#you can feel his desperation and grief and that tiny spark of hope all from this scene

[stylesispunk]

TIME CASTS A SPELL ON YOU, BUT YOU WON'T FORGET ME | CHAPTER 2

Joel Miller x f!oc

Chapter 2: And did you say that she loved you?

Series masterlist | previous chapter | next | masterlist

summary: Fifteen years ago, amidst the filling of divorce papers and the broken promises of a happily ever after, the world collapsed. Amidst the ruins of cities and the remnants of dreams, Joel's search for his ex-wife began. No matter where he turned, the woman who had once loved him held him captive, a presence he couldn't escape.

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: tlou spoilers, angst. no use of y/n

the story's main idea is based on the lyrics from "Silver Springs" by Fleetwood Mac

a/n: Chapter 2 is here. It's way longer than i thought it would be, so I hope you like this chapter please share your thoughts with me (🥺) Comments, and reblogs are always appreciated and they spark up the motivation to write. If you have any questions ask me. Happy reading.💌(If you want to want to be added to my taglist you can tell me)

September, 2003

Sometimes in life, there are some catastrophic events in life that leave you speechless.

Joel imagined that spending his first birthday without Emily as his wife would be the only one, but it was night, the world ended, and he was holding his lifeless daughter in his arms. The world had given him no warning, no chance to brace himself for the cataclysm that unfolded in their life. 

In the stillness of the night, he cradled her, she looked so tiny in the middle of this chaos. Grief welled up inside him like a bubble. He whispered her name, a tender and heartbreaking murmur with no answer. It was defeating. 

The loss of Emily was a bitter taste of what was to come, but the loss of Sarah devasted him. 

As he held his lifeless daughter in his arms, he clung to the memories, the fragments of a life that had been filled with love was long gone. He longed for a world where Emily was holding him, where his daughter was still a part of a reality, where their absence wasn’t just an envelope of pictures playing in his head. 

Emily

I had to find Emily

Through the tears that blurred his vision, Joel's thoughts came together into just one purpose. The world might have ended, but he couldn’t let his family’s memory fade completely. He had to find Emily, not just to mend what was broken, but to honor and protect her amidst the chaos. 

With Emily’s face etched in his mind, Joel dove into the unknown, driven by love, loss, and longing for the only person who could make this new world worth living again. 

Without thinking clearly, Joel stood on his heels and walked away from his daughter,

“Joel, wait!” Tommy called after his brother, quickly following after him “Where are you going”?

“To find Em” Joel answered, his voice emotionless.

“No, stop” Tommy advised, trying to keep up with his pace, but Joel kept walking with determination.

“Joel,” Tommy called again “You don’t know if Em-

“Don’t tell me she might be dead”, Joel shouted. He refused to even think about that possibility. He spotted a car. He walked towards it, and once he got to the car’s door, slammed his elbow without feeling any pain. Nothing could compare to what he was feeling inside. 

“Joel, don’t do this”. Tommy was practically shouting at Joel amidst all the chaos of people shouting and running desperately.

“You know her new address, “Joel said without paying attention to Tommy’s pleas. “Take me there or you stay here.” 

 Despite the lack of an answer from Tommy, Joel felt around for the key. 

“Okay! I will!” Tommy shouted, “Just give me the keys.” 

Joel’s body felt relieved for a second, some part of him knowing that Emily was the only chance he had left to keep him sane. Otherwise, the grief tightened in his throat was going to kill him. 

He forced Tommy to drive fast to her new house, the one where she would start writing pages of a new story without him on it. Maybe she was there waiting for him to save her. 

But when he didn’t find her there, neither did her car. His heart shattered, not because he thought she was dead, but because he thought he would never see her face again. 

Our house, the thought crossed his mind.

Maybe Emily had the same idea, he thought. Maybe she went there looking for them. 

And she didn’t even know Sarah had died. 

When he finally arrived back at his house, there were no signs of her there either, and his hopes of having her by his side again crumbled. His heart sunk into his stomach, all the memories of their home hit him like a thousand bricks. The undone dishes, Sarah’s bag by the door, the ring he had placed beside the door a week ago, the one he and Emily shared as a symbol of love. He placed it back on his finger where it truly belonged, then he set off his journey. He knew that the way ahead would be treacherous.

What Joel didn’t know that night, just a few minutes before, Emily was there too. 

15 years later

The night air grew cooler as darkness settled over their campsite. Ellie was fast asleep, her soft snores blending with the night’s hushed melody of crickets and rustling leaves.

And Emily was there.

Despite the earlier confrontation between her and Joel, she had stayed, and a heavy tension lingered in the air. Neither of them spoke, not wanting to break the silence, lifting the weight of the past and the uncertain present.  

Joel finally broke the silence, his voice low and measured. "You should have left," he said, not bothering to meet Emily's eyes.

Emily sighed, the exhaustion of her aching body and the tension of their encounter weighing over her shoulders "Why?” she replied, her voice softened from its earlier harshness. “Do I scare you?”

Joel's jaw clenched, and he finally turned to face her. The moonlight danced across his weathered face, casting long shadows that seemed to mimic his turbulent emotions. 

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

“I wasn’t following you; I swear. I thought you were dead.” She explained “I didn’t even know it was you until- “

“Until you almost shoot me,” he interrupted.

“You don’t understand”, She sighed, defeated.          

Joel's eyes bore into Emily's, demanding an explanation. The moonlight flickered in the depths of his gaze, revealing the anger he felt. 

"Then make me,” he implored.

“I-,” she hesitated before answering, choosing her words carefully, "There are…These men following me”, her shoulders slumping with the weight of the truth. “They want to kill me” she confessed. 

He could see a glimpse of fear in her eyes, and for the first time in the night, he noticed all about her. Despite the passing of time, her face still carried the signs of youth, yet it had matured with the weight of the years. He noticed the bruises on the left side of her face, dark and painful reminders of a story he didn’t know about. 

Joel's guard lowered as he was slightly worried at Emily’s confession "And who did that to you?" he asked, pointing at her face.

Emily looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "Them”

Despite the events of their story, the thought of someone hunting her down weighed heavily on him.

Something deep inside him felt responsible for this. If he had kept her with him in the past, she wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

"And why are they after you?" Joel asked, his voice no longer tinged with anger but rather genuine concern.

Emily hesitated once more before responding. "Because I killed their people."

The revelation hung heavily in the air, a stark reminder of the harsh realities of the world they lived in. Joel knew he had done horrible things to survive, but thinking about Emily doing the same felt like a knife cutting through his heart. 

Emily’s eyes filled with a haunted look. "They left me no choice,” She finally added. 

A tense silence settled between them once again. 

Joel's mind raced as he considered his options. He had Ellie to protect and deliver to the fireflies, but now, unexpectedly, the woman who haunted him was in front of her again. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her on her own.

“And how do I fit into this narrative?” He asked, cautiously.

“You don’t fit into this narrative, Joel” she clarified. “I just crossed paths with you tonight. I’ll go in the morning” 

Joel contemplated Emily's words for a moment. He knew that allowing her to stay was an emotional risk for him. Nevertheless, he refused to let her go. All what they shared in the past, the love that had once bound them, still lingered, and he couldn't simply abandon her for her own. He didn’t have the heart to do it. 

"No," he finally said, his voice stout. " You'll stay with us until we reach the Fireflies. It's not safe out there alone."

“You abandoned me in the past. Why would I trust you now?” she asked, her voice flat.

“Because you don’t have another choice,” he replied,

Emily looked surprised, with a mix of anger, sadness, and resignation dancing in her eyes. She had been through too much to easily trust again.

"Fine," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll stay... for now."

Silence stretched and hung over them again with unspoken words. 

“Where is Tommy?” she asked, breaking the silence once more.

“I’ve been asking myself the same for the last three weeks,” Joel replied bitterly.

“Typical, is Sarah with him? I wouldn’t blame her."

When Emily met with a defeating silence, her heart broke.   She knew what that silence meant, but she needed to hear the confirmation.

“Oh god,” her voice became brittle "Sarah...”

Joel could only nod, his throat tight with the weight of grief that still clung to him after all these years. Sarah's memory was a constant ache in his heart, and unlike Emily, she would never come back to him.

“When?” she asked, whispering

Joel took a deep breath, his voice strained as he answered, "That same night. There was nothing we could do." He paused a little. “It wasn’t even one of those things. It was a soldier. A man who should have helped us” 

Emily's eyes glistened with tears as she absorbed the heartbreaking truth.

“People are the real monsters, Joel” she whispered, her voice carrying an undertone. 

Joel's gaze remained fixed on the ground; his thoughts consumed by all the events that had happened in his life. He knew Emily was right; it was the people who had become the true monsters. 

Joel didn't reply. Instead, he turned back to watch over Ellie, who was still sleeping soundly. His thoughts were all over the place now. His past caught up with him in the form of the woman of his dreams and now, she was a part of the uncertain future ahead.

Joel woke up to the sound of Ellie’s laugh. His eyes fluttered open, and for a brief moment, he was disoriented, unsure of where he was. Then, the reality hit him. He had fallen asleep once again when he was supposed to keep the watch. The pass of time was noticeable, the lines of fatigue etching across his face, his body ached and he was tired of surviving. 

Pushing aside his exhaustion, Joel forced himself to sit up, rubbing his tired eyes. 

And Emily was still there, she wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. 

When Emily noticed that Joel was awake, she turned to him with a small smile. “You’re awake,” she said quietly, her voice softer than the previous night.

Joel just gazed at her, he felt strange at having her again and he wasn’t sure how to navigate this unexpected reunion with Emily. 

Ellie was unfazed by the presence of Emily. They already seemed thick at thieves. 

“I told Emily you had a stick upon your ass last night,” Ellie said. 

Joel's eyebrows shot up in surprise at Ellie's comment, and he glanced over at Emily, who seemed amused by the teenager. 

"I'm glad you two are getting along." He said, a little hint of amusement in his tone. 

“We had a good chat while you were sleeping”, Emily replied with a chuckle. 

Joel couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Ellie and Emily getting along so easily. It was like life was showing him the picture of the past in a new form. Giving him the chance to have a purpose again besides sleeping and surviving. 

As the three of them set out together, with Joel leading the way, Emily and Ellie chatted and laughed, sharing different stories, and Joel couldn’t help but feel amused by that. It was rare for him to find satisfaction in these little moments.

“Joel, are Bill and Frank nice?” Ellie asked.

“Frank is,” he answered. 

“Where are we going?” Emily asked, stepping forward to walk alongside Joel.

“To Bill and Frank,” Ellie answered for Joel.

“And who are these people?”

“Good guys,” he said, stout.

Joel and Emily continued to walk side by side, their footsteps echoing along the quiet road. 

“Who is Tess?” Emily asked.

Joel turned his head to look at Emily, 

Damn Ellie, he thought.

His expression grew somber at the mention of Tess. "Tess was my partner," he finally answered, his voice sounded sad. “We trusted each other with our lives. Tess... she was family to me."

Emily could see the anguish in Joel’s eyes as he spoke about Tess. She knew that losing was a wound that never healed. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of jealousy inside her, thinking about Joel finding someone else in this world opened a wound she had never fully healed. 

“Did you love her?” she asked the question that lingered in her mind. 

Joel hesitated for a moment before responding, his voice carrying a deep sense of regret.

""Yeah, she did... and I... I couldn’t” 

Emily couldn't help but feel sympathy for Joel, even though she believed he wasn’t capable of loving someone. 

Ellie, walking behind, stepped forward to walk beside them, sensing the tension. 

“How did you get that scar on your head?” Ellie asked Joel.

Joel sighed, exasperated by Ellie's constant questions about him.

“What? Is it something lame?” She questioned, “Like you fell down the stairs or something?”

“I didn’t fall down the stairs” Joel answered.

“So, what then?” 

“Someone shot at me and missed.”

Emily’s heart sank at that new information.

“See, that’s cool,” Ellie said. “You shoot back?”

“Yeah,” Joel said, shortly.

“You got him?” 

“No, I missed too. It happens more often than you think.”

Ellie pondered over his words “Cause you suck at shooting or like, in general? 

Joel studied her expression, clearly offended. “In general.”

Then, Ellie looked at Emily. “How did you get those bruises on your face?”

“I fell” she lied to her.

“Lame” Ellie chuckled.

Emily mirrored her expression with a smile. 

They walked for a few more minutes until they came into view of a rusty old building which was once a gas station. 

“Wait here”. She instructed both girls, “I gotta grab some stuff, Tess and I, stashed” 

“Why here?” Ellie asked.

“You ask a lot of damn questions,” he said, clearly exasperated.

“Yes,” she smiled proudly.

Joel opened the door to the building. The interior was as one might expect: dusty shelves that once held snacks and supplies, long since emptied or expired, and a counter where a cashier had once stood. It looked dirtier since the last time he was here. 

“So why did you stash things here?” She continued, but as soon as her eyes looked into the old arcade game, Joel lost her attention. 

While Ellie was over the moon with the discovery, Joel was preoccupied with trying to remember where he had hidden the weapons and supplies that he and Tess had stashed there long ago. His gaze scanned the dimly lit interior, searching for familiar landmarks.

Ellie, not one to let a moment of fun slip away, turned her attention to Joel. "Ellie, Joel forgot where he placed his stuff," Emily said, trying to assist.

Joel was prideful and stubborn, and he didn't appreciate anyone pointing out his shortcomings. "I don't need your help," he retorted, a touch of defensiveness in his voice.

Emily couldn't help but remind him of their tumultuous history. "You know, considering the way you acted the last time we saw each other, you should behave nicer," she suggested a hint of sarcasm in her tone. 

Joel just scoffed.

Emily couldn't help but roll her eyes at Joel's scoff and stepped out of the building. She knew that dealing with Joel's stubbornness wasn't worth the frustration, especially when there were more important things happening.

Once back on the road, Emily didn’t say a word to Joel. Ellie tried to strike up a conversation, but her attempts were met with mostly monosyllabic responses from Joel. Emily, on the other hand, remained silent, lost in her own thoughts.

Joel occasionally glanced at Emily through the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. He couldn't help but wonder what had brought her back into his life after all these years.

He spent half of the years since all this started looking for her, and now that he had her back, he didn’t know how to feel. 

Finally, Ellie broke the silence.

"Why did you get divorced?" she asked, her eyes fixed on Joel as if he was the one to blame.

Emily turned to Joel, an incredulous look in her eyes. "How did you know?" she asked.

“Joel told me,” She said.

Emily glanced at Joel with surprise and annoyance, but she decided to let it go for now. Ellie's curiosity was relentless, and Emily could tell that the teenager was fishing for more details.

She turned her attention back to Ellie and decided to answer the question, even though it wasn't something she enjoyed discussing. "Sometimes, things just don't work out," Emily replied, her voice tinged with a touch of sadness. "People change” she added, looking briefly at Joel. 

The action didn’t go unnoticed by Ellie, who was good at noticing subtle cues. The unspoken tension between the two adults was palpable, and Ellie sensed that there was more to the story than Emily was letting on.

“That means Joel changed?” she insisted. 

Joel remained silent; his gaze focused on the horizon. 

Emily hesitated, glancing at Joel again. She knew that there were some wounds that time couldn't heal, some scars that ran too deep, but she didn’t reply and that was enough for Ellie to understand. 

"Well," she said with a hint of cheerfulness, "I hope you two can find a way to fix things now. You know, since we're all together."

Joel remained silent, but his expression softened just a fraction. Emily just offered a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Finally, they made it to Bill and Frank's place, a small town gated by a sturdy fence. Emily couldn't help but be awestruck by the sight of the place. It was a little reminder of those small, tight-knit villages from the time before the world had descended into chaos.

The fence surrounding the town was reassuringly tall and well-constructed, a clear sign that these two men knew how to keep their community safe. Emily felt a glimmer of hope as they approached the gate.

“Stay here”, Joel commanded Emily and Ellie before tapping an entry code into the gate's keypad, allowing them to pass through first.

As they walked to Bill and Frank’s house, Emily noticed the change in Joel’s expression when looking at the flowers outside. They were dry. 

He went forward and opened the front door, being extremely cautious. Ellie and Emily followed him close.

"Bill? Frank?" Joel yelled, but there was no response.

Something isn't right.

"You both stay here," he told the girls. "What if they leave?" Ellie inquired before Joel moved.

Joel considered Ellie's question for a moment before responding, but Emily pipped him up.

“They would have told you, right?” she asked.

“Yes.” 

The sound of a door shutting caught their attention.

"Ellie?" Emily called out nervously, her voice echoing through the house.

Joel's jaw tightened as he exchanged a glance with Emily. He gestured for them to follow the sound. There was Ellie, sitting at the table holding a piece of paper that looked like a letter.

“It’s from Bill,” she said to Joel.

Joel sighed, putting away his weapon, all the façade he always showed was crumbling inside him, another grief was hanging over his head. 

“To whomever, but probably Joel,” she began. 

“So they’re dead?” he asked, interrupting her. He needed the confirmation. 

Joel felt a lump in his throat.

“You wanna-?” Ellie offered.

He shook his head. “Go ahead. You do it” 

“August 29, 2023,” Ellie started to read. “If you find this… please do not come into the bedroom. We left a window open so the house wouldn’t smell, but it would probably be a sight. I’m guessing you found this, Joel because anyone else would’ve been electrocuted or blown up by one of my traps. Hehehehehehehehe-“

Ellie stopped for a moment, amused by the last part, before continuing. 

“Take anything you need. The bunker code is the same as the gate code but in reverse. Anyway… I never liked you, but still, it’s like we’re friends… almost. And I respect you. So, I’m gonna tell you something because you’re probably the only person who will understand. I used to hate the world, and I was happy when everyone died. But I was wrong because there was one person worth saving. That’s what I did. I saved him. Then I protected him. That’s why men like you and me are here" 

Joel glanced at Emily, who was paying attention to Ellie.

“We have a job to do. And God help any motherfuckers who stand in our way. I leave you all of my weapons and equipment. Use them to keep…”

Ellie stopped there, not knowing how to continue reading. She looked up at Joel, who had an unreadable expression on his face. He couldn’t save Tess. 

“Stay here,” he instructed, walking towards the front door without hesitation.

Emily, on the other hand, didn’t know what to say or even do at the moment, so she looked at Ellie for answers.

"What do you think we should do, Ellie?" Emily asked softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Ellie looked back at Emily, her eyes meeting Emily's with seriousness. "We do what they wanted Joel to do," Ellie replied, her voice steady. "We keep going.” 

“Emily, can I ask you a question?” Ellie asked.

Emily nodded. 

“What happened between you and Joel?” she asked. “I see the way you look at him, full of resentment, and I also see the way he looks at you. He is conflicted.”

Emily hesitated for a moment, contemplating Ellie’s words. 

"I don’t know what happened", Emily began cautiously. "One day everything was fine, and the next he told me he wanted a divorce.”

“And do you hate him?” Ellie inquired. 

Emily met Ellie's inquisitive gaze with a mixture of emotions. It wasn't an easy question to answer, and Emily wasn't entirely sure of herself.

"I don't hate him," Emily replied honestly. "But I don't think I ever really got over what happened. It hurts, Ellie, and sometimes hurt can turn into resentment.” 

“So why did you stay with us?” 

 Emily sighed, her thoughts and feelings swirling in the complicated mix of emotions inside her brain.

"Because he asked?” she said, not completely sure about her answers.

Ellie seemed to understand the mix of emotions inside Emily’s head.

“Please, promise me one thing,” Ellie said. “Promise me you will stay.”

“I know if I don’t make you promise me this, you will run and I don’t want that. I want you to stay.”

 "Because I believe you can bring out the best in him, and in me," Ellie said genuinely. "Joel might not admit it, but I think he needs you."

"I promise I'll stay," Emily affirmed with sincerity.

Ellie's returning smile radiated hope, a small glimmer in a world often shrouded in darkness.

"And also, promise me you won't lie to me anymore," Ellie said. 

Emily was momentarily speechless, her surprise evident on her face.

"I know you didn't fall," Ellie continued, her voice filled with conviction. "And whoever did this to you, they won't touch you again."

"I promise I won't lie to you," Emily said with sincerity.

She appreciated Ellie's trust and the bond that was slowly forming between them.

The two of them hugged, and the beginning of a friendship between them started to bloom.

For the first time in days, Emily felt a sense of fleeting tranquility. The sound of the running water drowned out the constant hum of worry that had plagued her thoughts. She reached for a bar of soap and began to scrub away the dirt, sweat, and blood from her body. 

When Emily turned off the shower, she reached out to wipe away the steam off the mirror, revealing a reflection she had avoided for days. This had been the first time that she had seen her face. Her hair was greasy and dirty. The bags under her eyes were dark circles reflecting the sleepless nights she had been through during the last week, the dirt all over her face, and the bruises on her cheeks, a reminder that she was being hunted. 

She reached for the scissors she had found tucked away in one of the cabinets. And like in the old days, when cutting your hair symbolized a new beginning and embraced change. Emily needed to do the same. Carefully, she began to snip away at her tangled locks. Strands of hair fell to the floor, and with each cut, she felt a sense of liberation, each cut was a way to regain a sense of control over her own self. 

Once she finished, Emily stared at her reflection again, and the tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Strangely, the bruises on her cheek seemed less pronounced.

Freshly out of the bathroom, clean, and with new clothes, Emily went down the stairs to reunite with Joel and Ellie. As she approached the living room, she could hear the low hum of conversation between Joel and Ellie. Once she entered the room, Emily was met with curious glances from both of them.

A mischievous grin played on Ellie’s lips. "Doesn’t she look pretty, Joel? she teased.

Joel was momentarily stunned, struggling to form coherent thoughts at the sight of Emily's transformed appearance.

Joel finally found his voice and managed to say, "You look...different." 

Ellie couldn't resist pushing her teasing nature further. "Now that we're all clean and looking pretty, especially you two, could you get married again?"

“I’ll pass on that for now," Emily replied.

Joel stepped forward and whispered, “Is there any reason for this?”

“They are following a lonely woman with long hair” she answered, her tone matter-of-fact.

For Joel, that reasoning made sense, so he nodded in understanding. He couldn't help but notice the ring hanging from her neck—it was their wedding band. However, he chose not to say anything. Deep down, he knew Emily was using him to free herself from the danger she was facing. He knew she didn’t love him anymore, did she?

“We are good to go”, Joel announced.

Ellie and Emily gathered their belongings, and the three of them went out of the house. They placed their things inside the truck. 

“You should take the front,” Ellie suggested to Emily. “You two have a lot to catch up.” 

Ellie jumped to the back seat, leaving Emily with no option but to sit beside Joel in the front. As she looked at Ellie through the mirror, a broad grin spread across the teen's face.  

Joel reached over Emily and pulled the belt over her body. “Seatbelt,” Joel said.

Emily’s breath caught in her throat as Joel reached for the seatbelt. It was a habit he had when he used to drive her to her work. This was the closest they had been in fifteen years, and their eyes locked for a few seconds, but Emily quickly dropped her gaze to her fidgeting fingers. 

Joel started up the truck as Emily looked for something to distract herself from his presence.

“What- put it back,” Joel said “Emily.”

She held something up to show Joel. 

“This is music,” she said, popping on the cassette tape and hitting play.

“Is love so fragile and the heart so hollow?

Shatter with words, impossible to follow”

Emily’s breath caught in her throat for the second time in the last minutes, and when she was about to skip the song, Joel hit her hand. 

“No, leave it” he smirked. 

What a turn of events, he thought. 

“This is good,” Joel said as he drove “Stevie Nicks. Do you know Stevie Nicks, Ellie? 

“You know I don’t” Ellie answered, rolling her eyes.

“I search only for something I can't see

I have my own life.

And I am stronger than you know.”

Emily smiled at Ellie through the mirror, before the hurt of the past washed over her once again. The song was the one playing in the background the night she and Joel met.

December, 31st, 1999 

It had been hours since the party started. People around were expectantly waiting for the countdown for the new year, and the couples were already making their way to the dancing floor. There was something magical about finding someone in a moment like this, where the hopes of starting a new chapter were there. 

But not everyone had someone to rely on.

Joel stood there, slightly uncomfortable about being brought there by Tommy against his will. Meanwhile, his younger brother was having the time of his life flirting with a blonde on the dancing floor. He was nursing a drink in the bar, losing himself in the music. Social gatherings like this weren’t his scene.

On the other side of the room, there was Emily moving gracefully through the crowd. She was clearly enjoying her time with her friends, but something about her being the single friend made her slightly melancholic. Especially when the melody in the background was drawing the couples together, swaying to the melody of Leather and Lace by Stevie Nicks. Emily couldn’t help but yearn for a connection like that of her own. 

“But I carry this feeling

When you walked into my house

That you won't be walking out the door

Still I carry this feeling

When you walked into my house

That you won't be walking out the door”

Emily couldn't shake off the feeling of longing that settled inside her, so she decided to take a break from the dance floor and headed towards the bar. Her friends were lost in their own worlds while dancing with their own partners, leaving her to wander alone around the party. 

As Emily headed towards the bar, lost in her thoughts, she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings until it was too late. She bumped into a man, and her heart skipped a beat as she stumbled slightly. Before she could fall, the man in front of her wrapped his strong arms around her, steadying her.

It was Joel, a handsome stranger who took her breath away. He was surprised but not displeased. Emily met his gaze, her eyes filled with embarrassment while they stood there gazing at each other. 

“Lovers forever, face to face

My city, your mountains

Stay with me, stay

I need you to love me, I need you today”

“I’m Joel,” he introduced himself, raising his hand for her to take it. His lips curled into a smirk.

 "Emily," she replied with a soft smile, reaching out to take his hand.

At that moment, the world around them faded away. Their unexpected encounter was the beginning of something neither of them had expected to find that night. 

Now

Once Joel pressed the remote, the gate opened for them to drive out of the momentary tranquility of this place. Emily cast a glance at Joel, and it felt like a scene from an old film she had watched before. Joel behind the wheel, driving her everywhere because they used to be attached to their hips, but now they were two strangers with a past in common. 

Emily knew Joel was using her to fill the void Tess had left, 

Joel knew Emily was using him to escape her fate, 

They were using each other, weren’t they?

As they drove into the new day ahead, the soft melody of music played in the background, and the sun’s warm rays welcomed them back onto the road. The route ahead was uncertain, but they had no choice but to learn how to depend on each other again.

“The first time I saw you

I knew with you to light my nights

Somehow, I would get by

Lovers forever, face to face

My city, your mountains

Stay with me, stay

I need you to love me, I need you today”

tags: @joeldjarin @catchallfangirl

[munsons-maiden]

I’ve collected my thoughts on this whole mess. One last rant and a first little fix it blurb before I get back to writing Eddie all the million happy endings he deserves.

I’ve been through some fucked up shit in my life. But this grief and heartbreak I’m feeling right now is something completely else. I never felt so much pain, and it’s safe to say something in me broke irreversibly watching that scene. Stranger Things has always been my comfort show, from the moment S1Ep1 aired. It was the fairy tale that taught me, no matter how horrible things get, no matter how desperate things might seem, how the shadows in our heads can make us freeze and lock us up in our own minds: all monsters can be beaten.

And yesterday they took that from me. The moment Eddie jumped that table in the cafeteria, I knew something had changed and that Stranger Things would never again be the same without him. I never fell so fast and so deeply for a character. My mind has that horrible habit to pick the flaws of a character I love and twist them until I see so many parallels to my own abuser that I can’t 100% enjoy my love for this character - but with Eddie, it couldn’t do that. Eddie was, is, too pure of heart, too kind and gentle and sweet for even the demons in my mind to twist him.

That’s why I know I will never stop loving him, never stop thinking of him whenever I need comfort, never stop writing and pouring out all my heart to give him the stories he deserves, and why I know I will never love a character as much as I will always love Eddie.

I don’t think the Duffers will ever grasp what he means to so many of us. Stranger Things, the main cast they’re so scared of touching or changing, are as frozen in time as the Upside Down.

I want to believe that they’ll bring Eddie back, that reason for why this scene felt so surreal and horrible and off is that they have plans to somehow raise him from the dead, and there’s a tiny little spark in me that still clings to this hope against all odds, but that’s the only reason why I’ll watch season 5. To take it and write Eddie into it because that’s what he deserves.

So, on this blog, he’s alive and kicking. Dustin had to leave him there, but Eddie woke up. He woke up in this cold, dark realm, those tiny particles floating around him like a flurry of snow, pain searing through his body, blood coating his lips - but he was alive. He dragged himself to the rip (”Holy shit fuck what the Hell man that’s what I nearly fucking died for? Henderson you little shrimp I hope you got more of that duct tape somewhere because we’re gonna need a shit ton of it to fix this fucking mess”). He crawled out of the Upside Down. To his trailer, to home. He imagined Henderson’s face, Wayne’s, seeing him alive, imagined walking that stage and snatching that Diploma...but the smile slipped from Eddie’s face as he realized that this town wasn’t his home anymore. That no tear in the ground would ever clear his name because people didn’t want that. He’d always been the freak, and outcast, bullied for being different...and to believe it was somehow his doing would always be easier than achnowledging the truth that there were far more horrid things going on in Hawkins, far more monstrous dangers. Hawkins wasn’t his home anymore.

He could start over. A big city, somewhere were his being different was good because there were more people like him, who loved metal and D&D and Lord Of The Rings. Find some job, in a record store even maybe. He scoffed. He wouldn’t have passed O’Donnell’s goddamn final anyway.

So Eddie turned. And walked away. Into the woods. He didn’t know where he was going; only what he was leaving behind - but he would come back one day. Just not today.

[glassrunner]

ARCANE | 1x08 OIL AND WATER

[lavienjin]

switching positions | ksj

summary: Your job at the House of Lust is simple, really; you please the men and women that walk into the room, and they leave happy and content after you take care of them. But somewhere along the way, you have lost the joy; and you're left to go with the motions. And when the complaints started to pour in, your boss saddles you with an annoying co-worker to "change your perspective" in hopes you get that spark back.

part of the house of lust collab hosted by @btssmutgalore

title: switching positions

author: lavienjin

p: seokjin x reader (ft. jungkook x reader; for a tiny bit)

wc: 12k

genre/au/rating: 18+ | sex work, friends to ? au | smut, tiny angst

warnings: switch!reader, switch!seokjin, sub!jungkook, sex toys, hair pulling, unprotected sex, safeword usage but everything is okay, slight manhandling, panty stuffing, hickeys, biting, fingering, grinding, seokjin's lap :), oral (m & f receiving), multiple orgasms, squirting, lots of praise, all kinds of titties are worshipped here, grinding, multiple sex positions, cum eating

a/n: thank you to @orangie-drabbles for reading through the first lil bit and helping me through my impostor syndrome 😭

m.list | ao3

The office you're currently in does not feel like it belongs to the notorious owner of the House of Lust. Unlike the gaudy exterior of the brothel that's created to entice lost souls to wander in, Min Sohee's work area is sleek and clean; with white marble floors underneath black, modern furniture.

"Do you know why you're here?"

Her words are clipped and punctuated with the rustles of papers as she scans through a series of complaints. All of them are directed at you. Instead of answering, you hang your head in shame whilst offering her a quiet nod.

Madame Sohee sighs as she throws the stack of papers on the desk. The individual sheets flutter about, some falling onto the ground. She stands to lean over at your cowering figure, steel eyes scrutinising every flinch you make.

"What's gotten into you?" she tuts, not really expecting an answer. "You're our top-selling girl!" The Madame taps her finger from one end of the desk to the other to make her point. "Are you no longer interested in working with us? Do we not treat you well?"

You can hear the palpable grief in her voice, and your eyes widen as you snap to attention.

"No, of course not!" you exclaim, following a series of shakes from your head. But you can't maintain eye contact with her searching eyes, so you look away as you mumble, "I just feel like I'm going through the motions, that's all."

An uncomfortable silence greets you. After a few seconds, you cover it up with an explanation. "Madame Min, you know that I'm very grateful for what the House has done for me. I love the people here, and I love my clients, and I can promise you that I can do better." You didn't mean to sound desperate, but without this job, you'll be losing your main source of income and a roof over your head.

The Madame's pink-coated lips turn into a deeper frown. "I'd like to believe you, but just in case, I've asked for someone to help you through this funk. Maybe a change of… perspective will give the energy you need to do your job."

She's assigning a supervisor to you? In all your years working at the House since it opened up, you have never had another expert coach you in your area of expertise. Though you're apprehensive, you have a feeling that this is the only way to get her off your back. And who knows? Maybe she's right, it might be the change you need to find your spark again.

—

"Oooh, someone's in trouble."

An annoying figure comes into view as you exit the office. He is leaning idly against the wall with an irritating smirk on his face.

You move past him without a word, eyes focused on the tile in front of you while you mentally get ready for your 1 o'clock appointment. There's no way you're letting him ruin your already shitty day further. Ignorance is key for this sort of thing.

Yet, long legs match your quickened pace with ease, and in three strides, Kim motherfucking Seokjin falls into step with you, leaning forward so you can see his shit-eating grin from your periphery.

"Ugh, what do you want?" you grunt with a roll of your eyes.

"I heard what happened in Madame Min's office. Could it be that our most beloved dominatrix is actually falling from grace?" Seokjin mocks, followed by a bout of squeaky laughter. "I can't wait for this to be the year where I make the most earnings."

"In your fucking dreams," you hiss. "This is nothing more than a blip. I'll get back on my feet in no time."

Seokjin's broad shoulders rise and fall in a half-hearted shrug. "Now, we'll definitely see for ourselves, won't we?" At your silence, his wolfish grin grows bigger, taking up the majority of his, you admit begrudgingly, handsome face. "Hey, how about a little friendly bet between coworkers, hm? At the end of the month, when it turns out I have crushed your earnings, will you swap rooms with me?"

This makes you stop, and you can almost feel the wave of annoying energy that vibrates off of Seokjin. Your room is your sanctuary, and the biggest one available; a gift the Madame gave you as one of the first few people to join the House. For you to give it up, should you lose, would mean that you're biting the hand that feeds you, and you doubt she'd be happy to hear that you lost against Seokjin of all people.

It takes all your willpower to force your legs to move, right foot then left, but Seokjin blocks your view. "Hello? Do we have a deal?"

That does it.

You curl your fist into his t-shirt to slam him into the nearest wall. "Listen here, asshole," you growl. "How about you bother someone else for a while? I don't have the energy to deal with an attention whore right now."

Much to your irritation, Seokjin's lazy grin persists to stay on his face. His hand gently plucks your fist away from his shirt, and as he's smoothing out the wrinkles on the fabric, he says, "Ah, you're finally looking at me in the eye. I knew that if I'd get you angry enough you'd finally face me. I don't care about the room, you're more than welcome to keep it. But I do know you're in trouble."

You cross your arms in front of your chest, still suspicious. "So? How is that any of your problem?"

"So," he mocks your tone with a raised brow. "A pretty client of yours actually deferred to me and told me everything you've been doing wrong in the bedroom. And as much as I enjoy our petty little squabbles, I would really hate to see you leave the House, so I figured that since I'm such a nice guy," he chuckles when he sees you gagging, "I figured I could help."

That's rich. Sure, you and Seokjin would often compare numbers at the end of the month, but all the petty little jabs you aim at each other doesn't necessarily equate to friendship.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm good. You don't even know what I'm going through."

But as you're walking away, Seokjin stops you, his hand circling your wrist. "Well, unfortunately for you, it's by the Madame's request. Did she not tell you?"

A deafening ringing noise resounds in your ears as you stand there, mouth hanging open. "What?"

Seokjin shrugs. "Yeah, she called me in before she met with you. We're starting tomorrow."

"You're kidding? You? I started this job before you."

"So? That means jackshit if all you've been getting lately are complaints from our clients," he scoffs, leaning on the wall with an elbow. Jutting his chin towards you, he says, "You need re-education, my dear."

When the Madame mentioned that you were getting some additional help, Seokjin's not your first choice. Not only did he start out later than you did, but this is the guy that only has 6 or so clients on rotation. What does he know? There's absolutely no fucking way you're going to be getting lectures from him.

You manage to collect yourself enough to spit, "Yeah, maybe, but it's certainly not from you. Tell the Madame whatever you want, I'm not going to come crawling to you for help," and wiithout looking back, you shove past him and stomp away.

———

You've dimmed the lights in your chambers so as to not see the hopeful doe eyes that stare up at you from the floor. Your mind is filled with what Seokjin said – about needing a helping hand, and your anger flares again. Sure, these past few weeks have not been your best, but you always bounce back.

The thought that the Madame doesn't trust you enough to think so stings the worst. Not just because you have to report to Seokjin's chambers tomorrow to begin your training.

"Does it feel good, mistress?" he whines between gasps, disintegrating your daydream.

A half-hearted "Hmm…" is all you utter before pushing his head back between your legs. The wooden chair you're sitting on is starting to dig into your back. This sub of yours has been kneeling on the cold floor for an hour, lapping away at the juncture between your thighs. It's impressive – that he hasn't lost that spark yet. Most of your other clients would have been bored by now.

Moreover, he's undeterred, despite your lukewarm response; using his mouth to please you without the use of his hands. You can see from the corner of your eye how he's rutting into the carpet, but you just can't seem to care that he's disobeyed your orders to sit still.

The clock on the opposite wall suggests that there isn't much time until his session is over, and though you're apathetic, you can't leave a customer unsatisfied, especially since this one hasn't booked a next session with you yet, so you raise him up from his rightful place with a yank of his hair.

He whines pathetically, still drunk on your taste, tongue lolling out of his mouth to lick the last droplets of nectar from his chin.

Your lips pull into a lazy smirk, your hand still fisted in his hair. "Jungkook," you whisper softly.

"Yes, mistress?" comes his automatic response, but it's far too dazed and quiet for you to be convinced that he's fully present.

"Eyes on me, pet."

The young man blinks a few times before his eyes finally slide over to yours. He matches your smile with a half-grin of his own, the dimples on his cheeks making him seem innocent; as though he isn't trading his hard-earned cash for a few hours of your time.

"Good boy. You've worked so hard today."

Lies. Aside from the last five minutes, you can't even recall how his performance has been. Yet, you continue with the sweet nothings anyway.

"Would you like your reward?" You make sure to change your voice so it drips of honey, and you witness your result in the way his spine locks upright. Jungkook releases a quiet gasp as his eyes droop shut, returning to that heady haze of lust and sweet promises.

"I… Yes. I want my reward, please." His words come out in pants of air.

His flushed cheeks brings you back to reality, and you feel the familiar ache returning to your legs. But this is about your client's needs, so your grin grows wider as you ask, "And how would you like that reward?" You drag your long nails down his sculpted chest, purposefully catching a pebbled nipple between your fingers.

Your lovely pet attempts to keep still, but when you scratch lightly against his shaft, Jungkook can't suppress the shudder that wrecks his body. He fits his plump bottom lip between his teeth, hissing at the dull pain that you're inflicting upon him.

"Answer me, pet, or this is how you're going to cum."

You've got to give it to this client – he's really helping you out of your funk. It's been a while since you've felt this thick tension, and you find it easy for you to slip back into your old self; your lazy smile morphing into a sadistic grin. When Jungkook still doesn't answer, you release him with a push, and he crumples onto the floor in a messy wail.

"M-Mistress!" he sobs, the pain of rejection clearly etched in his eyes.

Oh, you're having fun. Fuck Seokjin, he doesn't know you.

You turn your back towards him, so Jungkook can't see the grin you're wearing. You hum as your fingers trail along the dozens of whips and paddles that hang on your wall. "I asked you a question, sweet thing, and I can see that you're not interested in playing anymore." Your hand closed around your favourite paddle; the long rectangular one with a heart-shaped cutout on the end. Behind you, Jungkook pleads his apologies. You feign ignorance, and his cries grow louder when you pluck the instrument from its hook.

"Mistress, please, mercy!"

You tut over his cries, shaking your head side to side to mock him. "I can see that I've been too lenient." You brandish the paddle and slap the wood against your palms, testing its weight. "Get on the bed, angel."

The fear in Jungkook's eyes fuels you. You strut towards the kneeling man and graze the paddle along his jaw. He shivers under your gaze, tears pooling beautifully in his eyes as he surveys the heavy toy.

"Come on. You don't want to leave me waiting, do yo–"

"Peaches!" Jungkook interjects with a cry. As the tears fall down his delicate cheeks, your heart sinks into your stomach. You drop to your knees and discard the paddle under the bed, before pulling the whimpering man into your arms.

"Hey, hey, look at me, Jungkook. Scene is over," you whisper gently. You wipe his damp hair away from his face while you pepper kisses all over; his neck, his cheeks, and finally his lips.

Jungkook drinks in the kiss, and the guilt has you keeping your eyes open until you notice that his breathing isn't as erratic any more.

"What do you need from me, bun?"

"How many more minutes do we have…?" Jungkook asks, worry nestling in his frown.

You smile at him as you caress his back. "Don't worry about that. I need to make sure that you're feeling safe and okay when you leave this room." When he tries to get up in protest, you put a hand on his chest and force him to lie back down, this time with his head falling onto your lap. "No, Jungkook. You're in my hands now, and as your mistress, I command you to stay. Take it easy, and when you're ready, let's talk about what happened, okay?"

Jungkook looks up at you with such trust that the guilt resurfaces once more, and when he nuzzles into your stomach, all you taste is the bile that has risen into your mouth.

Maybe Seokjin had been right. Maybe you do need a helping hand.

—

You're disgusted with yourself.

You stare and stare at the simple wooden panelling separating you from this side of the door and a decision that could possibly change your life forever. You're in a band shirt and shorts, not even bothered with impressing him.

The question is… should you really be doing this? Seokjin did say that he has a way to help you, so why not take the figurative offer of an outstretched hand? Worse comes to worse, it's a lecture and you can just slam the door behind you when you walk out.

Either way, though, the fact that you're seeing him for help is a tough pill to swallow. You're frustrated and embarrassed, having yet had another bad day with a client, and at this point, he may really be your last resort.

Which is saying something.

"It's just a one time thing. Yep. A one time thing," you mutter to yourself as your hand wraps around the handle of the door.

You count your breaths before pushing the door open to reveal Seokjin's room. Except for the large, fluffy cream rug underneath the four poster bed, every piece of furniture is the same shade of blinding white, especially with the sheer white curtains allowing the light in, so it wasn't hard for you to find the speck of black hair belonging to the man who's currently staring with a shit-eating grin.

"Wow, what a welcome surprise." Seokjin closes the book he was reading and saunters over towards you. God, even the way he walks is irritating. "So soon too? I didn't expect you until tomorrow, if I may be honest."

You temper the boiling rage. "Let's just get this fucking started, shall we?" You whip around from his gaze to plop yourself on the bed, tapping your foot impatiently on the plush carpet below.

"Get down from there."

You freeze from playing with the edges of the blanket you're currently sitting on. Was it you who imagined the coldness in his voice?

When you remain seated, your body locked in place, Seokjin clicks his tongue. "Don't make me repeat myself."

The instinctual fear that resides in your bones causes you to spring up from the bed, away from the plush comfort as though it's made of heated metal.

"On your knees."

As the words leave his mouth, you drop to the floor, feet tucked neatly underneath you. Seokjin must have bewitched you with magic as soon as you entered the room. Or else, how do you explain the stark obedience that suddenly appears out of nowhere?

"Oh… you're trained, after all?" he smirks.

Relief washes over you when he no longer adorns the cold mask… and then you catch yourself sighing in content as Seokjin stifles a chuckle. What is happening? You're supposed to be the best dom in the House of Lust, but it seems he has you beat.

Seokjin seems to be thinking the same thing as he pads over to where you kneel on the cream carpet. He holds your face in his palm, his thumb swiping against your cheek. The urge to bite his fingers off just to get that damn fucking smirk off his face has you nibbling on your bottom lip.

This is truly humiliating.

"Here's my theory." He squats in front of you and pushes your face from side to side before finally pinning it so you're forced to look away from him. Seokjin trails a long slender nail down your neck, and once again you're conflicted; part of you wants to spit at him and tell him to shove that finger somewhere deep inside, but the other… the one that has been neglected from the frustration and stress that's been building over the past few weeks…

You curl your fingers into your palm to avoid shuddering or making unnecessary noise that would give your position away. You can't hand that sweet victory to him that easily.

Lucky for you, Seokjin doesn't seem to notice. "You started this job as a dom, but you've never learned what it means to be a sub, huh?"

"No," you admit, but when you remembered who's floor it was you're kneeling on, you snap, "Why does that matter anyway? I'm a fucking great dom, and my numbers show too."

"They say that the best doms are those that know what it's like to have control taken away from them."

He threads his fingers through your hair, and his face leans closer until you can smell the mint in his breath.

"Sure, I'll admit, you have a lot of clients, and yeah your numbers are good. But let's be real, how many of them repeat their visits?"

Your heart hits against your ribcage in a loud thud. He's right. You have met up with the rich and famous, but they've all been one time flings. You assume that it's because of their hectic life and a desire to seek out something more meaningful, but could what Seokjin insinuates be the reason why they don't keep coming back?

You hide your bruised ego behind a scoff. "Ha, you're all talk, I bet your clients are also a "one and done" type of deal too."

Seokjin is amused when he raises his left brow. "Do you remember Nia?"

The name sounds familiar, but you can't pinpoint on where you would've heard it.

"She's my first client in the House of Lust."

Ah, that's right. The pretty girl that shyly pointed to Seokjin instead of the other dazzling array of performers. "I remember now. It was when you first joined… what– five years ago now? What does she have to do with anything?"

If his playful smirk irritated you before, this one drips of confidence and ego, and it has you digging your fingers into your leg to stop yourself from lunging at him and throwing a punch.

"She still comes back every Tuesday at 10pm. Never been late to a single appointment."

You can taste the air when your mouth hangs open. Five years? 260 something meetings and she's never been late to an appointment? Is Seokjin threatening her or something?

When you voice your question to him, he smirks before leaning closer, and stupidly, you close your eyes as you wait for the crash of his lips against yours, but at the last moment, his head veers to the right to instead whisper in your ear, "I'm just that good. Maybe even better. And that's why I guarantee that I can help you through this predicament of yours."

When he parts, you shiver, restless from the lack of touch. And though Seokjin hasn't really done anything besides some light touching, there's a growing wetness in your panties.

"So, what's the first thing we're doing then? Don't tell me you're just going to make me sit here on the carpet." It's a poor attempt at disguising just how rattled you are, but you hope Seokjin doesn't see the building desire.

Seokjin stands and cups your face with his large palm. "Maybe I should, but before anything happens, do you have a safe word you'd like to use?"

You shrug. It's standard BDSM procedure, and you're not surprised he's asking about it, but he's not being delicate at all.

Maybe that's his charm, your brain offers. Yeah. Maybe.

You look around the room to find something suitable to use when your eyes land on a can of tea leaves. "Jasmine," you reply.

Instead of moving on to the next thing, Seokjin frowns, and then sighs, and you feel like you've been caught cheating on a test by a teacher. Then an even bigger problem emerges, why was his disappointment affecting you so greatly? The instant his eyes no longer contain the playful mirth, you were about to rise from your knees and promise that you'll try your best to temper the snark. It only takes a good chunk of your willpower to stay planted on the ground.

"I mean, if 'jasmine' is your word, that's fine, but I typically prefer if my subs choose a word that they'll be able to recall easily. It's not like you use the word 'jasmine' often in real life, plus it's too long. Try to find something with just one syllable."

Seokjin sighs again, running his fingers through his black locks. "If this is what you've been doing to your subs, I suggest you stop."

"Well, my subs have been able to use two-syllable words during our playtime with no problem," you counter. "I don't see what the problem is."

"It's about best practises, my dear dominatrix. If you haven't encountered a problem yet, that's great, but we're not waiting for a problem to happen, we're trying to prevent it." Seokjin walks nonchalantly to his desk as he talks, never once looking back. When he's settled in his chair, he looks over at you and smiles, "So, your job right now is to find a one-syllable word that has a connection to your daily life. That way you can instinctively yell it when you want me to stop."

And with those words, he resumes to his book, ignoring your squirming figure on the floor.

In the silence that's only broken by the occasional tick of the minute-hand of the clock, you strangely find that it's hard for you to concentrate. At first, you count the minutes as they tick by, wondering if Seokjin would ever get impatient and ask you to speed things up, but the insolent man continues to read without a care in the world, and after a while, you actually started thinking about the assignment you've been presented with.

A one-syllable word that has bearings on your real life…

You shift in your kneeling position, alleviating some of the pins and needles you're starting to feel.

"Sock."

Seokjin looks up from his book with that half smile. "What was that?"

A twinge of irritation throbs in your head. You know very well that he could hear you, but he's just pretending not to. You avoid gritting your teeth when you speak up, "That's my safeword. It's 'sock'."

After closing his book, Seokjin returns to the floor in front of you, and this time, he's sitting criss-crossed, with his arm outstretched, palm facing towards the ceiling. "Hand," he commands gently.

You tilt your head to the side as you obey, placing your right hand into his palm. Seokjin's warm hand closes around it, and soon that same warmth travels to your body. When he pulls you up from the rug, you topple over, having not yet realised that you've been sitting for some time.

"T-Thanks," you mumble into his chest, cheeks heating with how close you are to him.

His chest rumbles as he speaks. "Don't mention it. I always take care of my subs."

A sub.

That's who you are to him right now. Not a co-worker that he's been competing with when it comes to sales numbers and is currently seeking his help. No, just a sub without any control of the situation.

You quickly mumble an apology as you peel yourself away from his chest, but Seokjin pulls you onto the bed, sitting you down on the edge as he kneels. He begins massaging your calf, his strong fingers relaxing the sore muscles underneath.

"At any point in time where you don't feel comfortable with what I'm saying or doing, don't hesitate to use it. In the event that your mouth is full," Seokjin reaches up to thumb your bottom lip with a smirk, "just make a peace sign with either hand and I know to stop. Got it?"

"Got it."

"You know I didn't think that you'd listen so well," Seokjin hums. "I'm impressed. This one has learned her manners after all."

The compliment is one you've uttered to your own clients, but hearing Seokjin using it towards you has you squirming again as you feel the weight of his gaze.

"How are your legs?"

Distracted, you offer him a, "Hmm?"

"Maybe I was too quick to compliment you," he snickers as he stands. Seokjin raises his hand, and you brace yourself for a hit, but it never comes. Instead, his large hand pats your head lightly, and it's only when you look up that Seokjin moves it so it fits under your chin instead.

"Why do you flinch like that? I'm not going to hit you. In fact, you shouldn't be hitting anyone when they're distracted – there could be myriads of reasons why your sub isn't paying attention."

Leaning forward, Seokjin holds your gaze and the two of you move lower, lower, lower, until you feel your back rest against the fluffy mattress. With a hand by your head, and the other lifting your chin, you can't really look away.

"This is the last time I will repeat any questions for you," he whispers the warning. "How are your legs?"

"Fine," you whisper back.

"Are you all right to continue?"

"Yes."

"And the safeword is?"

"Sock."

Seokjin nods, seeming pleased at your clear responses. He moves towards his desk and opens a drawer. You can hear the rustling of paper, and then in a few seconds, his hand returns to your side, palm outstretched, ready to raise you back up. In Seokjin's hand is a clipboard, and when he hands it to you, the words "Kink List" are written in bold and all caps at the very top.

"What's this?"

"You… don't recognise this?" Seokjin gapes at you. "Well, it's no wonder you need my help."

Once again, you had to dig your nails into a fist to avoid punching him.

"Like the title says, this is a list of the kinks that I feel comfortable performing. Some of them are basic – classic bondage, degradation, mirrors–"

"Mirrors?"

His gaze turns cloudy again. "Stop interrupting me when I'm talking."

This time, when you clamp your lips shut, it's to swallow down the retort that has been clouded over with intimidation.

"Anyway, tell me what's not okay by crossing things off the list. If you're unsure, put a question mark next to it so we can explore. Take all the time you need."

Seokjin walks towards his desk again – probably to read that stupid book, but you call out to him just as he's about to sit. "Do you do this with all your clients?"

To your surprise, he doesn't come out with a snarky response, but there is a glint of disappointment in his gaze as he studies you. "Yes… It's a basic procedure to keep your subs feeling safe and satisfied. Your goal is communication, and you can't do that without first knowing what they want."

"Won't it cut into their umm… 'play time' with you?"

"It does," he nods in agreement. "So, I usually sit them with this list during our trial session. It incentivises them to return, and allows me to answer some questions if they're nervous. But more importantly, I will now have a list in my hands of what they want so I can maximise the… as you put it, 'play time'."

You give him a non-committal hum as your gaze returns to the sheet, marking it up as you read it through, but your thoughts are currently on the blonde haired dom sitting on the chair. You can't help but feel a bit jealous that he's clearly been taught first-hand by an actual BDSM expert compared to your frantic googling late at night when you first got this gig.

And maybe, just maybe, there's the tiniest twinge of jealousy of all the subs that have been lucky enough to be treated this well under his watchful gaze.

———

"Huh. Would you look at that?"

Seokjin is currently looking through all the notes you made in the kink list sheet as though he's trying to commit them to memory, and after spending the last half an hour or so in his presence, however, you wouldn't be surprised if that were really the case.

"Is something wrong?" Since when are you one to feel shy? And of all people, why are you feeling shy towards Seokjin? Yet your heart is thumping heavily against your ribcage while you study his never-changing bemused expression.

He opens another drawer and slips the paper inside. Turning to you, he smiles, "You checked off a lot in that list. Are you sure you'll be able to handle it?"

This time, you can't resist but roll your eyes. "Oh, please! I can take on anything you give me."

"Anything?"

You meet the challenge in his eyes with a smirk. "Anything."

"Okay then." Seokjin doesn't move towards you though, instead, he pats his lap. "Let's start the scene. Come here, pet."

Well, if this is the only way for you to be a better dom…

You stand from the bed and take a step foot towards him, only for Seokjin to raise a brow, and you take it as a signal for you to stop. The silence stretches as you regard each other.

"What?"

Seokjin's eyes fall to the floor before he brings them back up to you. "Is that how a pet would walk up to their master?"

Your eyes squint at him in irritation. He can't be serious.

"You did check off 'pet play', but I guess it's too much for you," Seokjin sighs as he inspects his list again. "Next time, don't list things you can't handle. You may like it as a dom but–"

"No. I can do it." The words come through gritted teeth.

With steely eyes that stare straight into Seokjin, you sink to your knees. Your scowl deepens when you place a hand on the carpet, and the other in front of it. It's beyond you how anyone, let alone a sub, can handle such humiliation, and under Seokjin's amused gaze, there's an unsettling pulse of an emotion stirring in your belly.

You could have stopped– should have stopped, but inch by excruciating inch, you crawl towards him; that dangerous pride of yours is unable to let yourself look weak in front of Seokjin when he's issued you a challenge. Though the distance between the bed and the desk isn't far at all, it still feels like aeons have passed by the time you reach the leg of the chair.

Oxygen leaves your body when you stare up at him from the floor, sitting on the balls of your feet. There's a strange twinkle in his obsidian eyes and a menacing aura seems to surround him. Has Seokjin always looked so intimidating? This guy? The same person that folded up two pizzas together and fit them in his mouth during the staff dinner?

You let out a gasp when Seokjin slides a cool hand towards you, thinking that he was going to touch you, but his slender fingers stop in front of your face.

"Good. You listened well. Do you need help getting up?"

With a deepening scowl, you bat the outstretched hand away, embarrassed that a small part of you was actually disappointed by the lack of touch.

"Feisty," Seokjin tuts with a shake of his head, though that smile is ever present on his face. He leans forward, so close that you can see the delicate moles on his skin. "I'm gonna have fun breaking your walls down."

Heat sears your cheeks, but instead of looking away, you murmur, "I'd like to see you try."

You're surprised to find Seokjin laugh – a genuine 'head thrown back slightly and shoulders shaking' laugh. If your positions were switched, you would have whipped him for making such a statement, and it gave you a sense of superiority. You were right. Seokjin doesn't know what he's doing.

The triumphant smile appears easily on your face, though you do your best to hide it. You can go with this. Just go with the flow, and when he's had his fun, you can claim to the Madame that you've had your seminar and be on your merry way.

This, of course, doesn't happen.

No sooner did the thought cross your mind, Seokjin picks you up from the floor and sets you onto his lap. You didn't even have time to shriek because once you realise what was happening, you're already facing him and his smug grin.

"Ah, much better. My neck was getting sore since I had to look down on you."

"Hmm yeah. I like you better when you're looking up at me. Right where you belong," you retort.

"Angel, angel. You don't seem to know the kind of position you're in at the moment." Seokjin brings the back of his hand to your cheek, stroking the skin gently. "You're not in your chambers, but in mine. Let me introduce myself again. I'm not the same 'Seokjin' that you know right now," his hand moves down to grip your chin. "And I'm going to make sure that you walk out of here having learned why they call me 'master'."

"Who calls–"

For the second time that day, you swallow your reply. Not just because there's now a loose hand wrapped around the back of your neck, ready to squeeze if necessary, but Seokjin's now scowling, full pout turned down in disappointment. You whimper out the last syllable, and your shoulders rise in an attempt to shield yourself from his gaze, but there's a part of you – the one that refuses to be tamed, that ends up winning the war in your head. But as you're ready to attempt to speak again, it all melts away when Seokjin's plump lips attach to the base of your neck, taking a nip at the tender flesh.

"As I said before," he says, low. "Know your fucking place, brat."

"Mmmh," you sigh.

Your hands depart from your side to take hold of his broad shoulders as Seokjin continues to leave behind blues and purples on your skin. You've never felt this kind of heat – it burns you from the inside and leaves you begging for more. Has your neck always been this sensitive?

"Singing so sweetly for me already? Where did all that bravado go?"

"F-Fuck you," you hiss, but the words leave no sting – not when your legs are shaking and your head is tilted away to give him access to more of you.

"Later," he chuckles. Seokjin pushes your shirt up just a little past your navel and places a hand on your tummy. "Right now, I have a job to do."

His hand snakes up and up until you feel a lazy finger touching the underside of your breast. The muffled sighs you've been releasing up 'til now is no match for the howl that rips out of you when he pinches the flesh. You move away slightly as your back arches, pain and pleasure coalescing into this mind-numbing sensation. How has no one ever made you feel this alive? There's magic in his touch, it's the only explanation that makes sense, because he's rendered you close to useless.

Close, but not enough. "If this 'job' you're talking about is in regards to me begging, you'll have to try a bit harder," you smirk, even through the trembling voice.

"I had a feeling. You don't seem like the type to break easy."

Seokjin places his arm under your butt and stands, carrying your shrieking form in his arms before throwing you on the bed.

"Lucky for you, I'm also not the type to give up," he grins from between your legs.

Oh. This is getting fun. Does he think he can make you cum?

You help him discard your shorts with your bottom lip fitted into your teeth. The anticipation is getting stronger. A small part of you is worried that Seokjin's all talk, and he's not actually going to follow through with anything decent. You suppose it's not that bad, considering that you have an array of toys waiting for you in your chambers should it come to that.

But now that you're just in your underwear – some cotton white thing that isn't sexy at all, you wonder why he's just staring at you from below.

"What's the hold up? Don't tell me you're scared of eating me out."

A brow shoots up to the sky. "Why are you in such a rush? You and I have the rest of the day off, so it doesn't really matter."

Waiting's a clever tactic, you too love the image of your subs squirming in their seats on the floor, but it's nothing revolutionary either. Well, if Seokjin's taking a while, the bed is comfortable and your eyes are calling you to sleep–

"Oooh…"

The touch was faint, the barest of rubs against your clit, but your body jolts awake all the same. You grip the sheets tighter, anticipating for another faint touch, but it never comes. A second turns to two, and then three, and four, yet Seokjin continues to lean on your thigh, grinning at you irritatingly from below.

It's when you close your eyes again that the touch comes.

Again, your eyes fly open and you prop yourself up to stare him down.

Again – he looks up at you with an innocent smile.

"What are you doing?"

"Whatever I can to break you out of that shell," he says simply.

"And that involves teasing me until I beg?" you huff with a roll of your eyes. "I thought you're supposed to teach me how to be better. Not play around with the basics that anyone could have learned from the internet."

Seokjin shrugs. "We all have to start somewhere, and for you, maybe it's best to go back to the basics." Two of his fingers pretend to walk on your skin before he tugs at the waistband of your panties. "Plus, you have no idea what I have planned for you, so how can you be sure?"

He pings the elastic against your skin, pulling harder with each tug.

You bring your legs together and pull them close, trying to stop his mischief. "You're going to ruin my underwear," you groan in complaint.

"How much do you care about this pair?"

"I mean, it's only $5 but still–"

A stern gaze silences you. "I don't care how much it costs, I want to know if you have any attachment to them."

"No," is your reply, voice meek.

You watch as Seokjin bends down to the seam, eyes locked on yours. He fits one side of the seam in his mouth, and the other in his hand. Your heart is stuck in your throat; your slow brain picking up the pieces of what he's going to do. Before you have another chance to stop him, the flimsy threads rip free with a solid yank, some frayed strands falling onto the bed.

He sits slowly up, the ruined garment in his mouth, before crawling towards you. Seokjin makes little sound as he climbs on top, but there's a ferocity in his eyes you've yet to be acquainted with.

"Open," he mumbles through gritted teeth.

You want to retort – to regain what little control you have left. But in this caged state, with his hair tickling your forehead, and his arms on either side of your head, you've left little choice but obey. Your jaw opens with great reluctance, and when it does, Seokjin deposits your underwear into your mouth.

Does it count as a kiss? His lips sure are touching yours, pulling out unwilling moans from your throat, as he fucks the garment into your mouth with his tongue, but it's simultaneously too lacking and too overwhelming all the same. The panties in your mouth gradually become wetter, the mixtures of saliva seeping into it, and in a few seconds you can taste yourself; the astringent bite of ecstasy.

"Mmph…" You're not sure when your hands circle his neck, but they slip away and return to the bed when he sits up. With your hands unbound, it should be easy for you to take the gag away, and throw it in his face, but the way he kissed (or not kissed) you left you breathless – mind reeling as you wondered what it was.

Seokjin tilts your chin this way and that, admiring the line of drool that's begun to dribble to the pillow. "So much better when you're not yapping away. Snap your fingers once."

Though your fingers shake, you obey.

"That's a good girl," Seokjin coos, brushing away the hair that's fallen on your face. "Snap once for 'go', twice for 'stop'. Got it?"

You snap once.

"A quick study, huh? I'm impressed," he chuckles. Seokjin returns to his spot between your legs. "Let's see if you remember what you're supposed to do."

It's like you have no energy left to argue. You're left pliant and subservient, not willing to put up a fight anymore. In this hazy state, your eyes close gradually, and you let yourself sink into the mattress, waiting for him to begin.

Your hands remain fisted by your side, opening and closing around the sheets while he pets your cunt in circular motions. The whines tumble easily when his slick-covered fingers slide up and down, pinching your clit in between the spaces. Seokjin is purposefully missing the places where you need him most, and it's frustrating, but just as you're about to complain, he fits a middle finger inside, and your back arches at the sudden, yet welcomed, intrusion.

He angles his finger upwards, the rough pad of it caressing just below the patch of nerves. Your thighs threaten to crush his head with how bad you're squeezing, yet he doesn't mind, and he can't seem to hear the whining complaints coming from your stuffed mouth.

Like the kiss, it's a push and pull; underwhelmed by the lack of sensation, yet fulfilled with how intentional he's being. Could you ever do what he's doing with your own subs? You're starting to realise why the Madame assigned him to you. He has a completely different style from you, but maybe this is what you've been missing all along.

"You're distracted."

Sure enough, you hadn't realised that he's stopped moving with half his finger still inside you. He fishes the underwear from your mouth and massages your jaw after noticing that you've been clenching it for some time. You've never known Seokjin to be so… soothing.

"'m fine."

Of course your lacklustre response isn't going to convince him. Seokjin sits you up and places your head on his chest, with the rest of your body between his legs.

"You wanna tell me what's on your mind or just sit here in silence for a bit until you feel better enough to continue?"

You wouldn't think that he'd give you an out so easily. "Aren't you worried that I would just sit here and tell the Madame that I've completed my training with you?"

His response is a chuckle. "Nah, you're not that dishonest. You're thinking about it now, but when it comes down to it, I doubt you're actually going to do it."

"You don't know me," you grumble.

"Maybe," he shrugs, "But I've watched you long enough to have an idea of what you're like."

A silence stretches. What did he mean by that? Before you can ask though, Seokjin's already talking.

"Now, I know that this may be training for you, but I genuinely want it to be fun. Can you tell me what's on your mind?"

You shuffle to sit up further, resting the back of your head against his shoulder. "I'm… scared I won't be able to get that spark back. Maybe it's time for me to switch roles, or something. I'll be losing a lot of clients, and I guess that will risk my livelihood."

When you look up at Seokjin, you're surprised to find he's already looking at you, his eyes encouraging you to continue.

"The House is my everything." Crying in front of him was not on your to-do list this morning, but the tears came up all the same. "When the complaints started coming… I tried my hardest to push through the fog, but that only made it worse somehow."

The ball of stress and anxiety has grown large enough that you feel utterly defeated. What if you don't get the spark back? Where will you go? The House of Lust is all you've known. You doubt any employer in the real world would ever accept anyone that has worked in the sex industry.

"I don't even have any family to turn back to," you admit quietly, balling the hem of your shirt in your hand. "There's literally nothing left for me to do if I'm ever fired."

Seokjin brings his arms around your stomach and pulls you in tighter. He doesn't speak for some time, and instead rests his chin on your head. "Have you thought of a change of perspective?" he asks softly. "It doesn't have to be a permanent thing, but you can just try the non-BDSM route for once?"

Madam Sohee did mention a change in perspective, though you're not sure if Seokjin's suggestion is really what she has in mind. "I've never really considered that…"

"I think you should try talking to her about it. You know Madame Min is very strict on our potential clients for our own safety, so I doubt you'll get any weirdos. You just won't be able to see your old subs."

Of course! The Madame will guarantee your safety. You're seriously considering the offer and with every passing second, that warm hope comforts you… until it's quickly replaced with harsh insecurity. "But what if I can't?" Your voice cracks as you try to keep the tears at bay. "All I've known about sex is just… well… this." You gesture at your half-naked state.

"Well…" Seokjin starts, but doesn't continue after some time. You look up to see that his head is tilted to the side, lips pursed as he thinks. "If you want to try, I'd gladly help you through it. But at the end of the day, if you don't want to do this line of work, I'm sure there are other ways you can stay in the House and help out."

"Really?"

Seokjin smiles. "Really. Trust me."

"I do," you blurt out, sitting up to face him. And it's only because you're mildly offended that he doesn't think so that you realise how true it was.

Seokjin doesn't seem to notice your flustered expression. He gives your midsection a squeeze before he goes to his wardrobe, and tosses you a pair of shorts. "Here. Wear this. How about we end it here for today? I'll let Madame Sohee know about the change of plans."

Feeling a bit embarrassed, you pull the shorts over your hips and leave the room a bit hurried, but you do turn back to offer him thanks.

"Don't mention it," Seokjin grins.

And when you reach your chambers, you throw yourself onto your bed, nervous and excited. You pray morning comes soon because you're actually looking forward to tomorrow.

———

You are no longer looking forward to today.

It's the familiar scene – of you standing in front of Seokjin's room, only this time, instead of reluctance, you are terrified.

"No… I can't do this," you mutter to yourself, turning away from the door. But just as you fish your phone out to text Seokjin that you're backing out of the plan, the door opens, and said man leans on the door frame with an amused grin… and in less clothes than you saw him last.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, crossing his arms.

You look at the floor; the ceiling; the creepy painting in the hallway; anything so as to not look at Seokjin's naked chest. "I forgot something in my room…?"

"If you're going to lie, maybe don't end the sentence as though you're asking a question," he chuckles. He steps towards you, flexing his muscles not-so subtly. "Why so nervous? Never seen a half-naked man before?"

"That's not it," you grumble, still refusing to look at him.

Seokjin hums. Deciding that this short burst of torture was enough for you, he takes a step back and gestures to his room. "Well, come on in. It's not like you haven't been inside yet."

Not trusting yourself to speak, you nod before following him inside. The room this time is darker, blackout curtains pulled over the windows. Seokjin had lit candles around the room, the soft glow making you feel at ease immediately. Did he do all this for you? It's almost… romantic.

While you're looking around the now unfamiliar room, Seokjin's already making his way to the bed. It's the gentle way he calls your name, followed by an equally gentle, "Come here," that has you moving towards him with stiff limbs.

This time, when he offers his hand, you take it.

Your knees sink to the plush material as you sit on his lap. The shadows move strangely across Seokjin's face, and you find it difficult for you to look away.

"Do you still remember your safe word from yesterday?"

You nod. "Sock."

"That's right." His smile catches you off-guard and you long for more praise to spill from those plush, pink lips. Seokjin tucks your hair behind your ear as he says, "Just because we won't be doing anything BDSM related doesn't mean that we stop being safe. If you feel uncomfortable at any time, you say that word, hm?"

Is it just you or is Seokjin's face so close? You're starting to get lost in the abyss in his eyes. "Ah… Yeah," you respond, slightly distracted.

"I'm also going to leave you in charge of the pace since–"

Seokjin doesn't get to finish his sentence, not with your hands on the sides of his face and your lips shutting him up.

You sigh into the kiss. There's electricity in the air that you were missing yesterday when he kissed you with your panties in the way. Once Seokjin gets over his shock, he pulls you close to his chest. His right thumb has snuck underneath the hem of your shirt and is now caressing the small of your back, causing tiny little fissures of pleasure to erupt. The simple touch has you craving more, so you kiss him harder, before biting his bottom lip.

A low grunt emits from his throat when your teeth sink into the soft muscle.

His hands capture your body in a tight embrace, half your shirt riding up with how anxious he's exploring your skin.

"I… fuck, I've been thinking of you last night," he admits between gasps. "I wanted today to be slow and romantic, but look at you," Seokjin's lips quirk into a half-grin as he holds your cheek in his hand, "so eager to get things started. Let go and let your instincts take over."

It's the permission you need to tackle him to the bed. In two seconds your shirt is gone and you're back to kissing him, your fingers tangled up in his hair. Seokjin's quiet grunts is the fuel that keeps you going, and though this type of sex isn't one you're familiar with, you find yourself craving for more.

"Fuuuck… These hips…" he hisses when you grind against his growing erection. "Keep it up and you're going to make me cum in my pants."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

You double your efforts by tracing your lips onto his neck, in a similar manner that he did yesterday. Soon the pale skin of his dons on a similar hue to yours – with matching blues and purples. Your fingers trail down to pinch his nipple, and you're delighted when Seokjin releases a drawn-out moan.

"Sensitive?" you chuckle, moving lower to fit the other one in your mouth.

Seokjin throws his head back with a long whimper. "Very, but you're not supposed to find that out this quickly."

Although he's breathing hard, Seokjin manages to take control and roll you onto your back, your hands raised high above your head in his grip. "Now, now, I can't let you have all the fun. I wanna continue where we left off yesterday. Now, do you remember what you're supposed to do to get me to touch you?"

With an excited sigh, you close your eyes.

"Good. Keep those hands high above your head."

Your back arches as he kisses down your chest, his teeth grabbing the hem of your shorts and panties to expose yourself. He wastes no time with teasing, facing your cunt horizontally with your leg over his neck. Seokjin licks a long stripe from your winking hole to your clit before he kisses your folds as though they're your lips. His tongue glides up and down, ready to catch the arousal before it drips onto the sheets.

"Shit…" you gasp, body straining with need.

Even with your eyes closed, you can feel the heat of his gaze watching your every reaction. Your body burns with humiliation, and it's only made worse when his fingers make their way inside, crowding your tightness with their girth. The sounds you make rattle off the walls – a mixture of the wet sounds between your thighs and your moans.

"This pussy… I've been dying to taste it."

"Is it to – ah – your satisfaction?"

You gasp when Seokjin nips at your folds. "You taste just how I would have guessed; incredible."

The compliment tempers the humiliation somewhat, but you have no time to bask in its glow. You feel the bed dip and then your body is being pulled forward until you feel his lap underneath your ass. His left arm supports your thrashing lower half while his fingers continue to slam into you.

"Seokjin!" His name is embedded in a scream, your eyes squeezing even tighter as you beg and beg for him to not stop. Your body tenses with anticipation of your upcoming release – toes curling with how tightly you're wound.

"Show me how you cum." A command, followed by his thumb pressing circles around your clit.

Within seconds you obey, body thrashing in his grip; streams of arousal on his fingers.

Tears fall from your eyes as you whine, and a white noise dampens your hearing after the release. The room spins behind your closed lids as you lay there with a sweaty arm draped over your eyes. The aftershocks of your orgasm still cause your body to flinch, and a particular one has you whimpering at the onset of soreness between your legs.

You've never felt anything like that before.

The bed dips as Seokjin comes to gather you in his arms. "How's that?"

"Good."

"Oh, we're being honest now? What a major development."

You're about to scoff when you feel him place two of his fingers on your lips.

"Clean me up?"

Your mouth opens wide enough for him to slip his fingers inside. Unlike when you tasted yourself through your panties, there's a hint of sweetness this time around, and you gladly lap up the remaining stickiness as though it's a drizzle of honey.

"How do you taste?" Seokjin asks after removing his fingers.

"Sweet," you pant

He hums in affirmation. "That's right. I could eat you out for days." Seokjin fucks your mouth in earnest with his fingers, the pads grazing the back of your throat. "You're about to be my favourite drink."

Your tongue dances between the spaces of his fingers. Hearing him praise you has your whole body buzzing, and despite the soreness, you're already eager to do more. When you peek at his face, whatever discomfort you felt completely disappears. His ears are a deeper shade than his slightly parted pink lips; eyes drawn into the way his fingers disappear into your mouth. How can a man look so cute and hot at the same time?

He removes his fingers and in a slight daze, he asks, "Are you set to continue?"

"Yeah," you whisper, wiping the drool with the back of your hand. "I'd like to keep going."

Seokjin just grins as he flips you on top of him. "Use me to satisfy your greatest desires. Just let your instincts take over."

His words echo in your head. You gulp, heart pounding against your chest as you move lower – towards the waistband of his pants. When his cock springs free, it takes all of you not to gawk. You won't say it's the biggest dick you've seen, but there's a heaviness to it when you hold him in your hands. Fuck. You're salivating at the thought of how those protruding veins would feel inside of you.

"Like what you see?"

Smug bastard has returned. Seokjin stares with his arms underneath his head, nonchalant and carefree.

You say little else before placing the head on your tongue. No matter how wide you open your jaw though, his girth makes it almost impossible for you to swallow him whole. Yet you're determined to make him succumb to the haze he's left you with, so you spit on your hand and begin to pump his length while your mouth tries to take in as much of him as you can. His groans delight you, and urge you to increase your speed.

"Feels so fucking good," Seokjin groans, loud. "Shit. You want me to fuck my cum down your throat? Want a taste of my seed before I fill you up later? Fuck it. I'm going to make sure you clean me up once we're done; and whatever else that spills out of you."

His taunts have you clenching your lower muscles with need. You nod furiously, not trusting yourself to speak with him inside your mouth.

Seokjin pushes your head down and begins fucking up into your mouth in earnest, his grunts ringing loudly in your ears. Oxygen is a precious commodity, leaving you sputtering and gasping from the lack of it.

But just as you think he's about to explode, Seokjin yanks you off of his dick by your hair. Your tongue lolls out of your mouth, saliva dripping down to your cleavage. It reminds you of the time you had with that sub of yours. Did Jungkook also feel the same desperation to please you? Why does that moment feel like a lifetime ago?

Your thoughts scatter the instant Seokjin taps your cheek not unkindly with his palm, and you're pleased to see that he's breathing hard.

"Focus on me and nothing else."

He doesn't have to tell you twice. Seokjin kisses you like a man starved, catching your moans in his lips as he slowly makes his way on top of you again. You spin at the ferocity of his tongue against yours, and the heat of his palms massaging your breasts.

"Ngh…" you whine, pulling away to inhale much needed air. "Seokjin…"

"What do you need from me, baby?" He asks into your skin, remarking the places he's been before so they bloom anew. His teeth graze your pebbled nipples and you cry out with a clutch of his hair.

"More," is your hazy response.

"More of what? Hm?" Seokjin sits up and splays his hand over your tummy to stop you from jumping up as he glides his cock over your swollen pussy. Your whines only spur him on, body moving faster. "Do you want to cum like this?"

"No!"

He removes himself away from your heat to sink two fingers into you. "Oh, I get it," he coos. "This is what you want, right?"

You squirm in his grip. He has one leg over his arm and the other is holding you down. With your brain a mess of lust and need, you don't have any coherence left in you to speak.

"Tell me or else I'm leaving you to cum with just my fingers."

Bastard! you curse in your head. Yet your voice is weak when you whimper, "Need… you…"

"Well, you have my fingers. What more could you possibly need?"

You cover his dick with your hand, stopping all his movements. Raising your hips, you push the tip of him inside you. "Does this answer your question?"

"Fuck," he hisses as you slowly join your bodies together.

Just as you predicted, you can feel the delicious stretch as you have your fill, and even when the blunt head of cock moves past your g-spot, there's still a sizeable chunk of dick left. Will he truly fit inside of you?

Seokjin moves to stand and drags your body with him. Your ass hangs off the edge, held up firmly in his arms.

Spit dribbles past his lips and onto your pussy, and Seokjin uses the tip of his cock to smear it around. With a grunt he pushes in, and though you've had a taste of it before, it doesn't stop you from crying out.

"Shit!" Your grip on the sheets tighten. "Fuck, Seokjin…"

"Yeah, fuck. Does that feel good? Just me sticking my dick in has you seeing stars?"

"Please… move." You grip his forearms tighter, your nails leaving half-moons on his skin; a perfect accompaniment to his marred neck.

Seokjin obliges readily, whilst whispering sweet taunts in your ear; "Tighten up for me, darling. Just like that, oh fuck. Can you feel how hard I am? Does it feel good?"

Over and over you're rocked into bliss, your numb legs helpless in his arms. If this is what sex is supposed to feel like, you're not sure if you can go back. Even if you do end up switching roles, would you be able to find such ecstasy in another's arms? No, you decide, it has to be Seokjin.

He doesn't move too quickly, but goes deeper than any toy you've had. His thrusts spring forth a slow ember that gradually becomes whiter; hotter.

"I'm–"

"Yeah, me too," Seokjin gasps before he kisses you.

That's how you came for the second time, in the midst of a kiss, moaning his name and spilling it into his open lips.

Seokjin increases his speed then after flipping you over so that you're on your stomach. He plasters his chest to your back so he can groan directly into your ear. Every long-drawn out moan tumbling past his lips causes you to do the same; your voices mixing and growing louder and louder.

"One more time? Can you cum one more time?"

You don't know if you should. One more and there's absolutely no way for you to return to your previous role. It's so easy for him to pull pleasure seemingly out of thin air, and you succumb to the depths for a final time, your mouth opening in a silent scream as the waves crash repeatedly against you.

"I'm gonna fill you up. Make you walk around with my cum all day, shit," Seokjin grunts, biting the shell of your ear. "Oh, fuck, the way you tightened up for me just now. You want that? Want me to fuck you full of cum until your tummy swells?"

"Seokjin. Fuck."

"That's right, angel. I'm sure you can't wait to go about your day, squeezing your thighs together? Fuck. I'm going to cum in this gorgeous pussy, shit… I'm gonna turn you into my personal toy."

Seokjin holds your thrashing form in his firm arms, and after a loud groan, he spills his seed inside you. Your walls spasm as though you're milking him dry, and maybe some part of you wants to make sure that he gives you everything until there's nothing left.

If you weren't sure before, you're certain now – there's no way you can go back to your old ways. The Madame is right, you were due for a different position.

With a gentleness you didn't know he possesses, Seokjin carries you back to the bed. He rests your head on the silk pillow sheets before propping your legs by his head.

"What… are you…" you ask between bouts of heavy breathing.

A softer version of his smug smile returns. "I'm about to clean the mess I made."

You moan weakly when his tongue makes contact with your puffy lips. Seokjin takes his time drinking it all in, and the loud smacks of his lips against your sopping cunt has you grasping the sheets.

"No… no more…"

But Seokjin doesn't listen, and his thumb returns to press tight circles on your swollen nub. After a shuddering gasp, you cum, spurting out your mixture of juices right in his tongue. Your mind is a blurred mess of shapes and sound; your eyes having a hard time keeping the room still.

"Ah, Seokjin…" you groan into the pillow.

"That's it. Give in and give yourself to me," he mumbles, licking the last remaining drops. "I'll make sure your body only remembers me."

It already does, you think, but you don't need his ego to grow tenfold. Instead, you whimper, and wait until he's had his fill.

When Seokjin rises from between your legs, the sight almost makes you beg him for more, if your pussy isn't currently throbbing from oversensitivity. The lower part of his face is covered in slick, and he's licking everything his tongue could reach as though it's sweet cream.

"Satisfied?"

How can he even ask you that after just turning your world upside down?

"Yeah, I guess," you reply, avoiding his eager eyes.

Seokjin only chuckles, and from the corner of your eye, you watch his broad shoulders rise and fall. "Well, if I can't convince you, that's fine. We can go back to our original plan. Maybe over time I can train you to be a good sub for any personality that walks through those doors."

"There's no need for that," you murmur. Not just because you still don't feel like you won't be good at the role, but because you don't think you want to have sex with anyone else. Which could be bad for your job. But then you remembered what Seokjin said the other day; about the possibility of still contributing to the House without the sex.

"Do you think the Madame will let me take on a more administrative role?"

Seokjin hums in contemplation. "I don't doubt that she'll agree, but your services are a valuable asset to the House," he contemplates. Turning to you, his smile is soft when he asks, "Will it help if I'm there when you talk to her about it?"

You nod, relieved in the midst of uncertainty. "Who would have known that you'd be someone in my corner?"

He holds you close to his chest as he mumbles into your hair, "Mmm… you just never gave me a chance."

The silence stretches. You're so comfortable in his arms, that you realise with a start how long you've overstayed your welcome. Seokjin must have been itching to kick you out, but felt it impolite to voice his concerns. But when you try to wrestle free from his arms, you find yourself fighting a losing battle.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Back to my chambers?" you question with a foot already halfway off the bed.

He tightens his hold and drags you back onto his lap. "Mmm… how about you stay? You're so warm and I'm exhausted."

"Well—" you try to argue, but the words catch in your throat when you can't meet his stare.

"You don't want to?"

It's not that you don't want to, but this is getting into a territory you're not sure you're ready to broach. Does he do this with all his subs? There's no way – not when there's a time limit, and you find yourself reluctant to ask him, afraid of what the answer may be.

So, you let Seokjin help you into his clothes; let him cover you in blankets after he turns out the lights; and let him cuddle you close, your head atop of his heart.

You let him do all this because you don't really want to part with him either.

And safe in the blanket of night; nestled deep in your delusion as you hear him slowly succumb to sleep, you pretend that you belong to him; and him to you.

saturn's notes: ah it's so good to be writing a fic again, especially one i've been dying to write for some time. thanks so much for reading, my beloveds. you inspire me. oh, and before you start, let me sate your curiosity: no, there's probably not a sequel to this. if i do decide to write one in the future, great! but tbh, i am much to busy with so many other fics :)

[echo-of-sounds]

being rejected

Small headcanons of how Aizawa, Toshinori, Hizashi, and Gang Orca would react to being rejected. 

This, uh, this hurt to write. I don’t want them in pain. They deserve love and appreciation.

Aizawa Shouta

Relationships aren’t a priority to Shouta. It takes a while for the emotions to register and for him to conclude if you’re worth his time. Then he needs to finalize his feelings about you. His hopes tell him you’ll reciprocate the attraction. The rare optimism inside his heart tells him you’ll accept, happy he finally asked you out. If those scarce feelings weren’t there to drive him, he wouldn’t spend as much time with you as he does. 

When his mind’s made up, he waits until you’re alone to invite you on a date. At your awkward decline, you’d never be able to detect his feelings or thoughts. The usual flat expression is somehow flatter. His face and voice appear empty. It’s grim, almost sad, mournful, hardly reacting to your answer, unable to vocalize the distress he’s in.

After a few stiff, silent seconds, he nods, bids you goodnight, and walks away. From then on out, your interactions with him don’t change much. He’s his normal lethargic, grumpy self. But you’ll notice he isn’t as talkative with you as he used to be. He’s no master conversationalist with anyone, but he made an effort with you. And now that effort’s disappeared. You were just another person in the room for him to ignore.

Shouta struggles and he hates it. He can’t really interpret the emotions. Any delicate desires, any romantic thoughts that pop up, get shoved down on instinct. This time, he didn’t do that. He let them rise. Being romantically involved with someone finally excited him. You could have understood all his heart and all his troubles. And he would’ve allowed you. He wanted to let you in. The fears and loves that flood your chest when you lay yourself bare, granting someone else access to your past and future, he wanted to experience with you.

Yet, only a couple of words crumbled all those desires. He got sentimental about them before it even happened, allowing juvenile dreams to influence him. Your rejection made him remember that his life would not end up like that. Being a Hero was risky. Being a teacher was time-consuming. A partner just didn’t fit in and now he admitted it. 

Afterward, any romantic thoughts that rose, regardless of how strong, were completely ignored. His troubles and nightmares and deep desires were his own. Intimacy ran risks of them getting hurt- risks he didn’t want to take again. He wouldn’t be able to handle someone seeing them, then damaging them. Shouta was by himself. He must accept it.

Yagi Toshinori

Out of everyone, Toshinori waits the longest to ask anyone out. The idea of someone truly being interested in him is a distant dream. Regardless of that distance, your smile and aura are radiant. Your conversations and interests softy enchant him, invoking images of a happy future together. It reignites that nearly dead flame inside. 

Eventually he’ll conclude to ask you on a date. He gifts you a single flower, then wonders if you’d join in for dinner. Your gentle turndown guts him. He desperately wants to hide his grief. But you can see his eyebrows turn and light fade from his eyes. Whatever joy that held his shoulders steady, abandoned him as the flame died. Before you can say anything else, he acknowledges your answer, politely excuses himself, and leaves you alone with the flower.

Your friendship is still important to him. He tries his hardest not to let the blunder hinder that because he values you and wants to stay friends. However, it’ll be impossible for you to not notice how he doesn’t approach you when you enter the room like he used to, smiling, willing to talk about anything. Or how he avoids your eyes when you pass each other in the hall. Or how he drifts from you, tiny little bit by tiny little bit. It’s slow, gradually detaching from your friendship until one day you look back and realize you haven’t spoken in months. 

No matter how wounded and alone Toshi feels, he doesn’t blame you. If anything, he agrees that no one would want to be with a sick, injured, powerless man. And the incident turns him off of relationships for a while, if not forever. He’d rather be ill and lonely than ill, lonely, and hurt… 

Because Toshinori is incredibly hurt and confused and terrified. He knew it would turn out this way. He tried to find happiness. The hope for intimacy and the craving for something more led him astray. It was childish to think you would be any different. He knew it would be this way, yet he still tried. He still hoped. He still dreamed of romance, a happy future, a chance to love, a chance to be loved, a chance to feel safe and cherished. But he won’t be. Those feelings and dreams aren’t for him. And now he understands that, so he’s left alone and scared.

Yamada Hizashi

Hizashi’s been in relationships. Sometimes they work out, sometimes they end in heartbreak, and sometimes they don’t even start. Different people have caught his eye. Depending on his life at the time and how special they were, he’d decide if they were worth it. Once you came along, something about your energy and laughter sparked his interest. He wanted you.

He’d invite you to a concert or bar. The way he worded it made it seem like a friendly get-together. Then you show up and the general feel is warmly intimate, not some social gathering. Your quiet discomfort tells Hizashi you weren’t there for a romantic time. To salvage the evening, he relaxes the atmosphere for a fun night out. At the end of the night, he apologizes for the mix-up and expresses how he hopes your friendship will last after his screw-up. His jovial personality makes it easy to move past.

Hizashi doesn’t take it to heart at first. Infatuations, crushes, and relationships come and go. But as the weeks go on and he remains just a friend, little pangs begin to nag his chest. There was something special about you. He wanted to understand everything about you, physically, emotionally, romantically, and intimately. He wanted to be the man you turned to when you’re scared and happy and excited and disappointed. But now he knows that’s not his place. Your heart is searching for another and he accepts that. Your friendship is enough because he couldn’t stand completely losing you. 

Those twinges never fully disappear. Hizashi cares and cries and experiences with all his heart, something so few can do. Every lover he’s ever had remains in his thoughts, feelings, and soul. When the time comes where you find the one, hugging and kissing them with your profoundly stunning smile, those pangs he thought he conquered long ago return. They aren’t as sundering as they used to be. Yet, the instant he’s alone in the bathroom, his eyes are watering and his legs are shaking, remembering just how deeply and wholly he cared for you.

Gang Orca

Kugo is incredibly hesitant to start a relationship. It’s new territory. When you happen along, he’s simply drawn towards you, wanting to spend plenty of time by your side. Romantic feelings brew, creeping higher into his heart. Once a stable friendship is built, he starts helping you with your daily tasks, trying to suss out if you reciprocate the feelings. 

After the eternity it takes for him to decide, he asks you on a date one quiet night while you’re hanging out. It’s surprising by how out of left field it is. You don’t have to respond. Your frozen face is enough. Damn near everything in him sinks. His heart’s so rarely been exposed. It’s the rawest part of him and all it took was your expression to break it. To save himself the clawing bitterness, he apologizes for ruining your night, asks if you could forgive his oversight, and leaves.

As much as it hurts him too, he respects your decision. It doesn’t change how beautiful you are and how endearing your voice is and how cute your outfits are and how welcoming and inviting your- He must stop thinking like that. It’ll only make the rejection worse. 

It’ll take a while for your friendship to return to normal. Kugo spends a bit of time alone, stressing and berating himself. Is it his appearance? His job? Did he do something wrong? Did he hurt you? Insult you? Annoy you? He wants to be angry that he’s sensitive. He almost wants to hate it, hate you. Maybe it’ll be easier that way. But he can’t. You don’t deserve it. You did nothing wrong. 

And even though this experience was painful, the desire for love and intimacy and family and appreciation and a true, deep connection with someone keeps Kugo’s heart yearning, hoping. He just wants love. What about him isn’t worthy of it? Why won’t someone love him?

[hexisqueer]

insignificant

a/n: two posts in a week??? damn im whack anyway- the pov switches everytime there’s a cut, hope yall can recognize it,, telling me if you like the style i rly liked writing it (._.) also this is after the timeskip so aha word count: 1.6 K (wow look at me go) pairing: atsumu x reader genre: angst (if it’s not very good, pls forgiveness, internet person)

The smooth, laminated floors were littered with confetti, plastic knife lying limp in your hands. Your friends were long gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts, alone on your birthday, alone even when you had reminded him last week. But maybe you were just that insignificant, just that easy to forget. You carefully pick up each piece of cake, packing it safely in a box for later, distracting yourself to keep from break into pieces. Was it that difficult to keep track of things, when you had to focus on the team, organize all the meetings and practices?

'He always has enough time for all his fangirls', the first bitter thought flooded your mind. The first of many that plagued your mind that day, that week, when he returned only late at nights, falling into bed without so much as a glance at you. The first of the string of wonderings that eventually widened the proverbial gap between the two of you so much that crossing it back would have required too much out of either of you. The first train that led your thoughts so far away from the reality of it that you overthought every gesture, every word, every kiss, questioning if he meant them for you or there was another, he wanted to reserve them for.

And there was. Another. Not at first, but the more disinterested he got, the more skeptic you got, the worse the miscommunication got. And there she was, so willing to satisfy him, take care of him that the image of you flew right out his mind, replaced by her, her tiny giggles and impossibly large eyes. And he was only human, desperation was tempting him and he took the bait, indulging himself for the night, two nights, three nights, a week, a month.

But every time he returned, he would notice the soft look in your once shining orbs, he knew you still loved him, still waited for the day he would make time for you, but didn't have the heart to tell you... that day was long gone, and unnoticed you went, like snow in the Arctic, that lay a fine layer of white over the land, beautiful, necessary, but insignificant.

He knew, that he would have to tell you, face the broken look in your eyes, the slight downturn of your lips, not yelling, because you couldn't be mad, not when your heart beat for him, every step of the way.

You were always there for him, the side-lines of his matches, cheering for him, only him, louder than the rest, glowing with pride that he was yours, allowing him to toss every spike with determination behind his eyes. 

You were there, every time they lost, when the fangirls crowded the winning team and his slunk away to join them, you showering him with kisses, words of encouragement, and cuddling him until the feeling of failure in his heart gave way to love for you. You were there, uncomplaining, content to just be beside him, be the one he comes to with worries and desires, with food for his hunger and affection for his soul, there just as you always would be until he told you.

Maybe you would stay with him even after he broke your heart, forgive him even if you didn't trust him, keep the routine you had fallen into? He could only hope.

"I wasn't lying when I said I loved you." Your shivering sobs, racking breaths and tear-filled eyes began the way he slowly fell apart. But right then he was cold, aloof, giving you the choice of returning back to him even though he could tell you wouldn't by the way you flinched away from his fingers. "I loved you. I just… fell out of love too."

Wrong words, he sensed. Your reaction changed out of the blue, and his heart thumped against his chest, enough to hurt. Standing up, you brush yourself off and wipe your tears. Though your face was stained and swollen with your very much recent emotions, you tried to put on a strong façade.

Because if he didn’t care, why should you? Why should you be the only one silently braving yourself through the ordeal when he didn’t so much as shed a single drop for the four-year long relationship he was so casually throwing away? Why should you let yourself be defined as insignificant time and over again by the same person who didn’t appreciate the things you did for him, didn’t love you anymore? Why should you if replacing you was just that easy, falling out of love just that simple, shattering you just that effortless, bringing in one of the fans that would turn on him the second the ball slips out of his hands and he misses his toss?

The answer was that you didn’t.

You let go, set him free, cut off all ties. Since he was really that calmly ‘out of love’ with you, it shouldn’t bother him that much if you pretended that he never existed. You would never have pegged Atsumu as the unfeeling type, Kiyoomi maybe, but not your (now ex) boyfriend. He always overwhelming people with his emotions, akin to Bokuto and Hinata, little balls of energy, and now they would all be gone too, simply because Atsumu had a whim to be with someone that wouldn’t disappoint him like you. 

And maybe he was right, maybe you were too clingy, too desperate, too loving for someone like him who could have any girl he wanted.

Thoughts cloud your head, as you pack a quick overnight bag. You just needed to get away from here, away from the hurt, the images of you huddled against different walls of the house waiting for him till late into the nights, innocent, naïve. 

You stop at the figure that leaned against the door frame, looking into his eyes for remorse, grief, regret, anything. It’s too dark to see anything but the cold glint in his eyes as he stares back.

So, you smile, because anything else would have left you sobbing on the now fading laminate of the floors. “’Tsumu, I- I would have given you the stars if you asked for them.” At that his head snapped up, the reference to a summer day, surrounded by cherry blossoms enough to rattle a reaction out of him. “But I was never enough for you, was I? I hope you’re happy now. Don’t forget me, my love.”

You were leaving but you wanted him to remember you; they could call you selfish, manipulative, inconsiderate, but then what was he? Where was the reprimand for his actions? Was he not heedless in his actions? Thoughtless, unmindful? You were leaving the one you believed you would end up with but for his mistake, your life was torn apart, much like your heart.

And you were gone, with a slight caress of his cheek, a soft smile and teary eyes. Leaving him regretting, but still he wouldn’t call out to you, for you. He hoped he had done right by you, right by himself, in telling you, no matter what you felt. Then, why did he feel so empty?

Home though he still came smelling of smoke and elegant perfume, from her house, he always searched for you first, glancing around in rooms for your familiar figure, sitting against a wall as you did before, waiting for him. It took him a minute but he always remembered, felt the hole in his heart ache, where you once belonged, now gone, not gratuitously.

His days were monotonous, unsurprising. You were, he realized, the light in his life, the unpredictable spark of energy, full of love and affection and kindness and forgiveness and patience and you were his. More than she could ever be, belonged to him like snow to the Arctic, rightfully in its place.

Remorse overtook his body, his mind, his soul. It snowballed into something that he couldn’t control anymore, energy drained every morning, crying late into the night, dragging himself around. All because he decided he was better than you, that you were insignificant. That his fangirls could replace you, care for him even a tenth as much as you did. But they didn't, because no one ever could.

The MSBY team wasn’t doing as well as they usually did. The setter seemed distracted, staring up into the stands ever so often, always at a particular spot. The spot remained empty, and the rest of the team turned pitying glances at him. The slow build of frustration took a toll on ’Tsumu, self-loathing building up until it overwhelmed him.

The straw that broke him was the loss of the match. Their first one in two years, first one since you had started to attend his matches. You, his lucky charm. You, the only one that kept him sane. You, who loved him like no one ever had.

The whole stadium watched as the strong, beautiful, majestic setter fell to his knees, hands on his ears, screaming himself hoarse on national television. Screaming for you to come back to him. Screaming for you to forgive his idiocy. Screaming for the only person who had mattered to him more than the world. And no one dared stop him.

Your last words to him resonated over and over in his head, echoing in his ears as his throat went dry and tears streamed down his face. ‘Don’t forget me, my love.’ How could he, when you were the only thing on his mind?

[sisterspooky1013]

A Lack of Color by SisterSpooky1013

2403 words / Rated M / Read it here on AO3

This is a Darkest Timeline fic. No fluff to be found.

Part of my Inspired By Songs series, this work is inspired by A Lack of Color by Deathcab for Cutie.

2010

The phone rang and she checked the time. She’d stopped answering his calls after 8, too heartbroken by the slur in his words and the pain in his voice, knowing that she was the one who caused them. If she could access the purely logical part of her mind she knew that it was his depression that was responsible for the fact that they could no longer be together, and his own actions after she left were the responsibility of no one but him, but when she heard the choked back sobs around his pleas for her to come home, she felt guilt so profound it twisted in her gut like a knife. Even her mother had gently questioned her as to whether leaving him alone was the right thing to do, whether that would really help him get better. She’d tried to explain that the point of leaving wasn’t to make him better, it was to save herself from going down with him, but she often wondered if this life she’d built for herself alone was much better than the one she’d left behind. Was coming home to an empty house devoid of the clatter of his keyboard and tiny piles of sunflower seed shells preferable to living with his ghost? At least when they shared a home she knew he was okay.

Home. Where was her home? Was it this impeccable, modern house just outside the city? Was it her mother’s house, where she’d spent her teenage years? Was it her apartment in Georgetown, long since occupied by someone new who would never know the depth of loss and joy that lived in its walls? Was it apartment 42, where she had loved, lost, and had Mulder returned to her? Was it the unremarkable home in the country she’d shared with him? These places all held meaning and memories, significance and importance in the story of her life, but in the end they were just buildings. Sticks and boards and concrete that housed each tear and yawn and laugh, that made space for her to fall apart and rebuild again, countless times. If home is where your heart is, then Mulder is her home, and he always will be. There is no distance great enough to separate her heart from his, even that of death or divorce, grief, pain, depression. Depression so profound that it snuffed out the spark in his eyes and drained the life from his smile. Depression that robbed him of his passion for everything, including her. Depression that made her feel invisible and unimportant. Depression that destroyed her home.

It was just past 7, so she picked up the phone, hoping that a sober voice would come through from the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hey. How are you?” He sounded good, like he had some energy. She was hopeful.

“I’m okay, just reading. How are you, Mulder?”

“I’m okay. Hanging in there.”

Silence hung between them. She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to ask him why he’d called or he may think she didn’t want to talk to him, so she said nothing. She heard him swallow on the other end of the line.

“I miss you” he breathed, and she could feel the ache forming in her rib cage. She closed her eyes.

“I know. I miss you too.” She fought to keep her voice neutral. She didn’t want to go to the dark place, not tonight.

“Will you come over?” He asked, and she noticed that he didn’t say ‘come home’ just ‘come over,’ which was different than all the other times. He sounded more alert, and she felt something akin to hope tug at her heart.

“Uh, I can, sure, if you need me to.”

“I do need you.” His voice was low and she felt a twinge between her legs. This wasn’t the voice of the Mulder she knew and loved, but she could hear him in there, underneath all the hopelessness. She flashed on the desire in his hooded eyes when he used to hover over her, devouring her body with animal-like urgency. What she wouldn’t give for him to touch her like that again.

“Okay, I’ll be there in about a half hour.”

He sighed, maybe from relief. “Thank you, see you soon.” The line went dead.

She had the urge to shower, to shave, to put on a pair of the sexy panties that were now relegated to the back of her underwear drawer, but she resisted. Too many nights she had paraded around in front of him only to be ignored. Too many times she had reached for him to find him unresponsive, not returning her embrace. Too many times she had slipped her hand into his boxers only to have him push it away, rejecting her advances. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, recalling the ache in her bones as she longed for physical contact. She had gone 7 years without having him in that way, but found that it wasn’t as easy to revert back to a platonic partnership. It was more than just desire, though that was there too. Their physical connection, once established, rooted her to the Earth in a way she never knew was possible. When he was inside her she was more present, more aware of her place in space and time than she had ever been or ever would be again. She hadn’t known that she wasn’t really alive until he breathed his hot, salty breath into her lungs and ignited her. He was her oxygen and without him, she suffocated and slowly faded away. She only barely escaped before she died out for good.

Settling on brushing her teeth as the sole means of preparation, she got in her car and drove to his house, their house, feeling nervous and afraid. Stopping to get out and open the gate at the end of their long driveway, she was reminded of so many nights coming home from work, wondering if today were a good day. If she’d get some shred of the man she loved, or spend the evening staring at his closed office door, eating dinner alone. Going to bed alone. Waking up alone.

“Quelquefois, on est seul chez les hommes;” The quote from Le Petit Prince had never meant so much to her as it did then.

Pulling up in front of the house, she took in the neglected lawn, the porch swing he’d built for her dilapidated, the steps rotting. The house itself seemed to embody their relationship; initially bare and full of potential, blooming into a safe haven with the care of their love, only to collapse under the weight of his demons. She killed the engine but stayed in the car, debating turning around and leaving. Why was she here? What did she stand to gain from answering his call? It was pure hope that drove her. Unrelenting need. As much as she tried she couldn’t give up on him, on them. Would she ever be able to truly walk away from him? Only time would tell. Today, it would seem, was not that day.

As she sat in her turmoil, she saw light escape the front door and his tall shadowy frame appeared, his silhouette gaunt, his hair wild and unkempt. Despite everything, her heart leapt and she felt drawn to him, her true North pulling her magnetically towards home. She exited the car and walked towards him slowly, trying to read his body language and set her expectations realistically. As she maneuvered the steps he came forward, holding out his hand to her.

“Those are getting a little perilous, I keep meaning to fix them” he joked good naturedly, the soft pads of his fingers brushing her palm. Not the hands of someone who was going to hold a hammer anytime soon, she noted. Not the calloused hands of the man who built this porch himself 7 years ago. They stood awash in the light that poured from the open door, hands still clasped. She searched his eyes and all she found was sadness, which was actually an improvement. The last time she’d had occasion to meet his hazel irises, they were empty, devoid of any feeling good or bad. He was gone entirely. Moving from his eyes, she noticed that his cheeks were ruddy and dry without her reminding him to moisturize. It looked like he’d probably shaved recently, though now it was grown into an almost-beard. His lips, though, they were still him. She bit her cheek to keep from crying, wanting more than anything to kiss that mouth, to tug that lip between her teeth. She closed her eyes.

“Thanks for coming over” he said, his voice flat.

“Of course. What did you need?” They’d done this dance before. Where’s my birth certificate? What’s the password for the online banking account? Where is the key to turn off the gas fireplace for the summer? When are you coming home? He always found a way to lure her back in. she could never resist him.

“I just wanted to see you” he replied, and she was surprised to see him roving his eyes over her body, sighing as they came to rest on her cleavage. When was the last time he’d looked at her that way? There was that throb again between her legs. She was afraid to move.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a hug, squeezing her to him. She stiffened at first in surprise, but then melted into him, her arms threading around his waist and her head falling against his chest. Home. He smelled metallic, the signature scent of his sweat. No one else smelled the way he did. It was what she imagined the core of the Earth might smell like. He sighed against her and she felt the rush of air from his nose blast against the crown of her head. What a specific feeling to miss. What a strange loss to understand.

His arms loosened and slid down her sides, grazing the dip of her waist, then her hip, and finally passing over the curve of her ass where he gripped her, lifting her up. She inhaled sharply and moved her hands to his shoulders, allowing him to carry her inside and to their abandoned bedroom like a bride, only this was the end of the romance instead of the beginning. He laid her down on the bed and started to suck at her neck while fumbling with the button of her pants. Her eyes were wide on the ceiling, wanting to stop him and ask what he was doing, what it meant, but she didn’t. Even as her mind raced, her body was opening like a flower, straining towards the sunlight of his touch, desperate for nourishment that had so long been withheld. She could feel that she was dripping wet, and she allowed him to strip her pants from her legs in one fast motion, pushing her shirt up to reveal her breasts as he unbuckled his belt. The animalistic way Mulder wanted her had always been a huge turn on, the lust in his eyes as he tore at her clothes and feasted on her body sending her over the edge.

But that was not what was happening now.

He wasn’t looking at her. He hadn’t kissed her, not once. He didn’t want her, he wanted her body. Freeing his erection from his jeans without even bothering to pull them down, he moved to line himself up with her entrance. He still had his T shirt on, her shirt askew as he grasped one breast in his palm, pushing inside her. She let out a single cry as her long-neglected body accommodated him once more, and he didn’t even look up. Didn’t ask if she was okay, hadn’t checked to see if she was ready. She could admit that it felt good, but not that good. This wasn’t how they made love, or had sex, or even fucked. Never once had he skipped right to pleasing himself. His strict “ladies first” policy was a non-negotiable, a given. So as he barreled into her, his eyes on her breasts, she brought her hand to cover her eyes as hot tears rushed down the sides of her face, collecting in her ears.

He finished within a minute, grunting as he came inside her before collapsing on her chest. Eventually he rolled off of her and pulled up his jeans, then grabbed her by the waist so that she was spooned against him, naked from the waist down.

“I’m sorry, I know that probably wasn’t the greatest for you. I’ll make it up to you next time” he whispered hotly into her ear. He held her until he fell asleep while she lie there, shell shocked, realizing that as bad as this all had been, it could get worse. She thought that being completely ignored was the worst way he could hurt her, but she was wrong. This, being treated like a vessel, was so much worse.

She slipped out of the bed and found her clothes on the floor, leaving him snoring. As she walked out the front door and carefully navigated the porch steps, she vowed to herself that she would not set foot in this house ever again.

It was not a promise she would keep.

*Authors note: “Quelquefois, on est seul chez les hommes” translates to “sometimes, one is alone among men”

Tagging @today-in-fic

[redloftwingfeathers]

I feel like talking about the shit Zelda not only had to put up with but also what she subconsciously summoned herself and you're going to sit and listen and maybe cry with me okay? Okay.

While I don't think that was very cash-money of 'Hylia' to make Zelda wait until she's reached true, unrelenting despair to finally find her light, it made me wonder how everything came into play that made her journey so painstakingly hard, and not just Hylia pulling fast ones from the clouds. (Trust me I wanted to blame the goddess so bad after that moving performance at the spring of power but wait!! there's more!)

Things I'm looking at are specifically Zelda's anxieties of wanting to be a scholar but having to throw herself to the dogs of religion to keep Rhoam happy, the HEAVY depression she carries with not just from the loss of her mother but also just constantly being berated by her father and feeling like she's not good enough for Hylia, the jealousy and anger she harbors towards Link in their beginnings and how it effects her growth.

All of these are things (coming from someone who is very mentally ill) are ingredients that distract Zelda from her goals, intentional or not.

Zelda has a classic case of "I wanna do This Thing (studying, traveling) but I have to do That Thing (religion, strict orders) instead and now the fun is sucked out of it and my mind is buzzing and now I don't know what to do girl (hylia) HELP"

What's even worse is despite her hand-picked maturity, she KNOWS what is right and what she needs to do (her level of self awareness is impeccable sometimes) but she is still just a child in the end, wanting to live her life without dictation, which causes frustration and anger and can lead to self-doubts.

Starting with the loss of her mother, Rhoam claims that Zelda did not cry at all during the ceremony, and that it proved to him he could still be a strong king with how unwavering his daughter was. And although that's shown as an "awe inspiring" moment, it shows Rhoam does not understand how the processing of grief registers differently amongst people, especially children. She may have not showed it when she was, what, 6? (Not every normal 6 year old understands the fragility of mortality) but you can definitely see it affects her later on as Zelda grows older. It may not be entirely visible at first, but the way they portray it in HWAoC (I know its not entirely canon but bare with me on this) she longs for her mother's advice and comfort when her pleas and ideas fall deaf on the king's ears. Her mother seemed to be a very wise and compassionate queen, where Rhoam is a wise and a very bite-the-bullet king.

When stakes are high he trusts what he thinks needs to be done, and he enforces Zelda to finish her training Because she is part of his plan to push back the calamity. He knows protocol, and there's no room for creative thinking when the land of Hyrule is in danger. (Disclaimer: I hate Rhoam but I can also try to see what Nintendo was doing. He's not intentionally mean, he's an assertive dad that wants to see his daughter succeed (and also hella depressed) but he's really fucking bad at it and comes off as a dickhead. He is the embodiment of a boomer that does things the old fashioned way to get things done).

But all of this pressure he is putting on her, taking away things that make her happy so they don't distract her from her duty, shooting down her ideas because he wouldn't know how to even approach it from his standpoint, it really does a number on Zelda and really births her insecurities.

No matter how hard she prays and dedicates herself to Hylia, it doesn't work. Her mind is distracted, filled with fear and very little hope that the magic isn't Working. What even kicks me in the jaw more is that she's putting all of her effort into these prayers, and it's not even her wish she's making. It's Rhoam's wish. Her Ancestral Family's wish. That's why it hasn't sparked. She's praying on the behalf of her father and ancestors and not herself because she firmly believes there's other ways to settle the score. Zelda knows the importance of her role but its just not clicking when someone else is forcing you to do it. It just doesn't work like that.

Moving onto her liaison with Link, she is, well, in the beginning very irritated with him. Even a little bit after being chosen by Fi. But I don't think she MEANS to be angry at Link, he didn't do anything wrong in all honesty. She shouldn't take out her anger on him, but she's jealous, and he exists...so like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

When Link is suddenly chosen by the sword at a drop of a hat?? Yeah she's relieved, but there's also undertones of resentment. All of her Champions are here at the ready and she's still trying to figure out what shoe goes on first. She is the goddamn Princess of Hyrule, one who carries the blood of Hylia in her veins, and this random tiny knight who, mind you, fought tooth and nail to be her escort ends up finding his role before her? She is riding the struggle mule up Mount Lanayru (and I don't really blame her). And when she's exploring the shrines?? She makes it very clear to him she can work independently and does not need an escort, which although understood (freedom is a peace everyone strives for) she is careless regardless of her careful planning and efforts. She's a Princess, wandering Hyrule unarmed (and without her powers) with a horse as her only mode of transportation. You won't see yourself as a target even if they're pinned on your back, and with her determination to utilize these mysterious shrines as more Sheikah tech is being discovered is making her blind in remembering where she's placed in social status. It's dangerous, and I'm glad Link is there to see what she fails to see.

That's another thing too. As they progress and strengthen their friendship, Zelda sees Link as a mirror to question what her role really means. She uses him as guidance to help understand her situation, asking him "If you were told your whole life This is what you're meant to do, to take up your family's legacy...but one day realize this isn't what you want, would you still take the path you've been told to take?" In this case I think it's safe to say this is what Link knew he wanted. He loves being an aid to those in need, and becoming a knight despite following his father's path, this felt like his true calling. The spirit of the hero is VERY strong in his soul, and when he sees someone in need of help [Zelda] he's going to aid them whether they want it or not.

But Zelda still feels so lost, she feels so disconnected from her ancestors, as the previous daughters in the royal families were Given their powers at birth and meant to be awakened when the time has come. They were all given the gift of premonition, to be a medium for Hylia and a messenger of the gods, and overall able to keep Ganon away from the world no matter how many times he crawls back from the depths of hell. Being told your whole life you're meant to be like your ancestors, but not being able to fulfill any of those roles? It makes the past seem like one giant fairy tale when in you're in BotW Zelda's shoes.

No voices, no premonitions, no secret awakenings...Nothing.

At this moment, I finally understood why Urbosa said to Revali about Link. She said he is a constant reminder of Zelda's own failures. Link found his calling by following his instinct. Zelda has yet to figure out what she really wants, and is clouded by judgements not only from her father and people, but from herself too. With every passing day she is undergoing a meltdown, questioning if she is even meant to be apart of this whole plan anymore, probably something among the lines of "Was it meant to be someone else? I'm the only daughter, and yet I can't even do my one job." She lost everyone and everything, she's frightened, it feels like she's lost her faith in the gods, or even dare say, the gods lost faith in her.

But through absolute despair when Link just about gives his life for her protection, that's when it all clicked. She found her power and strength through Link, who was the one that, all this time, taught her about what she needed to do to awaken her powers without even directly telling her. Every conversation she had with him, she saw herself in Link. She saw all the effort he gave into becoming a royal knight, the unwavering determination in his eyes with every Lynel he slew, a never ending supply of optimism and hope no matter how high the stakes were. And yet he was also Free. He followed his path blindly, not even knowing where he'd end up, as long as he knew he was

able to protect those in need. And she wanted that.

He was her mirror, and Zelda managed to awaken herself when that mirror cracked.

Living the burden of being part of a prophecy and saying you're ready for anything, is very reckless. Understanding the heaviness that comes with sacrifice is not truly understood until it starts happening to you.

Zelda found her wish, her independence through Link. Her mind is finally clear and she understands what her role means in all of this.

She is meant to protect, to save, to understand more than just personal loss.

Zelda couldn't stand by idly anymore after everyone told her to do something else and let others handle the job. That was the last straw when Link stood in front of her, shield weak but at the ready when that guardian approached. She saw the desperation and said NO, which finally broke her seal. She chose to sacrifice herself, igniting her powers just as Hylia did for her people. She chose to save her last, literally dying hope, because Ganon cannot be fought alone.

He was the connection, the literal link, she needed to awaken her powers. And I just find that so fucking great.

Anyways thanks for coming to my TED talk I've been typing this for like 4 hours now

[scullysexual]

pirate au fic; i’ll tell you a tale of a pirate queen (1/ )

pirate au | multi-chapter | au | multiple parts | historical au | 18th century | currently no msr (if i continue, comes later) | i’ll post to ao3 tomorrow | wc: 1,123 |

A tale of a Pirate Queen.

I’m gonna try my best to continue and complete this though I can’t say when the next chapter(s) will be cause I think I want to write some more before I post again. Anyway, this hit me and wouldn’t leave me alone. I hope you like it :)

@today-in-fic

- - -

Chapter One: Bound To The Sea Below

She pulls out the tie, shakes out her hair, the wind blowing freely through the strands, tangling the red curls around each other. Her mother would be grabbing the hairbrush and telling her to sit.

But Mother isn’t here right now. Nobody is. Dana can hear chatter behind her, the occasional yell, but she is oblivious to it all. Just the wind in her ears and against her face, her eyes shut as she inhales the salty air.

This was where she belonged, without any rhyme or reason, sailing along the sea, bringing goods to other cities and countries. It just felt right to be here. It felt like home.

She grips the rope tighter, holding on as she adjusts her feet on the rails. One accidental step and she’s falling into the water below, it doesn’t scare her, though. Since she was eight years old, she had been climbing the railings such to everyone’s concern, but not once has she fell off. She even got brave enough to close her eyes and fly.

When she reopens them, her heart sinks a little at the sight of Charles Town Port coming into view. That was it, the adventure was over. It could be months, maybe even years, till she got to come along again.

Being on land, trapped in that house could be tortured some days. Dana couldn’t wait till she was free, until she could sail a ship of her own.

“You need to get down Dana,” she hears Billy, her brother, say to her. “Pa said we’re docking soon.”

His footsteps grow quieter the further he walks away. Dana takes one good look at the water, says her goodbyes, and climbs down. She gathers her hair into a low ponytail and places her very own cocked-hat on her head, and runs towards the cabin.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

“Can’t I come with you?”

Bags packed, ready to leave any moment, 11 year old Dana sits on the second to last stair watching as her father is about to set off to sea without her.

Her father kneels at the base of the stairs while her mother looks on. He places a hand atop of her clasped ones.

“I wish you could,” he tells her sincerely. “But the journey is too long. Even Billy isn’t going.”

Her brother is also with them, standing off to the side. His grunt tells her he is just as displeased with this arrangement as she is.

Dana pouts and looks towards the floor. It had been almost a year since her last trip, she was itching to go on another one.

“You’re going to miss my birthday.” The trip would last months, an order to be delivered to Spain.

“I will,” her father tells her, guilt laced in his voice. One of many birthdays missed. “But I promise I’ll bring you something back, okay?”

It would have to suffice. Her father had brought many things back with him for various missed birthdays, each gift different and better than the last, though her favourite was the snow globe he brought back from France. The thought of what he would bring her this time gives her a spark of excitement. A smile spreads across her face despite her disappointment. Dana nods.

“Good.” He flicks her nose and she giggles before launching herself into his arms. “I’ll miss you Ahab,” she says into his shoulder.

“I’ll miss you too, Starbuck.”

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

On March 7th, there are no presents. There is no father.

Coldness drifts its way through the house, silence following in it’s steps. Soon, her mother’s cries taken silence’s place as it drags through the rooms of the house. March 7th is a cold and harsh day.

Sorrow turns itself into rage, rips through her tiny body as she claws at her bedding and curtains, barrels drawers over, launches objects off her shelves with her arm, they come crashing to the ground.

Her room is a mess and Dana falls against the wall, her hands covering her face as sobs tear themselves out of her, grief pouring out of her.

In the centre of it all lies the snow globe. It catches her eyes and Dana crawls towards it. It’s partially cracked but mostly intact. A ship riding the waves of an ocean. She closes her eyes and holds the globe to her body, flopping down onto the heap.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Billy takes over the orders, becomes Captain of The Lassie.

Dana knew that the death of her father meant no more trips, that for the next six or so years, she would never be able to set foot on one. Just as her father was taken before her far too soon, Dana hadn’t wanted that same thing to happen.

On the day Billy was set to make his first orders as Captain, Dana had come barrelling down the stairs, desperate to tag along one last time.

Dressed in her pants, her hair tied back, the disguise she always wore, she begged her brother to let her come along.

“You take up too much space,” her brother had told her.

Dana had shook her head. “I’ll stay out of the way, please.” Desperation in her voice and on her face, she needed to ride the sea. “Pa always let me, regardless.”

“Aye,” says Billy. “And Pa could’ve got in a lot of trouble, like I can now. Besides, girls bring bad luck and I don’t think we want anymore of that.” He goes to grab his bags, to leave her behind. Dana’s heart sinks. Just one last trip…

Billy stops before he leaves, his head against the doorframe and a loud sigh exiting his mouth. He looks towards his sister who fights to keep the tears from her eyes.

“This is the last one.”

A smile spreads across her lips, tears turning into joy.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Dana would capture the smell of the sea in a bottle if she could, would place it on the shelf. The sea killed her father but it was still home regardless of its danger.

This trip was her last trip, and was treated as such. She arrived home, a clearer memory of the water in her mind, a smile on her face.

Her sailing clothes are taken from her, locked with a chest in her mother’s room. She keeps her hat, however, hides it at the back of her closet but the day she can take it out and wear it again.

The next day, the corsets feels tighter, an anchor keeping her in place. Her hair is brushed until the tangles are free and it shines. The smell of the sea is nothing more than a distant memory. Dana becomes a vessel docked on the shore.

[chuckaf]

this is me trying | a chuck/sarah fic

summary: Set not long post-series. After leaving to find herself, Sarah returns home, realizing that all the answers she sought were in a little apartment in Echo Park all along.

i know i've already posted a few anniversary things today lol, but since i just posted this fic over on ffn and it's short enough to post in full here which is rare for me lol, i figured i'd share it too. just a little post-series thought or two, inspired by taylor swift, ofc.

ffn link

I've been having a hard time adjusting I had the shiniest wheels, now they're rusting I didn't know if you'd care if I came back I have a lot of regrets about that Pulled the car off the road to the lookout Could've followed my fears all the way down And maybe I don't quite know what to say But I'm here in your doorway

I just wanted you to know That this is me trying I just wanted you to know That this is me trying

The courtyard is familiar to her, somehow. Safe. The only memories she has of it are from the brief, painful time she was here those months ago, but there's an inherent sense within her mind, a comfort, as she steps onto the stone. The fountain, the trellises, the flowers all around- they are known, to her.

Something being known is a sensation she's very unfamiliar with, after all this time.

Months ago, she'd kissed her husband on a cold January day, on a very important beach, the wind whipping around them with all their desperate hopes. She'd felt him pour everything into the embrace, try with all his might to pass his memories onto her through just his lips, all his softness and his heat and his love. And despite every logical rational thought within her, as Chuck had tried out his friend's silly, thoughtful idea, a tiny bit of hope had sparked in Sarah's chest that maybe, maybe the kiss would work.

It hadn't.

And, more hurt by that than she'd wanted to admit, she'd repeated to Chuck that she needed to go. To find herself, to readjust, work out who she is, was, what her place could be in this world. A world she barely knew. She'd had the perfect, complicated, real and loving life, and Sarah Walker, assassin, enforcer, couldn't figure out how she was meant to be in it anymore. The square peg did not fit.

Chuck didn't even ask her to stay. He didn't plea, didn't beg, didn't soothe her with platitudes they both knew would be false and left wanting. He just nodded, broken and understanding as ever, and he let her go, to maybe see her again, maybe never. At the time, she wasn't sure which of those it would be, either.

With recent memories torn from her, she'd followed the things she could recall, from before all this. She suppresses a snort as she rounds the courtyard fountain, thinking on her woefully unsuccessful travels.

First, she'd gone to Paris, for scattered thoughts about her Red Test as well as the knowledge Chuck had given her about the new memories there. The same street as that awful night she can at least recall, the gun in her hand, jewelry on the ground. The bridge by the cathedral where one Agent Shaw had fallen to what they'd thought was his death. Chuck had killed him: his first kill, first true shot with a real bullet. And it had been to save her. They'd fallen in love years before, Chuck had told her, but they'd fallen once more in that city.

Then to Saint-Tropez, with a call to an old friend always game for a party. They'd danced and drank and reminisced, but Sarah had seen throughout it all the sadness in her friend's eyes, the sympathy. She'd felt like she was some blatant, visible scar, something someone can't help but look on with sad acknowledgement, even from her lightest, eternally easy-going friend. She hadn't known Carina had been a bridesmaid at her wedding until the other woman had admitted it, in the middle of a club, and said she couldn't pretend things were fine any longer.

To Lisbon, next, and thoughts of Bryce. Bryce, the cause of all this, the lynchpin of the last five years. Or perhaps the fulcrum. The center of it, the key piece in both her and Chuck's lives that brought them together, those years ago. Bryce, who thought of others but always through himself, never consulting those he made choices for. He didn't trust her- she'd thought he'd gone rogue. Chuck had told her it had been an assignment, told her how Bryce truly died just a few years later. How his old friend had once more been the reason Chuck had downloaded the Intersect, a second time, because Bryce simply couldn't. He'd bled out on a white room floor.

To D.C., home of headquarters, secret offices and bland boardrooms, home of the apartment she'd once owned and tried to live in between missions, never able to settle, always waiting for a call from Graham to send her god knows where. Graham, who recruited her as a child. Graham, killed in another white room. The same kind of room she'd pulled a gun on her husband in, threatened Morgan in, almost killed them all in.

Sarah doesn't think she'll trust the color white again.

And then to her mother, her arms soft and comforting. To the baby, Molly, a whole person now, a bright, wonderful child with a wicked skill at Mario Kart. And to yet more sadness behind the eyes, the sympathy at all Sarah has lost. Her mother sent her best regards for Chuck, muttered an off-hand thought that she must visit him soon, that Molly misses him.

In every place, every stop, every desperate attempt to find who she is, what her life is, was, could be, all Sarah thought about was Chuck. And as her mother offered her thoughts to her son-in-law, the spy, the enforcer, the wife, had realized something; after all the travelling, all the searching, it had hit her.

She was wrong.

Finding herself, trying to work out who she is, that was simply running from the problem, the real issue at hand. The real hurt. Which is her husband, still in LA, in the same old apartment, with the same old courtyard and the same old fountain, holding all those missing memories.

After leaving her Mom, Sarah had gotten a car, driven straight to Echo Park. While she felt the pull to lose herself in all this, drown herself in sorrow, in questions, in self-doubt and self-flagellation for her actions, she'd known one thing above all. She needs to see Chuck.

And so here she is.

Swallowing, she finishes the walk up to the door. Once more, it's familiar, somehow. Known. Just a regular old door, behind which waits her whole world.

She raises a hand. Knocks. Thinks absentmindedly that she should've called.

But then the door is opening and there he stands. In jeans, a t-shirt, a striped hoodie over it, Converse on his feet. His hair's a little longer than she last saw it, curling at the edges at the front. That sort of sight is known, too, a distant hazy recollection. Maybe she once brushed a curl from his forehead in this very courtyard.

"Sarah..." he breathes, and she meets his eyes, sees the disbelief there, the grief, the shock. "I... Your mom called and said you might come here, I- I didn't know..."

"I should've called." she says, repeating the thought, that she shouldn't have let her mother be an early-warning for them both, but Chuck shakes his head quickly, roughly, taking a step closer.

"No, no, it's okay."

She swallows, nods a little, and he lifts the corners of his lips in what she can tell is a desperate try at a smile. The sight simply makes her fold her arms over her chest, tug on the cuffs of the sleeves of her shirt.

"I..." Although she's here, although she's started, she suddenly realizes she has no idea what to say. "I... was wrong."

It's a start. Chuck raises an eyebrow, says nothing, and his still-listening silence encourages her more than she thinks he knows.

"I didn't... I thought that leaving would let me find myself, but... Being out there, it felt just as foreign to me as being here did. I can't- I don't know who I am, anywhere, anymore."

He frowns, brow furrowing, but she sees his eyes glisten more, his lip tremble a little. It tugs on something innate within her, a need to comfort him. She holds back, for now.

"Okay." he says, accepting her admission. She keeps going.

"I traveled, a lot. Went to some places you'd told me about, some others I remembered. I'd hoped something would feel like home. But nothing..." Shaking her head, she takes a deep breath. Forces herself to look at him, really look at him, take him in. Her husband. "I realized that I wouldn't find home out there. Because I know now that, no matter where I go, if it's not with you it's never going to be home. It took me months to figure it out, but you're my home, Chuck."

He blinks. And then his face crumbles, stray tears falling from his eyes; she feels the tug again. Watching, she sees him pull himself together, bark out a wet laugh and brush the tears away swiftly with the backs of his hands.

"You've, uh, you've said that before," he murmurs, and she frowns. That he'd remember it so strongly, just four words, lets her know it was something important. She can't help but wonder what led her to realize and say such a thing once, after it took so long to dawn on her, to muster up the courage this time around. But before she can ask, he keeps going. "So... what are you doing here, what are you gonna do, now you know that?"

And that is the real question. The whole reason she's here. She tugs on her sleeve cuffs again, straightens her spine.

"I don't know if you would even want me here, but-" Tears bloom in her own eyes, suddenly, thickening her throat, blurring her vision, and she forces herself to keep going. "But I'm trying. This, here, me being here right now, this is me trying, for us. For me to be here, home, with you."

In front of her, on his doorstep, he simply looks at her. She is laid bare, her soul out there before him. She knows she's asking a lot, asking everything. To try, for him to let her try, with them. She may never remember. They may always have this pain hanging over them. She may mess up, hurt him, struggle relying so completely on him, being so constantly open and married and real- she's sure she will, even. It's a huge ask.

But she's trying.

She waits, wondering what he'll say, god, if he'll just tell her no, it's too hard, it's been too long, and she'll have to walk back out of this familiar courtyard and return to a strange, blurred world, with eyes of sympathy and sadness and a mind always thinking of him. But then he nods, lip trembling once more.

"Of course I want you," he presses out, sounding so choked, like he can't say much else, but he manages one more thing. "C'mere."

He opens his arms.

And she falls into him, falls into his love and embrace and his grace, and she lets him hold her as they weep, in their doorway. Just being there in his arms, she knows she's home.

[beebrainedstudios]

Maybe Rhy and Holland?

Thanks for the prompt! Here’s a little Aftermath AU Holland and Rhy (information about the AU can be found here). This is set only a few months after the Osaron showdown, when Holland’s still adjusting to his new surroundings and Rhy careful attempts at bridge-building. I apologize for any mistakes, these prompts will likely be a bit less edited than my usual work.

For anyone who’s interested, the ask prompt can be found here!

“What’s wrong?”

Holland didn’t turn from the mirror, his eyes drifting instead to see Rhy Maresh’s reflection stretched out beside his own. The ex-prince was lounging in the doorway to Holland’s rooms, a golden shaft of light against the murky green of the wall, and his presence would have been an intrusion if he hadn’t knocked on the doorframe a few seconds earlier. The tap-tap-tap of bone on wood had clipped through the silence that filled the room, momentarily shocking Holland out of his task.

Rhy was always careful to do that, to knock, even in open rooms, tapping his boots or ringing his knuckles against the wall to warn Holland of his arrival. It was a small consideration, likely intended to be discrete, but it was appreciated; Holland didn’t like to be approached from behind, not without warning.

Holland huffed, unwilling to bother speaking while he was concentrated on his task. His mind was honed in on the feeling of hair against one hand, wood in the other. The knife he was using was sharp, and he was bringing it close to fingers; any Antari was used to cuts, but he wasn’t eager to shed his blood, especially into his hair. The red would stain the white that he’d been instructed to carefully mind- he knew how blood darkened bone-blonde and his hair was lighter than the Danes’. The last thing he needed was for the Arnesians to notice another dusty flaw in his appearance.

Rhy took the sound as an invitation- it wasn’t- and slipped into the room, walking closer to where the first fallen tufts of hair littered the emerald carpet. There he stopped and said nothing, watching Holland work for a minute, his eyes filled with thoughts that Holland had only half a mind to hear. He knew this game. Rhy was waiting for him to go first, to set the boundaries of their interaction, to see his mood for the day. Like the tapping, Holland thought it a touching, if inefficient practice; the fact that’d he’d let Rhy within his sight should have been enough of a hint. He rarely let anyone near him, particularly in his private quarters, but he made exceptions for the young king, if only because it was his palace to begin with. 

He was surprised at how much Rhy had grown on him, shockingly persistent in the face of Holland’s stony apathy. Kind of like a weed.

Today, however, Holland was busy and Rhy seemed quiet. Yet neither man said anything, and Holland eventually began to cut again, trying to concentrate only on the sensation of his hair between his fingers, shearing through an inch at a time, trying to keep the ends even. The last time he’d done this, he’d had Osaron looming over his shoulder and a furious desperation in him; he hadn’t wanted his hair cut, he’d wanted it gone. It had been quick, choppy, and a mess, but it had been good enough. Now he was hoping to keep it a little longer and neater. He had the time, and it needed to match the finery he had been housed and clothed in.

It needed to look nice, and Holland didn’t know if he’d be able to recognize what that looked like.

“Your hair’s dry.”

Holland stopped cutting in shock and glanced back at Rhy’s reflection. The king was running a shorn lock of hair between his fingers with a thoughtful look on his face. Just as Holland’s gaze fell on him, he slowly opened his hand, the white threads falling from his fingers like snow back to the floor.

Something small and angry inside Holland sparked then- a little bit of grief, pride, shame, and the dread that always rose when he cut his hair- and he snorted at Rhy’s tone, turning back to the mirror and starting to cut again. He refused to meet Rhy’s eyes. “It’s fine, your Majesty, or is it too ugly for your illustrious court?” The knife was moving quicker now, dangerously close to his fingertips, but Holland didn’t care. He couldn’t. He’d been angry all day, and it was sudden and unfair but now he was angry at Rhy because the king had somehow managed to find him in the middle of something terribly vulnerable that shouldn’t be, and he’d been snapped out of his very careful reverie that had kept him from remembering why he was doing this, and now he could feel Rhy’s eyes on him, reading his posture like the blasted words he loved so much. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, for the love of magic and whatever else you care about, please leave. Not today, not now, leave.

Rhy didn’t. He stepped back a little, giving Holland space, and he sighed. When Holland stopped cutting to glare at him in the mirror, the king’s eyes were tired with more than just the weight of the throne. But he wasn’t angry at Holland’s outburst; he never was, though Holland wouldn’t have blamed him. Keeping up with the former Antari’s mood- with his trauma, as the old priest had called it- must have been exhausting. Perhaps he’d learned his understanding from Kell.

Not that Holland wanted it. Or deserved it.

“It wasn’t an insult, Holland.” Rhy said quietly, and there was not a shred of offence in his tone, only forgiveness. “Your hair is dry, most likely due to the weather. It’s a drier season right now than your body is used to; it happens to us Arnesians, too, all the time. There’s stuff you can put in your hair to help.” 

He paused, then spoke again. “You look fine.”

Holland’s hands stilled, and the angry heat inside him boiled into thick shameful tar. He had grown weary of lashing out at Rhy like this, when the new king was so unwilling to do so in kind. One day, they’d be okay, and the next he would be trapped with the Danes on one shoulder and Rhy on the other. He was too nice to Holland, and the Antari never knew what to do with it. He expected the first blow every time they spoke, and every time, he was disappointed.

There was no apology ready on his tongue, but Rhy as usual had guessed he was upset and evidently didn’t mind, because he only stepped closer again as if Holland hadn’t just snapped at him. Holland sighed in frustration, the tension in his chest loosening as he gave up and finally dropped the knife- he was practically done, anyway- turning in his chair to look Rhy in the eyes. The prince smiled gently at him, and it was the worn grin of a no-longer-prince who had expected his nervousness and was pleased to see it start to ebb. “I came in to tell you that Luc and I are going out tonight, and we want you to come.”

Holland rolled his eyes, breathing out more anxiety with each breath, trying to uncoil it from his chest. Then he shook a hand through his hair, sending white threads falling like hay from a loft. “Rhy, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m not exactly presentable right now.”

Rhy’s face twisted into a pout, purposefully childish and annoyingly endearing. “You always say that.”

Holland didn’t answer; Rhy was right. He didn’t usually join the king and the pirate on their evening escapades, which were supposedly marked with disguises and lots of liquor. This London was too bright, too happy even at night after all that he had brought upon it, and he felt like a stain against the cheerful backdrop every time he left his rooms. The clothes he wore were still too dull compared to everyone else, and there were so many eyes on him, drawn to his scars, his eyes, his hair. He didn’t fit in, a pebble among gemstones; the last thing he wanted was to burden Rhy and Alucard with it.

Rhy cocked his head as he watched Holland think, a mischievous glint forming in his eyes. After a moment’s contemplation, new energy sparked off his skin, warming the stillness in the room, and Holland realized with horror that the king had an idea.

“Nevermind, new plan. Have you ever met Calla?”

Holland ignored the name in favor of protest. “I never agreed to g-”

Rhy wasn’t listening, instead turning to look hurriedly around the room.

“You’ll like her, she used to help me with Kell’s wardrobe.”

“Wait, that lady? I thought you said that she died.”

Rhy was flitting around the room now, prepping for the trip that Holland silently resigned himself to joining. He swept up Holland’s cane and coat, tossing them both to Holland and smiling when he rose without fuss and put them on. Earlier exhaustion forgotten, he then trotted out the door with Holland on his heels, a fine trail of white following after them out of the room. Holland pitied whoever would have to clean it up, but he had little time to dwell on it between trying to follow Rhy through the maze of the palace and keeping up with his eager prattling.

“Lila misidentified the body, she showed up a few days after Kell left. A real pity they missed it- they both adore her- but she’s great at her job and I’m sure she’d love to meet you, all we have to do is find you something new to wea-”

Holland’s pace slowed a fraction. “Are we going clothes shopping? Now?”

“Yes, now. You need a distraction and some serious accessorizing advice. Maybe if you like your appearance, you’ll be more willing to join me and Luc when we go out.”

Holland started to scoff, but Rhy cut him off with a tiny kick to his boot. 

“I hardly think this is an aesthetic issue- ”

“It is. I know it and you’re coming whether you like it or not. You want something to match your charming new haircut, don’t you?”

“Does it really look okay?”

Rhy laughed as they both stepped outside, a sound somewhere between a song and a bell. Luc was already waiting in one of the more discrete royal carriages, and Holland could hear him calling out the window for them to hurry up. 

Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be so bad. At least the company would be tolerable.

“Of course, Holland. I’d never have let you leave the palace if it didn’t. Now stop sighing and get in the carriage.” 

[mahizli]

Rare Blooms (Obi-Wan and Padmé Amidala, 20 BBY)

Part 8 of ‘Sparks of Hope - A Star Wars Advent-Calendar’

***

The Festival of Light had been shadowed by threat and war, that year. And though it was not the first crisis Naboo had breached, Padmé could not help but feeling just how fragile the Republic appeared, eight-hundred and forty-seven years afterwards it welcomed them.

There was so much deception. So much anger.

Anakin had barely spoken to her – and refused to talk to Obi-Wan, once his former Master had recovered his voice and his face. And Padmé was worried, because Anakin had been desperate, bordering on frenzy, ever since Obi-Wan’s faked death. Now, however, he was closed off and distant, even with Ahsoka, and Padmé had decided to take a walk in the Palace’s gardens.

She was so rarely here, now – yet she remembered every walk, every staircase, every official room from her time as a Queen. She had been so young… and yet, no stranger to deception either. Neither had her handmaidens.

M’lady, I’m so sorry… I have failed you, Senator…

Cordé’s face swam before Padmé’s eyes and she blinked, heading for the garden’s orchards, where the trees were high and grew, and were flowers would help her remember what she was fighting for.

Sabé, Saché, Rabé, Duja… they were all willing to lay down their lives for her. And no one realised how difficult it had been, and still was, accepting to stay safe, to lose one of them in order to remain alive and ready to serve.

She had not fooled the Jedi, back then. Qui-Gon had not even batted an eye, when she had insisted to accompany him on Naboo, and Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan had always been masterful at hiding his feelings, even as a Padawan. She remembered his discretion, his softness, the way he somehow always managed to adapt, fluid and pliant like a mountain-stream.

And she remembered his grief. The way he had stumbled into the hangar, once Theed was safe and the Federation’s blockade grinded to dust. The way he had embraced Anakin, even as Ani had screamed and rained blows down on him. The way he had insisted to stand vigil for Qui-Gon, alone and pale-faced, looking almost as dead as him.

She had worried for him, and for Ani, those weeks separating the end of the battle of the peace celebrations. The Jedi Council and the Republic had tried to investigate clues about the mysterious Sith warrior – Darth Maul – but had remained unsuccessful.

Padmé had been relieved once Ani and Obi-Wan had returned – Ani still the little sunshine he was, eager and excited. And Obi-Wan almost like his former self – yet more defined. With something both intense and soft in his eyes that told of fears, losses and demons faced, if not entirely conquered.

She had taken his hand – like that day of horrible loss, when he had cried before her yet had not seemed to be able to notice it. And she had taken him through the gardens, towards that remote, untamed place where trees and flowers grew.

“We planted it for him. I understood he liked Nature – trees, and flowers.”

Obi-Wan had nodded. Back then, it was still so very difficult to make him say anything about Qui-Gon – but he had knelt, silently, placing his palm against the tiny trunk sprouting out of the garden’s soil.

They had planted it at the head of a flat, snowy marble plate that would warm every time the sun shone on it. Nothing was written there, no words, no symbol – yet the whole Palace knew what it stood for.

“The flowers are a rarity. Sometimes a whole life is not enough to see them bloom. Rare are those who have seen them more than once.

- Have you?”, Obi-Wan had asked, softly, still kneeling in front of the marble stone, palm resting against the marble, and Padmé had nodded.

“When I was eight years old. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

She had left him alone, afterwards – and found him kneeling there twelve years later, face smooth, like before, brown Jedi cloak wrapped around him, hood concealing his shorn head.

His hands were resting on his knees, palms turned upwards, fingers slightly curled. He was facing the tree, watching the wind rustle through the tender green leaves, and there was something raw and unbridled in his features – perhaps because there was nothing left to conceal them.

He was wearing his Jedi tunics once more, lightsaber clipped at his waist, and Padmé could feel him shiver slightly, next to her, as she knelt down herself.

“It has grown…”, she told him. “As we all have. But the flowers still elude us.”

They stood silent, for a while. And then Obi-Wan broke the silence:

“Perhaps we are not ready for them.”

His voice was hoarse, almost broken – the modulator. Probably.

“I do not think I will ever see them. But I can sense their future blossoms, in the Force. And they are lovely.”

He paused, once more, because his voice was giving out. And Padmé gently placed her hand on his forearm, watching the leaves rustle.

“I was a very arrogant young Queen, you know…”, she told him. “They are so rare. So precious. They reminded me of home, because they only grow there. So I simply took their name. Amidala.”

She shook her head, softly.

“People never guessed, somehow. They never asked. Too many robes and tiaras and ceremonials, too many handmaidens. Sometimes, when I think back on those years as a Queen, it seems to me I was hiding in plain sight all the time – slowly forgetting who I was in the process.

- I do not think you forgot”, Obi-Wan whispered. “Your actions spoke for yourself. You never betrayed the ideas you stand for.”

She turned towards him, then. Watched his eyes spill, once, in silent shame, facing Qui-Gon’s memorial – and was again reminded of the Apprentice he had been.

“Neither have you”, she told him, softly. “But sometimes the price we pay, for hiding in plain sight, and doing our duty, seems more costly than the flowers of this tree.

- I hope it was worth it”, Obi-Wan said, hands curled on his knees. “I pray the Force it was worth it, Senator Amidala.

- And I believe it was, Master Kenobi”, she answered, thinking of soft, rosy petals, fragile like dew, yet beautiful as dawn, who would continue to grow and unfold, long after they would all be gone.

Always searching for the Light.

[noxtms]

IN CHARACTER DATE : december 9th, 2020. SYNOPSIS : the answer to the question of where is percy weasley.  TRIGGER WARNINGS : abduction & blood, torture implied. 

and the panic sets in like this : slow and brutal, tar - thick in the back of his throat when he realises that he can’t move his hands. ( it comes as a double edged sword of terror and dread ; there is nothing he can do. PERCY is acutely aware of something sliciing neat ribbons into the flesh of his wrist, of the way blood trickles lazy rivers down his hands. ) hues haven’t quite been able to focus / devoid of either contacts or the glasses he only wears when he’s alone, percy’s never felt quite this helpless before. bound to god knows what and barely able to see : he cuts a desperate, sad image. he’s too afraid of the way the noise might ricochet in the silence, the way it might snowball into a sob that’ll wrack an attenuate ribcage. god, he feels exposed.

( and despite it all, he’ll cling to ludicity : he knows that screaming, begging, yelling won’t do him any good. crying out somewhere at the back of his mind, the sickened thought : this isn’t good. someone wants you dead, and if you scream you’re more likely to die. you cannot afford your mother another dead son, another casket her frail shoulder cannot possible bear. in the face of abject misery, you resolve to stay silent / complacent in your own disappearance. that’s if they notice, what if they don’t notice, what if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it scream --- )

somewhere, a rustle in the dark, and resolve crumbles. it can’t be helped. “please, help me, please.” 

four words & suddenly it’s a performance / mask down, lights up, camera set, action. all the world a stage and the space is now a grandstand, one that amycus intends to milk for all it’s worth. he comes to life as if it’s that note of desperation that he’s been waiting for, puppet on string. he pushes wide the door of the room the other is held in as if it took force to burst inside, his chest heaving from imagined exertion, his wand clutched too tightly as if he’s ready at any moment to defend them from unseen terror. he looks equal parts terrified & frantic, as if he doesn’t know what’s around any shadowed corner and he wants to get them out of there as quick as possible. 

of course, his steps falter immediately. a true rescuer wouldn’t hesitate to release the bonds holding the other in place, but AMYCUS holds back as if assessing a situation that needs no assessment. there’s a waver to his voice. “percy weasley. merlin’s beard... your family will be so relieved you’re alright.” he feigns a look over his shoulder, all the better for appearances. “i don’t know how much time i have...”

he’s begging. one sound from them and he’s already pleading, as if the sound in the dark is a savior, instead of specters plucked from ephilates of a tired generation. perhaps it would be a mercy to cut to the chase, but the carrow twins, well, they’re known for playing games. that’s all this is, isn’t it? their way of playing god by toying with percy like he’s little more than a plaything in the hands of spoiled children.

ALECTO lingers behind as amycus enters the room where the weasley is kept, falling into her own role. “did you find him? do you need me to come help?” her distant voice slips into the overlap of breathless apprehension and uncertain hope, the cadence of a rescuer watching for the return of the monster under the bed. languid are her movements as she paces, wand tapping across knuckles. “you have to be quick!” 

if foreboding was a tight knot in the colum of a constricted throat earlier, it’s the cold tendrils wrapped tight around flesh now. solace would’ve been a warm blossom through limbs if PERCY wasn’t so brutally aware of who his supposed rescuers are : he’s no fool. the carrows’ faces have snarled up at him from posters since his days at the ministry, and a new wave of trepidity rolls right through a quaking, bound frame. ( as hard as he tries, there’s a buoyant little squeak from the backburner / “what if they’re here to help?” he’s many things but an idiot isn’t one, he knows that no good can come of the pantomime he’s found himself embroiled in. there’s nothing resembling hope in the scene that has begun to unfold. it’s strange, really : the brunt of percy’s heartache is borne of worry for the family he’s convinced he’ll leave behind. own mortal peril is LESS of a concern than their collective grief / he wishes, in these strange moments that he’s sure will be his last, that he could apologise to molly and arthur. sorry mum, sorry dad. you deserved better than this. )

“where am i?” he’ll try to amplify the modicum of bravery that’s set into his tongue, but it wavers / intonation gives way to distress and percy sounds like a fucking child, so far removed from his near-thirty years. “how long have i been gone?” 

he’s more intelligent than they’ve given him credit for. there’s a spark of recognition in those wide, fearful eyes that couldn’t be DISGUISED if he had the forethought to try, and AMYCUS is almost colored impressed by it. the emotions rolling through him - terror, dread, uncertainty, grief - were so powerful in origin amycus had trusted in a cloud of doubt thrown over their faces, but percy weasley is not as much fool as the family name implied.

he casts a glance towards his sister, the sort they don’t need to couple with words ( it’s an old wives tale that all twins can communicate by thought, but the carrow twins are an old time terror, aren’t they ? two little children born to blood, lying awake in the dead of night and learning each other’s faces better than they knew their own ). it says he knows, even while the tiny smirk that pulls at the corner of his lips says, but we can work with that. 

“you’re just outside of swindon,” he’s turned back to the other now and his expression is back to faux care, back to something that resembles genuine concern - all it misses, now, is the added note to a purposely trembled voice. amycus abandons this, now, going for confusion above flawless PERFORMANCE. “that isn’t a detail you need concern yourself with, percy,” long enough for the questions to start, yet not long enough for the printing presses to begin churning out the missing poster. amycus does not make a show of dropping the facade, once and for all : it is simply there, and then not. “the question is how much longer you have to stay.”

the hope in his voice gives way to an ill impersonation of courage, and ALECTO finds that it sounds little more than that of a child’s mettle. her brother looks to her and she reacts with a quirk of her brow, a casual cant of her head. ( he does? how boring. ) when she steps from the penumbra cast by the empty, unlit room she was waiting in prior, she looks a touch uncanny, with cheeks just a bit too hollow and pallid skin just south of a typical color since leaving azkaban. almost normal, if not for the little things. “quite ugly place, really. don’t know why anyone would wish to come here.” words border a taunt, an almost cloying thing on her tongue. only a matter of time before they figure him gone, and she’s called to work. certainly just enough of it to begin pulling at threads, to the start of unraveling it all. she takes a step or two forward, and it’s like she clisk into something, a return to herself maybe, when she falls into place next to amycus. she plays off of him. “and how long it’s going to take your family to notice. any guesses? no?” 

it comes and goes in waves : the startling clarity that chills him right to the bone ( i am going to die at their hands i am going to die here i am going to be another tragedy upon the family name oh god mum i’m so sorry i’m so sorry- ), and then the hysteria that crowds his throat, makes him want to laugh in sheer delirium. it is altogether surreal, to feel your pulse running cold one minute and chruning something intemperate in your ears the next / PERCY weasley, alone with the carrows. fate has a funny way of rolling the dice, only to leave you stinging when you lose.

“what do you want?” ( an altogether practical question / percy’s never been one to sit around, wait it out. their histrionics do nothing for a choleric captive ; not when blood is still running thick rivulets down palms of his hands, when he’s bitton so hard at a lower lip that it too glistens crimson. there is a trace of it on his canines. he doesn’t know. ) “i don’t have anything you’re looking for, i swear.” 

AMYCUS is a predator circling prey as he moves further into the room and closer, still, to percy. alecto joins him and only near to his sister does he feel - in an odd way, confident enough - to crouch at the others level. "don't insult yourself or our intelligence," it's funny, the contrast : his expression is cold but his voice is almost velveteen, low & warm & in any other setting, any other situation, nice.

"you aren't the only person with the information that we need, percy. you're here because ronald and ginevra aren't, but don't doubt in our willingness to abandon you here, alone, and finally introduce ourselves properly to your brother... or reunite, with your sister." he smiled. again : pleasantly. if not for the context of carrow, amycus would be nothing more than a professor expressing interest in catching up with an old student. "i promise that you don't want that to happen, and to stop it, all you have to do is tell us what we want to know."

pulse throbs something fierce behind eyelids, violent underneath the sacrum of his throat, helpless in the way he cannot move. “don’t you dare touch them. don’t you dare.” ( his heart beats a little faster at the mere mention of younger siblings. all those years spent chastising, picking at them, far too overprotective and never as kind as he should’ve been : symptomatic of a love that doesn’t know vernacular confines, that only knows the kind of rage that builds an inferno behind gritted teeth when they’re referenced like that. ) clever wizard that he is, PERCY can only kick out ; nearly loses his balance, almost topples his little prison over. it’s an adrenaline rush he needs / the kickstart he needs to spit another falsehood like a loose, bloodied tooth.

“i told you, i don’t know what you want.” and to some extent, he doesn’t : captor keeps mentioning information that he doesn’t understand. “nobody told me anything.” feigned reticence suits him ; percy makes a wonderful liar, all bruises and swollen despite the way lies make his stomach twist into sailor’s knots. 

there’s a roll of dark irses, a testament to patience lost during her time in azkaban. “you’re right, how can you be so sure you don’t know without us even asking?” cadence borders something sing-songy, something sweet enough to rot. long strides bring her around his chair, where hands push down on the back, balancing what he had almost thrown askew. the legs are strident when they return to hardwood floor. percy’s boxed in by them both, now, and though wands aren’t drawn, they don’t need to be to prove a point. “it’s easy, percy. where is harry potter? his body, his things...” ALECTO paints an almost innocent picture with wide eyes and relaxed posture as she lingers over his shoulder. “and a little tip --- we don’t take too well to being lied to. my ideal day may not be spending time with the most boring, self righteous weasley, but like amycus said, we can just as easily go to one of the other, hm, is it six of you now?” 

and the thing is, every fivre of an aching being is straining against this ! the hard line of a jaw is stiff with muscle, and yet it happens anyway : in light of alecto carrow lingering over his shoulder, circling like a vulture, PERCY laughs. it’s entirely humourless, dry and barked into atmosphere so tense you could carve it, but it happens. ( for what it’s worth he regrets it immediately / urge to be violently sick follows it, but he’s able to swallow that one down. )

“you think they told me where his body was? jesus fucking christ,” ( muggle london has fouled up that mouth --- ) “you can’t possible think they told me that.” hysteria is a slow bloom that’s spreading through blood and bone alike, deadly in the way it seems determined to swallow him whole. “every bit as fucking daft as she is, you two, thinking they told me anything. fuck.”

percy knows the price, knows it intimately before he’s even spoken. you don’t leave something like this unscathed, something like this without the battle scars to prove it. he knows, deep in marrow, that he isn’t leaving this alive. shaking, terrified, quaking with nothing but sheer fury, he steels himself for the bloe before it even arrives. this is what happens when you lie, when you laugh. this is what happens, and so it goes. 

the carrow twins move deliberately. they move as one. where one pushes the other pulls ( like opposing magnets, still connected in some indescribable way ), always compensating for the other on little more than blood instinct. alecto crosses to steady percy and amycus - in what is almost bored glory - rises, only then, to his full height. she leans left, he takes a step right. she focuses upon their charge, AMYCUS allows his attention to float. he undoes the buttons of his sleeves, both rolled up slowly to expose arms that are mottled by stark white scars & marred by one recognisable tattoo.

"percy, percy, percy," he clucked his tongue, caught between chilling disapproval & aching disappointment. there's a reason that he keeps using his name, as if they're old friends caught in something neither can control : a power to claiming it, an added threat. "we already know of the boys connection to your blood traitorous family. all those summers spent under the same roof, one more child for your overworked mother to wrangle... of course you know where he is. your family loved him."

"i'm sorry, percy. i know you'll tell us what we want to hear-" he sighs. gaze flickers towards his sister, an almost imperceptible jut of his chin given to urge her to stand away from the seated boy, and from his back pocket is pulled a wand that is, even without brandishing, a threat. "but we did tell you not to lie." the striking of a snake : predator meet prey.

with the reverent uttering of "crucio," amycus' wand slashes downwards.

[dameronology]

circles

this isn’t fan fiction -- it’s just something i wrote out of boredom bc i was in my feels and want to have a lil catharsis 

The break-up was hard.

Expected, yes. A long time coming, even more so. But easy? No. Not in the slightest. 

It had been building up slowly but surely for the better part of two years, seeping into the little cracks in their foundations and steadily making them deeper. What had started as minor annoyances and tolerable grievances had blown into unbearable pain, suffocating what little they had left until it had withered away and died completely. The hardest part, perhaps, was that it didn’t make sense. They had worked so well at one point - taken random getaway breaks on weekends just because, went for spontaneous drives at 3AM just to listen to the Killers’ new album for the twentieth time, got drunk and gave each other the most ridiculous hand poked tattoos. Everything that had made them so good existed solely under the joy of their heyday, basking in the glow of how easy it had been to be so young and stupid. 

Nothing had mattered. There hadn’t been a single worry in the world. No pressure to settle down, no pressure to be an adult just yet or to take anything too seriously. The fact they were completely different people is what had made it so good, so fun. The perfect balance of vulnerability and stupidity; fragility and naivety. She’d existed solely for him and he lived entirely for her; the centre of one another’s orbit, gravitating around one another in circles, toing and froing in the best way possible. 

That was the problem: circles. 

Months turned into years, and soon their young adulthood stretched into their mid twenties, early thirties. The issue of their difference was easily ignored by domestic routine; working long hours, focusing on promotions, paying off their college debt. They found a nice house on the outskirts of Philadelphia - two bedrooms and a big garden. He had said the second room was perfect for kids, and she’d commented on what a perfect home office it would have made. They’d laughed it off. That was something they’d become good at it; making a joke out of red flags, passing them off as if they were tiny quirks. 

That was the beginning of the circles. Waking up early, working all day, coming home late. Having a date night every Saturday with less-than-stellar sex, because that’s what Cosmopolitan had promised would keep the spark alive. Every other one of their friends had broken up with their respective college partner; some had gotten married, some had kids, some had gotten divorced, some had gone to prison. Meanwhile, they’d stayed entirely the same. What was it he’d said about it? We’ve just matured. 

It was on the way home from his dad’s 60th birthday party that he’d brought up the idea of a future. Not just a future, but the future. Marriage, kids, mortgages, all the long term stuff that should have been expected when you’d been in a relationship as long as they had. What had it been? Ten years, maybe. It wasn’t unfair of him to expect it from her, or at least to see it reasonable that they have the conversation. She’d nervously laughed it off, making a joke about how their five-year-old rescue dog was close enough. He’d smiled at her terrible joke, before dropping the conversation entirely. 

Circles, again. 

A cycle of him broaching a subject of the future, and her making a bad joke to dodge it. Everyone around them was upsizing houses and getting married - or remarried - and having their second, third, fourth child. The world around them was going at a thousand miles an hour and yet, she refused to take her foot off the brake. Nothing about them had changed. She saw it as a good thing. He couldn’t stand it. 

That was the beginning of their descent. They’d both realised that they were too different to possibly keep their worlds intertwined; whilst they’d once gravitated towards each other, they now polarised. The issue laid in the difference between knowing things were bad and admitting things were bad. Their relationship was so familiar - so constant and steady. It had become a comfort blanket for them both. They’d made a habit of holding onto the promises they’d made as twenty-somethings, perhaps forgetting that the people who had those pledges all those years ago weren’t the same ones who were trying so hard to keep them. 

It had taken a pregnancy scare for them to realise it. When there was only one line in the window of the test, she’d been relieved. He’d been gutted. Their simultaneous sigh of relief and we can try again next month was a testament to the bigger picture; a testament to the different things they so desperately wanted. A career woman and a family man, together only because of their love for another. There came a point where they had to ask themselves if it was enough, if their feelings were enough common ground to justify staying together.

They could have compromised. Instead of the three kids he wanted, they could have had one. She could have worked less and he could have stayed at home with their hypothetical children. Isn’t what relationships were about? Compromise. But, that probably applied to what colour you painted the kitchen, or whose parents you went to for Christmas. Not fundamental things like how many kids you had, or where you lived, or things that you needed to be happy. 

That was probably the bit that hurt the most. She needed a high-pressure job and career satisfaction to be happy. He needed a domestic life and kids of his own. There was nothing wrong either of those things, but there was something missing from their respective lists: each other. 

The break-up itself wasn’t the hardest part, nor was telling their families or cancelling the holiday they had booked for the following year. The grief and shock didn��t truly hit them until they were packing their respective belongings.

Stood on opposite sides of the bedroom, metres feelings like miles. The air between them was thick with tension; unanswered questions and what-ifs. What if we just tried a little harder and what if this was supposed to be it? All questions that neither of them dared answer, for fear of going back on the decision. The trepidation of leaving behind what they’d thought was going to be forever was already swallowing them whole; eating them alive and consuming their entire beings with memories of lost laughter and sweet memories. They were packing up the bedroom that they’d shared for almost a decade, stripping the four walls of bittersweet conversations and forced destiny. 

They took the photos off the walls. Ones of them in Paris, ones of them in New York, ones of them in London; all younger, past versions of themselves, before the glow in their eyes had been dimmed by the revelation of dull reality. False promises of domestic bliss that lead to false hopes of happiness; a sad reminder of a better time, when they hadn’t realised that forever would never quite come to fruition . All gone now. All laid to rest, surrounded by bubble wrap and forced into a storage unit downtown that they’d half-heartedly agreed to go halves on. 

The house was sold quickly - something the estate agent had told them was lucky. Nothing about the situation felt lucky, but having the weight of the shared property off their shoulders took the burden off of everything a little. The extra money was good too. She moved back to the city and invested in a loft, whilst he purchased an almost-identical house to their old one, just a few streets away. She had a balcony and he had a backyard. 

A few more years went by, and they both got what they wanted. She made partner at her firm and started to earn triple figures, reaping the rewards of her hard work and playing in the big leagues. He found a nice, simple woman and got married, eventually having three kids, all with chubby cheeks and toothy smiles. Letting go of another had been the best thing they’d ever done; their relationship had tied them down, forced them to give up what they wanted because staying was easier than going.

Almost six years to the day that they broke up, they passed one another in the street. She was just leaving a meeting, and he’d taken his family into the city to watch a game. It was on Fifth Street, not far away from the first apartment they rented together. Their eyes met - strange eyes, but ones they each remembered so vividly - and they smiled. Nothing was said. Nothing had to be said. They were whey they needed to be.

[mileycyprus-hill]

Bumblebee

Domestic/Papa Arthur

This is a lengthy single-chapter story I decided to write after making the mistake of watching Arthur’s low-honor/high honor deaths when he goes back for the money. It put me in such a terrible mood and I cursed myself for watching it, so I decided to make myself feel better by writing a heart-warming fic. I hope you enjoy it too.

High honor Arthur Morgan x female reader

TB doesn’t exist in this storyline.

———————

For the first year since you both escaped, every night Arthur sufferered night terrors. You’re both long gone from Dutch, Micah, and the Pinkertons, but Arthur still has fear. Fear that turns to panic in the middle of the night while you’re both asleep.

You’re often shaken awake by Arthur gently thrashing on the mattress, holding his arms up as if he’s fending off an attacker. By now, you can figure out what he’s dreaming of. It’s the same nightmare each night: Micah has him pinned to the ground and is pushing the knife closer and closer to his chest. Arthur wakes up in terror right as the knife is plunged in his chest. He clutches at his heart while he pants heavily and blinks his eyes in the darkness. You hold him and give him the same little speech each night this happens: he’s alright, you’re alright, and most importantly...your growing child inside you is alright.

Arthur rarely cried in front of you until after that fateful night. That night you almost lost him, fighting off Micah at Beaver Hollow while the camp burned around them. If Dutch hadn’t shown up at the right moment to stop it, Arthur wouldn’t be here with you right now. He thought he was as good as dead when Dutch and Micah left him, until he saw you ride in on a white horse. Literally.

The sun rose behind the trees as you rode back on your snow-white warmblood and he swore he saw an angel coming to take him away. He cried into your shirt when you held him close, grateful for this final moment with you.

He thought each day was his final day with you, and waited for death to come. Fortunately, that hadn’t happened. Fate granted him an extension on his life, and Arthur is forever grateful.

However, he fears his enemies will soon catch up with him and take you both away. He refuses to relive that pain.

Arthur would sell his soul if it meant preventing that from happening again.

Arthur sits up in bed and the sheets are dampened from his sweat, despite the cold winter night. His cheeks are wet with tears as he gently grasps at your growing stomach. He rests his head against the bump and attempts to feel for your child behind the barrier of your womb; to feel if it’s still there, undisturbed in its peaceful pod in your body.

There’s one comfort Arthur has and that’s the feeling of his unborn child within you. You’re only four months along and the bump has just become noticeable. Arthur’s breathing calms at the sensation of your warm skin against his flushed cheeks. His eyes feel hot from the panicked tears of his nightmare. He still trembles as the images of his nightmare blink into vision with every fall of his eyelids, but in time they dissipate. His trembling becomes faint once you brush your fingers through his hair.

The two of you lay in silence. The only sounds are the wet sniffles from Arthur’s nose while he rests his head on your torso. These nights become routine until the day your child is born.

Since the first day your daughter arrived, Arthur hadn’t slept. He’d watch her sleep in her tiny bassinet on the other side of the bed. His arms are laid across your waist and looped within your arms. He rubs his fingers against your skin while guarding his little princess, ready to leap across at the first sign of danger. The only way to get Arthur to fall asleep is to caress his hair and whisper soft reassurances. He’d fall asleep resting his head on your chest, listening to the calm beating of your heart.

Arthur would still wake up throughout the night, listening for your daughter’s breathing or perking his head up at the sound of a little cough or whimper. The only time the poor man would get sleep is when he’d put her down for a nap. You’d walk into the bedroom and find him softly snoring with your little girl on his chest. His large, calloused hands hold her in place.

Arthur finally begins to calm down when your daughter reaches her first birthday. A warmth inside him grows and starts to bloom like the once tight bud of a rose opening to reveal its lush layers of pedals. Arthur had always struggled with insecure relationships, but you and your daughter give him the security he desperately needed all those years ago.

His nightmares are less frequent, and instead he dreams of the gang. He misses them greatly: Miss Grimshaw, Lenny, John, and most of all Hosea. At night, Arthur dreams of introducing his little girl to Hosea. He would hand his giggling daughter to Hosea’s arms, and the old man would laugh with delight. Hosea would hold her up against the sun, basking in her glory. Her little legs kick happily as Hosea spins her around before bringing her close to kiss her chubby cheek. His silver hair and her golden locks both shine as the sun.

You wake early in the morning just before dawn and roll over to an empty space beside you. You could always sense Arthur���s absence shortly after he got up. The bed would feel larger and his spot would feel cold without his warm body. Blinking your dreary eyes, you see Arthur sitting on the edge of the bed with his head down low.

“Arthur?” You reach a hand out and faintly rub his back with your fingertips. Arthur looks over his shoulder and reaches behind him to hold your hand.

“I dreamt about Hosea again,” he answers you softly. A tiny smile is visible for a short moment, before a gloomy frown returns to his face.

Scooching closer to him, you ask, “A good one?” Your arms wrap around him, holding him close to you. Arthur instinctively leans his head as soon as your chin rests upon his tense shoulder, his earlobe just within kissing range. The tension in his shoulders relax at the feeling of your warm breath against his sensitive skin.

“Yeah,” he replies solemnly. He continues to frown at the bittersweet memory of Hosea.

You ask Arthur to describe his dream to you, and reassure him that it’s okay to miss his family. You giggle at the image of Hosea proudly holding your daughter high, showing her off to all the members at camp, teaching her to read, how to hold the reins on a horse, and how to steal people’s hearts.

“He would’ve spoiled her rotten,” Arthur croaks, the richness of his voice breaks slightly.

You smile through the pain of grief you both share. “Yeah he would’ve,” you state, “But you spoil her enough.”

Finally a chuckle rumbles lowly from Arthur, like a dim charcoal that’s been gently stoked back to flame.

Your daughter is the definition of a daddy’s girl. She hardly demands Arthur’s attention, as he’s more than ready to give it to her when she needs it. He’s the first to rise when hearing her wake from her bedroom across the hall. Your daughter happily waits to hear her father’s habitual greeting.

“Good mornin’ little bumblebee. How’d you sleep?” He’d always ask, scooping her up into his arms. She is always his little bumblebee, a nickname he thought of from her given name: Beatrice. He began to call her Bea for short, then soon after she became “bumble-Bea”.

Arthur presses his face against hers and rubs his scruffy beard against her cheek. Bea squeals in laughter at the rough sensation that tickles her cheek.

“Papaaaw! Staaaa-haaap!” She yells, attempting to push his squared jaw away with her petite hands. Her cries are quickly drowned out by Arthur’s rumbling chortles that echo through your small home.

Only Arthur can make his daughter’s special breakfast: pancakes and bacon. God forbid Daddy doesn’t make them for her. Arthur swears he doesn’t make them any different than you do, but somehow his pancakes taste better. The best is when he’s able to find wild berries and toss them in the batter. Those are Bea’s favorite.

Each day Bea gets older is another day Arthur grows happier. His worries will always linger though; anxieties always creeping behind his shoulder. He is not a man without his faults. He tends to be overprotective of you two when it comes to wandering the woods alone, staying alone in the house, or riding to town without him. Arthur won’t have it. His paranoia gets the better of him and his temper flares when you argue with him. He’ll slam the kitchen countertop and finalize his decision with an angry, “End of discussion!”

His anger quickly turns to guilt at the sight of Bea’s upturned lip, quivering in fear of his authoritative roar. She stands in the entryway with her teddy bear clutched in her arms, listening to you two argue and her little heart hammering. It’s rare she experiences this side of Arthur at her young age, no matter how frustrating she can be as a toddler.

That familiar whimper slowly rises to a wail. Bea attempts to keep a tight lip, whining through her closed mouth but her cries soon take over. She sputters and sobs as you pick her up and hold her against you, running your hands over her golden head.

It breaks Arthur’s heart to see Bea so upset, especially when he’s the cause of it. When it came to her crying for attention, you had to hold him back numerous times. Too often would he run to her room in the middle of the night at the first sound of her cries. You tried many times to explain to him that he should let her cry until she goes back to sleep. You had your maternal instincts to rely on when it came to knowing when to respond.

But Arthur? He can’t stand to hear his little bumblebee cry. He’s made too many mistakes as a father early in his life, so he strives to be the best he can be. And sometimes, he can try a little too hard.

Arthur’s favorite moments are those sitting by the fireplace after a hard day’s work. His stomach is full, the sky is dark, and the fire is warm. He watches the sparks pop from the dry firewood stacked in the flames. The creak of his rocking chair syncs with your voice like a metronome. You’re reading a storybook to Bea, who sits cradled in Arthur’s arms. Her hair is still damp from her evening bath, and she’s dressed in her fresh cotton nightgown. With Arthur’s arms wrapped around her, his palms placed in the crook of her knees, she idly fumbles with the sleeve of his shirt while listening to you read. Arthur struggles to stay awake with his head dropping occasionally and his eyelids growing heavy while Bea listens attentively to the story.

The story is indeed an interesting one, a children’s biblical story you were given by a church woman a couple years ago. She had seen you passing by the church after you stopped for supplies and offered it to you. A blessing for your little one, she said pointing to your pregnant belly. The old woman was kind and asked to pray for you and your child, to which you humbly accepted.

The story was of a man named Daniel, who served under a king and was accused of breaking the law of worship that forbid any man from praying to God without the aid of the king. He was ordered to be thrown into a den of lions, but when the king checked the next day, Daniel was alive. An angel was sent down from heaven and shut the mouth of the lions, saving Daniel’s life.

Bea was enraptured by the story and asks you, “Are angels real?”

Closing the book, you open your mouth to answer until Arthur speaks up.

“ ‘f course they’re real,” he says softly, “We all got a guardian angel.”

Bea lifts her head off his shoulder and looks to him with glistening eyes, “Even me?” She asks.

A crooked smile adorns Arthur’s lips, “Of course,” he answers, breaking eye contact with Bea and gazing over at you with a loving stare.

Arthur lets you slip into bed as he offers to tuck your daughter in. Her lamp on the nightstand dimly lights her room in a honey glow.

“Y’know, yer mama’s an angel,” Arthur whispers, pulling the sheets over her. “Did you know that?”

Her eyes grow wide and she replies with a shocked whisper, “No.”

Arthur smiles and nods his head, “It’s true. Now don’t tell her,” he warns, looking back at the doorway. The door is cracked only slightly to let in the light from your bedroom across the hall. “She ain’t supposed to know that we know,” Arthur says.

“Why not?” Bea asks, gripping the edge of the quilt.

“Well, then she can’t have her powers no more.” Arthur answers.

“But how do you know she’s an angel?”

Arthur looks at your daughter with a fondness in his eyes. She has the same curiosity as you do. His thoughts are immediately flooded with memories of that terrifying night at Beaver Hollow.

Arthur breathes a deep sigh. “She saved my life,” he explains, “Y’see, Daddy was hurt real bad. And she came flyin’ in on her white horse and saved me. She told me everythin’ was gonna be alright...and then she carried me home.”

His daughter looks at him in shock, her jaw dropped. “Wow,” she says.

Arthur nods his head and smiles at his daughter’s astonishment. He reminds her, “Now remember, this is just between me and you,” he tucks her in tighly in her warm blankets, “Okay?”

She nods her head so hard she nearly makes herself dizzy.

“That’sa good girl,” Arthur praises softly, “Now, go to sleep. I love you.”

He kisses her forehead just before she wraps her arms around her neck, hugging him tightly.

“I love you too, Daddy.” She says sleepily.

For the rest of Arthur’s life, he firmly believed he had not one, but two guardian angels who loved him.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves; Chapter Seven, Savagery.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violent thoughts in this chap !!! Kylo’s getting somewhat, territorial. Shall we say-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

When he came to her that night, her tears of grief were still drying on her cheeks. Catching in the fires light, like ribbons of sparkling amber.

 If he had a soul, it would be crumbling in despair for glimpsing the sight of her like this.

 “Oh, My little dove.” He sighs, weary and heart sore for her. She didn’t even have anyone to cry to or to embrace in her sadness. She always had to cry alone.

 Tears staining onto the clasping embroidery of her laced pillow. Her supple form curled up into a fitful tense shape on the bed. Her toed off brown boots are strewn on the floor by the end of the bed.

 Concern weights down the heavy lentil of his stern brow as he rounds the end of her bed to come closer. His big hand cupping the polished twists of the wood pillar of the mahogany frame. He steps over her boots. Coming to tower over where she rests on the mattress.

 She’s still wearing her gown. The ash grey wool she wore earlier today. Her hair is still bound. Though it’s strictness is softened by wisps that have worked their way loose. Spilling over her cheeks and straying across the pillow. Like dark twisted roots.

 She won’t wake. She never does. He sets himself carefully on the bed. Feels it give and creak beneath his weight. He watches her rest. Brings his hand up to stroke a thumb across the soft cushion of her damp cheek. Wet and salt clings to his skin.

 He whispers to her. “I felt it. I felt your sadness. I felt it reach out to me. Calling to me.”

 He leans down and kisses the tear away. When he does, when he tastes that sadness on his lips - a shatter of emotion and memory cracks through him. Like thunder splintering and charring an old oak. He is struck by it. Well and truly.

 He can hear her mothers snarls, feel the crush of guilt and righteous anger drowning his sweet little dove. Being told she must obey to her family expectations. Start making them proud. Start thinking of marriage.

 He sighs deeply as he pulls away. He didn’t even register the pretty floral of her skin he so loves. Not tonight.

 Tonight, he is not a baying monster seeking for blood. He is a suitor who has deeply concerned, rushed to her side as he felt the worst woes of his lover.

 He felt her despair. Her dying hope. He felt the waning happiness of their day wither. Like a dried flower hardening up in the frost or the heat. Seizing up it’s bright petals. Or shedding them. He’s felt how her family’s expectations strip her bare and leave her shredded and bruised.

 Here, he just feels his jaw grit at the rage of it all. He grows wilder with anger. Can feel the black of it, thick like rotten honey, bleeding flushing into his veins.

 “I wonder, do you feel me too? Are you so struck by all the things I perceive?” He asks to her. Not intending at all for his questions to be answered.

 Their bond is strong - this cannot be denied. It’s tug engulfed them both from the second their eyes met. That blazing dazzling storm that took his breath away. The tempest of her influence quakes inside his chest.

 Yet this...fondness, for her. A mere mortal. A simple, human girl. It is not so perishable. To look upon the last love and bond he has felt in his life, it seems so dangerously frail in comparison. Adoring her is like cherishing a birds eggshell. Like a faint ember glowing, about to extinguish. Yearning and waiting to be made bright.

 Humans. All of them are so fleeting. So quick to bud and even quicker to fade. Like a dying little spark. Extinguished before it barely even thrives.

 He can feel this spirit. This entwining of their souls. This dense entanglement of emotion. Can sense how it hungers to grow. Like him; it’s a bloodthirsty beast. Demands heart and cartilage and inky black ichor of blood to sustain it.

 His yearning is more than he ever thought. And he knows how she wants it desperately also. Wants him. Their feelings have found symmetry in each other. This is the first time a woman has been more to him than a collection of veins to drink off.

 “I confess; I care not if you can sense me yet. Because I sensed you the minute I saw you, Iris Ashton. And now I feel how trapped you are.” He explains softly.

 “Little Dove. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see you freed.” He promises.

 He’s stroking her hair back off her face. Trying to soothe away the crinkling frown in her brow. The one that spoke highly of her turmoil.

 “I would rip those pathetic beings you call relatives to pieces for making you suffer like this. I wouldn’t even drink them. Dove. I’d kill purely for the pleasure and the sport of it.” He pledges.

 Somewhere in his mind, faintly, upon a distant echo of an echo, he can hear his makers voice. He can hear Draegan calling him a savage, chiding him for those words. He always was the one between the two, blessed with more leniency.

 “Your mother is desperately trying to keep us apart. It will not be so. I will not stand for it.” He confesses.

 “I will not.” He makes plain. Shakes his head. His words are quiet venom with the resolute strength of iron, but he’s softly caressing her cheek. Taking away all the tears and salty sadness with his fingertips.

 “I have a foul temper and when people deny me the things I want. They will inevitably lose.” He growls.

 He will kill. Maim. Slaughter and hunt without any whiff of so called or feared consequences. He’s a vampire. He’s above emotion. He does not subscribe to petty human clemency. There is no point in mercy being instilled in such savage beasts, after all. It would wither and die in the face of all the foul things he’s committed. The gore. The pain. The massacres. The bloodlust.

 “I came tonight because you cried out for me. You cloud up every moment in my head. You live behind my closed eyelids when I rest at night...” He expresses.

 He reaches his hand to cover her collarbone. Very close to the space over her heart. Warm skin soothes his icy palm. It’s been so long since he felt the flurry and flush of warmth. He can feel the quivering muscle tremble and tick under her skin. Gushes and guides her blood. The rattle of it pulses and echos through her vulnerable bones.

 The fragility of her tiny timpani heart, beating away her time.

 “And now your body beats for me. Each pump of your heart I can hear; and it sounds like it’s calling out my name. And I will always answer to it.” He promises. “I cannot ignore it, even should I wish too.”

 He cannot fathom the enormity of this strangle hold she has across him. He can only nurture it’s budding into being. He will help blossom and thrive, whatever this may be.

 He quirks a slight tip of a smile. It breaks the stoic nature of his scowl hardened face. Like strong waves being dashed on the rocks. It yielded.

 “When I think back upon you sitting astride Kana today, it makes me smile. I had not thought you to be such a wild creature so ready to dash the rules.” He says in mirth.

 He’d only looked at her and seen the etiquette she adheres too. He was pleasantly surprised to find she was no shrinking violet. He’s enamoured with uncovering more such stubborn wilderness within her.

 “How glad I am for it. That little spit of fiery spirit that not even your foul mother can hope to tame. I’ve always been so enamoured with wild things.” He smiles.

 He rubs his thumb across her forehead. His own brow creases when he feels the tremble and agony of her aching head. The raw sting of her red eyes. He rubs until that grey nimbus of her pain passes away. Like smoke on the gentle breeze. He soothes it away.

 He is sure to put vastly happier thoughts into her head. Plants them there like seeds ready to sprout. He helps her recall every smile they’ve shared. Every ghost of a touch. Every look of their eyes clashing that sent rattles of desire wracking down her spine. His too, though she had no clue as to the potency of her charms.

 No clue whatsoever- it’s one of his favourite things about her. Here is a power she doesn’t even know she wields. He will gladly instruct her to see it used.

 He lets her see them this afternoon. Riding side by side in the frosty sunshine. Stroking the horses in their stalls. The way he caught her and reeled her in when she slipped off Kana’s back. He lets that warm happiness flow through her like golden ambrosia. The sweet honey nectar of happiness they share together.

 He will have more. He will make it so.

 He feels how her body is growing colder. He twists around and sees the fire in her hearth is crumbling low. Barely sustained. He crosses and sees to it. Stokes it with the iron poker and piles on more logs to see her kept warm.

 Silently he walks back to the bed, to her side. Pulls up the fluffy eiderdown over her where it lay crumpled at her feet. The feathery down of it rumples and crushes and he tucks it around her prone body. Her human well-being, hangs loosely by a fine thread compared to his stronger senses.

 He exhaled an amused sound to himself. “And they say I am the creature who bears no soul.” He speaks in detriment to his caring touches.

 But so long as he is near, he will not see her suffer. From cold. From sadness. From anything that may ail her.

 He has seen worse things than his own kind being blights upon humans. He’s witnessed plagues, wars, outbreaks of diseases too foul to name. The awful crippling frailty of suffering a human existence.

 He places his hand on her elbow, atop the covers he shrouded her in. Her dreams eased by his influence. Her strains and stresses plucked away by his hands. He could do more than merely enchant her senses. He could alter them. Make her witness things if he wished to.

 “How is it a creature like me can find such solace in even being near you.” He asks gently. Big fingertips of his grooming through her hair. Feeling the spun-bronze soft of it combing through his fingers.

 He may never have an answer to that musing. An eternal query for him to ponder over through his ages. All he knows, is that he won’t be kept apart from her. Not for anyone’s wishes.

 He stays until a cresting red-gold dawn. Blood and gold copper coins, spill slanted across the sky. The birds outside in Westwell’s meagre garden begin their song to herald to the new day.

 He leaves her. Parts with a kiss to her cheek and before he slips from her sight and off into that blaze of a dawn, he leaves his initialled kerchief crumpled up in her hand.

 The thought as to her confusion of how it got there, will make him smile. Now she has a token of him. That happy thought keeps him smug in temper, and buoyant for the whole day. He hopes it will jab at her acerbic mother.

 Should teach her that no one stands in Lord Ren’s path. And even fewer live to tell the tale of having done so.

   ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

 Iris really did applaud her mothers cruel sense of efficiency. Not but the next day, and Sergeant Armitage Hux and Mrs Hux call at Westwell to take tea.

 As they alight from their carriage, Iris is sat at the window armchair. Watching their newcomers. A flash of brilliant red catches her eye, stark in the icy landscape of the frosted green and creamy cotswold stone gravel drive.

 He wore his full ceremonial uniform under his black cape. Wool coat the shade of split veins. On his head, covering the copper of his short hair, sits a cocked half moon army hat. Fluffy red and white plumage darts up, sprouting from one side. Blood spattered on snowy doves feathers. The ultimate homage to war.

 He looks terribly neat and well groomed. Meticulously so. Coat brushed. His cape is spotless. His white breeches are about as pristine as the snow that fell around the estate last night. His black boots gleam. Freshly polished and waxed. Iris bites her tongue when she sees he’s fully dressed for battle. Even his gold rapier sword hangs at his side. Bumping against his hip.

 Hux turns and helps his mother down from the carriage. She is a stout woman of late age, with greying hair and a face that always looks pinched. Her pale face hidden in her frilly bonnet. A ruffled frill secured around her neck. A chemisette collar of rippled muslin, peaking in cresting white waves. Tied in a bow around her neck. Brushing under her chin. Collar starched and stiff. Holding her chin precariously high. Incredibly precocious.

 Then again, the woman did always adore and admire looking down upon people. Haughtily peering down on her lessers.

 Much of her dress is covered by her deep plum pelisse. She has lilac gloves on and is pinching her skirts up. Afraid of the mud. Sniffing in disdain at muddying her rose pink and mauve half boots with it. Iris shuts her book with a harsh snap. A sigh leaves her lips.

 She sets her book aside. Mother appears in the parlour. Lifts up the arched curtain to better glimpse at their guests. She turns a casting eye over Iris’s dress.

 “Your skirts are wrinkled and your hair is loose at the back. Fix it.” She instructs snappily with quick hurrying. Before turning back to seat herself elegantly on the settee opposite.

 Their parlour was not quite the finest room in Britain. But it was cosy. Heavy blue velvet drapes line the windows with gold tassels trimmed on their edges. There is upholstered walnut settees and arm chairs with white and pink rosebud pattern on the seats.

 The fire is lit and roaring amber in the austere grey of the stone hearth surround. Mother arranged an ostentatious vase of tall spilling blooms on the French end table across the room, by the door. Perfuming the air with violets and bluebells. Sugared fruit of exotic variety lay in the only silver bowl they have in the house. Polished especially. Desperate to show off their finery.

 Mother is fussing with the crocheted lace doily on the table. Tugging it straight. Setting her grey satin skirts to fold nicely and neat around her knees. Tugging on her finest shawl around her shoulders. Hissing at Iris to set her legs straight. For she always sat most uncommonly. With one knee folded under the other.

 Iris is in the upholstered linen armchair opposite to the settee. In the chair has seen better years. A twin set. They creak and crack under her weight. But it’s always done that ever since she was a child. It’s her favourite spot. The light is adequate for reading. Until Posy or Flora come marching in and clamour and demand the chair for they have to fix up their bonnets for church on Sunday. Heaven forfend they are seen out in the same bonnet twice.

 Luckily today they preen and fuss in the parlour mirror before the housekeeper shows their guests into the front parlour. Posy is in a duck egg blue with a green ribbon at her waist. Flora is almost matching in a cotton white with a peony pink ribbon. They preen a moment longer until the door handle cracks and twists across the room. The two littlest Ashton’s dart quickly to take their places. Squeaking with giddy excitement. Plonking artlessly onto the furniture.

 Iris’s mother frowns at her eldest daughters dour smile. She’d tugged her out of bed nearly at dawn this morning. Ordered her up. To bathe and wash and then dress her hair for Hux’s call.

Laced her tight into stays and her whisper-blue silk dress. Barely blue. Like a sky just turning at twilight. It had three quarter sleeves and handsome train. It it showed off the prettiness of her neck and shoulders. Especially when she wore her pearl sapphire earrings. They sparkle all across her neck.

 She puts down her book on the end table. And looks up into the parlour doorway as Mrs Hux enters, preceding her son. Their stout almost-elderly matron of a housekeeper, Simpson, opens the door to them and curtseys. Announcing them. “Maratella Hux and Sergeant Hux. If you please, Ma’am.”

 Maratella glides in first. Still with her parasol hooked upon the crook of her arm. She snaps her fingers at Simpson to take it and her bonnet.

 “I would have disrobed more in the hall. But your entryway is most drafty and I do so fear getting dust on my bonnet. For it will never be gotten out easy in all this fine lace.” Simpson takes her bonnet and her parasol off her. She curtseys to Caroline.

 “Mrs Ashton. You do keep such a snug parlour.” And then she turns and offhandedly stresses Posy, Flora and Iris. The whole bouquet. As if suddenly surprised they’re all here. “Oh. And I dare say such a pretty flock of gels.” She compliments.

 “You remember my youngest’s. Posy and Flora. And of course, Iris. My eldest.”

 Hux nods and lays particular care in Iris’s intended direction. He turns back to Mrs Ashton.

 “I feel I must ride into town to immediately fetch the constable. Ma’am. You have been charged with a criminally beautiful set of daughters. Mrs Ashton.” Hux flatters. With an easy charm of a smile.

 Two thirds of the Ashton bouquet giggle wildly, enamoured with the praise. The remaining third bites her tongue to guard it. To keep from rolling her eyes.

 “You are very good, Sir. Please. Do come, be seated. I have rung for tea.” Mrs Ashton floats delicately to retake her seat. Mrs Hux daintily comports herself next to her friend.

 Armitage remains stood. Arms tugged behind. Sword clanging his belt where he stands with a jaunt to one hip one leg kicked out.

 “How are you? My dear Mrs Ashton...” Maratella greets. Taking Caroline’s hands into her own. She wore spotless calfskin gloves. Before she unbuttons the pearl fastenings and makes a show of peeling the expensive things off her tubby hands. Delicately pinching each fingertip and caressing the thing off her hand like she was doing it for exaggerated show. She wasn’t. She was merely acting elegantly as she thought she must.

 “I am in good health. I thank you Mrs Hux.” She answers. “Your Armitage looks extremely well. London air must agree with you, Sir?” Mother simpers.

 “It did serve me most splendidly. Ma’am. But I am more than pleased to be home. And most thankful for your invitation.” He bows politely and his sea foam green eyes flicker over to find Iris. She smiles meagrely at him, averts her gaze.

 He cuts the figure of a tall man standing there, behind his short mother with his hands crossed precisely behind his back. Trying to make his lean chest look impressive with all his gleaming medals and polished gold buttons resting stitched to their black braiding wool patches. Soot. Gold. And blood. All in one uniform.

 Armitage Hux had missed the main war of late. The Napoleonic wars which happened of 1815, just this last year gone. Iris wondered if Hux really ever equated the finery of such a uniform, with real true war.

 Here he is. Trussed up like a clockwork toy-soldier. With his boots shining and his composure spotless. He’s a young man who has not seen the full horror of war. Iris can’t exactly boast of knowing any more than he. But his uniform spoke of such hope. Time will tell if he can seize the bravery needed to march onto a battlefield.

 “Iris looks exceedingly well. Do you not think so Armitage?” His mother urges.

 “Indeed she does. Most handsome.” Hux says to the matronly mama’s. But he’s smiling right at her. He crosses the few short steps to the unoccupied twin chair where she’s sat by the window. Gracefully deposits himself into the chair.

 Iris takes a subtle breath before she turns towards him. Sat demurely with her hands clasped on her knees and her back straight. When all she really wants to do is lounge. And slouch. And do anything to put him off the idea of marriage.

 She was doomed to its sentence. She’d have rather sat here today and stuck pins in her eyes. Rather than conform to conversations about the weather, the local gossip, the tea or the snow outside. When all their mothers were really trying to arrange, was, when it boiled down to it? A forced mating ritual between the country gentry.

 The way Mama and Mrs Hux are peering at them from their settee, is like they can already envisage the wedding clothes. And the names for the Hux babe they want to see, soiling in its cloth, and squalling loudly it’s bassinet.

 Iris is sick to death of all this match making- but. She is the eldest Miss Ashton. She persists. When all she wants is to flee the room screaming.

 “How did you find London this time of year? Must be miserably cold and busy.” Iris seeks.

 “Yes. It was rather. Lucky my visit didn’t extend for too long. I am not so enamoured of city living. The society may be fine and resplendent. I did not suffer for a dinner invite the whole time I was in town. But the lifestyle suits me very ill. I much prefer my time spent back here at Walford.” He tells.

 “And how is your regiment?” She enquires. He answers. They talk about his militia training. His fellow officers. His sword. His commission. They just lapse to the weather. When the door handle creaks again and in comes their procession of maids with the tea and cake.

 Assam tea with a side of Cooks buttery baked ginger biscuits. Seed cake, and finger sandwiches. Made of fluffy pillow soft white bread. Filled with sliced tongue, or ham, with cornichon or yellow piccalilli.

 Cook has even made her violet macarons. Gorgeous silky little round cakes of smooth, bright purple. Wedged either side of cloying sweet ganache. Almonds and sugar and all things made sweet with violet essence.

 Iris knew mother must’ve gone through a fair amount of their family budget for such an indulgent French fancy. Sugar and eggs and coconut didn’t come cheap. Of course she would pour every hope and penny farthing they had spare into this venture. Anything to catch a suitor.

 Caroline pours, and Julia hands around the cups. Leaves a macaron perched on Iris’s saucer. Waggles her brows at Iris, poking with good natured chiding fun for Hux, who was sat opposite her. Looking most keen.

 Iris sips her tea from her blue and white spode cup and pays their silly maid no mind. Just because they both flutter eyes at anything of Male born, with nice thighs framed by their breeches.

 He’s a soldier too? The maids will state that every romantic girl must get her heart broke by a soldier, just the once.

 Hux sets his tea on the end table between them. Leaning a tad closer to initiate more intimate conversation.

 “Do forgive my speaking bluntly, Miss Ashton. But I believe it is brightening up. Would you care to take a turn on the lawn with me?” He seeks. They had finished their tea. After all. And she must be polite.

 “I’d be delighted to. Sergeant Hux.” She accepts. She stands and deposits her empty teacup down. He tells their Mothers of their plan. He sees Iris into the cold foyer and they pull on their coats. She wished she could find something repulsive in him. But really, he is a gentleman. He holds the door. Helps her into her pelisse. He’s not a horrible suitor. Maybe if he was she could hate him more keenly. 

 She wished she could be repulsed by his every action and snobbery. But he is, genial. He smiles warmly at her.

 He takes her arm when they get outside. They walk along the drive in companionable, yet slightly awkward silence. Iris just knows their mothers will be fussing like clucking hens at the parlour window watching them. Planning a wedding for the spring after a suitably long engagement. Posy and Flora will be marvelling at every barest touch they share.

 ‘Did you see how he took your arm?’ Or ‘How he doted upon you... I should so like for a man to hold a door like that for me.’

 Hux breaks the silence. They walk arm-in-arm around the curvature of the frozen pond.

 “I know men aren’t supposed to be appraised of such matters. Miss Ashton. And if you’ll forgive me, I shall speak plainly-“ He declares to her.

 He brings them to a stop. Ten to rly reaches out. His gloved fingers take her hand. She admires it. The plumage on his hat is battered in the wild wind. The only sounds she can hear is her bonnet ribbons fluttering and snapping on the wind. The birdsong chipping sweetly at her ears. The terrified drum of her heart.

 “I came here today with the express purpose and intention of paying court to you, Iris.” He tells her. A hopeful smile on his lips.

 His eyes crinkle at the corners with hope. His stark inky cape flaps on the breeze. She smells wool and boot polish. Stuck on the frosty landscape that glittered in his eyes.

 Her chest breaks. Crushing in on itself.

 She looks up into his face. The sun kissed gold upon her icy-white cheeks. Red tinted from the cold breeze. She swallows. Tipping her head slightly back so she can see his face past the woven peak of her bonnet.

 Her mouth gapes and she looks down where he’s holding her hand- and it doesn’t feel right.

 She feels like she wants to burst. Needles of hot and ice cold stab at her ribs like ferocious ten thousand little knives. She wants to be sick or run away. This isn’t the pair of hands that should be holding hers.

 Sergeant Hux is terribly nice. Courteous and well bred. And more wealthy than her. But- but he’s not...

 Lord Ren’s face strikes at her mind with so much power. She almost loses her breath. And her footing. She regains her composure. Even though it feels like something just yanked up inside her chest and tore away her lungs from where they are joined to her throat.

 She plasters on a false meek smile.

 “I see...” She remarks. Anything more witty or feeling was beyond her. She felt like soon, she’d fade into the air, like smoke. Just drift away.

 “I know it is the especial wish of your mother, aswell as mine, that we are to consider each other as potential spouses. And I would very much- I should very much like to spend more time with you, if you’ve no objection?” He asks. Still clasping her hand.

 “You are kind sir...” She stutters breath around the words. “Your attentions would be most welcome.” She lies.

 She feels rotten.

 “I know we know a little of each other. I believe there is some fondness between us. That could grow into respect, and, and possibly- one day, maybe more than that.” He approaches cautiously.

 She nods. “You speak very bluntly of such matters. Sergeant Hux.” She says. He speaks as if they are already truths, come into fruition.

 “I merely speak what is present. Miss Ashton. My- words are not finely crafted or driven by passion. They do not fall prettily. I am no astounding orator. Nor poet. But I do so believe that we might have a chance of making each other passably happy.” He declares once again.

 “You shall never want for anything should we marry. You’d be a Sergeants wife and all that is offered it it’s income. I would treat you dearly, and- admire you as any husband should whilst you see to raising our offspring. These are, after all, matters that fall rightly to women.” He adds.

 “Yes, indeed.” She guards her tongue before it becomes uncivil.

 “We are invited to the Elton’s musicale, two nights forth. Thursday next. Would you do me the honour of your hand in the invite?” He seeks.

 “Well. I-“ she swallows the sticky grey lump in her throat. How she’d love to be selfish and refuse. Her eyes still rimmed and raw from crying over all this last night. Heart sore. A great crack splintering through the middle of it like ancient rusted clay pottery. Her heart so badly wants anything- something more. Someone else.

 She can’t do it. Mother would have her crucified. She wants her sisters to have a better comfort in life than what she’s had to suffer with being the family puppet. She wants her father to have new clothes and not have to worry. She wants to see Westwell safe from the bailiffs. 

 “I should be thrilled to attend.” She smiles. Her shattered heart crumbles that little bit more. Morphs into a wet mush of clay. Drowned by disappointment.

 This wasn’t for her benefit- it’s for everyone else’s. And that was no reason to marry. She believes first and foremost in living for herself. Iris so badly wants to live for herself. To be her own person. She does not have that luxury and it’s suffocating.

 She agreed because it was polite. Because he was a genial man and she didn’t wish him upset when he’s done nothing wrong, but let himself be manoeuvred into matrimony by his mother.

She agreed. For her sisters. For her father. Definitely not for her mother though. She doesn’t deserve even an ounce of her thoughts or considerations.

 She agrees, even though all of Hampshire society knew that the musical performed by the Elton’s made all the local dogs howl. Even though several ‘accomplished’ young ladies of the ton, played their instruments so ill, everyone swore they could hear the thud of the long deceased composer banging their skull in lamentation and sheer agony on the lid of their coffin.

 Even though she’ll be sat next to a man who has promised only to love her dearly. He is a nice man. That is simply it. She feels unworthy and ignorant. She doesn’t want the things she’s supposed too.

 She’s overwhelmed. Her head is spinning, and her mouth as sticky dry as a chasm of sand. They’re not even courting properly, or engaged and she wants to pick up her skirts and flee across the horizon. She wants to run. To breathe. To be free from this nice courtesy that she doesn’t want.

 She wants more out of her life than that of being a broodmare of a sergeants wife. The expectations don’t stop the day she says ‘I do.’ The fetid things will live on and on. Until she becomes the perfect bride. Then the most perfect housekeeper slash wife. Then a doting mother to a child she’s sure she doesn’t want. Fathered by a man who loves her with lukewarm and polite affection.

 Can a soul really be satisfied by such a light caress of passion?

 Hers is begging and screaming for more. She’s read in books about exotic cities and lands. Blue blue, so very blue seas and oceans, vaster than her comprehension. Wide wide skies filled with sunsets she could only dream of glimpsing at.

 She’s read of snowy mountains and thick pine woodland. Air full of sap and snow. Of sunny cities entirely made out of blue bricks in Morocco. Or ones in Asia painted the entire street rosebud pink just for one visiting dignitary.

 She’s heard teasing dribbles of exotic accents and tastes and cultures. She wants to see the bursting heated streets lined with saccharine Mango trees in India. Perfume of it in the air, of spices and sweetness. Wants to see the terracotta catholic loud renaissance of Florence. She wanted to see Castles and chateaus and forts and grand ballrooms. And American railways across the plains of the wild west and-

 She’ll never have any of those things. Not a one. Her future was written and decided. And it is appearing bleak.

 She thirsts and wants things she’ll never see. Such opulence in the world out there. And instead? She’ll be manacled to a husband and the children and the stove in this tiny savage spit of a village. Until old age and death comes to take her away. Return her to the heat and rot of earth and maggots to help fade her to nothing. Until all that remains of her, is dirty bones and her loved one’s scraps of memories.

 Hux smiles. Brings her hand up to lay a gentle kiss upon her glove. “I anticipate it eagerly.” He says. She offers a wobbly smile that she tries to make stand strong.

 She can feel eyes stabbing into her back - most likely from the direction of the parlour window. Mama and Mrs Hux stood at the parlour’s front facing windows. Appraising their fine match.

 But there’s something else- something that raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Something altogether much more unwholesome. She feels a cold chill burst and slither up her spine. Horribly slow.

 Hux has taken her palm to place it in his elbow once again. And they wander now around the rest of the pond. He remarks how beautiful the great spreading horse chestnut tree must be in spring. Iris smiles her agreement.

 Peering around. Everywhere in her garden she looked, all was empty. She can’t see their gardener, Higgins, trimming verges or shrubbery. She looks between the copses of the vast spread of trees that shield her view, past the shrubs and the neat hedges. There was nothing. They were the only two people outside the house, out here.

 So why does Iris feel as if they aren’t?

 Her eyes catch on the bare mulberry tree, the sprawling trunk is bare and black. Like dead curled up spiders legs. Swaying in the breeze.

 A black shape sits in that tree. A raven or a jackdaw bird possibly. Onyx black. Curling feet and a sharp inky beak. Fixated its beady glittering honey-black eyes on the both of them. Not moving an inch. Hunched and peering down over them.

 Iris looks at it for a long moment. Watches the wind ruffling it’s feathers. It stays fixing its look on her. And it doesn’t move. Not scared. Not at all intimidated by her presence.

 Hux jolts her out of her gawping at an unsuspecting bird. It gives a scratchy caw of a call, and spreads its flapping great wings. Soars up into the icy soft of the pearl sky and soars away over the house.

 “Miss Ashton?” Hux asks again. A tad louder to capture her attention.

 “Forgive me. Lost in my thoughts...” She laughs explains in mirth, turns back and smiles to him. He smiles awkwardly and ducks his head. Discusses the weather with her once again.

 They head back into the house for more tea. Caroline gives Iris such a sickly smile when they come back into the room.

 Hux announces to Mrs Ashton that he should like to pay call to Iris and escort her to the Musicale next week. Mrs Ashton accepts delightedly.

 Mrs Hux adds onto that enjoyment. “Why, we should get a party together. Such a merry gathering! The Ashton’s and the Hux’s shall all attend. You know we have two carriages, Mrs Ashton. Hux may escort all your lovely daughters. And you and Mr Ashton May ride with me and Brendol.” She organised with a giddy grin. Tapping her companions knee.

 Iris stands there next to Hux. Feeling very much as if her life is being lived for her. She has no choice in the matter. She is chattel.

 Thankfully, after arranging the outing. Maratella and Hux take their leave. They are going on into Pembleton for a general perusal. And Hux needs more boot polish. And she is in desperate need of new ribbons for her hat. Iris shrewdly eyes the hefty bonnet on the woman’s head, groaning under the weight of lace and ribbons and muslin.

 Hux kisses her hand again. Bows to her before he leaves. Iris swallows nervously. But doesn’t let her expression betray it. Flora and Posy giggle and whisper to each other. Flourishing into gossip as he leaves the room.

 Iris stands looking at the door for a second after it’s shut. Mother sees them off to the front door.

 Iris waits to hear the latch on the front door go. When she does she strides quickly for the parlour door, she yanks it open and tears across the foyer and upstairs. Her feet loudly slap each step as she holds her skirts bunched in her fingers.

 When she gets to her room she throws the door open with such ferocity the door handle smacks loudly to the wall. She starts getting at the fastenings of her dress. Unloops them and manages to get down to her chemise and her stays. She throws the fine dress away to crumple to her bed. It balloons on the air and floats gently down. Mourning the loss of being worn.

 She is at her wardrobe, ruffling through angrily. She’s so breathless. Her lungs are not getting air. Why can’t she breathe? Her mind is racing a million miles a minute. She’s sweaty and clammy and her temples are pounding straining pulsing. Every heartbeat hurts her head. Throat clawing shut.

 She won’t cry. She wilfully clamps her teeth shut-she won’t.

 She skips herself into her simple beige muslin dress. And shoved her arms through the old wool blue pelisse. Stabs her feet into her boots. Heads back downstairs with her scarf to hand. Every nerve balances on the precise of a knifes edge.

 She gets to the front door when her mother appears, peering into the hallway from the parlour doorway. “Precisely where do you think you’re going?” She seeks. Frowning. Face pulled into a scowl.

 “I’ve done my duty for today surely. Have I not? What more do you want from me. I’m done parading myself like a witless idiot. I need a walk and some air.” She offers curtly. Slipping out the front door.

 Slamming it shut behind her before her mothers next shrill words pierce her ears. No doubt cursing her daughter for daring to have such an insulting commodity as a functioning brain.

 She walks quick. Off up the front drive. Let’s the sting of cold rip at her eyes and her cheeks. Taking deep dragging breaths. It feels like she’d swallowed an entire ream of dressmakers pins. Stabbing and squeezing more pain into her.

 She puffs and pants and finally feels like she’s gained some breathing space. Coming into the woods near Westwell and shuts her eyes and lets the sounds soothe her frayed self.

 The wood pigeons. A cuckoo’s call. The hiss of leaves scratching against their branches in the wind. High above. The crunch of her boots on twigs and frosted leaves mushed underfoot.

 The tactile scratch of her gloves hands scraping across the rough bark of trees around her. She leans back against one of them. Looks up at it’s dead brown leaves. Elm tree.

 It’s nice to let something sturdy take her weight for once. She doesn’t often have that luxury.

 She regains control of her senses. Of her ragged breath and thumping heart. The cold wind wraps around her snugly. Letting her envelope herself in this silence. Breath escapes silver and wispy from her lips.

 A twig snaps far off in the tree’s-

 Her eyes shoot open. Scanning all around. Sickly bile rising to the back of her throat. She steps away from the elm tree and lets her eyes flicker all around the woodland. Over the ash brown of the trees and the brush of golden leaves mingled with crystals of frost on the ground.

 She turns her head around and then loses her breath. Except this time, it is not of her own making.

 There is a dark shape looming out of the trees. A big shape. A monstrous shape. A big meaty tangle of black-grey smudged fur. Pointed ears, a long snout. Eyes standing stark. Eyes that are more golden than a tuscan sun.

 A wolf.

 She watches as this beast assesses her from afar. Gently picking its paws over the foliage and mess of brittle twigs and mud on the wood floor. It’s paws were as big as dinner plates. It’s not baring it’s teeth at her. She imagines those teeth are bigger and sharper than most silver daggers or pocket knives.

 It’s ears are swivelled in her direction. Eyes fixed on her too.

 She stays still. Frozen to the spot she’s rooted too. Trying not to tremble in fear as tears, hot and molten silver, fill stinging at her eyes. She shivers with the ache of staying so still. Not daring to move one muscle.

 This is the beast that’s been attacking the soused farmhands. The one that’s been hunting for blood. She doesn’t quite appreciate how much of a true statement that is.

 When it’s about a foot away from her- it suddenly stops. Raises its lowered head. She sees the long line of its shaggy neck. Fur shining the shade of matte coal. It regards her with casual concern. It’s not growling. Or stalking her every move.

 She stops holding such tension in her body. She’s used to the wolf hounds they have on the farm. Shaggy slobbering lumbering dogs who go insane for the dried liver, and fresh bones cook saves for them when she had a haunch of pork.

 She remembers how their dogs go apoplectic for them. Gnawing at the fresh gummy blood and meat on those bones. She swallows at the not so appropriate visual of bloodied bones, right at this second. When she could have her throat ripped open by this savage wolf.

 She watches as it comes closer by two steps from those big lethal paws. Then it sits.

 She swallows. The way she knows canines. Sitting is not a sign of a rabid beast baying for blood.

 “You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” Lord Ren’s voice ricochets through her head. Like a distant echo. Smoke on the air. Did she imagine it, or recall it?

 What else was it he had said? She can vaguely recall. “Wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them.”

 So she does the only thing she can think of. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe she’s putting herself in greater danger? But the wolf’s tranquility makes her brave.

 She makes herself look less like a threat. Slowly sinks to a crouch, joining it. Her knees stab into the frosty ground as she sinks down. Coming eye to eye with the creature.

 So close now she can see the various flecks of honey in its eyes. Can see every strand of fur where they stand rigid from its sleekly shaggy coat.

 She rests fully on her bent knees. Damning her dress. Dancing the wet frost and mud bleeding into her dress. She tilts her slightly head at the wolf.

 “Where did you come from then?” She asks it. Seeing the huge ears turn to her.

 Where she’s crouched, it’s almost taller than her, sat down. On all fours it would have come up well past her hip she’d imagine. It was no stretch to perceive how this could be the creature that’s been attacking men around these parts of late. It is a brutely sized beast.

 Meaty shoulders, a slim body, long strong legs and a powerful tail. Immense and strong.

 “I know I should most likely be scared of a creature like you.... But you don’t seem very dangerous, to me... I’m sure if you were hungry enough to kill me you would’ve done so by now.” She counters to it.

 It tilts his head and licks its chops. Flashes her the ivory sabres that it had for teeth. She looks down to it’s intimidating big paws. The claws almost bigger than her fingers. Another flurry of fear shivers through her.

 “Are you the only one of your kind? You must be lonely. Are there any more of you hereabouts?...” She seeks. Wobbly voice straightening out when she unknots her tongue.

 The wolf just sits. And watches her. Doesn’t move. Just looks.

 Those gold eyes harrowing in their ferocity. She feels like they burn her. Yet. Why does she feel like she’s seen those buttery-honey eyes once or twice before-

 She must be mad. They should call the doctor to come take her away to the nearest mental institution and pin her into a straight jacket. Here she is sat talking to a wolf.

 “I know better than any what being lonely is like I suppose...” She adds softly.

 Maybe she is insane. She has the oddest inclination- she reaches up. But not before stopping to take her gloves off. She leaves them crumpled in her lap. And extends her hand towards the beast.

 She somehow already knows it won’t harm her.

 It still sits there. Even as she gets her fingers to stroke the side of its neck. Fur so soft and thick under her palm. Silky smooth. She’d never felt a pelt this smooth.

 It makes a deep appreciative growl in the back of its throat at being petted. A deep husking rumbling noise. A chuff of breath.

 A sudden noise makes her shrink back. The wolf sharply turns its head. She looks too. A horse and rider galloping through the far lane, off in the woods

 By the time she twists back, the wolf is gone. Sprinting off through the trees. Far to the horizon.

 A black blur in the woods. And she is alone once more.

  ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~