedom, the people rallying below mutter. Eldra is walking amongst them, looking for threats, while Master Fyaar is standing grimly behind Woobudge. “Optics,” Woobudg had explained and Master Fyaar had acquiesced, and Eldra didn’t understand and did: the twi’lek attendant would look too much like a person, she thinks, if she was next to a Jedi who could have been her daughter.

Freedom! Freedom! All around her, and something pulls on Eldra’s sleeve. It’s the hand of a young red twi’lek man. He’s collared and his left breast is exposed, suckling a sullustan baby. The child’s family—slavers—are a few meters ahead, and that’s what must have given him the courage to beg, wild-eyed and hoarse, “Take me with you, please!”

Freedom!

“We didn’t…” Eldra looks away. “We did not come here to free the slaves.”

⁂

No padawan is listed anywhere in the catalogue for Grakkus’ slave auction. There’s no Jedi, no witch, no force-sensitive or force-null or Sith or any thing or any being in any way remarkable. Nothing, neither in any listing for any future auction nor in the archives of successful deals stretching six decades into the past. No padawan who is not for sale but just a member of Grakkus’ personal collection except a boy who died ten years ago. No references to a Jedi sold by a third party, or even any guest who might be a Jedi when Maul cross-referenced the user lists with holonet articles about his ancestral foes. Two Jedi artifacts, but it’s not like those count.

No person that could in any way be interpreted as the mission target that Master talked about, not even after Maul exploited a weakness in the catalogue’s search field to give himself access that Johen shouldn’t have had and scoured it all over again.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

No way to succeed.

He should have been afraid all along. Maul wasted two hours basking in premature victory and safety; he wasted three days being cautiously optimistic, when he should have been swallowing down his pleas for mercy ever since the very second Master announced He’d send him to Nar Shaddaa.

Send him to failfail.

There’s no padawan here.

What does it mean, that Master wants Maul to fail the very first mission he ever had? What did Maul do wrong? Why couldn’t He just punish—?

Master might have made a mistake, perhaps, Maul’s mind offers timidly. Maybe He’s seen news of a padawan that isn’t here, but Master does not make mistakes. Master knows everything.

Besides, it being a mistake—which it isn’t—wouldn’t make a lick of a difference to Maul’s chances of surviving his Master’s wrath.

Maul swallows a gulp of the oily water, then another, and it burns. That doesn’t make his mind stop spinning, makes him even more woozy and warm and nauseous, but his growing illness won’t matter anyway if Master wants him dead. If he doesn’t find a padawan, nothing will ever matter again.

He’ll be punished. He’ll deserve it. He’ll die.

Maybe this is another lesson. Maul is training to become the Sith Lord after all, and every true Sith must learn that failure is not an option. Their mission is too important for that. Revenge is too important.

(Even if it’s not really meant as a lesson, not truly, Maul has to believe it is. Otherwise, what else is there to do but wait for death?)

Maybe this is a lesson in improvisation. In overcoming terror. In never giving in.

There must be a padawan somewhere on Nar Shaddaa. Somewhere in this quadrant, at least. Somewhere in the galaxy. Master must have meant ‘Nar Shaddaa’ in some general sense that doesn’t just refer to the planet, or maybe the padawan He talked of was moved…

The one location where there definitely are some padawans is the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, Maul knows. But there are also several thousand armed and trained Jedi Masters there, and while Darth Maul will absolutely kill them all to avenge his fallen Sith brethren and sisters and siblings, he generally assumed it would happen at least one or two years in the future. That he’d have time to build a lightsaber before fighting to the death against the Grand Master Jedi, and also grow a little taller. His battle plans always took those things for granted.

Maul will just search the rest of the galaxy first for a suitable padawan, he decides, and keep the all-out assault on the Temple as a backup plan. That’s not cowardice: he only has a few more days and travelling to Coruscant will take a lot of time. It’s just efficient to try and find a padawan somewhere else first.

Maybe even somewhere on Nar Shaddaa. Maybe the owner of this ship just wasn’t interested in Jedi padawans.

Maul could get a different result on a different ship. He has to.

⁂

It happens too quickly for Eldra to process. The rally ends and the people disperse, and then there is a sound like static—and then she’s on her back with Master Fyaar’s heavy body on top of her. The air is shivering with the heat of blaster bolts and thick with the stench of burnt flesh and hair.

“Eldra,” Zalandas Fyaar rasps out. “Eldra.”

Eldra looks up at her. Master Fyaar’s blonde locks obscure her face, but they cannot hide the stripe of cooked skin at the very top of it, flecks of bone showing through. More than anything, Eldra wishes she could see her Master’s eyes, see the clear blue serenity that reminds her that all is as the force wills it. More than anything, she wishes she could see a mouth twisted in disappointment at Eldra’s failure to notice the ambush. Freckles. Worry-wrinkles. But Master Fyaar cannot raise her head, because she shielded Eldra with it, and—

“Eldra.”

Eldra raises her hand to Fyaar’s wound. She’s good at healing, she gets far better marks there than for diplomacy or geography or sports, and this is cauterized so there won’t be an infection, she just needs manipulate a few cells, to stabilize…

“You’re strong, child. You will not fall to the dark. I know it.”

That sounds like a goodbye. It doesn’t have to be. It won’t… “Master, please—” Eldra can heal her, she is healing her, the wound is closing a little.

“Always remember you are a Jedi.”

“Master—”

“Remember yourself.“

Jedi Master Zalandas Fyaar doesn’t die because she gives up. She doesn’t die because Eldra gives up, or because Eldra fails, or because survival was impossible: the man who pulls Eldra away from her dying Master simply doesn’t care that they need to touch.

He pushes Master Fyaar to the ground—“This one’s toast!”—and pulls Eldra upright by her left lekku, and no matter how desperately she fights through the pain worse than anything she has ever thought she’d bear, like her brain is being squashed and really that’s what is happening, like every thought she has has been replaced by puke-inducing pressure and she does retch and vomit, but still she fights, because if she can just get to Master Fyaar and save her then everything will be okay.

She fights until she doesn’t see the rise-and-fall of her Master’s chest anymore, and then she screams, and then she stops.

⁂

It’s the twelfth ship now. Same procedure as the last ones. Maul’s working through the entire shipyard ship by ship. Slowly, he crawls over and stands up and waits until the world stops wobbling, and then he slices the lock of the cargo hold. He searches for datapads and tries to access any slaver database he can.

Somewhere, someone must be selling a Jedi padawan. They just have to.

⁂

Something’s being shoved in front of her. A holocam, Eldra registers, to—shoot a picture for the ransom note? But why would they… it would suffice just to contact the Temple; they know where they sent Eldra and her Master; they know they haven’t been in contact; the must know that something went wrong.

Unless they don’t know she’s a…

“How do we want her?” the man holding the holocam asks. “Sultry?”

“Nah,” someone behind her back replies. “Feisty little Jedi like her’ll fetch more as a gladiator or something.”

So they do know. The Temple will ransom her, she’ll go home and everything won’t be okay because Master Fyaar will still be dead but—

“Growl.”

But she’ll go home—

“Growl, you little piece of shit!” the one behind her shouts, and she snarls. There’s a clicking sound. “Again!” she bares her teeth and gets another click, and another, and one more. There. They got the holo they don’t need, and then soon she’ll go—

Eldra screams when a hand twists her lekku.

She screams and screams, and when she calms down, she’s alone in a cell, on the ground, covered in fresh vomit and terrified and confused. I wasn’t fighting! I snarled for the camera, she thinks. I did what they asked me to do, there’s no reason… except they could. Because I’m alone right now.

Because they killed Master Fyaar.

They killed my…

And she…

“Remember yourself,” Master Fyaar said, her last words, and here Eldra is with her fists balled and gathering strands of hate around herself like a shroud. “Remember yourself,” and Eldra could hurt these people so easily if she felt for their cells and made them boil. Eldra could make it painful, and slow. It would be so easy.

So easy to fall.

“Remember yourself.”

⁂

Maul is sweaty and hot and he feels the way he did when he wasn’t allowed to sleep for days. He’s finished one half bottle of the awful water, and it hasn’t helped: everything is spinning and blurry and he’s still thirsty on top. He’s also inside his seventeenth ship and ready to give up on Nar Shaddaa. He’s been seeing the same nine slaver auction databases on repeat, and there’s considerable overlap between the offerings, and still nothing Jedi in sight.

I can’t fail, he thinks, and hits refresh again.

I can’t just fail my Master, and he’s about to exit the database and the ship and the planet when he notices the flashing window at the bottom right.

An alert!

An alert prominently featuring a twi’lek girl baring her teeth at the holocam, but the person is almost incidental to his interest.

“Jedi padawan for sale!” the headline screams in flashing red. “Freshly captured!!!”

So this is his enemy, his target, the prize he has to fetch to fulfill his destiny: she’s young, though probably older than him, and her blue face is badly cut up. There are deep purple bruises on both her lekku, and despite the anger and toughness she’s trying to display she mostly succeeds in looking terrified.

Hah, Maul thinks to himself. I knew the Jedi were soft. I wouldn’t be this weak, if I was captured, which never would happen in the first place because I am Darth Maul, heir of the Sith Order.

He looks at the picture again, trying to find his hatred. She and hers slaughtered the Sith on Malachor; they live in pampered safety; they know nothing of the Force. They—she would just as soon kill him, hurt him, traffic him if their fortunes were reversed. She is his enemy.

Still, she looks just like a person, alone and scared.

There is no point in looking at her image any more.

Maul studies the alert carefully. She is going to be sold tomorrow—not the date Master had told him of, but Maul already established that it was a test. She is going to be sold in the palace of Xev Xrexus, but maybe Master had misheard the name or it was yet another way of probing Maul’s skill. The terror Maul felt because of these tricks was a valuable lesson, a reminder of the utmost importance this mission held for the Sith Order and how inacceptable any kind of failure would be. Maul, moreover, has seen through it: he is completely equal to the task. He will bring the padawan to his Master, and not deviate from the plan for a single second. He is much more skilled than anyone else would be, anyone who isn’t an awesome Sith and therefore, he’ll perform admirably and easily, and Master will be proud. Master will pronounce him Darth Maul, and the many years of training will have paid off. He knows this. (Thinking it really hard, over and over, is the same thing as knowing.)

She’s been captured—

Master must have foreseen it. He is, after all, gifted in the art of clairvoyance he had told Maul, always already aware of the mistakes Maul might make at any point. So it makes sense, it does, that Master sent Maul to this planet days ago on a mission to buy a padawan that was captured two hours ago.

Master is wise that way.

He planned…

And…

By now, Maul is so tired and thirsty—his brain flashing Master knew and but why in quick dizzying succession—that even the relief of having succeeded can’t boost his energy anymore. He locks the ship, overriding any key fobs, and sets an alarm for well before the padawan’s auction. He takes a bite of the awful chips he acquired in the shop, and throws up.

⁂

“Smile.” He does. “Growl.” He does. “Not like that.” There is a slap, and then he arranges his facial muscles differently. He doesn’t know whether he’s succeeded, until he sees the approving nod, and feels the lack of punishment.

There is his body and there is him, and no connection between the two. If he had a mirror, he could make it look more natural, but only an approach. There is no joy here. No anger, or not the kind they would have him display. No future. There are no brothers to watch. There have been no brothers, ever since he was selected and taken off-planet, off-home, too many days or years ago now to count. These people’s expectations are a thick leather shirt, riverdunked and allowed to dry on the body, so tight that he can hardly breathe. There is no space inside for himself, let alone dreams or brothers or rage. There is only a face to rearrange, to the approval of a master.

A different master, soon.

Maybe that master will kill Savage. Maybe they won’t. One way or the other, this will the last ever auction he is sent to. Savage will make sure of that.

#darth maul #eldra kaitis #savage opress #dimtraces makes things #hell is just a beat away #i'm awful at crossposting but i actually managed to write something again!!!

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