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cornacopicimagines · 4 years

Text

A Rose Blooms │t.h

pairing: prince!tom holland x princess!reader

words: 8.4k (WHOOPS)

warnings: arranged marriage, SMUT (we been knew), slight praise kink and 10000% breeding kink, therefore unprotected sex, swearing, slight cockwarming & good lord there is so much

summary: Perhaps God does have a sick sense of humour. To allow such misguided souls to one another. Souls that shouldn't be allowed to feel the sense of happiness he can provide, that should accept their dire situations. The Prince of Wales and his new bride can attest to the quite well.

a/n: what do y'all mean a historical prince au!tom holland with major smut and breeding kink is not a thing. i know the sluts want it, even if they never ask for it. i must provide it.

masterlist

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y/n of Burgundy was a splendid piece of artwork. A sweet and humble French Princess with a huge dowry and a bright future. It was as if DaVinci had casted the girl from Venus's shadow and gifted the baby to displeased parents. Parents who so wished for a boy, that the arrival of a healthy girl is so overlooked that the girl is better off dead. The sadness is heard across not only France but the entirety of Europe. Poor y/n of Burgundy! The Unlucky Princess of Burgundy! It's all she hears; she is deemed a tragedy before her life is even written. Perhaps that is her greatest misdeed in this life, that because she is born the wrong sex to what is expected she is casted to the side as a woman destined for slight and anguish for her entire life. Even if this is the case, y/n wished to think of herself as unwritten for the moment being. A woman waiting for a calling no matter how big or small. A woman who's only current wish to sit atop this windowsill, letting the cool September French breeze kiss her flushed cheeks. Alas, even this is stripped from her.

"Get off the window, y/n!" her mother's shrill voice shrieks as The Duchess yanks y/n to the floor. It's harsh and frantic, as if an arrow is to fly through and hit her. Her tightly coiled chest hit's the wooden floor hard. It knocks the only wind y/n really has left, a wasteful shame.

"I am sorry mama," y/n responds quietly, her hands desperately pat to find a piece of wood that will not cut up into her as she attempts to regain her balance. Though her room is filled with four maids not a single one offers their own hand to help her. She knows it is because of her mother's cowl. If they dare so move in a direction towards her, The Duchess will become a Fury of Hell himself.

"The breeze is so sweet at this time of afternoon." Finally, y/n does place her feet back on the floor with a small clack of her heels. She takes a moment to take in the state of her gown. While she has countless others, something about the pure white of the satin being destroyed by the inevitable dust that has collected is disheartening even to her. The pattern of bright red roses now looks more of a dull blood grey than a true flower.

"The breeze is something so frivolous my dear," The Duchess is suddenly content with her surroundings. "Busy yourself with something more intelligent, it makes for a much better bride."

"Thank you for the wise advice mother," y/n snaps, her fingers gripping the ruined material of her gown. "I'll be sure to not engage myself in something that gives me the slightest bit of freedom in the lifeless castle," it was no louder than a whisper. Her braided hair still muffling the sounds.

As if her words seemed to not even reach her, The Duchess mumbles in agreement before taking her leave. The door shutting loudly behind her, the air was finally safe to breathe. The maids immediately begin to swarm her. Like flies to honey; they grapple her, prod at her and pinch her. It was too much. It was as if a million ants had swarmed her body, nipping at any piece of flesh they could just because it was what they were meant to do. An instinctive need to draw more blood than necessary, it was overwhelming. They inspected her perfectly capable hands, wondering if their incompetence has cost them their heads because y/n of Brittany split her blood and The Duchess refused to let them help. She was suffocating.

She didn't mean for it to slip, it just did. Her voice raised, "Get out." It was softer at first. "Get out," they still didn't move, still abusing her. "I said get out!" Everything stopped for a moment, the air her mother had ensued had now come back. The maids all took a single step away from her. y/n felt the tears threaten her, warning by dancing across her lower lashes. "Do none of you listen, get out for Christ’s sake!" That's all it took, in a matter of seconds y/n was finally alone. She could hear the faint song of the trees whispering to her, it was calm, but she couldn't appreciate it. She dropped to her knees and began to softly weep into her palms. The groans muffled by the skin of her hands and the tears halted from falling by her fingers. In this moment and forever ahead of her, she was desolate.

But like all things, even this bleak minute of sorrow was cut to an end by the deafening sound of her father's boots storming down the hallways towards her room.

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Tom spectated as the pole shattered into a thousand pieces. The splinters hitting ever edge of the arena. He watched as the knight fell limp and as his horse rode on through the chaos. The young prince roared out of his seat, his knees hitting the harsh wood of the royal box. His name echoed on the young knight's medallion above his breast. He had picked the winning side and rightfully so, Sir Harrison had never been defeated. For a moment, Tom turned around to face his beaming mother. A woman who loved the games, Tom always relied on his mother to accompany him to these festivities but his father. The Prince would always ask graciously but was refused every time. Constantly belittled for the consul of old men with a working cock between them, it was a joke. The King had many failed efforts to rile the English people to cause, Tom had offered a large gathering to help inspire the people. The King told his son this would cause nothing but useless panic and many painful deaths. Scoffing, Tom waltzed back to his seat. It was uncomfortable, it felt as if ants hand made their nets below the seat's support. He wished to ride alongside them.

"You cannot and you will not," The Queen smiled at him, waving to squires as they led the horses away. Tom's head swivelled around to meet his mother's. "I refuse it my son."

"I had said nothing mother," Tom replied quietly, he too doing his duty to the lower noble men who had come out today. Each one sweatier than the last. "Perhaps you are hearing things, 10 childbirths can change a woman's mind," Tom stifled a laugh, too which he received a slap on the arm for.

"Don't play smart with me son," The Queen spoke coolly, her countless rings clanged as she rose from her seat. Tom followed suit, allowing a hand for his now middle-aged mother for gracious help down the impossibly large stairs. "I almost lost your father to one of these silly little cock shows, I will not go through it with you my boy."

Tom raised an eyebrow, watching his mother's golden trim become bleaker by the stain of the grass. "I had half a mind to believe you enjoyed these silly little cock shows," Tom played. The Queen peered up at his through hooded lids. It was dangerous waters even for him, a man who has seen the blood of war. He allowed his mother and her ladies to return to Windsor, watching as if to wait for the shark to disappear.

"Your Royal Highness, if I may have a word," a soft voice called out from below the podium. Tom paced to the edge and stared down. Constance, he thought to himself as he smiled wickedly. She was a short and mildly plump woman, with wild unruly hair that had to be constantly shoved out of her face. He remembers her name because of how sweet his name sounded dripping from her tongue. Countless nights spent in the throes of passion, wearing moonlight as cloth. Tom knew he had dishonoured her just by bedding her, but he couldn't help himself. She was the first woman who really took an interest in him. Still, he had to come to her aid on multiple occasions. While he likes the way, she grips at his biceps, he however, doesn't like when her father comes storming into court demanding his daughter's honour back because Tom had prayed on her. Perhaps, it was the odd lack of ladies that would flock to his side or maybe it was simply because he wanted a little bit of fun before the inevitable.

"You may, my Lady," Tom smiled widely making his way to her side. He could tell the mud was ruining the polished leather of his boots, he completely forgot about his favourite riding boots he had put on in hopes that he may indulge himself in the sports. Still, he pushed the though deep down at met her eyes. He not an unusually tall man but the way he almost dwarfed her was delectable. As he watched her squirm, he wondered as to why she would speak with him where anyone could see. There was no danger for him, but the world's eyes were on her.

She played with the small ring on her pinkie finger, riding it up and down the skin. "Why did you not tell me," she whispered, refusing to look up at him. Tears began to well.

"What on earth do you mean?" He queered, genuinely curious as to what had got her all worked up. His hands went to stroke her cheek gently, but she abruptly pulled away from him. This time her eyes did meet his, the salty liquid glossed over her eyes.

"It is bad enough that I am called the Prince's Whore but now they are cursing my name because I have ruined the royal couple!" she cried out, her deep green dress swallowing the mud below. "That a stupid maid slut has stolen you away from the beautiful French Princess!"

Tom saw nothing but red. Not because of Constance but because of what she said to him. He had begged his parents to let him choose his own wife. If he was to rule England after his father's passing, he wished to at least have a woman whom he truly loved by his side. He said nothing to her as he stormed away. The small drizzle of rain hitting his skin as he picked up his speed. He knew that his father was in a council meeting alongside his mother. Perfect opportunity to unleash his rage. He faintly heard her calling after him, that was muffled by the buzzing in his ears.

He had been told who he was meant to be and what he was meant to be from the moment he was born. Hardly ever seeing his mother or younger brothers because he was eldest, never knowing true companionship because he would be constantly cooped up listening to his advisors and tutors as they taught him the art of war and foreign policies. This was his one chance to spend his life with a woman who understood him and would grow a loving family much in contrast to what he had.

His hands pushed the heavy wooden doors, they hit the walls with a large smack. The entire council stood for the Prince, with the exception of his mother and sickly father. He walked past them with ease and took his seat at the opposite end of table. His eyes focused solely on his father as he absently noted the appearance of his son.

"Wonderful of you to finally join us," The Duke of Essex smiled weakly, in any attempt to deflect the tension elsewhere.

"When were you going to tell me?" Tom spoke, his voice barely above a whisper and laced with venom. His elbows digging into the cool wood of granite of the table. He watched his father finally face him; the man was a wreck. His greying hair stuck to his hair with copious amounts of sweat, his brown eyes had sunk deadly back into the sockets and his skin was pale and filled with wrinkles. "When were you going to tell me father?"

"You were spending too much time with that scullery maid," The King respond calmly, still flipping through royal documents. Tom was on the verge of an explosion. If the Prince was known for something, it was his anger. Much like Mount Vesuvius, he didn't get angry often, he hated how it affect those around him. The times he is pushed to the breaking point however, he was destroy everything in his path. "We had to put an end to it."

"We?" Tom pushed.

"Your mother made the arrangements; she is being brought here as we speak." Once more, the King had no interest with the devastated look on the Prince's face. Too caught up in an attempt to stile a cough.

"You promised me my own choice of bride," Tom seethed. He faced his mother, if the King wouldn't listen perhaps the Queen would.

His mother sighed; the silk of her sleeves draped over the arms of the chair. "That was before you had instinctively made the choice, we hoped that perhaps you would have fallen for the daughter of a Duke or at worst an Earl. You were going to marry that girl, after everything her family has done against the court. We couldn't allow it."

Tom jaw clicked. "Who is she?" He was done arguing, done protesting.

"You'll marry the granddaughter of the French King; y/n of Burgundy," his father spoke up before his mother could sugar coat it. "The family sent a portrait of the girl as the first payment of her dowry; it has already been placed in your room. Hopefully, you can find the slightest bit of attraction for your new bride before the wedding."

"Will I get to meet her beforehand?" He at least hoped to see the girl with his own eyes before calling her his wife. Finally, the King met his eyes. He dropped the quill on the desk as locked his eyes, leaning towards him.

"Did you really think you'd get that luxury?"

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The sea breeze prickled at y/n skin as she sat atop the deck. She could tell they were getting closer. The wind went from a soft tone to a howling scream, something her great aunt had told her all about. English weather could go from a perfect sunny day to god's worst mood. In all honesty, she preferred it to French. It was wild and unpredictable, something she so desperately needed.

She remembered how she got into this predicament as she lay down a 9 ace on the table. Waiting for the ship to land.

"You'll leave tomorrow, it will take you a good couple of days to get there." Her father exclaimed, picking a raspberry from the plate and eating the sweet fruit. y/n stood in silence, still reeling her tears back into her eyes. She refused to weep in front of the Duke. She moved around the large room, in order to hear his words. "You'll make a fine queen," he smiled, placing his hands atop her cheeks. y/n smiled warmly before raising a concern.

"How do you know this will be different than the last?" she asked quietly, staring down at her shoes. Her father sighs before picked his coat up from the chair.

y/n placed her bets, her hand is exquisite. Three queen and a pair of Kings. If she doesn't win, it's as if God is going against her. The men that sit beside her raise their brows in confusion. She's not backing down.

"Because, you know their language and their culture from Great Aunt Mary. You were her favourite after all," her father tells her, the memory of the old lady teaching her English brings a curve to her lips. That was not the answer she was looking for, however. Her father knows it as well, he knows the answer she wants but he cannot give it to her. "Trust me pumpkin," the endearment is wonderful. Unlike her mother, y/n's father has always been kind to her. She doesn't know if it because she is his eldest daughter or because her brother is a lousy boy and she is the only child with a head still attached to her shoulder blades.

She releases her tension; she knows whatever comes out of this she must go along with it. She must accept whatever situation is handed to her and accept her duty as a future queen and mother to the English Throne.

y/n squeals, her hand's won. The rest of the chips are placed in her corner, she is asking if they want to go another round but instead, they all huff and walk away from her. y/n feels her heart sink into her stomach. Perhaps the English wind has turned their moods sour. Soon enough her worries are washed away as the boat docks into Brighton and y/n hears the cheers for her. She can't exactly make out what they are saying. Sadly, she doesn't get a chance to even greet her new subjects as her new English ladies are gently pushing her towards the carriage. The only thing she can do is wave and smile at them, hoping to instil a fraction of hope for the new royal couple. As she steps into the carriage, a huge white dress follows her. The abundance of ladies and herself are stuck in the cramped space for a little over an hour before they start agreeing to change her dress into the one being coddled.

"Why? This is dress is perfect as it is," y/n laughed gently, her fingers playing with the pearls that lace the neckline.

"Forgive me, my lady, but His Majesty; The King has requested that you wear a white gown." One of the younger girls pipes up. Sighing, y/n nods her head to agree and goes to stop the carriage.

While they don't completely undress her, she knows that the smock under her dress is shear and leave nothing to the imagination. Quickly they strip her of the current dress, even unlacing the corset before adding another one. As they place the soft silk of her veil over her head, she can hear the ringing bells at Westminster. It hasn't completely dawned on her what she is exactly going through. Marrying a man she has never met. Marrying a man for all she knows could be a tyrant. She's heard quite a few English Monarchs fall under that said category. Her heart started to jump now; she could fell the beat thump against her vocal box.

The people began to line the city. Countless bodies waved at her as she strolled through the city of London. The abbey somehow seemed ten times bigger in person. White rose petals fell through the air as the coachman opened the door for her. The walkway was paved with red velvet. Her heels felt as though she was ruining the beautiful material as she walked.

Tom can physically hear her pounding heartbeat from where he stands. He can't exactly make out her face, but he can see the white gown strutting towards him. It's the same patterns as the dress his mother wore more than 20 years ago. He's seen it in countless paintings, his mother scowling as she attempts to salvage any positive thing out of such tremendous pain. Harrison lays a hand on his shoulder; the contact makes him jump.

"I heard she looks like a siren," he joked, dusting a small particle of fluff off Tom's shoulder. "Perhaps she'll sound like one too," the comment was enough to grant the knight a hard whack on his arm from the Prince. He truly did wonder if she would as beautiful as the painting which depicted her. A small red rose for his house in her fingertips as she grinned softly. It was as if she was staring into his soul.

Tom reached out to allow her aid in getting up the stairs. She graciously accepted muttering a small thank you as her other hand lifted the countless layers of fabric to mend her steps. Her touch was soft, something he wasn't used to. The gentle touch of a noble woman, even if it was only upon his fingers. The entirety of Westminster Abbey went silent as the faced each other.

y/n could barely hear anything over her rampant anxiety. Though she was eased slightly as she blindly grasped at his fingers, she was afraid she gripped a little too tightly. Finally, she stood in front of him. The gown dipping down the stairs to end in her ladies' hands. She wondered what she looked like to him. Wondering if it was a glorious sight to witness a new bride waltzing towards him. Or if it was one of dread, to be in holy matrimony with someone you've just met for the first time. She's still trying to decide between the two.

The ceremony was beautiful. A simply yet elegant affair, as two young royals wed. She knows that she is marrying the Prince of Wales, a worthy husband for any noble woman. Yet she can't help the dread that builds as the Archbishop drones on. The hymns falling deaf ears. She tries to pay attention, but she can’t, all she can hear is the drumming of her heartbeat. It pounds against her ribs, creating echoes in her head. Before she knows it, his hands reach for hers. There was no strength in his grip unlike beforehand, it was soft and gentle. As if she was a beautiful yet delicate doll, that she would completely shatter if he pressed just that bit too hard. Their fingertips locked; her skin fell into the ridges of his knuckles.

“I proclaim thee, y/n of Burgundy to be my lawfully wedded wife from now until the end of my days,” he hesitated. She could hear it in his voice. “She shall sit beside me as I rule the kingdom.” The ring passes down her skin, the metal biting at her finger.

She repeats him. “I proclaim thee, Thomas – Prince of Wales to be my lawfully wedded husband from now until the end of my days. I shall sit beside him as he rules this beautiful country.” She smiles at the end, though she never intends to. y/n thanks her ladies that they cover her grinning face behind the thick white lace of her veil.

The entirety of Westminster Abbey is silent, no one dares even breathe as Prince Thomas coils his fingers around the tipping of the lace. He lifts it over his now wife’s face. He taken aback slightly. The painter wasn’t paid enough, clearly. She was even more beautiful standing in front of him. The same clear complexion now glistening in the soft sunlight of England. He doesn’t pry of course; it would be rude of him. Just to stare at his bride, as if they were the only people in the hall. Good lord, does he wish it was.

His hands reach her cheeks. Tender once more, he brings her forward. She shifts on her feet as they meet. A quaint and soft kiss, unlike anything either of them has felt ever. He can’t remember the last time, it was this – well, gentle. Thomas doubts he has ever kissed a woman of such luxury in his entire life up to this point. y/n is the first to pull away, her fingers resting lightly on his raised wrists. Their eyes meet for a moment, a short moment.

Westminster Abbey erupts into celebration. Red rose petals fall from the ceiling and music begins to flood the area.

As she stared around, y/n began to think to herself. I do not know what will come out of this, but I already can see that joy my presence brings to these people. I shall not let them down.

Prince Thomas of England, Heir to The English Throne and y/n of Burgundy, Granddaughter of The French King had been wed. They were now locked in holy matrimony, a feeling unlike any other. Both horrendous and hospitable.

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The Hall is a grand party. Laughing and singing is heard from every corner, mugs of beer and wine are flung across tables and scraps of food are being thrown to the dogs. y/n has never seen such a scene unfold. Too contained by the prudish French court. The most scandalous thing she has seen is a risqué dance meant to be for a married lover.

That is what she always despised about the French Nobility. Their secrets. Whispers and Rumours spread faster than fire. If you had committed some heinous act, the entirety of France will hear about it by the end of the week. Perhaps that is another reason why she felt so trapped in Burgundy. y/n could never do a single task on her own before her ladies’ loose tongue would find their way back to her mother. A delicate little flower, such a waste of potential.

Tom noticed her prodding, her fork twirling the few peas left on her plate. He hadn’t said a word to her all night and yet he looks at her if she’s unwillingly to speak. Does she know any basic English? Perhaps not.

“How are you liking the food,” Tom asked her, leaning into her. She smiled up at him, he spoke to her in French. It made her heart swell for a second. y/n turns to face him, smiling warmly. Tom wishes he could keep that smile forever.

“It’s is very well Your Grace,” y/n replies to him. Her flawless English rolling off her tongue with a petite French accent. It’s like heaven to his ears and he’s taken aback. “My Great Aunt was an English Countess, I loved her very much. I was fluent in English before I was 8.” She explained, almost as if she had read his mind.

“You need not call me Your Grace,” he teased, it was somewhat natural for him.

“Then what shall I call you?” y/n queered.

“I am your husband now, whatever pleases you pleases me,” Tom replied, turning back to his empty plate in an effort to hide the rising red flush on his face. y/n knew she should leave it at that, so she turned her attention elsewhere.

“Are royal weddings usually this,” she paused, “loud?”

Tom laughed quietly, he too turned to face the ruckus crowd. Men laying in the laps of maids, dogs feasting over food that had been flung across the floor. Loud chants to the beat of the music filled the hall. He would have been completely embarrassed by the state of his people in front of his new bride, if he hadn’t seen the amused look on her face. “Not usually, I have only been to one other wedding and that was extremely sombre.”

“How so?” she asked, sipping from the freshly poured wine.

“I went to my uncle’s wedding a few months ago. He had also married a noble woman like yourself, but the poor thing was only 11. My uncle was 35 and counting.” He wishes it was different but like all things in this world, he is powerless to the wills of those who think they are higher than others.

He peered at her; y/n was already looking at him. An eyebrow and a lip raised in disgust. It was quaint.

“I wish I could be more repulsed by that,” Tom wondered if she was joking or if she was serious. He couldn’t tell just by the use of her tone. He did however note her wit. Something he so longed for. They talked for hours, sitting by one another and discussing anything that arrived at the conversation. Tom can’t decide whether it’s her honey-like voice or her banter but it’s making him feel things no one should for someone they are being forced to wed.

Just while they are comparing the contrasting jousting techniques, the joyful music suddenly stops. It’s a quick snap and the entire hall is now dead quiet. The Earl of Salisbury mounts himself on one of the tables. His cheeks red with drunkenness.

The Earl points directly at y/n and Tom as they sit in confusion. “The final tradition, an honour for any noble man. The Great Bedding!”

y/n turns to Tom, clinging slightly to his sleeve. He takes immediate notice. “Thomas, what is The Great Bedding?” There was great concern in her voice as she watched all of the men rush towards them. He didn’t get to answer as the women abruptly hauled him out of his seat and down the hall, away from her.

y/n didn’t fear too well either. At least a dozen grimy hands placed themselves all over her body, pulling harshly as they brought her into the air. Dancing her down the halls. She constantly whacked their hands, to no avail of course. They only dropped her once they got to a dimly lit room.

It was already buzzing with people. Hustling around a single bed, covered by finely woven silk. The men dropped her gently, placing her feet against the ground. y/n tried to turn around to give them a piece of her mind but was stopped as her corset began to become loose around her waist. Incredibly uncomfortable, y/n looked up to distract herself in any regard and found Tom at the other side. The maid’s hands undoing every buckle of his coat, tiny fingers unthreading the lavish ropes across his body. y/n blushed at the sight.

Tom was trying his hardest not to look at her, not to stare as countless men of the court undressing her. He could hear the bulky wedding dress hit the floor of the room, he could feel her eyes on him, and he could see the variety of unknown nobles swarming them in any hopes to achieve the right to gossip tomorrow morning. It was despicable.

He climbed in first, the cotton of the blankets itching his skin as he settled. The only comfort he found was in the softness in his unkempt hair. Not restricted by the gel he was forced to wear.

y/n slowly followed his lead, it was dead silent. No one dared breathed as the new Princess of Wales found her spot next to The Prince. All the while, the exact same priest Archbishop chanted away, and priests flung holy water at the bed. Some of the liquid found itself on her skin. Finally, the crowd bowed to the couple and began to take their leave.

Tom watched in peace; he would be alone. He closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, perhaps he would be able to get some well needed sleep. That seemed achievable until he felt a cold grasp around his wrist. His eyes shot open to find his father’s glare directly at him. “Don’t let the spring pass, I hope to see a grandson in the next few months,” The King spat.

It had been hours since the quarry of guests had left the room but the the monarch’s words etched themselves into his mind. Echoing nonstop, getting wilder as Tom felt y/n settle herself next to him. The mere presence of her alongside the duty he had to fulfil was too much for him. Tom shot up and quickly gathered his things, hauling his boots and clothes. He couldn’t be near her for another moment, too afraid of what he might do if she was subject to this sort of cruel punishment. Tom quickly decided he was sleep next door, just far away to have the thoughts no longer plague his mind but not too far that he would impose the wrong meaning on her. He reached for the door when she chimed in.

“Where are you going?”

He halted instantly. He wished that they could have gotten along like most royal couples should. A cold and initially distant meeting, then hopefully something would blossom over the years. Instead they had gotten along quite well, too well in fact. He was used to going slowly, taking his time in bedding a girl. A constant glaze over the court every few days, then promiscuous banter and in the span of months he would have her melt in his hand with a simple word. Now, he was feeling flustered and out of control and all of it was happening over a single night. Tom pressed his forehead against the wood, taking a deep breath. He turned to look at her, just like a painting coming to life. Her hair was down, unlike anything he had ever seen. Not grimed with sweat and dirt nor was it pinned underneath a headdress or away from her face. This time, the soft curls framed it. The nightgown clung to her shoulders; the fabric dangerously close to falling off. It made his life that much more difficult.

“I am sorry. You are a beautiful woman, but I just cannot fulfil the expectations that are placed upon me tonight. I will be sleeping in the room next door if you need me,” Tom blurted out. He waited for a response before he could speed out. She sat there, like a perfectly sculpted statue. It was torture.

y/n sighed, “nothing has to happen tonight.”

“But they will ask, they will pry like they always will,” he countered.

“Who says we have to tell the truth?” y/n giggled. God, it was a symphony to him. Tom watched her leave the bed, waltzing around to meet with him at the door. He wanted the tell her to stay exactly where she is, not to move even an inch closer but with ever step she took, his breath hitched higher in his throat. “I would prefer to spend the first night of my marriage with my husband, whether something happens or not.”

He swallowed thickly, “you are incredibly calm.” He now met her, his full attention on y/n as she chuckled in delight.

“I am filled to the brim with anxiety, just not that same fear that you are feeling,” she told him as she sat down the small longue in the middle of the room. She took the wine from the table and poured each of them a glass. Tom was hesitant at first, still wishing to flee the room and into the safety of his own solitary. Still, he found himself pacing towards her. Taking soft and flinching steps until he sat beside her.

“Then what is the fear?” He took the other glass, quickly chugging the alcohol. y/n said nothing but just stared at him in confusion. “The fear you feel, why?”

It was now her turn to become flustered. He looked genuinely curious as to why she was feeling doubtful, but she was unsure if he truly wanted to know the answer. Her father made her promise never to speak of it to anyone, a shameful secret that would ruin her future if it was released. But Tom was now her husband. They were bonded by law, a thought she really didn’t wish to dwell on. Surely, whatever she told him wouldn’t cause them any stress? Still, it would be rude of her not to tell him the reason after he had just clearly demonstrated his own fears in the commitment. “You must promise not to become angry.”

Tom nodded his head gently, even more intrigued then he was before.

y/n quietly exhaled, avoiding looking at Tom. “I was married once before, he passed from the sickness 3 months into our matrimony. Perhaps it was God way of guiding me to a better future, but it ruined almost everything. His death caused create strain for my family as they attempt to rebuild myself as if I was not capable of it myself. I am terrified that I am cursed, that I shall find myself falling in love with you only to be weeping over your coffin months later.” She had poured her soul out, shared such a personal section of her life. She was ashamed to see his face. Too afraid that pure anger and disgust would paint his face.

“Who was he? The man whom you had married?” Tom asked her again. His voice calling out as she stared directly at the purple velvet beneath her dress.

“The Prince of Spain,” y/n squeaked.

“That inbred!” Tom joked, suddenly becoming relaxed by the mere mention of the Spanish Royal Family. “I am surprised you got three months and not three days, that kid was on death doors for his entire life,” Tom was now in a fit of laughter. It wasn’t directed to her but more that they allowed such a beautiful woman to be the wife of such a dull man. y/n peered up, thoroughly embarrassed as she gave him a light whack. Tom finally came down from his laughing fit, staring directly at her. “You are cursed Princess; you are just coddled. Forced into a life clearly not meant for someone like yourself.”

The mere mention of the cradling of her life got y/n riled up, “that’s another thing! The Spanish constantly treated me as if I was some porcelain doll ready to shatter if they dared even look at me! I felt like a child trapped in a woman’s body and he touched me like that as well. God, I was finally ready to truly live my life and then he just was too soft, I wanted something much mor-” Oh. Oh God. She had run her mouth too far, dug her own grave with her rambling. Her hands clamped against her mouth as a heat rushed to her face. She could see the French ships arriving for her next month, giving her passage because she was not in pristine condition. Hopefully Tom didn’t pick up on what she was inferring.

“You aren’t a virgin?” his voice was quiet, almost dark. She felt her entire world shatter. Tom scooted towards her slowly, it was completely unnoticed. She was too deep in panic to recognise the growing flirt rising in the Prince of Wales. y/n shook her head feverously. “That little tick took you?” When he put it like that, it made her stomach tingle. She had never heard such a sentence used in that tone. She was drowning in thoughts.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, that’s why I was so unsatisfied,” she tried to explain, her hands now bunched up the fabric against her knees. “He was just so soft, too soft and I wished he would have-”

“Would have what?” he toyed. Tom doesn’t quite know why he was acting like this. So intent on prying her little secrets out of her. Usually, he would have just simply got straight to the point but now, seeing her become red with frustration was a view causing him great pleasure. Any abstinence he hoped to place upon himself earlier in the night had been thrown out the window. He finally felt back in control, something he longed for. Something she was serving to him on a silver platter.

“I..” she began but the words got caught in her throat. Her tongue stopped completely, almost refusing to finish the damning sentence. She wanted him to be rougher with her, she wanted him to treat her like a woman and not a girl. “What happen to you wishing to keep your hands to yourself?” She attempted to change the topic, trying to flee but to no avail as he quickly caught her wrist in his palms. Their skins igniting on sight.

“Don’t try to change the subject Princess,” he purred, standing up to meet with her at the side of the bed. Her title now held a completely different meaning, it wasn’t being used to describe her. It was being used to utterly destroy her; a nickname only meant to be whispered in the dim light of a dozen candles. “I can see right through you,” Tom’s calloused fingers met the loose fabric on her shoulders, dancing over her collarbone. It was soft but held meaning. “I can see that you wished he touched you differently. Touched you like a real woman, rougher and passionate.”

His words were damned. She should feel ashamed that she was feeling light-headed just by the grazing touch of his fingers above her perked breasts. “Yes,” it was the only thing she could get out. The only single three lettered word that allowed itself out of her mouth. Tom pressed his lips to her neck, underneath her jaw.

“Perhaps, he too was inexperienced.” He spoke through small pecks. “Allow me to show you something different, something better,” it was barely above a whisper, but y/n heard every word. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair as he peered at her.

“I would enjoy that very much,” y/n responded just as quiet, all the gentle touches he currently had placed upon her turned darker. He pulled her into his embrace quickly before tripping her feet from under her and ending atop her on the messily made bed. His hand instantly found the inside of her thigh, his finger bruising her skin. It was delightfully, the slight pain sending shivers down her spine.

Their lips met, gentle at first. Her hands moulding themselves against his jaw, moaning into his mouth as he pushed her deeper into the mattress. She wished she could stay like this forever, wrapping in Tom’s embrace as they mended together. Alas, he pulled away from her. Lips separating with a small pop and a soft whine from y/n underneath him. Tom took a distinct look at her; she was sprawled out and whimpering for something more. Did she give this look to him as well? Did she use the melody that was her voice to beg him to do anything? Tom didn’t particularly wish to replay the thought in his head but yet, he couldn’t help himself.

Her nightgown quickly found itself discarded; her nipples perked in the cold. His lips immediately latched on, massaging the soft tissue. He never knew something could feel this smooth, without any flaws or imperfections. Even though he knew he could spend an entire night between the valley of her tits, he too longed for something more.

In a matter of moments, he found himself staring directly at her sex. A glorious sight to behold, glistening with her arousal in the pale moonlight. She was practically dripping onto the sheets below her. He placed a soft kiss to her pelvis, she jumped at the contact. “If you feel uncomfortable, you need to tell me,” he told her all the while his fingers toyed at her hot hole. Dipping even so slightly into her heat. She was already in euphoria just from the slightest bit of pleasure. y/n nodded her head before locking eyes with him.

He didn’t waste another second, quickly licking a fat stripe through her folds. The taste was pure heaven, he didn’t give her a moment to register the feeling before diving right back into her juices. Sucking and pulling at her, wasting the night away feeling her thighs clamp around his head every time he flicked her clit coupled with a singular finger prancing in and out of her.

y/n wasn’t quite sure how loud she could truly be. She knew that even though they were in the far south-east of the castle, there could be a dozen scullery maids listening right outside the door. Or if someone was trying to achieve some sleep right beside them. At this very moment though, with Tom’s head in between her thighs devouring every inch of her throbbing cunt, she couldn’t give a single fuck. y/n allowed the string of curses and praised to tumble from her lips as she clasped onto the bed sheets for dear life.

“Such a dirty mouth,” Tom remarked, releasing her for a few seconds, “for such a pretty and delicious pussy.” He chuckled darkly. y/n wanted to bite back at him, but she was cut short but the addition of another of his digits sliding into her tight entrance. y/n clasped down hard on her hand. A foreign feeling began to drive itself into her stomach. While unusual, it was not at all exotic to her. It was thrilling, feeling her walls contract around his fingers as y/n began to instinctively rock her hips against his digits.

“God,” he purred, “that’s it, make yourself cum on my fingers Princess. Let me see that gorgeous face while you do it.” Tom had now retracted his mouth from her, completely mesmerised by the way her eyes screwed shut as she reached her peak. A cacophony of beautiful and dazzling sounds stumbling out of her mouth as he felt her climax all over his hand. Such a tantalising sight for any man.

y/n was too deep in her own return that she didn’t notice the retraction of his presences from the middle of her legs. So, when he felt his hands roughly pull her to the edge of the bed, she almost choked. The exhilarating feeling of his strained cock rubbing against her drenched folds made her forget her place. Made her speak before her mind could catch up. “I want you to fulfil the expectation.” She told him, her eyes never wavering from him.

Tom halted all his movements. It was painful but he needed absolute clarity before he did anything without her reassurance. “You need to elaborate Princess,” he told her darkly. He knew exactly what she was asking of him, he knew exactly what she desired.

“I want you to come inside of me,” she spoke as if she was a different person. y/n doesn’t quite know whether it’s the shift of mood or her own personal feelings but either way, she wanted to feel their juices mix and then leak out of her. Wanted him to fill her right up to the brim until the possibility was certain.

“You want me to fuck my seed right into you?” his words were dirtier than she expected but so was he as he slid in and into her. His naval hitting hers with a loud smack. He refused to move until he had played with her just that tad bit more. y/n’s head thrashed into the sheets behind her. She was so full, never has she felt this complete in her entire life. He wasn’t even moving but she could feel every inch of him deep inside of her.

“God yes,” she whimpered. “I need it so bad,” she was going to drive Tom insane. Just by a simple sentence, he was going to lose his mind and cum right now without even doing anything.

“Want to carry my child, our own Prince or Princess,” he pulled back out of her and slammed right back in, knocking the wind out of her y/n. It was so profoundly dirty, just discussing it. It thrilled her to the very core, child-bearing was meant for women not girls. Perhaps that is why she is so drawn to the talk, the talk of something so primally feminine set her entire body on fire. She couldn’t speak a coherent sentence instead she just let out a continuous plea.

He began slow, hips rocking to find that perfect beat. He revelled in the only sounds in the room, the sound of his cock hitting the divine spot inside of her over and over again and her delirious moaning. It was a symphony he was lucky enough to hear. He wanted to hear more, listen to the pure sounds of him railing into her. So, he picked up the pace. His thrust became not only deep and harsh but fast.

God, if he could immortalise this feeling he would. The feeling of her walls constricting around him as he pounds right into her, the feeling of her legs wrapping around his constantly thrusting hips and the feeling of her sweating skin underneath his fingers as he grips for support. It’s like the Lord himself made her tight little cunt just for him.

“You’re so big,” y/n praised mindlessly. He’s never had someone say that to him without it sounding forced. It’s so raw that he can’t help but go even harder into with each praise that falls off her lips. “Fill me up, I want to feel you all inside of me.” It’s a dangerous game, she’s tapped on something so feral inside of him it hurts.

y/n wants to prop herself up and explore his body while he pounds into her, but she simply can’t. Her limbs give out with every thrust. Her entire body spasms each time he hits the perfect spot inside of her. She a moaning mess, trying to maintain any sense of normality but failing miserably. It’s a constant state of pleasure, she’s afraid that she’s lost track of time. That is until the faint, but all the desirable fit finds itself lit in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m almost there,” she whispers, it’s the only thing she can get out. His thrusts, that once had gained a steady and harsh rhythm are now falling. He’s losing focus with each grip he receives. With her words though, he gives her the final stretch. No longer does he has some form of structure but instead he’s just railing her like a wild animal.

It’s an explosion and neither knows why but it’s addictive. y/n climaxes around him, her toes curling as her final orgasm hits her long and violent. Shaking underneath, him as she unknowingly milks his own finish out of him. Tom’s fucking his cum right into her, he doesn’t stop for a second. Too focused on the goal ahead of him. Placing it where it counts. It’s a feeling he wants to never forget, better yet it’s a sight he wants permanently etched into his memories. As he pulls out of her, their climaxes tumble out of her. Dripping down her leg.

“Hold your legs up Princess,” he teases as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I heard it works wonders.”

The rose blooms only for those who care properly for her.

━━★✼☆｡

a/n: please don’t flop, omg this is so long and no one asked for this shit. please don’t flop chile 🤡

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yoditorian · 4 years

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close to what

frankie morales/reader

as part of @din-damn-djarin‘s birthday song challenge, i picked dancing under red skies by dermot kennedy. it’s a favourite song of mine, i think it’s beautiful, and i felt like it fit this idea i’ve had swirling around for a little bit. this fic is extremely personal to me but it’s also not pretty. i don’t want to romanticise addiction or use it as a plot device, so PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS.

the support group and hospital drop-off box is drawn directly from my own experience. my inbox and ask box are always open if you need to talk, but i am by no means a professional. if you are struggling with themes of this fic a quick internet search should help you find resources local to you 💛

main masterlist

word count: 3.2k // warnings: addiction, PTSD, nightmares (inc. death mentions), recovery and relapse, therapy mentions, hospital mention, references to past substance abuse, implied reader is in addiction recovery, swears probably, ‘they’ as a pronoun in reference to the reader

Your ringtone is obnoxiously loud in the darkness of your bedroom but at least that means you don’t have to worry about where it is, reaching out blindly towards your nightstand where it blares by your head.

“You’re from the group thing, right? He’s mentioned you a few times.”

You don’t recognise the voice on the other end, maybe you should have checked who it was before answering. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second and glance at the time first, 4:03am. No call at four in the morning can involve good news. But it’s the name on the screen that has you wide awake in a split second: Frankie.

“Is he okay?” You ask, putting whoever it is on speaker while you fumble for the lamp on your bedside table. An old sweater hangs over your bedpost, the logo of a sports team you’ve never heard of cracked and faded beyond recognition, and you tug it over your head in a panic.

“I don’t know, he’s locked himself in the bathroom. I just- he won’t come out. He won’t listen to me, he always listens to me.”

There’s a stifled something and a quiet knock. But no sound from Frankie, just the shaking sigh of the man you’re speaking to. He tells you his name quietly, Santiago, and you remember Frankie mentioning his oldest friend. An image pops up in your mind as you wrestle your jeans on, a fuzzy picture on Frankie’s phone screen, passed to you over the sticky table in a diner, of two men standing knee-deep in a river. Soaked to the bone but grinning ear to ear. Pope’s got him, if no one else has. That’s what he told you.

You stay on the phone with Santiago on the drive over, convincing yourself it's out of concern for him instead of the anxiety churning in your stomach. Frankie still makes no sound in the bathroom, the door stays locked, and you try not to think too hard before you have all the facts.

The Santiago that meets you at Frankie’s front door is a far cry from the man in the photograph. He looks exhausted, on the verge of tears. You’re pretty sure you’re not faring much better.

“Last door,” He breathes, “Down the hall.”

You follow his instructions, finding the only closed door in the hallway and tapping lightly on the painted wood. Listening for a moment, you can just barely hear a shuddering breath. That’s better than nothing, at least it means he’s alive.

“Frankie?” You try, praying that he’ll relent when he realises it’s you. Santiago stands at the other end of the hall, wringing his hands together, phone trapped between his ear and his shoulder as he whispers frantically into it. He barely catches himself from crashing to his knees when the bathroom door clicks softly.

“Can I come in?” You have to ask him. All this has to be on his terms, he has to set the boundaries. Anything less than that is dangerous, you won’t risk him hurting himself.

He says nothing, but the door pulls back just a fraction of an inch and that’s all the confirmation you need. You push the door open enough to slip inside and shut it softly behind you again.

Frankie’s sitting on the floor, his back against the bathtub and legs stretched out in front of him. A quick look over proves he’s not hurt, and you’d breathe a sigh of relief if it weren’t for the little ziplock bag between his knees.

He’s very pointedly not looking at it, or you, instead choosing to glare at a spot on the ceiling. You maneuver yourself to sit opposite him, against the wall with your knees tucked up against your chest.

“Did you take any?” It almost feels wrong to break the silence that’s settled over the two of you.

You wait with bated breath until he gives the slightest shake of his head. He hasn’t touched it. Okay, that’s the worst case scenario eliminated. It’s enough to have your heart rate calm a little, it doesn’t make things better by a long shot, but at least it’s something.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” You ask, picking at a loose thread of your sweatshirt.

His chin falls to his chest and he pulls his knees up towards him and you’re sure this is it. This is where you lose him. But Frankie takes a deep breath. And then another. And then, he musters the courage to look you in the eyes. He doesn’t see pity, not like he thought he would. You don’t look disappointed or upset or angry, the way he was so sure you would be. You’re just waiting, letting him take the reins, he stores the knowledge away. In case he ever needs to dig you out.

“I don’t know what happened,” God, his throat is scratchy, “I just- I had a bad night. And I called Pope, and then-”

He breaks off with a heart-wrenching crack in his voice and you can’t help but reach out to him. Just a hand, stretched across the space between you. He holds onto you like his life depends on it.

“And I remembered I kept a bag on top of the medicine cabinet. And now you’re here.”

It’s to the point, simple, methodical. Like he’s back in the army and giving a flight report to his CO. You wonder if that’s what he needs right now, maybe spelling things out is better for him than asking what it is you can do. It’s easier, sometimes, when someone just tells you what’s going to happen.

“Do you want to take it?” You have to know, for his safety if nothing else. You need him to tell you if there’s going to be a problem, if there’s a risk and he needs more than you. He knows you’re not going to walk out the door and give up on him if he says yes.

It has to be his choice.

Frankie shakes his head again, a grimace on his face like he feels sick at the thought, and you squeeze his fingers between yours. You need him to understand that he hasn’t failed, that he won’t fail. Tripping up and falling behind are part of the process, and you know he knows that. He’s been going to the support group longer than you have. Recovery is messy and far from simple. He’ll get back to where he was, one bad night isn’t going to ruin him.

Your lower back aches from the hardwood floor but you show no sign of discomfort, waiting until Frankie is completely back in his own head before you make any move to suggest where to go from here.

“There’s a drop-off box at the hospital, you fancy a drive?” You keep his hand in yours, terrified that he’ll slip back if you let go.

God, he hates this. He hates that he can’t even look at you for more than a few seconds without his resolve threatening to crack. He hates that you’re not angry at him for any of it, not even a little bit. He deserves anger, he deserves your disappointment.

You were never supposed to see him like this, that much he’s sure of. Or, he convinced himself of at least. He’s been going to group and therapy and he’s kept up his tests and he’s stayed far away from anything that might even tempt him a little. And that was before you even showed up. Standing awkwardly in the doorway with a nervous smile and eyes the size of dinner plates. But he’d been by your side in a flash, asking you to give him a hand setting up chairs, and that was it.

Frankie knows the ins and outs of recovery, you don’t need to tell him that he hasn’t failed. But he can’t help feeling like maybe he never really started in the first place, leaving that one bag out of sight. Life had been busy enough to preoccupy him, between everything else he kind of just forgot about it. He let it gather dust and it should have stayed that way.

And then, it felt like he was falling out of the sky. And he couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

Nightmares aren’t an unusual thing for him, or for any former soldier, but the memories they stem from seem to warp into something else entirely when he’s too tired to pay attention. Sometimes he’s alone in the helicopter, sometimes he’s with family, sometimes strangers. It was his team tonight. A vivid memory of a time he almost couldn’t save them.

The crash never happened, he knows that. He’d righted the bird and got his team to safety the way he knew he could. But that knowledge doesn’t stop his mind from wandering, from drowning him in fear when he imagines what might have happened had he not done his job. If they’d crashed in the middle of nowhere. Would any of them have died on impact? Would they have been left stranded, wounded and starving? He’s woken up in a cold sweat too many times, each ending more horrific than the last.

Tonight had been the last straw. And Frankie had found himself in his bathroom, patting along the top of the medicine cabinet, before he could even realise what he was doing.

He’d called Santiago, still blinking back images of his best friend’s bloody and lifeless face, just to hear his voice initially. But he hadn’t managed to explain anything past the sob lodged in his throat, and he’d heard the jingle of car keys before he could tell Pope he didn’t need to drive all the way across town at two o’clock in the morning.

At least nobody had called Will, because that would have meant that Benny would have shown up too. Maybe even Tom would have dragged his ass out of bed. Frankie didn’t need to disappoint all his friends in one night.

Santiago is bound by friendship, best and oldest, he’d never say anything if Frankie didn’t want him to. And you, you’re bound by- well, you’re not really bound by anything. You could get up off of his bathroom floor right now and never look back. Get to your feet, and walk right out of his life. But you won’t.

He knows you won’t because you’re still holding tight to his hand, even though the angle and distance has you leaned forward awkwardly. You’re still looking at him like you believe in him, even though he almost threw everything he’s worked so hard for down the drain. You’re here, despite everything. Despite only knowing him for a couple of months, despite getting a call from a stranger at four in the morning, despite everything he’s done to be undeserving of anything good or kind in his life.

You’re here, still, looking at him like he can do anything. That’s something. That’s enough for him.

“I don’t even want to look at it.” Frankie croaks, and keeps his eyes steady on yours even as his voice wavers. To anybody else, he might sound unsure. But you hear that steely determination underneath it all, the same one that’s convinced you to keep moving any time you’ve faltered.

“That’s okay, I can take it.” You waste no time in snapping the little bag up in your free hand, and stuffing it in your back pocket. A phone rings in the hall, hurriedly answered, and you suddenly remember the other man waiting outside.

Frankie’s still looking at you, dark eyes unsteady and unsure, and you squeeze his fingers to ground him. He comes back to you, slowly, and takes a few shaky breaths.

“Do you want him to come with, or?” You leave the question open. His choice, entirely, the way everything tonight has been. He lost control for a moment and fought, tooth and nail, to get it back. You can’t take any decision about this away from him.

He shakes his head, loosens his grip on your hand, and asks you to give him a minute. It hurts, leaving him alone on his bathroom floor. But he’ll come out, you’re certain of that much.

“Is-” Santiago cuts himself off when you emerge and pull the door just shy of closed behind you, like he’s afraid to even ask the question. Let alone know the answer.

“He’ll be okay. We’re taking his last stash to the drop-off box.”

Santiago’s whole body sags in relief, and you can’t help but lean against the wall for support yourself. The little ziplock bag in your back pocket is a weight you don’t think you’ll ever stop carrying, even after it’s disposed of, but you’re more than happy to bear it when Frankie steps out of the bathroom and Santiago tugs him into a hug that almost breaks his ribs.

It’s easy to forget, when you get that low, that you have people. But they’ll always show up when you call.

You leave them to their moment and shuffle back through to the main room, your car keys and phone left on the kitchen counter where you’d abandoned them. You’re not sure why you bother checking your messages, maybe it’s to keep your hands busy, maybe it’s so you don’t feel like you’re intruding on Frankie and his oldest friend. They speak in hushed tones as your thumbnail scratches back and forth across a crack in your screen protector.

“I’m sorry.” Frankie’s voice is rough, muffled into the other man’s shoulder.

“Don’t be,” Pope squeezes him just a little tighter before pulling back far enough to look him in the eye, “Be sorry you didn’t tell me they were so pretty.”

It should feel odd, the way that he speaks as though the last few hours haven’t even happened. How a simple, harmless joke is all it takes for Frankie’s heart to settle. Pope doesn’t hate him, couldn’t hate him,

“Didn’t I?” A shy, shaky smile settles on his features as Santiago stifles a yawn, “Crash here tonight, you’re not driving anywhere on no sleep.”

Ever the caretaker, even in the wake of his worst moments. It’s a hard habit to break after all they’ve been through. Something tells Frankie, even as Pope relents and walks through to the living room to find a blanket and settle on the couch, he’ll still be awake once they get back.

You’re quiet when he follows you out of his apartment, quiet as your footsteps echo in the stairwell, quiet when you cross the street to your car and unlock the doors. Part of him still worries that you’re disappointed, that you’re angry or upset or that he’s fucked up so bad that you’ve already decided to drop him home without a word and he’ll never hear from you again.

But another look at you out of the corner of his eye as you plug your seatbelt in disproves any other theory he might have. You’re quiet because you know that he doesn’t need you to talk, that he just needs you right here beside him so he can be brave enough to take the next step.

The radio is playing some acoustic, folky sounding song that neither of you have heard before, and it’s comforting to just sit and absorb the peace of the night as you drive. You’re conscious of Frankie’s eyes on you, although you’re sure he’s trying to be subtle about his staring. His seemingly unwavering attention does little to quiet the voice you’ve been hearing in the back of your mind for the last few weeks.

He still can’t quite believe it. That you’d wake up, in the middle of the night, and haul ass across town for him. For him. Something about it somehow makes ribcage feel like it's about to burst and cave in at the same time. But now is definitely not the time to be thinking about the tiny baby crush he may or may not be developing on you.

You don’t miss the way he tenses when you pull into the hospital parking lot, muscles locked so tight that a stiff breeze could shatter him into pieces. He turns to you when you say his name softly, and his eyes are wide with a terror so familiar that your heart breaks in your chest.

“I can’t do it.” He chokes the admission out like it’s poison, and in just four words you can hear every ounce of hatred he has for himself in this moment. He thinks he’s weak, because he can’t even throw a little plastic bag into a hatch, because he can’t even bring himself to move.

“That’s okay. Did you want me to?” You offer, it’s plain as day on his face that he doesn’t know how to ask you.

You’re grateful for the unusual warmth of the night when you step out of the car, comfortable enough not to need a jacket at this time of day. The sky is just starting to turn that odd shade of blue-grey, the barest hints of dawn on the horizon. Another day, just like tomorrow will be. Sometimes, the next day is all you can hope for.

The metal handle is cold when you wrap your hand around it and haul the creaky hatch open, you fish the bag out of your pocket and don’t even pay it a second glance as you set it on the little shelf and let the door snap shut. Gone. But you can still feel it eating away at you, you can still see how it weighs on Frankie’s shoulders when you shuffle across the concrete and climb back into the car.

He says he’s not hungry when you ask, and you don’t push it. He’ll eat when he’s ready. He’ll live when he’s ready. You don’t mind, you’ve got a better idea anyway.

“Where are we going?” He asks when he realises you’re heading completely the opposite way from his apartment building. You shoot him a smile, turning your eyes back to the road before you can read too far into the look in his eyes.

The beach is dead, just like you thought it would be, and you’re grateful as you shut off the engine.

“We are gonna throw rocks in the sea.” You say and part of him wonders if you’ve always known exactly what he needs.

If someone had told Frankie, twenty four hours ago, that he’d be skipping pebbles on the sea with you at sunrise, he would have laughed. But here he is, flecks of the rising sun on the sea reflecting on your face, and you’re smiling at him like that as a breeze ruffles his hair. Maybe this is all he needs to find the courage to stare right down the barrel of his faults. He doesn’t know how you do it, maybe you can do it together.

You reach over and take his hand when you spot the lone tear tracking its way down his cheek.

“You’ll be alright. I promise.” You smile just as the sun finally breaks fully over the horizon, sky streaked with orange and pink.

“Yeah, I know.” Frankie can’t help but smile back.

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@brothersdrxke @keeper0fthestars @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean

#this is the most personal thing i've ever written i am Afraid #yikes okay #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier #liz does words #sfw

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anightflower · 4 years

Text

Come and Find Me Chapter 4: The Andrew Curtis Case

Guys I am so sorry this took so long. On top of school kicking my ass, I had to rewrite and reedit this chapter several times until I got to one that I deemed worthy. I am going to try and post Chapter Five early for you guys if I can.

Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Rape, Abuse

Masterlist

Spencer glanced around the room at all the police officers assembled. He cleared his throat.

“The Unsub is a white male in his late 20s to mid-30s. He is a man with an average build and a friendly face, someone who women would not pose as a threat.”

“Since there were no signs of forced entry, we believe he’s posing as someone who women would let into their house. Classic cases of this include maintenance men there to check up on things, someone who needs help after their car broke down, or a similar case like that.” Emily explained. “This is a man who fakes confidence, but in reality views himself as inadequate in some way, he knows he can’t fight off another man, so he chooses women who live alone and are essentially defenseless.”

“Yet, he hates that they are successful enough to support themselves or that they have any sort of power.” Morgan chimed in.

“He clearly was cheated on or had some sort of marital issue that caused him to spiral into this spree. He is a sexual sadist projecting his partner onto the women he attacks, that’s why he chokes them, watching the life drain from their eyes sparks something in him and gives him a sense of power. That is also why he rapes his victims, he loves the idea that he is all powerful and they are helpless.” Hotch explained.

Spencer swallowed, “Comparing his last four victims it seems his type is 20-30 year old females with (Y/C/H) and (Y/C/E).”

Which coincidentally looks like the love of my life. Spencer thought, repressing a shudder.

________________________________________________________________

Spencer starred in shock at the scene around him. He was just finishing up the geographical profile, when they had received a call about yet another body.

Her empty bulking eyes stared up at the ceiling, her body was beaten, cut, and bruised.

“Strangulation marks on her neck, multiple stab wounds and injuries, this looks like our unsub.” Emily resisted the urge to shudder.

“Man, whoever cheated on this guy, must have really broken him.” Morgan mused, looking around at the bloody scribblings on the wall.

Spencer knew that if they tested the blood on the wall, it would match the victims. He looked at the frames on the wall, trying to ignore the blood that seemed to coat everything. The victim had her diploma hung up and multiple pictures of her smiling with family or friends. Spencer stared hard at the name on the diploma; Adria Winston.

It scared Spencer how easily he could see you in this woman’s place. Injured, dying, pleading for him, for anyone to save you-

“Reid. Reid, are you alright?” Morgan clapped a hand on Spencer's shoulder, drawing him back to the present.

Spencer shook himself out of his dazed state. “Yeah, uh I just need to step out for a second.” He said, pushing past Morgan and making his way outside Adria’s house. He pulled out his phone and dialed your number, it was late, so you would most likely be asleep, but-

You picked up on the third ring. “Hi baby, are you alright?” Spencer bit back a smile at the sleepiness in your voice.

“Not really, but I just really needed to hear your voice. How is Ohio?” Spencer asked, trying to distract himself from what he just saw. You could tell, but you played along with it.

“Not too bad, whoever designed the Google lounge has nothing on me.” You joked.

“Well, we already knew that.” Spencer smiled.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe some of the cool stuff I found, I’m telling you if the employees complain about these amazing comfy chairs I got for their break room, I am totally coming back and stealing all 22 of them for my apartment.” You said enthusiastically. “They're perfect for reading in Spence, I’m telling you, you would love them.”

Spencer let out a little laugh, “I’m sure they are. We will have to see if we can find some, but I don’t think 22 will fit in either of our apartments.”

“I suppose you’re right” You sighed dramatically, but then took a more serious tone of voice. “Are you alright baby?”

Spencer’s chest tightened at your worried tone of voice. “There’s a sick selfish part of me that is so glad that you aren’t here (Y/N). All of these girls look so much like you-” Spencer paused, swallowing back tears. “I just am so glad you are safe, I don’t think I could focus as well on this case if I knew you could possibly be in danger.”

“Aw Spencer, I am so sorry baby. You aren’t sick or selfish for wanting me to be safe, everyone focuses on the safety of those they love, it’s only human. I know you are going to catch this guy, you are the most brilliant man and agent I have ever met. Just don’t tell your team I said that, I don’t want a bad reputation before they even meet me.” You teased, trying to lighten his dark mood.

Spencer let out a small laugh and sniffled. “Trust me the team is going to love you. We will have to figure out when you can meet them, but I definitely want to wait until things settle down a bit here.”

There was silence on your end for a second. “Listen Spence, I can stay here a bit longer if it will help you focus, but when I come home I am taking self-defense classes and such. I want you to have a sane mind knowing that your girlfriend actually can handle herself. I honestly think it will help me keep sane too, after hearing everything about this case.”

Spencer heart skipped a beat, as much as he wanted you safe and sound, he also needed to hold you in his arms to keep his sanity. But ultimately you were the one who should lead your life, not Spencer. “I appreciate you considering me, but I want the ultimate decision to be made by you Princess, I trust your judgement and I don’t want you living your life based on my fear.”

You breath caught in your throat at the sentiment. “I love you Spencer Reid.”

Spencer could have sworn his heart stopped. The two of you hadn’t said I love you yet. Part of him wished it was in person, but just hearing you say it, meant the world to him. “I love you more (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

So help him god, Spencer would catch whoever this unsub was and put him away, so you could come home to a safer city.

________________________________________________________________

“You know what strikes me as funny?” Emily asked, looking at the crime scene photos.

The room was silent, waiting to hear what she had to say.

“Each of these unsubs reported strange gifts and letters being sent to their home. The police had thought it was nothing, but now I am thinking that maybe this could be a connection. I mean think about it, didn’t you guys notice that each victim received a gift box wrapped the exact same way?”

Morgan nodded. “Yeah they had the white box with the red bow-”

Spencer chimed in, “Red typically symbolizes love and infatuation, but in this case it was the unsub’s warning, red meant war or violence was about to come upon this victim.”

“Reid and JJ I want you to talk to the officers and get the reports these women filed for harassment, I think we are missing a connection.” Hotch ordered.

An hour or so later they had that connection.

“All of the victims received their gifts from a delivery service called ‘Special Delivery.’” JJ explained to everyone.

“Well it seems we have to pay them a visit.” Hotch said.

________________________________________________________________

Special Delivery was a small Ma and Pa store, located just a couple blocks from Ava’s coffee shop. Spencer debated on stopping in to check in with her and maybe grab the team coffee.

Spencer had quickly taken a liking to Ava, not only because he had called him your “sexy superhero boyfriend,” but because she was a reliable friend to you, one who always managed to bring a smile to your face. She reminded Spencer of a more wild Emily, in the best way possible.

Emily stopped outside the storefront window, glancing at the display of chocolates, gift baskets, and jewelry. “Why is it always the cute small places that get ruined? Can’t it be one of those big corporate offices that fuck over their employees instead?”

Spencer huffed a laugh.

As they entered the store, the bell let out a delicate twinkle. Causing a silver-streaked brunette to pop out from the back of the store. Her round face held a warm smile as she approached them.

“Hello dears! What can I do for you?” She asked as she excitedly clasped her hands together.

“Hello Mrs. Ellison, my name is SSA Prentiss and this is Dr. Reid, we had a few questions for you.” Emily said gently, flashing her badge to the woman.

The woman's smile dimmed a bit, “Oh, uh of course, is everything alright?”

“Mrs. Ellison I am sure you’ve heard of the recent tragedies-” Emily began,

“Oh yes, I’ve been keeping up with the news, it’s just dreadful that something so horrible could happen so close to home. You see these things in movies or in other places, but you just never expect them to happen right near you.” Mrs. Ellison said sorrowfully, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Mrs. Ellison, I am afraid everyone of these victims received several deliveries from your shop. Each was wrapped exactly the same, white box, red bow, does this ring any bells for you?” Spencer asked, cutting to the chase.

“Well dear, it is Valentine season, red, pink, and white are the typical go to colors.” She shrugged.

“Do you have any regulars? He would have each gift he bought wrapped the exact same way? He would seem friendly, but would be on the quieter side?” Emily asked, attempting to prod the older woman’s memory.

“I’m afraid none of that is ringing any bells dear, I am so sorry.” Mrs. Ellison said apologetically.

“Do you have any other employees? Or do you run this place all by yourself?” Spencer asked.

Mrs. Ellison, let out a small laugh, “Oh goodness me, no. I get so many orders, I could never do it by myself. I previously had three employees, Jess, Remy, and Andrew, but I had to fire Andrew when I found him stealing from our stock. It was a shame too, he was a hardworking boy, but I’m afraid he just fell apart after his wife left him.”

Emily and Spencer exchanged a quick glance. “Do you happen to know why his wife left him?” Spencer asked, his heart picking up speed.

“Oh it's not my business to share-” Mrs. Ellison hesitated.

“Please Mrs. Ellison, this could be crucial information.” Emily urged her.

Mrs. Ellison let out a sigh. “That horrible girl cheated on him. I just couldn’t understand it either, Drew was such a doting gentleman to her, it simply didn’t make sense.”

“Do you still have his contact information? His address?”

“Why of course, but you couldn’t possibly think he has anything to do with this-” Mrs. Ellison began, making her way to behind the counter to grab a binder. She looked up worried when Spencer and Emily didn’t answer right away. “Do you?” She urged.

“It’s quite possible he had nothing to do with it, we just need to follow through with every angle.” Emily quickly explained.

“Of course.” Mrs. Ellison said, but her hands slightly shook as she opened up her binder to get Andrew’s address.

________________________________________________________________

“Andrew Curtis, this is the FBI, open up.” Hotch hollered from outside the door. There was no response. Hotch looked to his team to make sure they were ready, then kicked in the door.

As the team checked different rooms, several calls of “Clear!” echoed throughout the house. Curtis was not there.

Morgan made his way to the basement and swallowed back a gag. “Hotch! You better come see this.”

Guns at the ready, Spencer, Hotch, Rossi, and Emily, made their way down to Morgan.

“What the hell.” Emily huffed as they all beheld the horrific sight before them.

It was a girl, for sure. She had the same mutilated marks as far as they could tell, but her body was decently decayed.

“He’s displaying her like a trophy.” Spencer observed. “He props her up naked and makes sure her wounds are fully on display to remind him what he did.”

“There’s more trophies over here.” Rossi said in disgust, gesturing to a shelf full of different valuables.

“He’s sick.” Morgan hissed.

“We need a med team down here to remove a body. As soon as it’s IDed we need to know and alert any next of kin.” Hotch ordered into his earpiece.

Rossi put on a glove and began to go through the other trophies for evidence. “I’ll talk to the victims families and see if any of them recognize these items.”

Morgan dialed up Garcia.

“Speak and be heard, the all-knowing goddess listens.”

“Hey baby girl, I need you to look up any missing person’s reports from around this area. The victim has (y/c/h) and (y/c/e). She fits our victimology to a t, but we need to figure out who she is.”

“I’m on it.” Garcia said.

“And Garcia,” Hotch said, stopping her before she hung up. “I need you to find a license plate for Andrew Curtis. Also check to see if he rents or owns any other property, he’s currently not at his home and it is too close to other buildings for his victims to not be heard.”

“You got it. Talk soon.” She said, hanging up.

About half an hour later Garcia got back to them. “Curtis drives a 2003 silver sedan with the license plate 637-IRT. I also found that he rents a small storage unit that’s a 20 minute drive in a more secluded part of town. I am sending the address to you guys now.”

“Thanks Garcia.” Hotch said. He turned to JJ “I need you to get an APB on Curtis. I want you to warn the public to keep an eye out for him.”

JJ nodded and rushed off with her phone. Hotch looked to the rest of the team. “Everyone else, vests on, we are heading to that storage unit.”

________________________________________________________________

“Fuck Drew, what are we going to do?” The boy asked as he looked at the screen projecting a news report on Andrew Curtis.

“Well, it might be the end for me, little brother, but I have you as my legacy. They don’t have a clue that you are even involved, so I need you to get out of here.”

“No, no, no. I am not going to leave you!” The Boy cried, tears streaming down his face.

Drew huffed a laugh. “Now, now, little bro. It isn’t the time for tears. I’ve taught you everything you need to know. You need to get your girl from that Doctor remember?”

“How am I supposed to do this without you?” The Boy asked, fear filled his voice.

“Your time will come. You have to be a man about this. You have the skills now and you have our little videos to watch. Your own little tutorial to pluck that girl right out of Dr. Reid’s hands. You need to hide those and hide them well. Promise me you won’t fuck up your chance.” Drew growled.

The Boy whimpered and Drew smacked him. “Promise me!” He yelled.

“I promise.” The Boy sobbed, grabbing at his pained cheek.

Drew’s face softened and he gave the boy a smile. “Good, now get out of here legacy and make me proud. I expect to see you on the news someday.” He winked. “You remember our code right?”

The boy nodded.

“Then this isn’t the last time we will speak to each other. Now get the fuck out of here, I already fucked with the security footage, so they won’t even know you were here.” Drew explained, pushing the boy out towards the parking lot.

The Boy’s heart broke as he rushed from his mentor, not only because he knew he would never be able to see Drew in person after this, but because he knew that he would never be able to ruin the 6th victim. The sixth whore that was tied up in the trunk of Drew’s car.

________________________________________________________________

The girl sobs were muffled by her gag. Drew pulled on her hair harder as he dragged her to the storage unit. He knew he didn’t have much time left, so he might as well let every moment count huh?

The girl’s sobs turned into terrified screams as she beheld the bloodied storage room and the various knives and devices within it.

“Shut up you stupid bitch.” He growled in her ear.

The girl whimpered something and Drew ripped away her gag.

“Please.” She begged and Drew simply laughed as he lugged her limp body towards the table in the center of the room.

“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. I have a family who cares about me-” She pleaded.

“Whores don’t have families. Whores have nothing. They just cheat and lie and move onto the next guy. Huh Madelyn?” He growled as he threw her up onto the table.

“My name isn’t Madelyn, please it’s Emily-” The girl sobbed.

“Enough of your lies Madelyn. You stupid slut. You couldn’t stay loyal could you?” Drew snarled, hitting the girl’s head hard against the table.

She sobbed harder. “My name is Emily, my name isn’t Madelyn, please it’s Emily.” She babbled.

“SHUT UP.” He said, hitting her again.

Suddenly a shout rose up from outside the storage unit door. “Andrew Curtis, this is the FBI, come out with your hands raised.”

The smile that crept across Drew’s face was wicked. He grabbed a knife and pulled Emily against him. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?” He whispered in her ear.

“Andrew Curtis, this is your last warning. We will come in armed and ready.” Hotch’s voice shouted again.

Drew remained where he was, the sick smile on his face, as tears streamed down Emily’s face.

When the door burst open and several agents poured in, he did not flinch or cower away.

“Drop the weapon.” Hotch boomed, his voice echoing in the space.

“Now, now, now, where would the fun be in that?” Drew mocked.

“Put down the weapon, Curtis and let the girl go.” Rossi ordered.

Drew’s eyes looked past all of them and fell on Spencer, he bit back a smile.

“Come any closer and I’ll slice her throat.” Drew threatened, pressing the knife harder to Emily’s throat, a few drops of crimson blossomed and crept down her neck.

“If you don’t let Miss Bloise go, then we will be forced to take action Mr. Curtis.” Rossi explained.

Drew’s hand shook, god he wanted them to come at him, but then he thought of his mentee, how lost he would be without him.

He lowered the knife and let the girl go. She ran towards one of the agents, tears mixing with the blood that ran down her neck. JJ wrapped an arm around the girl and guided her out.

Morgan rushed to Curtis, pinning him down against the floor and putting cuffs around his wrists.

Though they had caught him, Hotch felt uneasy. Curtis had given in too quickly. The greasy smile across Curtis’s face as Morgan led him away only heightened his suspicions.

________________________________________________________________

The team sat outside the interrogation room, watching as Hotch tried to get a rise out of Andrew Curtis. He and JJ had gone in; Hotch to be the intimidator, JJ to be the trigger as she looked a bit similar to the victims. So far the man had just sat in the chair, his arms crossed, silent and smirking. It had been almost an hour and they had gotten nothing out of him.

Spencer felt as though Curtis could see him through the two-way mirror.

“You know Agent,” Curtis began. “I know you’re trying to be the big bad wolf, but it’s not going to work, I’ve dealt with worse than you.”

Morgan looked about ready to kick in the door and beat the confession out of Andrew.

“Send me in, I’ll get an answer out of him” Morgan growled, cracking his knuckles.

“Unfortunately, the confession won’t stand up in court if they found out you beat the shit out of Curtis to get it” Emily smirked, trying to lighten the mood.

“The Court doesn’t have to know” Morgan argued, making Emily scoff.

“Focus kids.” Rossi ordered sternly, but Spencer could tell he was fighting back a small smile.

Hotch and JJ came out of the room. Hotch looked to Spencer, his expression grim. “He wants to talk with you.”

Spencer looked at Hotch confused, “Why me?”

“He’s ‘fascinated by you’” Hotch explained. “I know it’s not ideal and you don’t have to go in their Reid, but-”

“But, we could get the confession out of him. We have the charges for Miss Bloise, but we want to pin him for the other girls he attacked. I understand and I will do it.” Spencer said.

“I’ll stick with you Spence” JJ reassured, putting a hand on his arm. “You won’t be alone.”

Spencer nodded, sending a grateful look JJ’s way as they made their way into the interrogation room.

“Ah the elusive doctor. So glad you could join us.” Drew purred.

Spencer said nothing as he moved to sit down across from Curtis.

“-your wife left you Mr. Curtis, is that correct?” JJ asked.

“Please doll, a pretty thing like you can call me Drew” Drew said, looking JJ up and down.

Spencer’s fists clenched in anger as he felt JJ tense next to him.

“The file says she left you after she cheated on you. Did you have medical issues Mr. Curtis?” Reid asked, drawing Curtis’s attention to him. “Did you struggle to please your own wife?”

Curtis growled. “That stupid whore has nothing to do with this.”

“Ah so you couldn’t and when she left you for a man that could, you projected your anger for her onto these women. You were angry at them for being confident and independent, much like your wife who knew what she wanted.” Spencer said, sitting back in his chair with a faint smirk.

“These women were nothing but whores, willing to let men in like me. They wanted someone so badly they let a stranger into their house.” Curtis hissed.

“Mr. Curtis, you were a delivery man. They didn’t let you in, you forced your way into their homes didn’t you?”

“If a man needs a glass of water, can’t he let himself in?” Curtis purred. “They turned their backs on a predator and got what was coming to them.”

“Did you attack them in their homes?” JJ asked.

“Only to make them quiet, couldn’t have the neighbors hear them scream.” Curtis laughed and Spencer resisted the urge to choke out the man across from him.

They placed images of all of his supposed victim’s before him. “Do you recognize these women?” JJ asked, her voice harsh and cold.

Curtis looked over all of them, silent for a couple minutes. Spencer’s patience thinned. “Well?”

Curtis pointed to an image of Lila Jennings, the third victim of this case. “She screamed the loudest.” He pointed to another image. “She was a hot piece of ass, it was fun breaking her.”

“Enough.” Spencer hissed.

“In short Doctor, yes I do recognize these women. Every single one of them and no I do not regret a single one.”

Without saying another word, JJ and Spencer got up, taking the files with them. Curtis’s laughter rang out behind them as they shut the door.

________________________________________________________________

TAGLIST

@andiebeaword @haylaansmi @parkastoria @possessedjoker @amronsparty @generaltheoristexpert @sierraraeck @coniumalces @tamedbyafox @anotherr-fine-mess @adoregin @rainsong01 @canyonnmoonn @mggshoe @boxofsparklingmuses @richardpapensmuse @deanlenaz @rainsong01 @goldentournesol @annesauriol @itsametaphorbriansblog @secretpickleprofessordean @shameleswhorehourstm @stepsofthefbi @iifloweringnightsii @mggsprettygirl @bravegirl221 @messyhairday-me @n1ghtsh4d3-67 @abbeypaw7 @findmedontlooseme @hiiwouldlikesomesleepplease @sarcasticsagittarius1998

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer x y/n #spencer reid x reader #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #Come and Find Me #anightflowerwrites #anightflower writes

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achliegh · 4 years

Text

Happy

Alright my chickpeas, my little garbanzo beans (Wtf am I even saying) I am here to bring you the “Happy we-did-it Ending”. This one was really difficult for me to write because when it comes to good endings my mind just calls them fake. Which… I mean this is fiction so why can’t it be happy. Sorry if this sucks I tried my best. Please Read at your own risk! This is a triggering fic.

Love, Your Trash Monster

CW/TW: Past Abusive relationship, Anxiety, Depression, Panic Attack, past age difference relationship (Illegal)

Part1 Part2 Part3

Characters belong to @lumosinlove

Besides Luka, I made him up, don’t care for him tho

Leo's leg was bouncing uncontrollably, he and Sirius waited for Coach outside his office, He was grateful for Sirius like he felt indebted to him even though they only talked for maybe a half hour. He runs his hands through his hair for what feels like the millionth time.

“What if he doesn’t believe me?” He didn’t mean to say it out loud but when his captain turned and gave him a soft look, he realized he did. He looked down at his hands in his lap and picked at a bandaid. It was one of the Hello Kitty ones Logan bought on accident. “I mean I have no proof of any of this happening, What if Coach thinks I just dislike Luka for no reason and am trying to ruin his life or something like that… It wouldn’t be the first time an adult hasn’t believed me. I mean, there's that double standard that “Men don’t get sexually abused and if they do they don’t cry about it” it's why I never even told Finn and Lo until a few weeks ago. I didn’t want them to think less of me.” He smiles a little at the bandaid he was messing with and thinks about how lucky he is that his boys still love him. “I’m so lucky”

“I get it.” Sirius looked up just in time to see Arthur walking towards them. He smiles a little and stands with Leo next to him.

They follow Arthur into his office and sit down.

“So, is this about all the concerned people who have been telling me something is wrong with Leo?” His brushy red eyebrow lifts and he crosses his arms leaning back in his chair. “I was also told by a little Russian bird that there was an argument in the locker room between you and Luka. Leo whatever is going on it has a lot of people worried.” He leaned forward and set his hands on the arms of his big office chair. “Leo, you know I treat everyone of my players like my sons.”

Leo takes a shaky breath and clutches his hands together tightly in his lap. Gulping down the fearful frog in his throat he meets Coaches eyes. “ What I'm going to tell you is something I’ve only told to a few people. I don’t have any proof anymore, but I need you to believe me Coach.” He feels Sirius put a hand on his arm as a comforting I’m here motion. He told Arthur and Sirius everything, not leaving out any detail that he was comfortable enough to share. It was everything from the good, loving parts of the relationship that made him sick to his stomach now. To the horribly, hellish parts of the relationship that made him choke on his own tears. Leo didn’t think much of it back then (he was a little preoccupied trying not to break) but he remembered that most of Luka and his friend would film things with Leo because they thought it was funny to see him suffer or to save for later to use as blackmail on anyone in the videos.

“Wait, you said he filmed these things?” Arthur, who had turned white as a ghost and had a furious glint in his eye, started drumming his fingers. “Do you think he would have kept these videos throughout the two years you’ve been apart.?

“I know for a fact he's kept them” They both look at him with wide eyes and a silent invitation to explain. “He would ask me if I wanted to see them… or remake them” Talking about all this as making him feel like he was gonna puke. He had a foul taste in my mouth. Arthur put his head in his hands, he's devastated that he let such a fucking asshole interact with his team. That he let his youngest player suffer like that.

Sirius had stood abruptly from his chair and was pacing behind Leo’s chair with his hand interlocked on the back of his neck. He exhales deeply, seething with anger. How could he let this go on so long, he had picked up on Leos habits because Remus had pointed out how similar the two of them were at times. He feels like he failed as a Captain for not doing something sooner.

“Is there anything we can do, Coach? I mean, can we at least fire him?” He stopped pacing and ran a hand over his face, taking a deep breath as he looked at the young kid next to him. How was he so good at hiding his pain? People would say that Sirius was good at that too but everyone on the team has seen him crack and spiral. Leo was always this calm, collected, cool support. He acted so mature for being so young and it was all clicking in his head. Everything about this 19 year old goalie was formed from the love and support of his family, but also the hate and abuse from a lover. He has experienced more than most people on the same team as him that are older than him.

“We can fire him, and if we do call the police, they can seize his electronics. If he really does still have those videos they could lock him up for CP because you were underage at the time. Nothing is guaranteed though.” He's deep in though, sometime during the processing of everything Leo had told them he had grabbed his laptop and was furiously typing an email to the Lead of the Organization. He hit send and looked up to the two hockey players. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Godic and Luka together. I already had a meeting with Mr. Godric today about next year's fundraisers but this is a more important topic.” he stands up and looks at Leo “Thank you for telling me Nut. That was very brave of you” He smiles weakly and Ruffles Leo’s hair. “If you ever need anything just let me know, okay?” He nods towards Sirius and walks out the door to his meeting.

“We should get you home, your boys are waiting.” He smiles softly as Leo stands and is taken by surprise when Leo pulls him into a tight hug mumbling “thank you” into his shoulder.

Leo was so happy, he felt lighter than he has in the last two years. He gets squeezed by the man he wrapped himself around and laughs wetly. When they pull away they both wipe their eyes and smile at each other. This was a new chapter to both their lives.

Sirius dropped Leo off at home after a stop at a drive through for an ice cream cone (that he may or may not have dropped on Sirius’ floor and got an annoyed glare) he walked in the front door and was talked into a pile of limbs and smothering kisses. He laughed freely and kissed both his boys sweetly and conveyed so much love.

As the Cubs made dinner together and sang to a random playlist. Logan burned half the food and Finn dropped a third of it. Good thing Leo tripled the recipe so they had enough to eat for the night. Putting on a mind numbing cooking show they just waxed poetically about how much they love each other. Around 7:30 pm Leo's phone started vibrating and a picture of Arthur sleeping on the bus with Talker doing a thumbs up flashes on his screen.

“What happened?” He is very anxious about everything that could go wrong, all of that melted away when Arthur shared the news.

“He's been taken down to the station and his phone has been seized. He was angry when confronted and actually tried to take a swing at me before security was called. If this ends up going to court would you be able to, you know, stand trial. I mean telling your coach is one thing but a room of strangers is different. Especially because the media will be all over this case.”

Leo had to think about this, if he didn’t go and testify this case would only air on the local news. Then again, he could change people's lives. He could be a role model for people who are too afraid to tell about their experiences. That's worth more than anything. He may be shamed online but it doesn’t matter. He Needed to do this.

“Yeah, this is something I need to do.”

#leo knut #lumosinlove #logan tremblay #sirius black #finn o'hara #sweater weather #coast to coast

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flower-of-zaun · 3 years

Text

Super personal rant…bit of a trigger warning 18+

My fiancé will not have sex with me. When we first met, we would have sex all the time, I was really shy and nervous and I feel like once I let my guard down, he was no longer interested in me physically. Then he got sober, then the back surgery…he has lost all drive and I can probably count how many times we have had sex in the past two years.

I don’t ask him every fucking day either! I maybe get the itch really bad once a month and ask casually. I have been patient, I never pressure him, I never get upset when he tells me no. We are in therapy together. We have adjusted his meds. All he cares about is video games and streaming. It’s all he talks about. I mean, I’m a gamer and streamer myself, but that’s the only thing he ever talks about…he doesn’t want to do anything else. I tried being more feminine again, lingerie, watching porn together. Nothing gets him excited or interested.

Our therapist suggested more intimacy, like spending one night a week were we hold and kiss each other, and just cuddle, there doesn’t have to be sex…and he gives me just quick pecks and hugs me like a friend. I can’t remember the last time he has held me close and kissed me deeply. It hurts.

I used to be a “tiktok accountant” (a spicy model) and this is just killing my confidence. I haven’t done that kind of work since out sex life died. The rejection hurts me and I don’t even bring it up…but I crave closeness, I crave feeling loved and wanted…I just feel like I have a roommate I share a bed with. We are poly too and since my lack of confidence, I don’t even want to date anyone because the fear of rejection is so strong.

I haven’t had a normal sex life since I was a teenager. I feel like all the men I’ve dated since 18 have just used sex as a weapon, abused me, or never want me and fuck other people.

I’m extra upset because I tried to flirt with him in a text message and he was like “oh sorry I didn’t respond, I had to take a shit” and I felt like he was purposely trying to ruin the mood. I’ve been away for a few weeks and asked if we could have sex the day I get home, because I miss him and want to feel close to him, he agrees. I called to say happy New Years and asked if he was excited about having some sexy time tomorrow and he hits me with the “Oh I feel really sick all of sudden. I’m excited to see you tomorrow tho.”

I don’t even want to go home now. I rather prolong this stay at my mothers.

I am so fucking touch starved and want attention and affection from someone who acts like they love me. I can get this kind of love from a friend but I’m supposed to marry this person. I want to feel loved and wanted. I want to stop using fictional characters to fill the fucking void, I’m tired of escaping to a different reality because I’m lacking something. Im tired of bringing it up in therapy and our therapist trying to get through to him.

#joji is venting #personaljoji

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my-darling-boy · 4 years

Note

Hi, Alastair! I don't know if you answer these types of advice questions, but i am a gay trans man like yourself and i have a problem. A friend of mine is constantly flirting and cuddling with me. (I like him so i allow it. Truly idiotic of me, i know.) And at one point he has even tried to kiss me, He dated my best friend who is a female version of me (his words) So one could safely assume he likes me.... maybe. He says he is straight. What do i do? Have you ever been in the same situation ?

Story time, cos this is this serious:

So, when I was about 17 and pre-T, a cis guy had a crush on me whilst knowing I was a trans man. I thought it strange since he only ever seemed to be interested in girls, but I thought maybe he’s figuring out his identity, so I didn’t judge. He invited me over to his house where he ended up showing me instagrams of other guys he was attracted to.

All of them were out trans guys. He never once showed me a cis guy out of the list of profiles he went through, having zero interest in them: only in the appearance of the trans men he showed me. He called them all so “small and adorable”, no matter their appearance and that’s what made the alarm bells go off in my head. I felt sick and used, because I KNEW what he was seeing me as.

He didn’t see me as a man at all. His way of exploring men was by experimenting with men he didn’t see as men, most likely so if he figured out he wasn’t queer, he wouldn’t have to “ruin his Straight Crush Streak”. You know, those cis guys who say “I’ve never been with a man, only a trans guy, but that doesn’t count” YIKES!

These are all sure signs of cis guys who see trans men as “Men Liteᵀᴹ" or women; they talk about how “cute and small” we are, or how it’s so sexy that I can be a “woman and a man at the same time” which has got to be the grossest comment I’ve ever gotten in relation to my identity. Trans men are objects to them with which they use to explore male attraction while “not having to be fully gay about it” feeling that, since they view trans men as women, it “doesn’t count” so they can still call themselves straight. Or they just flat out see us as masculine women.

He didn’t care about me at all. He “liked” me because I was nothing but some living breathing “soft tomboy” fantasy to him. I cut contact with him immediately. And he wasn’t the only guy I’ve experienced that with.

So based on what you’ve said, it’s clear this friend of yours is being transphobic.

But I completely get the situation you’re in, I’ve been there: when someone seems to like us, it can be hard to accept that the person might be toxic, abusive, or transphobic, ESPECIALLY if they’re trying to compensate for their harmful nature by telling us things like how much they love us, paying us compliments, buying us things, flirting, or showing physical affection. And it can be very hard when they tell us we are ungrateful for pointing out/avoiding their abusive or offensive behaviour because of “the love they give us”.

But the thing is, that’s not love they’re giving us. It was never love: anyone who views your identity as a trans man as conditional, sexual, disgusting, or wrong does not truly love you. Anyone who sets aside your trans identity to see you only for your birth gender does not truly love you. Anyone who seeks out a “female version of you” because they are obsessed with seeing you as a woman, doesn’t love you. The only person they are in love with is the person they want you to be. And you are not that person. You deserve someone who sees you for who you are and loves you for it, not despite it.

From one trans man to another: if that guy was my friend, I wouldn’t touch him with a 10 foot pole tbh! I’m sorry you’re going through this, it’s really inappropriate for him to have said those things about you :( Please keep safe!

#I have to be honest about this cos this is like #the no. 1 type of romantic harrassment I’ve recieved #trans people have to deal with this all the time from cis people #asks

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olligreen · 3 years

Text

No Bad Student | 3 -- Nice Things

{C}

Pairing: Lawrusso (Daniel x Johnny) Genre: Angst Warnings: Emotionally-abusive parent mentioned briefly Word count: 1566 Summary: KK2 AU in which Johnny ends up living with Miyagi and Daniel for the summer. Inspired by nadianecromancer’s comic, but I’ll try to avoid making any scenes similar to the ones they already did! Notes: This was originally posted on Ao3 here. I’m much more used to that format than this one, but I’ve seen a lot of people post their fics here and thought I’d give it a shot.

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The dust had only just settled as Johnny’s car pulled up beside one of the tarp-covered vehicles in Miyagi’s lot. It didn’t belong there, Daniel thought, like a hyena in a pack of dogs. Daniel stood guard as Miyagi paid no mind to it at all, heading back to his work promptly, as if leading him there was just another errand he completed.

Johnny slammed his door with no malice, but the sound still tensed his rival’s shoulders. They met eyes momentarily before he set out toward Miyagi, his steps purposeful. He stopped a few feet from him, crossing his arms and glaring.

Miyagi gave him a nod but was otherwise unbothered.

“So what’s this problem you were talking about?” He spat out caustically.

“Talk later.”

“What? What do you mean? I’m here, my car’s here, now tell me what’s going on.”

“Talk later,” Miyagi demanded.

“This is unbelievable! What am I supposed to do until then?”

Miyagi ceased his work, looking up at him. “Don’t know. Go home?”

Johnny’s eyes drifted back toward the car without his intention as he searched for a proper response. “How the hell am I supposed to go home without my car?”

Miyagi turned his head to Daniel, who was watching from the very edge of hearing distance. Johnny followed Miyagi’s gaze and scoffed, not hiding any aspect of his frustration.

Daniel’s brows shifted. “No! No way! I’m not driving him around!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Johnny retorted.

“It means I’m not doin’ it, dumbass! What do you think?”

Johnny’s eyes widened with rage. The same, purposeful steps sent him rapidly closer to Daniel.

Fear struck him just as aggressively as before, but he hid it well, as still and composed as a statue. “Look, I’m just saying, man, we’re not friends. I don’t want you around.”

“Yeah?” Johnny stepped close enough that their difference in height forced Daniel to look upward. He hovered there for a moment, letting his dominant stature assert itself before he spoke. “Well, I’m right here. What’re you gonna do about it, LaRusso?”

A sigh sounded from behind Johnny as Miyagi gave him a gentle push, bringing him back a few steps. Still, Johnny’s glare was locked on his opponent, whose defenses crumbled as soon as they separated, eyes looking anywhere but forward.

“Daniel-san. Move bed inside, work there.”

“What? You’re giving me work when he was the one who--”

“Go!” Miyagi shouted harshly.

After making a final, silent complaint, Daniel stomped off toward the house. He dragged the unassembled parts inside as quickly as he could since every second he spent in sight range of that prick was torture.

Johnny watched on with a sadistic grin, feeling, for the first time in a while, like he won.

“Why smile? Something funny?” Miyagi asked in his own form of sarcasm.

“Well, I--...” Johnny launched immediately into defense. “Look, man, you don’t know what that asshole really did, alright? You’ve only seen it from his side.”

Miyagi hummed in understanding, then gestured for him to continue.

“What?”

“Tell your side.”

“Oh… uh…” Johnny’s eyes glanced to the house behind Miyagi, checking the windows. “I--... Alright, well, first he stole my girlfriend.”

Miyagi hummed again, furrowing his brows.

“Well--... Well, alright, we’d been broken up for a couple of weeks, but--... But it wasn’t over, alright? In fact, we were trying to talk things out but he kept butting into it. And then the guy punches me in the face! Outta’ nowhere!”

Miyagi nodded slowly.

“And so I--… y’know, I defend myself, and--... and--... Y’know what, long story short, she ends up going out with him, and--... And then he dumps water on me for no reason, like an asshole, ruined my joi--... my uh… my costume, and then we chased after him and--... well, you were there for that one, but we were just--... It was justice, alright?! He started that whole thing.”

Miyagi hummed. “That everything?”

“Well--... I dunno, I guess I just--...” Johnny sighed, his voice solemn, quiet. “Y’know, I lost Ali to him, and then--... then--... You have no idea how important karate was to me, man.”

“Was?”

Johnny’s gaze drifted downward, his mouth hanging open as he searched for a response, but found none.

Miyagi nodded, letting the silence hang for a while longer.

But Johnny was sick of silence. “So uh… what about that problem with my car? Is it bad?”

“Car problem not bad, can fix. You problem more important.”

“What problem? What’re you talking about, man?”

“Your trip.”

Johnny’s shoulders tensed as he felt his ruse falling. Still, he tried to hold on. “Yeah, to Malibu, like I said. I--... my family has a beach house there.”

Miyagi hummed, nodding lightly. “What family like?”

Johnny kept his gaze behind Miyagi. It drifted from window to window. “We’re fine. Normal, I guess.”

“Brother? Sister?”

“No, no it’s just--... It’s just me.”

Miyagi nodded, watching Johnny's expressions intently. “Encino, yes? Very nice place.”

“Yeah.” He said with a shallow nod, his eyes drifting downward.

“Not nice?”

His eyes lifted, surprise behind his blank expression. “Oh, no it’s nice and all, it’s just--... I dunno, it bugs me when people assume your life is good just because you’ve got money, y’know?”

Miyagi nodded.

“‘Cause I mean, it’s all good stuff: the pool, my car, our house, but--...” His words drifted off.

“But?”

“It’s stuff. That’s all it is. It can’t replace everything else.”

Miyagi paused for a moment as he chose his words. “What missing?”

He sighed sharply in frustration, buying time. “My step-dad--...” The words seemed difficult to say, so much so that it stopped the sentence short.

Miyagi indicated again for him to continue.

“He just--...” His eyes moved along the ground as he thought. “He’s an asshole.”

Miyagi nodded, seeming to understand fully.

“Not just to me either, to my mom, to his employees, to everybody. Guy just likes being mean to people.”

“This reason you go on trip?”

His eyes went up to Miyagi’s again, the shock a bit more obvious this time. “I--... Yeah. He doesn’t want me around anymore, now that I’m… an adult, I guess. I don’t feel like an adult.”

“Know the feeling,” Miyagi said simply before starting off toward the house.

Johnny watched as he moved away, then sped up to catch him. “You do?” He walked at his side, his gaze now fixed on him.

“Leave home alone too, just fifteen years old.”

“Fifteen? Are you serious? That’s crazy!”

“Hai.” Miyagi swung open the door of his home, holding it as Johnny entered after him. He took a turn, then opened a pine chest full of linens and cushions in plain, warm coloration. They looked inexpensive, but comfortable nonetheless.

Johnny made his own search with him, his eyes moving about the entry room, then he sighed in relief as he didn’t find who he was looking for. While he was distracted, he felt a soft thud as something hit his chest. Miyagi had set a bound bedroll against it. He lifted his arms to take the minimal weight of the thing, but by his expression, it was clear he didn’t know why. “What’s this for?”

“Sleeping.”

“Right, but what do I need it for?”

“Sleeping.” He began setting everything back into the chest, organized properly.

Johnny stared forward in confusion for a few more seconds. “Are you saying I can stay here?”

“Hai.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“What--... With Daniel?”

“Hai... Yes.”

“Don’t you think he’ll have a problem with that?”

“Don’t know.”

Johnny watched, puzzled, as the teacher prepared to brew some tea as if nothing important was going on at all.

It was only now that the surreal nature of the situation hit Johnny. He was inside Mr. Miyagi’s house, the same place that Daniel was given the weapons he used had against him. And yet, it wasn’t a negative experience -- not entirely, at least. He wasn’t sure what it was about the old man, but even having known him for this short of a time he knew that Mr. Miyagi was different from all the men in his life. He was better. Maybe it was the fact that he seemed to know exactly what he needed to hear, or his almost frustrating brevity, or maybe it was just the fact that he listened. He heard and understood what he was saying without forcing his own biases on his words. He saw his emotions even when he didn’t want to express them. Miyagi listened to him, and it felt good.

Johnny smiled warmly at the thought, but the smile quickly fell as he heard a loud thump behind him, muffled by the wall. Miyagi didn’t look up. He was too busy selecting a box from his tea cabinet.

“You sleep there.” Miyagi gestured with an empty kettle toward just about where that sound rang from: a door on the opposite side of the room. It didn’t exactly match the color or wear of the others, as it seemed it was just put there recently.

“I--... But--...”

“Hm?” Miyagi threw up a brow, looking over at the bewildered blonde only occasionally as he worked.

Johnny couldn’t seem to find the words to any of the questions he wanted to ask, so, with confusion still on his expression, he walked into the door, the bedroll tucked under his arm.

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

#karate kid fanfiction #cobra kai fanfic #lawrusso fanfiction #lawrusso #karate kid pt ii #karate kid au

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

All That Is Or Was Or Will Be

CW: Character death (no main characters), murder, so much murder, just like a lot of murder, no animals harmed in the writing of this piece, emeto (brief), referenced physical abuse, blood, drugging, knives, mind control, noncon touching (nonsexual), a kind of pet whump, trauma response, creepy whumper, suicidal ideation (brief, of the “wish I had a way out of this” variety)

Killan Josta belongs to @wildfaewhump‘s Iesin and Talvos universe, which Vic is graciously letting me use with their permission to just absolutely ruin Killan in every possible way.

Tagging Killan’s crew: @astrobly @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @slaintetowhump , @quirkykayleetam , @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, @doveotions (if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

With every step, Killan tried to stop walking.

He told himself to stand still, to drop the small bag he held in one hand, to cry out and warn them he was coming. The woods were dark around him, but he never tripped on anything. He never placed his feet wrong. He never stumbled, or struggled. He walked with a perfect, inhumanly smooth stride even as his heart pounded, lurching sickly inside his chest with dread.

He couldn’t stop.

He didn’t want to stop. Or he did, but the want was buried underneath a deeper push, the twining starsong that wrapped him up in Calon Nie's voice.

Take this, you, in secret steps and quietness. Walk til you see, but do not wake. I show you what starsong can do.

Pl-please, no, don't make me do this-

His feet had already been moving.

Calon's teeth flashed in the dark with his smile. You want to see what starsong can do, my pretty human.

He didn’t want to know what starsong could do - and yet he was desperate for the knowledge, wasn’t he? If only to know what he was in for, how terrible it was going to be, what kinds of monster-magic the fae could really do.

He didn’t want to know what would happen to Ren, to Tinch and Vanya and Pyllko… definitely did not want to see what Calon Nie would do to Beron, who had sometimes helped him pack up the camp in the mornings or patted him on the back, ruffled his hair and said, you worked hard today with a hint of pride in his voice as though Killan were his own son and not just a debt-slave…

He had liked Beron sometimes, as much as you could like a man who kicked you in the stomach for eating a second helping of porridge until you threw the first one up or took your food and threw it to dogs to make himself laugh. Killan had been kind of fond of him, worked hard for his approval, been glad that Beron always asked for Killan to sit watch with him at night.

Beron had been mean, could be mean - but he was the only one of them where Killan could mostly predict that violence, and so it was as close to safe as he had been since the day he'd been attacked in town and nearly drowned. He was the only one who’d put together a bit of hot broth or tea when Killan was sick.

Beron took care of him, in between hurting, and no one else did.

What would starsong do to Beron?

He didn’t want to do this, but his feet would not stop moving.

The more he fought against the silvery web of compulsion wrapped around him, the louder the fae’s voice sang in the back of his mind. Eerie twin notes, harmonized with itself in a single voice, soaking into the deepest parts of him. Above him, Calon Nie moved through the branches in nearly-perfect silence, even his wings hidden in the dark canopy of trees.

Buachaill del… pretty boy, you are mo ragnaith, my chosen one. My human. I am all, all was or is or will be, for you.

He did not want to be Calon Nie’s human, but he had no choice.

His mam used to tell a story about a wicked fae who sang away all the children in a village who had not listened to their mothers when it was time for bed, using her hands to make shadowed wings on the wall, while a tiny Killan had watched and listened, wide-eyed and rapt. The fae led the disobedient children right off a cliff just to hover in the air with its awful wings and watch their bodies dash to the rocks below.

You see, then, Killy, why it’s what you must do, to listen to your mam when she sends you to sleep? Otherwise the fae monsters will take you and tear out your throat.

It was just a story to scare children - until it wasn’t.

He would have been less terrified if Calon Nie had simply wanted to kill him and drink his blood and make things out of his bones, like his mam had said fae would. What was happening to him instead was much, much worse, because he was starting to understand that it wouldn’t end, that Calon Nie had some plan for him he wasn’t explaining. Some idea that had led him to want a human boy for his very own. There was some hidden reason he kept measuring Killan’s arms and fingers and legs, pressing on his sides to feel at the ribs beneath, not counting - just saying too much bones, and Killan was both desperate to know what that meant and praying to some dim concept of a forest god that he never, ever would learn.

He couldn’t stop walking, but one hand raised to feel over his neck as he went, the bandage wrapped around it felt too tight, constricting. Calon Nie was not gentle. It covered the sliced-up skin down one side, where Calon Nie had let blood drip down to dry and stain brownish on his collarbone, but it didn’t feel like a bandage.

It felt worse than that.

Killan felt like a collared dog.

He felt like a pet that walked on its hind legs for the amusement of its keepers. Like the little dogs at the harvest festival who could balance balls on the tips of their noses as they ‘danced’, hind-legged, while the people clapped and cheered.

The bandages crinkled, the barest hint of noise in the dark woods. Above him, there was a soft hiss, and Killan’s hand fell back to his side.

Quietness, buachaill del. He didn’t have to hear the words spoken to hear the order. Not any longer.

He could see the camp ahead of him, the fire banked low to embers, the men stretched out in their bedrolls to sleep under the stars. The horses breathing in soft snorts, ears back, heads turned in his direction. They saw him, but they knew Killan - he fed them, sliding the heavy bags up over their noses so they could munch where they stood, even deep in the woods with no real grass to graze on. They weren’t scared of him like they would have been of Calon Nie, and so they made no sound at his approach beyond the softest whicker.

Beron and Tinch were on watch, sitting up with their backs to him for the moment, and Killan opened his mouth to warn them, to say, please, he’s going to kill you-

“Sleep,” The fae in the branches above him commanded. Killan’s knees buckled and he crashed to the ground as the world spun to sudden exhausted wooziness around him.

The last thing he heard was the sound of Beron and Tinch falling forward, too, the soft thuds of their bodies falling into the dirt.

Then, darkness.

He woke to the whisper of Calon Nie’s talons across his back, ghosting over shoulder blades long-scarred by Ren’s punishments for past transgressions. He tensed at the touch of those clawed fingertips, but they didn’t quite cut his skin. Instead, it felt more like Calon Nie played his spine as an instrument. “Wake, only you.” Calon Nie spoke almost gently, almost lovingly. “But be still. Time for the first.”

“The… the first what?” Killan asked, blinking, pushing slowly up onto his elbows with his hips and legs still splayed on the ground. The little bag he had been forced to carry all the way here lay on its side, still tied tightly closed.

He looked around to see the bandits he had lived with were now all asleep - three in their bedrolls, and Beron and Tinch simply slumped on the ground, too deeply unconscious for dignity. Everyone’s breath came deep and even, low snores settling in the air around them. “I thought-...” His own voice was slurred, struggling to come all the way awake even with the command. “I thought you were going to kill-... to kill them.”

“No kill, me,” Calon said easily. “Now. Hold still. Silence, Killan.”

He only said Killan’s real name when whatever he was about to do was going to hurt. Sure enough, when Killan had frozen on the ground like a boy made of stone, Calon’s taloned fingers slipped, for the first time, into his skin.

Killan had begun to hate his name. At least buachaill del, mo ragnaith, pretty boy, my human - at least those names didn’t come with the promise of pain.

He tried to cry out with the sudden burning pain, but no sound came. Compelled to silence, Killan could do nothing but dig his fingers into the loose earth, mouth open in a scream he could not voice, his vocal chords locked tight with starsong wrapped around them. He felt the talon trail through like his mam heating a knife and slicing butter, his skin falling away almost eagerly to either side, leaping to do the fae’s will.

Only when he could feel the blood running did Calon Nie pull back his hand, his head cocking to the side as he held the talons up in front of his own face, slit-pupiled yellow eyes locked on the deep red, colored nearly black in the dark night, running warm and then cool down the palm of his monstrous hand.

“Pretty,” He whispered. “So red, with iron. Dead star, you. But I can give life.”

Killan breathed in gasps against the pain, tears running hot down his face, dripping saltwater to a forest floor that maybe had never seen water and salt mixed before. He couldn’t speak to ask what the fae meant, and he didn’t wan to. He didn’t want to know what life meant to a fae that thought Killan, with his beating heart and red blood, was dead.

“Is time, now,” Calon Nie said after contemplating Killan’s blood a moment longer. “Stand, you. Keep silent.”

Killan’s arms moved, palms pressed to earth, shifting onto his hands and knees even as his back screamed and he wept silent tears into the earth beneath him, blood trickling in a garish tickle down his sides and then soaking into the waistband of his pants, until he stood, swaying. He could be forced to silence but the rictus-scream was stuck on his face, the only expression of his pain he was allowed beyond his labored breathing.

“Good. Now, is time, is time, is time for celebration.” Calon Nie sing-song sang the words more than spoke them in his hissing, sibilant accent. He reached his own hand behind his back and then pulled from the waistband of his own pans an intricately carved dagger made of no metal that Killan had ever known. He was used to Ren’s weapons, all good solid strong iron, poison to the fae and a good defense when you hunted as close to the mountains as Ren did.

This, though, shimmered in the darkness like silver, was carved with the peaks of mountains clear along each side of the blade. Crafted with a sharply angled serration, it looked like something you couldn’t possibly need for hunting.

Calon Nie held the knife out to Killan. “Take,” He commanded, and Killan’s hand moved without him even as his heart dropped, went cold, turned to a block of ice in his stomach. The pain in his back was forgotten, simply overrun by the horrified understanding.

He tried to move his mouth, but the compulsion to silence still held, and he couldn’t do anything more than that.

Calon raised his eyebrows slowly, curious and amused. The moonlight caught his eyes as his chin raised to look Killan in the eyes, turning yellow eyes briefly to a cloudy opalescence, and he seemed somehow more a product of a story meant to scare children than ever. “No questions, you. Time for questions gone.” He drew his hand through the air, a quick sharp dismissal, and Killan felt his stomach twist as some of his own blood flew off Calon’s taloned fingertips and landed on Ren’s face where he lay in his bedroll.

Wake up, Killan begged him, mouth moving, silent. Wake up. Fight him with iron. Wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up-

Ren shifted, mumbling to himself in a slurred voice, and wiped at the blood on his cheek.

Then he settled back to unconsciousness again.

Calon Nie swayed lightly back and forth, as if to a rhythm only he could hear, eyes half-closed as his head tilted back and forth with his movements, long black hair that turned nearly white by the ends moving, his wings slightly - deeply auburn reddish-brown on the outside and a layered, striped black-and-white on the inside - spread in the small clearing for balance. He smiled, head tilted up to the moon, to the stars, visible in the perfectly clear night sky.

Without looking away from a constellation just next to the moon - Killan had always known it, three stars in a line and two more above, as the Rider - Calon Nie pointed to Ren, and said, “Slit his throat, Killan. Stop only when no living.”

Killan’s body moved without him to obey the starsong command.

His hands moved steady and sure, one to grip Ren by the hair and yank until his head was forced back, the other to draw the serrated blade across the man’s throat, digging in deep, blood bursting as though a dam had broken, a waterfall of a man’s life soaking into his bedroll, snuffled half-breaths that could no longer be drawn.

Killan’s hand didn’t loosen the grip on Ren’s hair - on the man who had saved him when the robbers threw him in the river, who had owned his life and hurt him and written all the scars on him that weren’t Calon Nie’s - until the man was dead.

Right to death, the fae’s magic held Ren in a deep slumber.

He never woke, before he was gone.

Killan wept for him, his heart burning, and waited for what he knew came next when he let Ren’s head drop onto his bedroll, never to wake again.

“Good,” Calon Nie praised, eyes fluttering half-closed. “Now.” He pointed at Pyllko. “Slit his throat.”

Killan moved to the next bedroll, grabbed Pyllko by his curly hair - he was vain of it, Pyllko, found new women in every town they stopped in, had babies scattered through the land, or so he said - and killed him, too. His hand was dripping red with blood. Pyllko liked to say awful things about the women he saw, but he was like a spoiled selfish boy, younger even than Killan in mind if not in body.

A nobleman’s son, so he swore, who had been banished for something to do with a higher noble’s eldest daughter.

Ren saved me, too, Pyllko had said to him once. I could have died. You should be grateful that he’s got such a big heart for you.

Then Vanya.

Killan forced Calon Nie to give the command for each one, refused to move of his own volition. His eyes were too blurry to see with the tears and he knew his hand was struggling, he was getting Pyllko’s blood in Vanya’s hair, his grip on the blade now slick with red, struggling to hold it tightly enough for the killing stroke.

Vanya, who was cruel and cruel and cruel again, for his own amusement.

Killan still had never wanted him to die.

He killed him anyway.

Now, Tinch.

Tinch, who had ignored him mostly as a child but had started to stare at him as an adult, get too close, look too long. Who joked about sneaking to the river to see what it was about bathing naked there that Killan loved so much.

Tinch, who had a habit of grabbing at Killan’s arms or chin or hair whenever he wanted. This throat, Killan slit with hardly a lick of grief at all. I know what you would have done to me, soon enough, Killan thought, as the man bled to death on his side, his hand lying outstretched. If they were ever found, it might even look like Tinch had reached for his weapon.

He hadn’t.

He would look like he’d had a chance to be brave, when he wasn’t, and he hadn’t had any such thing. But there was a comfort in the idea that someone might find their bones, one day, and think that someone had tried to fight the fae.

Finally… Beron.

Killan stalled, now, fought the starsong as hard as he could, its tendrils wrapping so tightly around him that they felt like new fire licking blue across his skin. He turned to look at Calon Nie, still swaying to the song only he could hear. No, he whispered, still unable to speak.

Calon seemed to hear it, anyway. He opened his eyes and looked at Killan, smiling to show his sharp teeth. “Say no, you?”

Not Beron.

For the first time since the fae had taken him, something dark and ugly passed across his features. Killan had never seen it before, not in relation to him, anyway, but he could read it easily nonetheless.

Calon Nie was jealous.

“Slit. Throat. Now.”

The command was spat instead of sung, but Killan’s hands began to move, and he hitched in a breath, a half-whispered, half-silent sob, his tears falling right onto Beron’s peaceful sleeping face.

Beron would toss his food just to watch him cry over is loss, would smack him around when he took too long at a chore, but he would also tell Killan stories like his mam used to, and volunteer to take him into the shops when they visited towns.

Killan grabbed the hair of the only one of them that had ever offered him an ounce of kindness and he murdered him, too, crying over him as he watched Beron, peaceful to the bitter end, take his very last breath. Then he slumped down to his knees and leaned over him, gripping fingers into the fabric of his shirt like a child clinging to its mother after a nightmare, and cried at the loss of what he hadn’t even known was a better life than what he was now living.

Somehow, Calon Nie did not stop him from grieving. He cried, holding Beron with one hand and the blood-slicked blade with the other, into the man’s slowly cooling body.

He wept for them, and for himself.

Then he straightened his back - singing pain up the tiny cuts Calon Nie had made, but he didn’t care any longer, none of it meant anything and maybe if he was lucky Calon Nie would let him bleed to death here with the closest thing he had left to a family - and threw the silver-colored knife as far as he could into the dark woods.

He heard it land, a rustle in underbrush, and that was all. Whoever found the bodies - maybe they’d find the murder weapon, too.

I killed them. I killed them. I killed them. The word rang round and round inside Killan’s mind, and this time when his stomach twisted he let it lead him, curling himself over on the ground and losing the contents of his stomach across the beaten-down grass and earth. He retched and heaved until his stomach and his back hurt in equal measures, until nothing was left but sour spit and bile on his tongue, until… until nothing was left but his guilt.

Thrall, murderer, fae-led slave boy, you did this you did this you did this you did this-

Ren’s flask dropped to the ground next to his knees and he slowly looked up to see Calon Nie staring down at him, head tilted so far to the side it seemed an impossible angle, evidence of the fluidity, the flexibility of fae bones. “You drink,” Calon Nie said, pointing with his talon. It wasn’t a command, but Killan grabbed the flask up anyway, sucking down the burning liquor inside, letting it wash the taste from his mouth.

But it couldn’t wipe the blood, thick in the air, thick on his hands, thick on his soul.

“Now is me only,” Calon Nie said, firmly. “Only me, you for. I am start and finish and all things. All that was or is or will be. These, gone. Paugh. No need. You may speak.”

“You said-... before, you said you would only make me put the sleeping drug in their water!”

Yellow eyes met his above Calon Nie’s patient, loving smile. “Calon Nie lies.”

“But, you... you have cl-claws, y-... you... y-you could have k-k-killed them y-y-yourself-” He started crying again, now that he could cry openly he let his voice wail, bouncing off the trees and back at him like a physical blow. He let sobs turn to wails and wails becomes screams and he prayed and prayed and prayed someone, somewhere, could hear him.

“I not kill these.” Calon Nie shook his head, and when he held out his hand, Killan could do nothing but take it and let the fae help him, shaking legs and all, to his feet. “Yours to kill. Kill pretty human’s family, I am family now. Done. Those, though…” Calon Nie’s eyes went to the horses, who were pulling on the ties that bound them near trees, ears back, herd animals wanting to run from the smell of blood and the teeth of the predator that stood openly before them. “Those I kill-”

“No. Please.” Killan put a hand on Calon Nie’s arm, smearing it with blood. “Please, Calon Nie, please, n-not the horses, please.”

Why did it matter if he killed them? Killan couldn’t have said. But in that moment, where he felt a mix of guilt and grief shredding him apart, it mattered more than anything that Calon might give him just one hint of mercy.

Calon Nie looked back at him, surprised, and then to the horses again. He sighed, smiling - affectionate and indulgent, as though Killan were a child who had asked for an extra sweet at market. “Más mian leat, buachaill del. Find other food, me.”

Killan nodded, whispering his sincere thanks, hating himself for the depraved gratitude he felt. He grabbed Beron’s sword from his bedroll - it had been all ready for his watch to end but he had never had a chance to use it - and moved to the horses, cutting them free from the tree they’d been tied to, watching them as they fled.

Wishing he could flee, too.

His eyes drifted down to the leather-wrapped hilt of the iron sword in his hand just in time to hear Calon Nie to say, sharply, “Drop sword, you.”

Iron thumped to the earth, useless.

Just like Killan, to everyone but the fae who held him in thrall.

When he turned, Calon Nie was right there, had moved with perfect silence and speed to stand just behind him, and Killan didn’t have to be commanded to hold still under the look in those yellow eyes. The camp smells - fire and smoke and the horses, whatever they’d had for dinner maybe - were overlaid with the thick copper-salt-sweet scent of blood.

Killan would never stop smelling that blood, he thought, no matter how long Calon Nie allowed him to live.

“Mine now,” Calon Nie whispered. “Truly mine, you.” He lifted his hand and Killan shuddered, shivering like a spooked animal as a blood-tipped talon drew lightly over his bandaged throat, not quite cutting the cloth strips, not cutting his skin. The fae moved around him, chin tilted up slightly to look, focused with unsettling intensity as he moved in a slow circle around Killan, tracing a perfect circle around his throat.

The message was clear.

Killan was a collared dog - to be fussed over to set to kill, whichever his master commanded. To the fae, humans were nothing but livestock that could speak, weren’t they? Killan was nothing but a bit of skin with a puzzling habit of having opinions.

“Don’t-” His voice caught, and Calon Nie’s talon came to a stop, just beneath his ear, pressed lightly against his pulse. A trickle of blood ran down to soak into the bandages. “Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t make me kill anyone else.”

“Not worry,” Calon Nie whispered, opening his hand to rest the palm of it against the back of Killan’s neck, bloody taloned twisting and playing with his hair until he thought he might throw up all over again, even though he had nothing left. “Not you, next time.”

Killan’s eyes closed, trying to hide the tears that escaped anyway, the new wash of fear. “N-next ti-... ti-time?” He managed, his voice shaking so badly he could barely get out the words.

Calon Nie went up on his toes, his breath hot against Killan’s ear. “Next time, I kill, for you.”

“I-I don’t n-n-need anyone to, to die for me,” Killan protested, in a hitching half-sobbed whimper. How did he have so many tears in him? It felt like he would never stop crying.

He tried to open his eyes, only to see the men he had murdered with his own hands, and had to close them again. When he broke out in sobs this time, Calon Nie bundled him close, held him in a tight grip with those heavily muscled arms, and petted through his hair with his bloody talons.

Where a bit of Killan’s blood touched his skin, Calon Nie hissed against a faint burn.

“Calm, calm, calm,” Calon Nie sing-songed, soothing and soft. “Calm, calm, my pretty. Did well for your Calon Nie, yes? Did well for me?”

He was a murderer. He had blood on his hands. He had taken men’s lives while they slept, like a coward, like a monster, like a thrall.

“Pretty boy, answer me,” Calon Nie said.

I am the children the fae threw off the cliff, but you won’t let me go far enough to escape you, not even if I died.

Killan hitched in breath, tried to find his voice where it had fled this time, deep within his chest where he knew their lives would stay wrapped up in him, wreckage and ruin, his own fault for being alone in the woods near the mountains. “Yes,” He said, miserable. “Yes. I d-did what you-... what you, gods, what you s-s-said-”

“Good. Good human.” Calon Nie hummed, nuzzling his nose against the side of Killan’s face, sharp teeth entirely too close to the veins in his neck. Killan kept his eyes closed, ground his teeth together, and hoped - for one long drawn-out moment - that Calon Nie would kill him, too, so he wouldn’t have to live like this.

After a long silence, Calon Nie pulled away from him, taking his scent of something metallic and wild with him, and Killan felt the pain in his back all at once, as though the adrenaline and guilt had dampened what he could feel.

Calon Nie smiled at the way Killan whined at the pain.

“Get used to,” He advised. “Back must hurt, for now, all time.”

“What? Wh-why?” Killan looked at the fae, whose eyes had gone back to the stars above their heads, basking in the faint silvery light, in the song he swore he could hear but Killan heard nothing but the beat of his own heart.

Even the birds were silent in the trees.

Even the forest knew when monsters walked.

Calon Nie did not open his eyes when he said, in a voice of perfect bliss, “To ready you for wings, mo ragnaith.”

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writingismyhappytime · 4 years

Text

Escaping Grace (Part 2)

Warnings: Language, Angst. This series will have a lot of anxiety/mental abuse mentions.

"Are you sure this looks okay?" I ask hesitantly, standing in front of the floor length mirror in my room. Vale and I had spent all day yesterday trying to find something appropriate, but to my frustration I hadn't found a thing I'd liked.

Now I was staring intently at my reflection, dressed in my average clothes that don't really make me stand out at all --- which could be a good thing, I guess. No need in trying to be too obvious about wanting to impress them, right?

"Of course," Vale says from behind me as she slips her earrings in, glancing me over. "Those are your good ass jeans, you know that. You can make anything look good in those."

Well, that does make me feel a little better. Vale is the kind of person to tell you if you look terrible, so I take the statement pretty seriously I give myself another glance, but turn away after a moment, knowing I'm not going to be satisfied the more I look; I always overthink everything.

I glance at my best friend as she slips into some heels, which only make her look more imposing. Her black hair falls straight from her widows peak, and her makeup is simple today, just a flick of eyeliner to accentuate her eyes.

I'm always so jealous of her, I've told her that a hundred times. She has such a perfect figure, I always feel so short and stumpy in comparison. On my good days I feel like I look pretty badass, with my tattoos and piercings, depending on what I'm wearing to accentuate them --- but om days like these, I feel uncertain about everything. My hair, my clothes, how badly noticeable my breakouts are --- in my mind, surely that's the first thing our new business partners are going to notice.

Why is having clear skin such a struggle?

The temptation to fake sick and go crawl inside the bathtub is suddenly really strong. I can send Vale in as my ambassader and she'll have them eating out of the palm of her hand, no doubt. One wink from her, a soft smirk on her glossy lips --- she could seduce the gold from a leprechaun.

Maybe I won't have to fake sick after all, my stomach is doing flips and tying itself into knots. I rub my palms nervously against my dark jeans, fighting the ball of nerves in my throat as it threatens to choke me down. I can't do this, I can't meet them, I'll ruin everything. I should just keep myself as far away from them as I possibly can so that I don't ruin anything, and ---.

"Uh, where are you going?" Vale demands as I suddenly make a beeline for the bathroom. "You have to finish getting dressed, Leah! We're going to be late!"

"I suddnely don't feel very well," I reply as I step into the bathroom, curling my toes against the coldness of the tiles as I turn my back to the mirror above the sink. I gaze into the tub, my hands on my hips as I look at nothing inparticular. "Maybe this is a bad idea."

"The only bad idea is you thinking that it is one." She says from where she sits on the edge of my bed, fiddling with her heels. "Don't let your nerves get to you. You're so excited to meet them and I'm not going to let you miss this. Now," she levels a stare at me that I purposefully try to ignore. "Get dressed or you're going in those pikachu shorts and barefoot."

I glance down at my pajama bottoms.

"That would be a good impression, wouldn't it?" I sigh, running a hand through my messy hair. I let the bathroom door swing closed, and hastily get dressed before I can put anymore thought into it. The less I think, the better it'll be.

My fingers linger on the t shirt I thought about wearing, one of the designs from our merch line that hasn't been produced yet. Would it be too cheesy to wear my own band shirt? Probably. I just end up grabbing my favorite jeans, the one's with the holes in the knee's from where I'd fallen in the studio and put them there on accident. I sit down on the edge of the tub, grabbing my boots and slipping them on easily, pleased with the easy zipper so I don't have to lace them.

At least these are comfy clothes for me, something I'm familiar with. I wish I wasn't so anxious, that my palms didn't have sweat building on them, or that I feel like I'm going to be sick at any moment. It's a curse, and what the doctor prescribes helps, but I hate taking medicine all the time, too.

Vale suddenly starts thumping her hand impatiently against the door, and my eyes flick to the clock sitting on a shelf. She's right, if we don't get going we're going to be late. "Leah, are you ready yet? We gotta get going already!"

"I'm ready," I say, although I don't feel it at all. I cast one last look in the mirror, frowning. My blonde hair was pulled back so it doesn't fall in my face, revealing the red and blue streaks decorating the lower layer. My eyes are a bright green, and Vale did my eyeliner so the color really seems to pop more tonight. Some days I can agree with her that I'm pretty, but today I'm rolling in nerves and the thought is arguable.

"If we don't leave now we're going to be un-fashionably late!" Vale hisses from the other room, and I roll my eyes as I jerk open the bathroom door. She gives me an approving look before beckoning me forward, already heading for the front door of the apartment we share.

We have to grab a cab, but it doesn't take us long to get to the club. It's kind of exclusive, you have to be on a list to get in, but so long as Craig called and did his duty, we shouldn't have any problems. We could skip the line and head right inside.

God it would be mortifying if he forgot to call.

The first sign the night isn't going as planned is seeing Nate and Clarke waiting outside on the curb. I thought they'd be inside already, rubbing elbows and getting into trouble. I send Vale a nervous look she ignores, tossing the cabbie some bills as we both hastily get out of the car.

"Why aren't you guys already inside?" She demands the moment they're within eashot, and both men turn to look at us.

Clarke's brows are furrowed, his square jaw clenched. His brown hair is falling into his eyes, and I can tell he's frustrated. "We're not on the list."

"What?" Oh no, this is it, this is the end. Craig forgot, didn't he? Our big moment is already over, we can't even get inside the club. Fate has forsaken us, laughing in our face, it's all over, it's ---.

"Leah, stop looking all doom and gloom," Vale pats my shoulder, as if knowing exactly what the pained look on my face means I'm thinking. She's known me long enough to know I immediately go into a downward spiral of despair before any rationality hits.

"Craig must have forgot." Nate sounds annoyed, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he tries to light it. He keeps shifting his weight back and forth, and I'm not sure if it's due to the cold or his aggravation. "I already called him and he damn well forgot to get our reservation. What the hell are we supposed to do now, huh?"

This is so embarrassing.

I know my cheeks are burning, and I rub my arms uncomfortably. We're supposed to be getting famous and this is really a kick to the ego. I think "famous," pretty lightly, but at least well known enough to get into venues on our own.

"Well, don't panic," my roommate purses her lips thoughtfully. "We just have to find a way inside. The bouncer doesn't look like he would be too tough to crack, unless he's gay. Then one of you two is going to have to be bait while the rest of us sneak in."

Nate and Clarke do not look like they agree with her idea, both of their noses curling.

"I am not bait," Nate retorts, smoke drifting in a haze around him. "I would not lower myself to that level, thank you."

He sends all of us an annoyed look, just barely coming to Clarke's shoulder. Clarke always looms over the rest of us --- except tonight Vale is the same height as him and looks just as formidable. They look like people you wouldn't casually approach for directions, especially Clarke with his major RBF.

My eyes flick to the bouncer, and he looks familiar. His back is to us where he stands at the door beneath the light, barring entrance to our future. This man is keeping us from meeting the people that might propel our careers, and I almost didn't like him because of it. I have to remind myself that he's just doing his job, it isn't personal, he has no idea how important this is to us!

But maybe he should.

What if we just reasonably explained who we were, had Craig call their management to straighten this all out, and went from there? That was the most logical answer, and of course it would work; we don't have to seduce the bouncer, lure him and knock him out in an alley like Vale is trying to convince is our next course of action.

"Why don't we just tell him what's going on?" I suggest, giving them my idea. They have to concede it's the best course of action, and Clarke agrees with me even if Vale thinks I'm ruining all the fun. Our bassist turns away to call our manager, who's definitely in the dog house right now despite getting us this gig.

"Okay, why don't you go up to talk to him and tell him what's up?" Nate urges, and I give him a horrified look as I realize he's talking to me.

"What? Why me?" I cross my arms uncomfortably, but I'm starting to feel awkward standing out here with them like this. I feel like everyone has to know about our predicament, how embarrassing it is for us!

My cheeks are starting to get hot, and I rub my arms nervously.

"Because you're our frontperson, aren't you? They'll recognize you before they do the rest of us." he points out, but I absolutely do not like the idea! They know how I am about talking to people, I use an app to order all my takeout for goodness sake! I might be trying to get famous, but it's not because I want to really be that sociable.

"Probably not, no one will recognize me," I mumble, shaking my head quickly. "We're not that well known yet, yknow? Vale would have a better ---."

"Vale is currently cussing out Craig and is going to cause us a scene if we don't go in already," the drummer grumbles, both of us looking over where Clarke and Vale stand, her hissing into his cellphone where he holds it between them. I can only imagine Craig's apologetic tone.

Oh man.

I sigh, but one of us is going to have to go up there. I cast a glance at the long line of people streching down the row behind the red rope before disappearing around the block. If we waited in line like everyone else, we'd be hours getting inside!

I take a deep breath, exhaling against the anxiety. Well, I can do this. I can approach this man and ask very nicely that he let us in because our business associates are waiting to meet us and he is not going to be the reason we turn into one hit wonders to be forgotten about! Or, god forbid, our music is just played in commercials and we get associated with some type of biscuit for the rest of our career.

I cringe at the thought.

I take a deep breath before starting forward. I avert my gaze from the long line of people I'm brazenly walking past, hoping I'm not about to embarrass myself. I can see some of them cutting their eyes at me, there's no telling how long they've been waiting outside to get into this club. I can already hear the music, it's like the walls are thrumming, the concrete beneath my boots pounding with the beat.

It's muffled, but it makes me wonder how loud it is inside.

I make it to the front of the line, but the bouncers back is to me as he lets someone in the door.

"Excuse me," I start, trying to not sound as nervous as I feel. I'm supposed to be confident, I represent my band after all, so cool and sophisticated is supposed to be a given. If it wasn't for the fact I'm incredibly clumsy and socially awkward, my appearance at least would give off that vibe.

The bouncer turns to glance at me, and I blink as I recognize him.

"Liliya?" Alexei sounds surprised, but I'm probably the last person he ever expected to see tonight.

I smile at him, relaxing a little bit. "Hey, Alexei. It's been a while, huh?"

"A while? Years!" He reaches forward, grasping and squeezing my hand tightly. His Russian accent is still heavy on his words, but his English is good now. My family is originally from Russia, but came here before I was born; a lot of my older brothers still have the accent just like my mother and cousins on her side. "You've grown so much, I almost didn't recognize you!"

Not being recognized as the sad sop from before is probably the best compliment he could have given me. I hate the thought of how I was before I was able to escape my family, my life in that small town --- he probably remembers the girl who wouldn't make eye contact and would barely speak a word. It took me a long time to get out of that, and I'm happier with how I am now.

I'm not so afraid anymore.

"I thought you were going back home," I say after a moment, glancing him up and down. Still thick brown hair, broad shoulders and tall. He's shaved his beard, and he looks rather formiddable in his black t shirt and jeans; standard bouncer, he fits the part.

"I extended my visa to stay longer. I am here on weekends for extra money. How are you doing, Liliya? How is your music?" He questions, completely ignoring the complaining crowd that's wanting to go inside.

My eyes flick to where my band is gathered a ways down, staring intently and waiting for some kind of signal. Should I start waving my arms frantically or something, is that the cue that it's safe to come in?

"It's going pretty well so far. My band is just down there," I gesture at them pointedly. "We're actually supposed to be meeting a fellow band inside, Black Veil Brides?"

I hate that I end on a question, like I'm not really sure if I'm supposed to go in or not. Alexei either doesn't notice or ignores it, he just nods his head. It's kind of nice to see him, a cousin that I actually liked; he was always nice to me, always laughing or having a good time despite my mothers stern and serious demeanor. He didn't let her damper his happiness.

"Oh, yes, I let them in twenty minutes ago. They mentioned something about meeting someone. Come," Alexei tugs on the red velvet rope, waving his beefy hand at my band, who hastily scurries forward; I can see the relief on all of their faces.

Maybe one embarrassing moment can be missed for us?

"Thank you, Alexei," I say as they hastily file past me through the black scratched door, Vale sending me a curious look. "I'm glad I ran into you, too!"

"You must keep in touch more. Here," He reaches into his shirt pocket, pulling out a business card. I glance at it before slipping it into my backpocket, seeing how nice and sleek it looks. "If you need me, you reach me. I'm here for a few more months before I must extend visa again."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you," I say, giving him another smile before I step through the black door and into the darkness of the club.

This is the first time family has ever done anything for me.

~~~~~~

"How the hell did you manage to get us in, Leah?" Nate asks as he falls into step beside me, casually slipping his arm over my shoulder. I let him pull me to his side, my hand pressing lightly against his lower back; he really didn't need to wear that much cologne. "That was badass! I thought for sure we were gonna get stuck outside."

"Oh, I knew the bouncer, he's my cousin." I explain after a moment, my cheeks heating. We're going through a dark hallway, but I can just dimly see the door at the end, lights strobing underneath, and already the music is so loud I'm having to almost shout. I figure once we get inside we won't be able to hear anything at all.

Vale kicks open the door rather roughly, and I cringe as the music hits us full force. It's obnoxiously loud and my ears immediately ache from the bass. I can feel it through the floor, and the heat of the room! It's intense.

I can see where we have to go down a flight of stairs to get to a platform that leads to the bar, and a few more steps until you reached the club floor. The place is packed with people, dancing, drinking, having a good time. I wish I could relax like them, throw my hands carelessly in the air and just jump to the beat of the music.

Vale states I'm high strung all the time, kicking myself in the shin by looking for the next disaster instead of enjoying the current peace. She's not wrong, but I don't know how else to be. I annoy myself sometimes, and I wish I could change, but it would be a hard habit to drop.

"There's the guys," Vale shouts after a moment, and I follow her pointing finger across the room. I don't know how she knows it's them, everyone looks the same to me. Maybe it's the goggle of groupies crowding around the VIP area in their tiny dresses and glowing neon jewelry; how were we supposed to get past that? We're probably not even going to be able to get into the VIP area!

"Let's go, they probably think we're ditching them with how late we are," Clarke says, and I cringe. Thirty minutes past our meeting time, I hate that. I'm so weird about being punctual.

I latch tightly onto Vale, not wanting to get separated. I have a harder time keeping up with her longer strides, I almost feel childish clinging to her as we descend the metal steps. She squeezes my hand comfortingly, Nate and Clarke falling into step behind me.

I'm not quite sure how we all manage to stay together through the crowd, I'm pretty sure Clarke has a tight grip on Nate's collar to keep him from straying; no doubt he's already spying potential conquests for the night, and I roll my eyes at the thought. I'm starting to think that's all that goes through his head, he never takes anything seriously, at all! It drives me absolutely nuts, it's like he doesn't care!

Vale suddenly stalls in front of me, and I thoughtlessly step up beside her, seeing we've reached the impenetrable throng of groupies. There's a few guys mixed in, all talking excitedly out of reach of the red rope separating them from the VIP section. I wish I could lean around them, just wave and they part like the red sea so I could get where I needed to be.

How annoying.

"Excuse me," Vale says impatiently, boldly stepping forward. One of the girls glances at her, but hastily steps out of her way when she sees Vale isn't playing around. I know Clarke is looming behind me, and we all follow Vale forward, making sure to avoid all eye contact. I'm shorter than both of them, so I try to hunker between them so no one really notices me.

It's usually not too hard, but they're eyeballing us, and for some reason I have the feeling we've been recognized. If they're saying something I can't hear it over the obnoxious music, and I'm more than relieved when the bodyguard lording over the velvet rope opens it so we can step into the most peaceful section of any nightclub I've ever been in.

I let my breath go in relief as we head for where the other band is sitting. They've noticed us, and all of them are straightening, glasses already scattered on the polished black table where they sit.

My eyes flick to Andy instantly, and it's like all my nerves settle in my stomach, twisting it into this tight, awful knot that wants to rise into my throat. I rub my palms nervously against my jeans, hoping they don't want to shake hands.

Black Veil Brides is known for their black hair and bodypaint, the story they tell with their music. Andy, the lead singer, his voice is deep, and I swear when I first heard his music it sent a shiver down my spine. I loved their look, the tattoos, the paint and piercings --- I'm not one much for all the extra paint myself, my skin is too sensitive, but it works for them well enough.

Is it bad I know exactly who each of them are before they introduce themselves?

"You're Escape from Grace, right?" It's CC who greets us as we finally reach the table, rising to his feet. They're all dressed so... normal, kind of like us, and that makes me feel a little better. None of us really look like we're ready to party in a nightclub, except for maybe Nate with his untucked button up shirt and his attention still focused on the party raging a few feet from him.

I glance at Vale as she reaches to shake CC's hand, her lips lifting into a smile. Her hand lingers in his just a few moments longer than necessary before she pulls away, her eyes flicking him over from his tight black jeans to his headband keeping his hair at bay.

"Yeah. I'm Vale, that's Nate, Clarke, and Leah." She introduces us, gesturing with her hand. Andy hasn't really paid us any attention yet, he's draining a beer and leaning back in his chair; from the looks of it, they're all a few drinks in already. I used to watch his music videos and interviews all the time, sigh dramatically when he spoke; I just liked listening to his voice sometimes, I found it soothing. Now... well, considering I'm meeting him, I find it kind of embarrassing.

His black hair used to be really long, but now he'd cut it shorter where it barely fell into his blue eyes, the trademark eyeliner slightly smeared around them making the color stand out a little more. He's cleanshaven, just like the rest of them, and they all have dark hair --- probably dyed, no doubt.

"It's nice to meet you guys. Come on, sit down," Ashley, their bassist, says, gesturing at the empty chairs before us. Vale somehow finds her spot between Nate and Clarke, putting me beside Ashley, who gives me a grin I force myself to return. I squirm nervously in the cushioned chair, clenching my hands in my lap. I'm so not good with meeting new people, I wish I hadn't come. It's like the idea of it sounds good, but when it's actually happening all I want to do is leave.

"I'm glad you guys finally made it. We were starting to think you stood us up," Ashley calls after a moment, and Vale looks apologetic.

"Sorry about that! We got held up at the bouncer --- Leah had a family reunion," she adds hastily, and I'm kind of glad she does. How about we don't let them know we weren't on the list and couldn't even get in, okay? Kind of kills our vibe.

"Family reunion?" Jinxx questions, his hands clasped in front of him. He's their --- well, he does a little of everything. He's the guitarist, violinist, cellist, plays piano --- the man is a plythora of talents that he utilizes almost every show. It's very impressive, actually.

Nate nudges me, and I hesitate; do they really need the details? I mean, is that important? Everyone doesn't have to look at me so expectantly!

"My --- my cousin is the bouncer." I force myself to say after a moment, digging my nails into my palms as I shrug my shoulders. "I haven't seen him in a while, so we had to catch up. Sorry about being late," I say sincerely, glancing around the table. "That's not typical of us."

I want to assure them of that, so they don't think too lowly of us. Ashley is to my right, than Jinxx, and beside him is Jake, their lead guitarist. Andy is beside him, than CC on the edge beside Clarke, who sits stonefaced as always. He could really try to go for a more friendly face.

"How about some more drinks?" Vale suddenly suggests before anyone has a chance to respond, her voice bright. She raises her hand expectantly, and after a moment a frazzled woman manages to make it to our crowded table; really,so many of us shoved together, I feel like I'm melting. It's extremely hot in here!

"Order?" the woman asks, her hair done up in curls and makeup thick around her eyes. She's pretty, French apparently, and I'm not sure how she expects to hear any of us over this cacaponous music; I can't imagine having to work in a place like this.

Everyone rattles off their orders, and her pen moves furiously across her notepad before pausing. She frowns, her eyes raising to glance around the table before she asks us to repeat that one more time. We try one more time, but I can see it on her face; she has no idea.

"Two scotches, another beer, and a martini for her," I say as I halfway turn in my chair, gesturing at Vale. "Just a coke for me, thank you. And don't worry, it's really loud in here, so I don't know how anyone can hear a thing." I add, not wanting her to feel bad. She blinks after me before giving me a smile; she looks relieved.

"Thank you. I'll be right back with your orders." She says before turning, disappearing through the throng of people.

"What magic language did you two just speak?" Ashley asks as I shift, realizing everyone is looking at me. Some of them look surprised, some impressed, and I can feel the heat rising in my face.

"French..?"

"How did you learn French? That was so smooth." He compliments, crossing his arms on the table as he looks at me. I avert my gaze, shrugging my shoulders.

"I was an army brat, I've lived all over the world." I explain when it's obvious no one else is going to say anything. "I can speak a little of this and that."

"You're fluent enough to order alcohol, that's good enough for me." he chuckles, his light voice lilting. He's probably the shortest of the group, with high cheekbones and studs decorating his ears. I think he has his own clothing line now, so he's very successful; him and Nate will get along great when it comes to chasing down the women I'm sure. That's the impression I've always gotten of him, anyway.

I've fangirled enough over this band I feel like I know way too much information.

I glance behind me as the noise increases, seeing that the club is starting to get pretty crowded now. Probably due to the photos of the two bands sitting together I know those groupies have been taking and blasting all over social media. I squirm a little in my chair, listening to everyone attempt to talk and hear each other.

I don't think I'll ever be able to hear again after we leave this place.

"So," Andy speaks for the first time tonight, leaning forward a little as he glances at my band. "What are you guys going to open with at our show?"

Oh, right down to business, okay.

"The Last Song is Ours," Vale answers him easily, steepling her fingers in front of her on the table, lights glinting off her black nail polish. Honestly, she would make a great frontwoman for our band, I wish she was the one with the vocal talents and I could just play guitar. Alas, Vale sounds like a screeching duck with something stuck in its throat when she tries to sing, which is also why she avoids even doing back up vocals.

We all have our strong suits, and that's just not hers.

"It should get the crowd pumped, get them ready for you guys to come on stage." She adds when he doesn't comment. "Have you heard it?"

"I've listened to it, your manager sent us your opening list. It's a good song," Ashley states before Andy can reply. "You can reach some serious heights with that voice, Leah. It's impressive."

"Oh, thanks." I nervously brush a strand of blue hair behind my ear. "It's one of our most popular right now, so it's... uh, it's good."

Oh jeez.

It's good? That's all that I can manage?

I'm so relieved when the waitress is suddenly back with our drinks, sliding them around the table. She gives me a bright smile that I return as I take my drink, deciding to leave a nice tip for her.

"All the drinks are right," Jinxx somehow manages to sound surprised as he glances around.

"Why wouldn't they be?" I blink. I know what they said, I ordered them right.

"Y'know, it's a little loud in here if you guys are wanting to talk business," Vale says loudly as a rumble of bass manges to shake the icecubes in my coke. "Why don't we blow this place? It's a little crowded anyway."

Oh yes please. The heat in this room is murder!

"I know a food place a few blocks out, I'm starving anyway. We should be able to hear each other there anyway," Ashley suggests immediatley, already rising to his feet. I blink as he offers his hand to me, and reluctantly I let him help me to my feet; why does he keep paying me so much attention? Vale has been the one leading all the conversations.

"Sounds good to me. Let's get out of here," Clarke says in agreement, his arm coming to rest around my shoulder almost protectively. I glance up at him, but his square jaw is set, and I think he's actually annoyed --- it's hard to tell, since he always looks that way. "Food sounds nice."

Ashley raises his perfectly done brows, raising his hands as if acknowledging --- wait a minute.

Was he trying to flirt with me and I didn't know it? He's barely said a few sentences to me, Clarke doesn't have to baby sister me all of a sudden!

Although, I don't really mind. He's looking out for me, and at least that'll get Ashley to lose all interest, too. I'm not interested in any sort of romantic relationship, probably ever. I'm quite fine with our music being our focus, the driving force in my life right now.

Although --- no, no brain, none of that. No excuses. You can ogle but not touch, I tell myself as Andy brushes past me.

To be honest, I'm kind of disappointed meeting them. Everyone seems friendly but him, and he was who I was so excited to meet in person. Maybe when we're out of the club, it'll be different. Sometimes it's just the environment.

Vale would tell me not to make excuses for him, and I know she's irritated as she stogs after the other band. It takes us a good bit to make it across the club and up the stairs, mostly because the bodyguards have to clear the groupies out of the way. I'm kind of surprised when they even look excitedly at us, that we're --- well, someone recognized our band!

It's nice, and a pretty damn good feeling to not feel so insignificant, too!

It makes me stand a little straighter, walk with a little more pride.

Even if Andy isn't into us opening for us, at least I know our music is good. We've worked so hard to claw our way this far, and just that one girl gasping at us, squealing when she realized who we were --- that's enough for me to know we're worthy of this.

This is our opportunity, and we're going to do so damn well that Black Veil Brides will be opening for us one day, I'm sure of it!

I also know that when they do, I won't have such a pissy attitude meeting them, either.

#bvb #blackveilbridesfanfiction #black veil brides #andy biersack #andy black #andy biersack bvb #andy biersack x oc #andy black x oc

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rethesun · 3 years

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Is there a name for middle lane larries?

Topic: An opinion on larry

I think there is substantial compelling evidence, but I'm not 100% convinced that there is still something but it’s possible there is we just don’t see.

If someone calls me a larrie, it's not insulting at all, but if someone were to call me an anti i’d be sad, honestly. Below I say many things that make it seem like I negatively judge hardcore larries, but I don't. I find it extraordinary that people can be so brave and sure of themselves, and I wish I could be too. I tend to get along with larries, while I mostly avoid antis unless they manage to be respectful, which is unfortunately quite rare.

I think it's practically effortless to get toxic when trying to prove or disprove things. I think it's dehumanizing and feels stressful to me as a fan. Therefore I can only imagine the difficulty and what it takes for people in a position of fame to get to a place of inner strength and resilience where the millions of opinions of the world don't affect them as much. It's sometimes hard to judge/differentiate what is and isn't disrespectful, and it hurts terribly to know I'm crossing boundaries. So I'm putting my opinion together in hopes it isn't as counterproductive or pointless as it feels.

I'm not at all trying to convince anyone of a narrative to sway people to believe or not believe. What and how much you know and where you "stand" is down to you.

Do I believe in larry?

First and foremost, being a fan of someone means supporting that person without expecting anything from them. It means any fan theory isn't crucial. What’s important is just supporting them as is, as an individual. It means caring about how the person may feel about things more than caring about how I feel about things that aren't my business in the first place.

That said, here is my not long-awaited opinion.

I think there is substantial compelling evidence, but I'm not 100% convinced that there is still something but it’s possible there is we just don’t see. I will not disregard what Harry and Louis said back in the day and pretend they had nothing when at the very least, Harry said it on video directly twice. Yes, he was a kid, but people will decide Harry is with a skinny blonde woman older than him for much less, so I don't take what he said as a platonic joke. However, I try to be as realistic as possible. As an outsider, it's not easy for my brain to conclude on most things. However, this doesn't mean I disregard how bad the industry can be. One big reason is that I don't know any of these people personally, and I want to believe in the best in others. Even though I understand controlling narratives in the industry happens and happened to 1D. I don't know to what extent. It's hard for me to judge that any or all of Harry's "relationships" are fake, and thus, he's had a few "stunt" songs for those relationships, etc. It’s plausible that he wrote female pronouns on a song or a few and the song refers to a man/men but that's far from saying this is a stunt song which would imply an entire fake relationship which is too far for me to say wasn't real as I am just an outsider.

Whether people say it's the fans who say it or the boys behavior, the statement, 'larries ruined their friendship,' is sometimes interpreted as centered around homophobia. I do not see it this way.

However, whether there was or is a relationship, it's entirely reasonable to consider, the circumstances as a whole hurt them and likely the rest of the band in multiple ways that made things really hard. I do not think fans ruined the band or their connections with each other. I think being overworked with little freedom or breaks to discover/express independence were just a few reasons why.

Why I think larry appeared to become distanced to the public eye: 1. Understandably, putting blame on the heteronormative gender restrictive times we were in and still are in. 2. How some fans react to Larry's interactions due to reason number one. Otherwise, all the 1D members, their families, and friends have been honest. That would mean there isn't an elaborate conspiracy; they are just tired of people messing with who they care about and want to live without the harassment. Regardless of whether some fan theories are accurate or not, people in the spotlight and their families deserve peace of mind. They don't deserve to be dehumanized. I wish some fans would understand how wrong it is to swarm people or ask strangers to confirm any personal things. Not only because it's rude and invasive but because of mental health. If that's confusing, imagine if it were you in their position.

I used Zayn's interview because he shared it eloquently while the other mentions that ‘Larry isn't real’ were mostly screen captures of constituents replying impatiently to larry comments on social media saying the Larry thing is delusion and not what real fans do. Zayn in this 2015 fader interview. "There's no secret relationships going on with any of the band members," he explains. "It's not funny, and it still continues to be quite hard for them. They won't naturally go put their arm around each other because they're conscious of this thing that's going on, which is not even true. They won't do the natural behavior." He goes on to add to the statement, "But it's just the way the fans are. They're so passionate, and once they get their head around an idea, that's the way it is regardless of anything. If it wasn't for the passionate, like almost obsession, then we wouldn't have the success that we have." Before the subject changes, Zayn said that fans would find a way to water down what he said and make any excuses, e.g., that he couldn't speak the truth.

I can't speak for anyone but myself. (I’m a queer cis female) I don't think I would want to 'get dragged through a round of 'coming out' press. Why should sexuality be treated as an oddity by the median, and why should queer people have to subject themselves to that treatment?' The amount of coming out stories and things that could follow a person, or the people around, in the aftermath, would be atrocious. People, personally and professionally, may treat you differently after. The queer stereotypes would be exhausting. Also, it's not always as safe sometimes to be out. Whether there was/is a relationship at all between 1D members. “Being open to everyone isn't easy. Now imagine yourself no less human than right now, but add millions of eyes on you. It's insensitive to assume about someone when they could be doing their best/what is comfortable—please let's stop invalidating what we don't understand.”

Zayn's career connects to Hollywood, and he’s in the spotlight so it's not easy to suddenly believe everything I hear and see is the truth just because someone like him said it. However, at the same time, it's rather discomforting for me to disregard and look into everything people like Zayn or his constituents say. I want to believe the best in people and sympathize and “back him up” in a sense. It's also way to hard to believe all things other fans say because we are passionate and obsessed, so there is confirmation bias.

Do I concretely believe anything?

Yes, but those things don't directly confirm or deny anything especially Larry.

I believe the boys were responsible for RBB & SBB.

I have some reason to believe the song Carolina could be about experimentation with drugs since Johnny Cash's Cocaine-Carolina song is plausibly similar. Also, it's not uncommon if you're wealthy or famous to experiment with drugs, including harmful drugs; the environment can make it more accessible and normalized. I don't condone drug abuse; I hope Harry is wise enough not to make it a reoccurring thing. I want him naturally happy and healthy, but it's not my life, and I don't know him to have any right in making that call. I trust from Harry's character and what he said in his Zane Lowe interview that he knows better. However, the song Carolina might be about Townes or maybe it's both, I have no clue.

I believe SOTT is about "fundamentals" like Harry said it is, not just from the perspective of 'a mother telling the child to go forth and conquer.' I notice some people readily look over the childbirth story, saying 'it makes no sense,' but it can easily coincide with fundamentals, "Equal rights for everyone, all races sexes, everything." Check out this in depth lyric analysis?

I think most of us know and support that Harry is a proud member of the community. If he wasn’t he’d just say that.

I think maybe COAC and SOTT may have been collaborative. There are multiple writers on both songs and if it’s possible to have a ghost writer then I say it's plausible they chose to write them similarly.

I think Louis possibly queer codes. Straight people don’t queer code so you might think it’s queer baiting but I don’t think someone sick of gay rumors would go that route. Either that, or he's a passionate and sympathetic ally.

However, Louis is still "with" E. From a perspective of committed fans, it doesn't look like a sincere relationship. As an outsider, again, it feels far too presumptuous for me to have a B&W opinion.

It seems that adults with somewhat official platforms let rumors run rampant, and not many grown adults of the time seemed to correct or silence it. I should have said this early and cannot stress this enough, ANYONE who is not the Louis Tomlinson or in his family tree is in no way an official source. If they're acting like they know things (not just reporting on what's happening), they were/are either trolling or want people to freak out for clout. Being led astray by people looking to capitalize on fans is always a danger. It's insensitive, inappropriate, and unprofessional, but it happened. I am surprised by that and that 1D's management didn't try to protect Louis and his image more. I’m not an insider able to judge him negatively or to overanalyze the situation. So I won't assume he's not a dad, and I hope he's doing well.

(About the above paragraph about Louis this is an update after the original post I made to say I don't have a further developed opinion because I never looked into it and don't know if I will so don't hold that against me please I just personally don't feel like it’s a thing I need to do and I know larries don’t appreciate when non-larries make comments on things without thoroughly looking into things so you won’t see a further opinion from me or judgment unless I do actual research)

In conclusion, and to reiterate, I feel like there is some truth to some things. Again, it feels disrespectful or too presumptuous for me to have many opinions, especially of the negative kind, as an outsider. I don't know any of these people personally, and I want to believe in the best in others. I am not harshly judging things because I don't have a complete story or the right to. However, this doesn't mean I disregard how bad the industry can be to people in multiple ways.

As fans, we can do much better. It's not unreasonable to wish people didn't constantly objectify/sexualize people with fame and didn't harass them/their families about fan theories. Also, always wanting something from these people and expecting them to fulfill god-like expectations as if they don't go through the same human experience and aren't completely flawed like the rest of us, or stalking them—something sick and a behavior that's saddening and disgusting. Real fans just leave them be to live their lives. Please call out stalking and discourage it if you notice it. Overall, I think we can all be a bit more respectful and understanding or try to make an effort. I'm not a superfan, but I'd like to be genuine and not a reason why these people dislike being in the spotlight. I feel like that means being as grounded, realistic, and sensitive about how these people may feel about things more than caring about how I feel about things that aren't my business in the first place. It ultimately means any fan theory isn't crucial. What’s important is just supporting them as is, as individual.

[#’s are for exposure and may not correlate]

#larry #music industry #1d #fans #one direction #harry styles #liam payne #nial horan #zayn mailk #louis tomilson #an opinion on larry #rethesun #source: me

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alottanothing · 4 years

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Left to Ruin: Chapter Eleven

Summary: Ahkmenrah struggles with the aftermath of his confrontation with Nouke. Setshepsut is at last found, and the pharaoh puts Kahmunrah in his place.

Previous Chapters

Word Count: 7805

Warnings: Mentions of torture, abuse, and blood.

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe, @r-ahh-mi, @theultraviolencefan, @hah0106, @rami-malek-trash, @diasimar, @sherlollydramoine, @flipper-kisses, @ivy-miranda-2390, @txmel, @sunkissedmikky, @concentratedsassandcandy, @babyalienfairy, @edteche2 (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: Ooooo this chapter! I’m so excited this chapter is finally being posted! This one was one of my top 3 favorites to write, the emotion in it is just.....I just love it. I hope you all do too. Thanks again, SO MUCH for your comments and likes and reblogs. The tiniest nugget validation feeds my motivation. Again, as a disclaimer, I am not an ancient Egyptian expert and google only knows so much. So yeah, I took so historical liberties while writing this to make my life easier, but tried to keep it as “authentic” as possible

For three days, the pharaoh's men searched Waset for traces of his missing queen without the benefit of insight. Setshepsut had left no note or sign that could hint at where she may have run to. And by the second day with no answers, Ahkmenrah felt pressured to enlist Kahmunrah's help to find her, even when he knew his brother would not heed is want for discretion and mercy. Ahk hated having to rely on a band of mercenaries—they’d left the palace with fiendish smiles and hollow assurances that left a sick feeling in the pharaoh’s gut that was impossible to ignore. Desperation was the only thing keeping the pharaoh from calling them back. He needed to find the sister that he promised to always protect. He needed to find her so he could apologize for the things that caused her to run away. He needed to know she was safe.

Those few days were the longest Ahkmenrah ever remembered having to endure. He’d found no rest, plagued to the brim with worry and guilt while his sorrow festered until it ate away every remaining glint of happiness left inside of him. The fact that he hurt not only one person with his heedless words (or lack of them, too) left the pharaoh feeling as though he deserved to live in this misery he had stirred for the rest of his days.

He cowered behind his crown and golden robes; Setshepsut would never have done something so shameful. She harbored bravery he did not, and he was envious of that courage. She cared little for her station and the responsibilities that went alongside it—running away for her was undoubtedly an easy decision. Ahk could only bring himself to throw caution to the wind and free himself from the golden shackles of his birth for no more than an evening, maybe two.

He admired Set's tenacity. All it had taken was an exchange of misinterpreted words for her to chase the freedom she desired. Ahk’s adventurous spirit longed to be so bold, but his level mind knew there was too much at stake for him to be so selfish.

And Nouke—his heart ached.

Nouke, Ahk feared, would never see him in the same light again. All their time together since they were children he had shown her nothing but friendship and kindness. Letting her believe he thought of her as a second prize was cruel. She had always been his only one, and he didn’t tell her.

Ahkmenrah’s mind was so turbulent that evening when she’d come to him. The concern for his missing sister clouded his better judgment and forced him to crave distraction. He’d wanted so much to drown the guilt and worry with selfish pleasure—not once stopping to think how Nouke might interpret his intimacy. And like a coward, he froze when she demanded an explanation—too afraid to come clean of the lies he and Setshepsut had sold to all of Egypt for nearing six years.

Would she have stayed if he admitted his fervent desire to have her that night was more than a way to subdue the guilt he felt for chasing away his sister? Perhaps, but only once he’d confessed his plan to break his union with Setshepsut. It would have been so easy if he’d only said those words. She would have stayed, and the emptiness he felt would be significantly less crippling with her by his side while men searched to bring his sister home.

Ahkmenrah spent the majority of the time it took to find his sister in his chamber or at prayer in the temple to ensure no one bothered him. Matters with the council and all his other responsibilities went forward without his guidance—Merenkahre stepping in, and Ahk was thankful. Even his meals he took in the solitude of his room. Kamuzu was the only one who stuck with him threw it all, silent and observing.

It was evening when servants brought the pharaoh his dinner plate—quiet as a whisper. Golden rays spilled into the chamber as Ra’s light sank into the horizon beyond the open balcony, but neither the radiance nor the fruitful plate in front of him drew a reaction. He did little more than glance at the existence of each.

“You must eat, my king,” Kamuzu encouraged in a gentle but stern tone.

A mirthless smile curled Ahkmenrah’s lips as a sardonic chuckle echoed in the stillness of the room, his eyes falling to the tray of food.

“King?” he chided, mostly to himself, listless eyes passing a leer to his crown perched on the table next to his dinner.

A deep breath filled his lungs, and his nostrils flared when he exhaled forcefully with discontent. Idle hands tore pieces of bread from his plate; Ahkmenrah chewed and swallowed before he spoke again.

“I am no king, Kamuzu.” He kicked out the empty chair across the way with his foot, gesturing with a pointed wave for his guardian to join.

Kamuzu blinked at the informal invitation with hesitation but abided without an utterance. His dark eyes stayed trained on the pharaoh, watchful, and concerned.

Ahk sipped hungrily from his goblet until it was dry. He craved the dull senses several cupfuls brought and was quick to pour himself another.

“You’re all I have left.” Ahkmenrah filled a second chalice as he spoke and slid it across the table with enough force the dark liquid splashed and stained his fingers.

Kamuzu nodded his thanks as he took the cup, but refrained from sipping.

“You have many people, my king,” he assured Ahkmenrah.

The pharaoh wrinkled his nose in disagreement, taking another long gulp before shaking his head.

“No,” he insisted. “My father as my mother—and she, him. I have four sisters, three of whom have their husbands and their families. Kahmunrah has that band of men who do everything he says…”

Ahk took another drink and sneered thinking about his brother, “…I’ve not known him to want much more than people to boss around...And Set?”

He paused, feeling guilt stab and twist into his stomach as he recalled the tone in her voice the last time they’d spoken—how broken it was. Ahkmenrah stole another long swig hoping to chase away the sudden pain.

“Set took what she wanted. I commend her for that,” Ahk said pragmatically. “Bravery to laugh duty in the face.”

He sighed and raised his goblet, as though he were making a toast, “As for me—I have all of Egypt.”

There was practically nothing in his tone, yet the pharaoh felt everything as he finished another cupful—oh how he wanted to feel nothing.

Ahkmenrah’s eyes fixated on his mostly untouched meal as loneliness threatened to overwhelm him. He could feel Kamuzu’s gaze and when he risked meeting it, tears began to prickle. A sigh shook a chill down his spine and Ahk struggled to swallow the abrupt lump in his throat.

“How can I have an entire nation and feel so alone?”

A single tear began to slide down his cheek, but Ahkmenrah caught it, brushing it away with the back of his hand and a sniffle. An eerie quiet crept into the room that was too similar to the one the night Nouke had left him. It worked under the pharaoh's skin as he stared into the middle distance while his mind pondered and screamed to him every horrible thing he had ever done. Then, without warning, he blinked out of it.

Ahkmenrah stood, gripping the edge of the table when the room began to spin slightly from the sudden rush and the alcohol in his system. Kamuzu stood too, suddenly alert. The pharaoh cleared his throat and gathered himself, meeting the Medjay’s gaze.

“Thank you,” he forced out in a bravado that was more or less kingly. “I’m tired, Kamuzu. You may go.”

Kamuzu offered a respectful bow and made for the doors. He stopped; however, before he left, hand on the door, as he turned back to face the pharaoh.

“May I speak freely, my king?”

“Always,” Ahkmenrah nodded, meeting his guardian’s gaze, finding his vision fuzzy on account of the number of drinks he’d had.

“You have not lost her."

Ahkmenrah blinked and his brow furrowed, “Who?”

Kamuzu cast him a gentle, knowing smile, “Rest well, my king.”

With the aid of one more cupful, Ahkmenrah did find himself in a deep dreamless sleep that was a welcome reprieve. He woke, however, with a pulsing between his temples and the stale taste of alcohol on his tongue.

It took several minutes before Ahk could open his eyes completely without going blind. The amount of light cascading into his chamber meant the morning was in its adolescence. No one had bothered to wake him—evidence that there was still no word on his sister’s whereabouts. The new, ever-present, sense of dread dug a little deeper as he rubbed his temples in an attempt to allay the pounding in his head.

Day’s end would mark four since Setshepsut had gone. The thought was enough to strike fear into Ahkmenrah’s heart. If she wasn’t’ found, he hoped it was because she and her lover had found passage out of the city, safely, and not because she was in danger.

Not knowing plagued him the most.

He cared not that she ran. There was a warmhearted solace in the thought that she was miles down the Nile on her way to the life she yearned for. Ahk only ever wanted her to be happy and if that meant she never stepped foot in the palace again, he could live with that, as long as she was safe. Gods, I hope she is safe…

Despite his restful sleep, Ahkmenrah was still exhausted from carrying the weight of his rampant emotions. Eventually, he worked himself from his bed and dressed for the day, forgoing most of his usual kingly attire. Instead, he dressed only in his ankle-length shendyt, it’s adjoining belts, and a more simplistic wekesh.

The relaxed finery granted him the solitude as he walked that his churning mind needed. The sights of his chamber had grown tiresome. Ahkmenrah spent the remainder of the morning and into the late afternoon roaming the halls with heedless steps, venturing blindly while his mind wandered.

When the late afternoon began to stretch into the early evening, the pharaoh’s feet were worn almost to the point of blistering. His feet ached but his thoughts were still teaming, needing quiet focus for him to fully make sense of them all.

Ahkmenrah found himself in the spacious quiet of the throne room, Kamuzu and several Medjay guards his only audience. The high seat of the pharaoh felt odd without his usual ornamentation to weigh him down. Nevertheless, he remained, too worn to move until he felt rested. He slouched into the gilded chair, unable to find a more comfortable position.

There was a reverence to the throne room that his own chamber held no more. Ahkmenrah sought to absorb that peace wholly, begging it sink into his overburdened mind and put to rest some of his strife. He let his eyes fall closed—blessedly only empty black stared back, and he surrendered to it. Ahk settled there, floating in an inky abyss somewhere within the depths of his own psyche, finding the stillness he craved. Hours, or perhaps only minutes had passed before the echo of heavy doors opening drew him from the quiet.

Alarm jolted him back to the plight of his reality with a few swift blinks and a frown.

“The guards said they thought you wandered in here.”

The sound of his mother’s voice filled the room warmly, chasing away the glower on Ahkmenrah’s face.

“When your father told me you missed yet another council meeting I knew I had to find you.” Her words echoed gently within the walls and tall ceiling as she crossed the length of the room.

Ahkmenrah shifted in his chair, situating himself into a more respectable posture for a king, but said nothing, still overly focused on his misgivings to speak.

A compassionate smile pressed onto his mother's wide lips, and the beads in her black hair rattled as she shook her head with a sigh.

“You may be a king, but to me, you will always be my sweet boy,” she said gently brushing fingers through his curls in an attempt to tame them. “Tell me what it is that troubles you so.”

Her hand fell to tilt his chin so his eyes met hers.

Ahkmenrah shrugged and looked away, “I’m just worried about Setshepsut, mother.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, but his tone gave him away. His mother was much too wise not to take notice.

Shepseheret nodded and perched herself on the wide arm of the pharaoh’s throne.

“Yes, I do see that. There is something more—your heart aches. But not—I think—for your sister,” she paused and tried to smooth out his curls again. “Help me to understand this.”

When he chanced meeting her gaze, the sense of loneliness began to melt away under the warmth of her expression. Ahk’s body relaxed knowing he could let his guard down; he didn’t have to be a king to his mother, and the realization almost sent a wave of tears spilling down his cheeks.

“There’s so much to say,” he said, unable to fully combat the wave of hesitance; five years of a charade to confess to and more.

“Tell me,” Shepseheret urged softly.

With a shaky exhale, Ahkmenrah built up the courage to confess, wanting only to say the right words to ensure he hurt no others.

“Set and I…” he sighed again. “We haven’t been—we don’t. We do not love each other in the way a husband and wife should love one another. Our entire union has been an act.”

There was something profound in saying those words out loud and for a moment, he felt lighter than air. The weight of their secret no longer held him to the ground.

Ahkmenrah paused long enough to gauge his mother’s expression and found only softness on her features. It was her kindness and openness that fostered the rest of the courage he needed to profess all that plagued him.

“All these years we’ve been spending our nights together talking or playing Senet, or simply hating what is expected of us….” It was a miracle neither of them resented each other after so much time forced with each other. Ahkmenrah was glad for that.

A hint of sadness ghosted over Shepseheret’s face. She said nothing for a long time until finally, she sighed.

“I know.”

“You know?” Ahkmenrah’s brow furrowed, mouth open slightly with shock.

“I’ve known for some time, actually,” his mother confessed, looking somewhat ashamed.

“I don’t understand.” Ahk couldn’t look away, searching for an explanation in her features.

“Who do you think put the idea of a second wife for you into your father’s head,” she said with a twinge of pride. It faded quickly when Ahkmenrah’s bewilderment didn’t diminish

“Why?” he asked.

The slight look of sadness returned to his mother’s kind smile, “I had hoped having someone of your own would bring you joy.”

Ahkmenrah’s focus fell back to the stone floor, doing his best to digest all the new information. There was hardly space in his mind to store and properly process such things.

“So you knew about Set and Satauhotep?” he asked, skimming through the web in his head to find the right questions to ask.

“I knew she had someone, but not who,” she nodded.

Ahkmenrah thought a moment, sifting through more of his laden thoughts trying to decide which confession he wanted to bring up next.

“It’s my fault Set ran away.”

“How so?” his mother’s brow creased.

“Do you remember Nouke?” Saying her name was like a knife in his heart.

Shepseheret grinned as her eyes sparkled with fond memories.

“Of course. She always had you wrapped around her finger.”

“Still, it seems,” he admitted.

There was so much to tell his mother. He wanted to start at the beginning: about how Kahmunrah had wronged Nouke and her family, forcing them to leave without a good-bye. Another time, he thought. There was little that could be done about the past, what mattered then was the present.

“She came back to the palace asking for my help—”

“And did you help her?”

“Without question,” Ahk said. “And during those few hours of being with her again, I found joy the likes of which I don’t ever recall feeling.”

A glad smile drew tightly onto his mother’s face, but there was still a hint of puzzlement creasing her brow.

“And how does that make you responsible for your sister running away to be with the man she loves?”

Guilt churned in Ahkmenrah’s stomach with a sickening slosh.

“I promised her that when I found a new bride, I would release her, so she could be with Satauhotep. But I misspoke, and I didn’t catch it. So she took matters into her own hands.”

“I see,” Shepseheret spoke, taking a moment to consider his confession. “But don’t you think Setshepsut should hold some of the fault as well? She should have asked the meaning of your words.”

Ahkmenrah had not considered that. However, he still felt as though he alone was responsible.

“There’s more though, I think,” his mother said, searching his expression.

Ahk nodded and the words forming on his tongue rose with a sour taste, causing him to frown.

“My carelessness was the same with Nouke. Although, that fault does lie with only me,” he said. “She questioned my meaning and I said nothing. Now I’ve lost her also.”

His mother was quiet a long time before she cast him a smile, shaking her head.

“My dearest son,” she chided gently. “My sweet, Ahkmen. Sulking around these halls will not heal your injured heart. Go to her. Speak with her the words you couldn’t before. You will only lose her if you allow yourself to.”

It wouldn’t be so easy. He hurt her, truly hurt her. Still, Ahkmenrah exhaled as he turned his mother’s notions over and over in his mind.

“I fear she now only sees me as her pharaoh,”

“You are a pharaoh,” his mother interjected. “And as pharaoh, no one holds the power to tell you whom you can and cannot marry, no matter their station—noble or otherwise, you can have whomever you desire. You may have one wife, or you may have ten. A hundred women in your harem or none. This world is yours; you need only the courage to reach out and take whatever it is your heart yearns to hold.”

All at once, Ahkmenrah’s trepidation folded in on itself collapsing under the weight of his mother’s wisdom, and left a hole that renewed hope rushed to fill. The sensation spurred him to his feet and in a fluid movement, he threw his arms around his mother so quickly she hardly had time to stand.

Her gleefully surprised chuckle enveloped him with a tingling warmth, prompting a smile to spread across his face, feeling joy he thought he may never again find.

“Thank you, mother, for your wise counsel.” He squeezed her tight and kissed her cheek.

She hummed pulling away, caressing both sides of his face with her hands, kissing his forehead.

“The gods were unusually kind to give me you. It honors me to share what wisdom Thoth has granted me.”

Ahkmenrah was about to return her sentiment when the throne room doors burst open without warning.

The thunderous reverberation in the grand hall was startling, causing their eyes to glance in alarm to find an array of mercenary guards flooding into the room with Kahmunrah at their lead, adorned proudly in his golden armor, as though he’d just returned from battle with a prize. In his iron-clad grip, dragging behind him, was Setshepsut. Her clothes were tattered and ripped at the hem—ankles bloodied from being hauled like a hunter's kill. Set’s lip bled from a cut, evidence that proved she had not let Kahmunrah take her without a fight.

Beyond his brother, Ahkmenrah made out Satauhotep in chains, beaten and bloody. A large gash on his head spilled a crimson line down the contours of his face, his bare torso bruised.

The sight worked through Ahk in a wave of rage and horror as Kahmunrah approached—his grin wickedly pleased—with a hubris so powerful it stuck in the air making the pharaoh's anger more intense.

Kah tossed Setshepsut at his feet with no small air of pride, as though she were a trophy to be revered. Ahk’s mouth hung open; the rush of words he wanted to scream stuck to his dry tongue, compiling until he was able to sift through each, granting him the wisdom to force out the calmest reaction he could manage. He exhaled slowly, swallowing the superfluous words, and blinked until the shaken reality settled around him.

“What is the meaning of this, Kahmunrah?” The pharaoh winced inwardly when his voice sounded more terrified then calm—least of all demanding.

“My men found your queen in bed with another man,” Kah threw an errant wave of his hand towards Satauhotep.

The black of Kahmunrah’s eyes met Ahk’s with a fiendish delight that was unnerving to behold. He was proud to have beaten and abused them.

“She has betrayed you, little brother. An insidious crime that is punishable by death,” Kah reminded him.

Ahk stood frozen, teeth set firm against each other. His breathing was deep but much too slow for the rapid pace of his heart. The pharaoh’s eyes were locked in quiet rage with his brother.

Setshepsut’s sobs filled the once reverent room upon the proclamation of her pending execution: an array of short pants, sniffs, and choked plea's spilling past her lips. The sound pulled Ahk’s leer away from his brother and to her. Set's own glances teetered from brother to brother, gauging them, before finally she wobbled to her feet and threw her arms around Ahkmenrah’s shoulders.

She clung to him as though he was all that was keeping her bound to the earth. Without hesitation, Ahk’s arms circled her trembling frame protectively, while she cried against his chest.

“I’m sorry Ahkmen! Please, have mercy! Forgive me, p-please”

All the anger writhing inside of Ahk subsided; his need to console his sister immensely stronger at that moment. He kept her close, smoothing her disheveled hair.

“Shh,” he murmured. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

He pulled away just enough to meet her gaze, her dark eyes shimmering with tears.

“You’re safe now, Set,” Ahk promised. “I promise”

A breath of relief shook her, and she tried to smile but couldn’t. Then she nodded when words failed to form.

Ahkmenrah kissed her forehead and passed her to his mother’s protective arms, minding the bruises beginning to form on the upper part of her arm from where Kahmunrah had sunk his claws into her.

The moment he saw Set safe with their mother, the fire reignited and his blood boiled. Venom coated every word that left his mouth, no longer burdened with the heaviness of horror that belittled his tone moments ago. A hatred sank into his bones, and for the first time, he was able to meet his brother’s cold eyes with an icy reflection.

“I should have you stripped of every title—every non-tangible thing that keeps that arrogant smirk on your face. You would be nothing without what I have graciously bestowed upon you.”

Never had Ahk seen Kahmunrah’s smile melt so quickly into a frown—one of equal rage and confusion. His teeth ground together as he furrowed his brow, his nostrils flaring like an angry ox.

“Am I to understand that I will be punished for bringing this traitor to your attention?” Kahmunrah stepped forward as if to provoke a challenge. Ahk did the same; the gap between them no more than an arm's length.

Suddenly, he missed the benefit of his crown and golden capes that made him feel like the king he was. Still, Ahk squared his shoulders and raised his chin.

“She is the queen,” he hissed through his teeth.

Kahmunrah’s nose wrinkled with a sneer as he threw an angry finger in Setshepsut’s direction.

“That unfaithful snake is no queen!”

Before Kah could manage another word, Ahkmenrah sent his fist into his brother’s jaw with as much force and as much dedication he could muster. The power surprised them both; Ahkmenrah almost certain the cracking sound he heard was his own knuckles.

Kahmunrah stumbled, teetering on uneven feet as Ahkmenrah mentally waged how badly his hand would ache once the adrenaline stopped surging through him like fire. The abrupt assault was met with the lot of Kah’s men stepping forward with their hands prepared to draw their weapons—ready to defend their master.

Ahkmenrah tilted his head in challenge, shocked any of them would consider brandishing a weapon at their pharaoh. As if spawned from the very walls, a legion of Medjay flanked their king, Kamuzua at their lead and stepping further to fall in line with Ahkmenrah.

When Kah regained his footing, he did so rubbing his jaw and made a show of spitting blood and a piece of broken tooth onto the floor. A wicked grin—impressed to some extent—contorted his face as he raised his hand to signal his men to come to heel, his eyes never leaving Ahkmenrah’s.

“It’s good to know you do have fight in you after all, little brother,” Kah noted, seemingly amused and intrigued by the turn of events.

Ahk’s fists balled at his sides, struggling to quell the want to hit his brother once more for all he had done, both past and present. The ache in his hand, beginning to pulse, however, helped curb his desire. He didn’t want to make it worse.

“You will not address me so informally,” the pharaoh glowered. “I am your king, and in the presence of your men, you will address me as such.”

The snide grin on Kahmunrah’s face faltered back into an irritated frown, “Very well. My king.”

He paused before pointing to Satauhotep.

“The boy then,” Kahmunrah suggested. “If you will not abide by the laws of Egypt—”

“I AM the law in Egypt!” Ahkmenrah warned with a growl.

Kah scoffed, unfazed. “Surely you don’t mean to let them both free?” Kah shook his head disapprovingly, making a tsk sound with his tongue.

“Kill the boy, at least,” he suggested again with a nonchalance that made Ahkmenrah hate his brother even more.

Setshepsut’s sobs filled the air again, more quiet plea’s of forgiveness and mercy.

“Then,” Kah added. “Perhaps your queen will learn her place.”

Ahkmenrah took a step closer to his brother, fire, and rage fueling his every movement and gathered himself to his full height.

“If anyone needs to learn their place, it is you, Kahmunrah.”

In that moment, Ahkmenrah felt three times his size; tall and ominous with a timbre in his voice so sinister he couldn’t completely recognize it as his own. Kah may have been physically larger, but there in the throne room, Ahk saw him no larger than the snake he was.

The bewildered, quiet rage building behind his brother’s eyes was confirmation that he had finally gotten through to him; finally shown Kah, who was king. The notion instilled Ahk with an unfamiliar wave of hubris that he chose to ride for as long as he could. He felt no shame in any of the rage soaked words that spilled from his lips; there was truth in his anger—something carefully harbored and calculated over years of nothing but receiving contempt despite his best efforts to have Kahmunrah as his brother.

Using his fresh wave of confidence, Ahkmenrah stormed past his brother and addressed the regiment of mercenaries.

“You will release this man at once,” Ahk stated calmly to the men securing Satauhotep.

The mercenaries exchanged a glance before throwing their questioning look to Kahmunrah. Ahk stifled his anger and allowed their slight sedition to pass without upheaval.

When Kah nodded, the men surrendered the beaten soldier heedless of his weakened state. He fell forward and Ahk caught him, hastily adjusting his footing to make up for the added weight.

“I’ve got you,” he assured Satauhotep.

From his new vantage point, Ahk found the soldier’s wounds were much worse than he’d initially thought. His back was an angry tangle of bleeding lash marks; his knuckles were a fresco of purple and yellow markings from fighting off his attackers. The cut on his head still bled, and his wrists and ankles were swollen red from the shackles he wore. The entire sight made Ahkmenrah sick, feeling slightly responsible. He never should have asked Kah to help him find his sister.

“You will be greatly compensated for the cruelty that has transpired today, my friend.”

Ahkmenrah walked him across the room slowly before handing him to Setshepsut and Shepseheret with the instruction to take him to the healers. The two carefully shared the soldier’s weight and Ahkmenrah blinked after them as they left, feeling the sense of confidence and calm wane until all that remained was disgust for his brother.

“As for the rest of you.” Ahkmenrah spoke loud enough for his kingly bravado to carry across the room, while his eyes scanned the numerous faces before him.

“You are to leave my sight immediately. Apart from you.” He pointed to Kahmunrah. “You, I will speak to without the ears of your hired guard.”

A stillness crept over the room as the mercenaries all looked to their master for a command; and that time, Ahk would not let the blunder pass.

Ahkmenrah’s lips curled in anger, “I am your pharaoh! You do not look to him for instruction. Leave! Now!”

Without so much as a questioning blink, the horde of men scattered, leaving Ahk alone with his Medjay and his brother. As he watched them all vanish, he felt no less infuriated. Kahmunrah’s lingering presence was more abhorrent than a hundred men who opposed him.

“I must admit. That display was arguably the most kingly thing I have ever witnessed coming from you.” A delighted grin, gushing with manic amusement twisted onto his features—enough to stir the ire inside Ahkmenrah.

“Do not smile at me,” Ahk growled, prompting Kahmunrah’s grin to fall swiftly. “Do you think this was all merely an act? Some farce to—to impress your guard?”

Ahkmenrah exhaled deeply, nostrils flaring in an attempt to keep his head clear. He didn’t want his anger to cloud his judgment, but he did allow it to give him the courage to make justified hard decisions.

“If you ever presume to touch any of my sisters again, you will be relieved of your hands. Do I make myself clear?”

Kahmunrah swallowed and clenched his jaw in irritation but said nothing.

“Those men in your service are hereby banished from the palace grounds. You will be granted men from my guard who will see to your protection, and are, undoubtedly, loyal to me,” Ahk paused long enough to watch Kah’s expression twist, angered like a child who was denied their favorite toy. “If you cannot accept this, or you openly question my rule again, I will see to it that you too are thrown from this very palace. Forever.”

Kahmunrah fumed in silence, digesting his new punishment with quiet rage and cold, black eyes.

“Is that all, my king?”

“No actually. It would be wise for you to keep your distance from me for the time being—I cannot promise I won’t strike you again or have you thrown in a cell.” Ahkmenrah proclaimed honestly, using the same indifference Kah usually used on him.

“Now, get out. I am done with you.”

Kahmunrah, however, remained in spite of the pharaoh’s order, never surrendering his heavy leer, as though he were sizing Ahk up to test him. Fire still burned in Ahkmenrah, and he used it to hone his anger so he could hold his brother’s glare with equal intensity. He knew Kah was waiting for him to fold—to renounce every demand he’d just spoken like the weak ruler his brother thought him to be.

“Get. Out,” Akh growled through clenched teeth.

Finally, Kahmunrah bowed his head—his rage palpable, “Your majesty."

The second his brother was out of sight, Ahkmenrah called his guardians to arm. Without hesitation, a platoon kneeled before him, waiting patiently for their king's orders.

“Medjay, see to it that every last mercenary in my brothers employ is rooted out and escorted beyond these walls. If any man gives you trouble, I implore you to use force to bring them to heel, thereafter they will be cast into a cell. I will not have blood on my hands—I am not my brother. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my pharaoh!” the men replied in perfect unison.

“Go then. The gods be with you.”

In perfect formation, his men stood and marched out of the throne room, taking with them, his fire. Steam billowed out of Ahkmenrah with a long sigh, all of his anger dulling and relaxing his tense muscles. It felt good to be free of the rage he’d carried. And yet, Ahkmenrah couldn’t help but wonder who that pent-up rage had turned him into, and the thought seemed to trigger the ache in his bruised and bloodied knuckles. Penance—he figured, for acting so rashly.

Kahmunrah was a selfish, power-hungry creature, fed by cruelty; everything Ahkmenrah feared to become. Even so, Kah was still his brother. And while Ahk wondered if he could ever find it in him to forgive his brother for all that had transpired, the pharaoh still held onto the foolish hope that one-day Kahmunrah would see him as a brother, and not the boy who took his crown away from him.

When his nerves finally settled, his fists unclenching and his heart finding it’s normal rhythm, Ahkmenrah felt as though he’d swum the length of the Nile—overwhelmingly exhausted. The fury was gone, vanished just as quickly and quietly as it had taken control of him. Ahk was glad to be rid of it, though, there was a new feeling that was slowly rising to take its place.

“You should have hit him again,” Kamuzu expressed with an uncharacteristically joking tone.

A weak, almost shocked, chuckle rattled through the pharaoh.

“I wanted to,” Ahk admitted, casting an assessing look to his hand; his nose wrinkled at the sight he found.

The mark was ugly, already turning purple and yellow, as blood trickled in thin streaks from cuts brought on by the force of his assault. Its ache was equal to how it looked.

Ahkmenrah tore his eyes away from his hand unable to look at it or think about the narrative it told. It would serve as a reminder of the man he became when he let his anger stew too long—a man he never wanted to become.

“I should not have done it in the first place.”

From Kahmunrah’s viewpoint regarding the situation, he was in his ground. True, he’d handled it poorly, but his reasoning was justifiable. Ahkmenrah knew the law. Setshepsut knew the law: an unfaithful wife of a king was to be brought to death. Her lover too. That was the law set many centuries ago, and Ahk blatantly ignored it.

What kind of king does that make me? The pharaoh was almost certain the gods would punish him one day for letting matters spiral out of his control.

“I know what you are thinking, my king,” Kamuzu said, surveying the strain on Ahkmenrah’s face. “If I may speak free?”

The pharaoh managed a nod.

“Kahmunrah may not have known the history of the queen and this soldier like you and I. But the gods see us all for who we are in all that we do; they see your kindness and the wisdom of what you have done this day. And for that, surely they will sing you praise.”

Ahkmenrah met Kamuzu’s gaze, feeling relief drift over him upon hearing his guardian's gracious words. Being told that he made a correct decision was a welcomed sensation, especially when he felt as though—of late—every word from his mouth was wrong.

“Your brother needed to be reminded that it is you who is the gods chosen,” Kamuzu continued; purging his own contempt it seemed. “It was wise too, to be rid of the men under his command. I do not trust a man whose loyalty depends on how deep someone's pockets are.”

Ahk bobbed his head in quiet agreement. Ruffians and cast-outs with hot tempers were always the ones Kahmunrah gathered around himself; no longer would Ahkmenrah allow them in his home. They could not be trusted.

“Yes, that decision was long overdue.” The pharaoh paused for a moment, pensive. “But please see to it that he is given good, able, men to protect him. For everything he is and isn’t, he is still my brother.”

“Of course, my king.”

“Thank you.” Ahkmenrah cast his protector a weak smile. “And not just for—”

The pharaoh wasn’t sure how to phrase what it was he wanted to say. Kamuzu meant so much more to him than just the man who guarded him. He’d been his most trusted companion for as long as he could remember—he was a friend.

“Thanks,” Ahk decided on when his words failed him, feeling the proper sentiment, lost, in only a single word.

Even so, Kamuzu’s dark eyes smiled upon him in understanding, “It continues to be my highest honor.”

A full smile unfurled slowly on Ahkmenrah’s face, feeling his friends’ words envelop him warmly, and a little of the loneliness that plagued him dwindled.

“I should check on my sister and Satauhotep.”

“I shall follow your lead, my king.” Kamuzu bowed his head respectfully and swung his arm for Ahk to guide him.

The wing of the palace where the healers and the priests resided was a journey long enough to lull what remained of Ahkmenrah’s fury. For all the commotion that had taken place moments ago, the halls were blessedly quiet. As soon as the pharaoh came to the large narrow hall, the tranquil scent of healing herbs colored the air, the sound of priests recanting their remedial prayers in a musical chant made the atmosphere of the temple calming.

There were a few afflicted or injured persons being tended to, and Ahk’s eyes skimmed over each of their faces until he found ones familiar to him. When he found them, his feet stopped.

Setshepsut sat next to her lover; her hands cupped around his as men cleaned the lash marks on his back. Despite all that had been done to them—all the strife their love had suffered—they never looked more at peace. Ahkmenrah stood idle, watching them; filling his own heart to the brim with gladness. For a moment, he considered turning on his heel and leaving them be. What he needed to say could wait. He didn’t want to dampen their moment with pleas of forgiveness to make himself feel better. It was they who had endured hardships far greater than his own; they deserved an evening of privacy.

However, when Setshepsut’s stray glance caught him, she jumped to her feet.

“Ahkmen!” she said with a gasp.

Set ran, throwing her arms around him with enough force Ahk had to catch his footing.

“Please forgive me for running away. Satau had nothing to do with it—it was all my idea. I was foolish!” Her words came out muffled, buried against his neck, and he had trouble deciphering whether or not she was crying again.

Tears did well in his eyes as he squeezed his little sister tight, overjoyed to know she was safe once more. Ahkmenrah would sooner see himself to the executioner’s block than pass a sentence to condemn her. He would never understand how Kah could command such a notion with careless gusto.

“There’s no need for an apology. It is I who should be begging for your forgiveness," Ahk assured her as he held her at arm's length to assess her injuries.

Her eyes were red and puffy—she was crying—but the cut on her lip was already scabbing over. The most alarming was the bruise on her upper arm: a near-perfect illustration of Kahmunrah’s unrelenting grip.

Ahkmenrah’s eyes leered at the ugly mark; jaw clenched once more as distaste for his brother began to churn in his gut. Set’s gaze followed his.

“It’s not so bad,” she said in a soft tone.

Ahk shook his head and swallowed his fury before it could consume him again.

“It was never my intention to break the vow I made to you,” he finally said, casting a glance to Satauhotep. “To both of you.”

“I am sorry.” Ahk kissed her forehead softly, causing her to smile. “I have been the fool—not you.”

Setshepsut wove her hands around his waist and hugged him again before taking his hand to pull him deeper into the hall. She guided him onto the stool she was seated on previously and perched herself on the raised slab next to Satauhotep. He was seated upright so the healers could bind his torso with clean linen to protect the marks on his back.

Ahkmenrah did his best to mask the frown threatening to twist onto his features, close enough to properly survey the soldier's injuries. All the wounds had been tended to, but the maring was even more pronounced with the number of bandages hiding them.

“I’m so very sorry, my friend,” Ahkmenrah said with sincerity even though he felt the apology did not make up for what he had suffered. “These are the best priests and healers in all of Egypt.”

“Thank you, my king.”

The pharaoh waved his hand dismissively, “No, just Ahkmenrah—or Ahkmen.”

Set smiled his way, her expression coaxing the ghost of a grin onto his own lips.

“Thank you, Ahkmenrah.” Satauhotep tested his name with a furrowed brow.

Ahk nodded his approval with an added smile.

Satauhotep’s grin stretched wider, as though the honor of calling his king by name made up for the terror he’d faced. He reached for Setshepsut's hands and tilted his forehead against hers gleefully.

The simple gesture painted a true grin on Ahkmenrah’s features; his mind made up. He wasn’t going to let them live their romance in secret any longer than they had to.

“I intend to honor my vow,” he stated loud enough and with enough resoluteness they both looked his way.

“Before weeks end, I will see to it that Setshepsut and I’s marriage is dissolved.”

A quick, happy gasp escaped his sister's smile, which she tried to muffle with her hand.

“Satauhotep, you will be granted new ranks in my military—titles befitting a man wishing to wed a princess of Egypt.”

It took a moment for the joy to blossom on their faces, slow at first, until it consumed them entirely. When they shared a kiss, Ahkmenrah let his focus fall to the floor, allowing them that moment to themselves.

The adoration spilling from their open and loving hearts permeated the air with a warmth Ahk’s aching heart clung to with the hope it would dull the pain harbored inside. It was a derelict sort of hope, but Ahkmenrah was certain he could be happy just knowing Setshepsut would live a life of peace. That would be enough—it had to be.

When he stood to leave, Set stood too.

“What about you?” she asked as though she’d plucked thoughts from his head.

“What about me?” Ahkmenrah shrugged although he knew what she would say.

“Who’s to be your queen once I step down?”

Suddenly, a lump grew in the back of Ahkmenrah’s throat, thick and painful, as his mind immediately filled with images of her. All the adoration he’d siphoned from his sister’s joy failed him; the pain in his heart too strong to be bested. His shoulders slouched, and his head was all at once too heavy to keep from hanging. He swallowed, forcing the lump away.

“Nensala, maybe. She and I sort of--” he paused, his nose wrinkling at the sour taste of his own words; he couldn’t even mask the expression on his face that made it blatantly clear he did not want to marry Nensala.

"We got along,” he husked out finally.

Set’s eyes riddled with a hint of sadness as she frowned.

“What about Nouke?”

The very sound of her name shot a chill down Ahkmenrah’s spine, and he shook his head, unable to look anywhere but the floor. His shame returning to him vehemently.

“I’m afraid my foolishness chased her away too. The hurt I caused her…” his voice trailed off, too easily recalling the way the spark faded in her eyes when he didn’t fight to keep her. “…I am undeserving of her.”

When he chanced a look to his sister, he was surprised to find her expression one of mild annoyance; slowly, she shook her head.

“You are a fool, Ahkmenrah,”

Ahk threw her a look of confusion and Set rolled her eyes.

“You give up so easily?” she chided. “Go to her—apologize.”

“Mother told me to do the same thing.”

“Then why are you still here wallowing?” Set asked, her brow hoisting high onto her forehead. “Apologize to her as you have done with me. Her affection may be wounded, but you can mend a wound. And usually, what grows back is stronger.”

His heart leaped into his throat—pounding excitedly. Hope could destroy him if he allowed it to settle too deeply; however, he yearned to have it.

“And if she turns me away?”

Setshepsut shrugged with a soft smile, “Then it is she that is undeserving of you, brother.”

A smile unfurled slowly on Ahkmenrah’s lips and his heart danced against the cage of his ribs.

“I cherish your wisdom, sister,” he told her, laying a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you.”

Set smirked with a teasing look of arrogance, tilting her head pointedly towards the entry, urging him to leave. Ahk lingered, gnawing his bottom lip, feeling the tingle of excitement mix with apprehension in his belly.

“Excuse me,” he finally declared. “But it is now my turn to run away to be with the one I love.”

Set’s simper pressed deeper, “Don’t hurry back!”

Next Chapter-> Chapter Twelve: How I Have Loved You

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