#(i thought it was the voice of girl child revolution before finding out it was revachol)

[arttitude130]

larger individual pics of the skills (and harry + kim) from my big disco brain post!!!! i was worried blowing them up would mess with the quality but i think it's ok?

free to use with credit (insert disco emoji)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 11: Buckingham Palace]

You are a Russian grand duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You are hopelessly and tragically in love with each other.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of war and violence, sexual content (not graphic).

Word count: 6.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @imtheinvisiblequeen @okilover02 @adrenaline-roulette @youngpastafanmug​ @m-1234 @tensecondvacation @haileymorelikestupid @rogerfuckintaylor​ @yourlocalmusicalprostitute​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @someforeigntragedy​ @mo-whore​ @mellowfellowyellow​ @peculiareunoia​ @mischiefmanaged71​ @fancybenjamin​ @anne-white-star​ @theonlyone-meeeee​ @witchlyboo​ @demo-wise​ 

💜 💜 💜   Stay tuned for the series finale, coming soon (hopefully)! Thank you for reading!  💜 💜 💜

I’ve dreamed about my family more times than I could count since leaving Tobolsk, and after I learned of their murders I dreamed of nothing at all; but tonight I’m not sure what my dreams are made of. There’s water, or rather the sound of water, immense and roaring against steel. There’s my palm gliding over a metal railing with flaking paint. There are pulsing, anonymous crowds pushing me down cobblestone streets. There are gardens full of plants I’ve never seen before, and an old woman’s voice tells me their names: eastern redbuds, blue mistflowers, scarlet beebalms, Carolina springbeauties, cinnamon ferns. There’s something sweet and ice-cold and strangely biting washing over my tongue. There are flashing bulbs of light that make the stars invisible.

I wake with no answers but deeply rested, as if I’ve slept for a thousand years. Ben is already gone, which is clever of him; cool autumn sunlight—grey with cloud cover, etched with the shadows of brittle leaves—spills in through the windows, and by now there will be butlers and maids moving through the house. I rise to find my body roped with soreness, but it’s a good sort of soreness, gratifying, accomplished: muscles I haven’t used before strengthening, corporal memories demanding to be kept. It reminds me of how I felt as a child after my first rowing lesson on the Black Lake with Papa, or after falling from a horse on my thirteenth birthday, or after carrying Alexei around on my back all day so he wouldn’t be left out of our games. Such pain has a way of making small moments indelible, and belongs just as much to the flesh as it does to the soul.

I go to the window. Above there are rainclouds rolling in from the North Sea; below there are children hurrying to school, bearded men strolling in top hats and wool coats, street vendors selling newspapers and bouquets of flowers, women pushing baby carriages. There was a time when I would have barely seen these people at all. They would have been as flat as paper, nameless, transitory, vanishing the second my eyes left them. Now I am aware—so cuttingly aware—that each has a past and a future and a family and friends, each has dreams like I do, each believes wholeheartedly that they know the story of the world. They don’t, not really, because no one does; we each know only one piece, one strand thinner than a spider’s thread, and we cling to it all our lives without ever seeing the web.

In the full closet that the Lees have generously provided, I push past skirts and trousers to find dresses, lace and silk and chambray. It’s more thought than I’ve put into my clothes since I arrived in London. I have to look more like a grand duchess today. I have to look like the girl that the king remembers.

When Ben knocks, I’m sitting at the vanity in a lace dress not unlike the one I left Tobolsk in, except that this dress is black. Black is appropriate for mourning, and across the globe there are plenty of reasons to mourn at the moment. “Come in,” I call, brushing out my hair.

Ben opens the door but doesn’t cross the threshold. He doesn’t look particularly rested; in fact, he doesn’t look like he’s slept at all. His eyes are red and his hair in disarray. He’s holding the green velvet pouch containing my family’s jewels in one hand and keeps rubbing his face with the other. “Hi,” he says from the doorway.

“Hello.” I glance at him briefly and then turn back to the mirror.

Ben waits for me to say more, to set the tone for him to follow. I don’t say anything. After a while he asks: “Do you need help? Want me to braid your hair for you?”

“No, that’s alright. I can do it.” And I can; he taught me how.

“Okay.” But Ben doesn’t leave. He leans against the doorframe and watches me, bewildered. I don’t understand why he can’t see how painful this is. I don’t understand why he thinks we can pretend it’s yesterday. At last he says: “There was a call from Buckingham Palace. I’ve been summoned to meet with the king this afternoon. Which means you have too.”

“Today?”

“At 3:00. They’re sending a carriage.”

What is this that I’m feeling? I don’t have words for it in any language. I’m nervy and tranquil and proud and cowardly, I’m so young yet so old. And each time I look at Ben, I’m starving for him. I keep my eyes on the mirror. “At last.”

“At last,” Ben echoes softly.

“3:00, was it?” I ask. “They certainly aren’t in a hurry.”

Ben smirks, shrugs. What can you do? That look says. And the answer is nothing. Royalty will behave however they want to. Something about that truth bothers me; it catches in my mind like a thorn in skin. “I suppose it’s time for me to give these back to you.” Ben sets the green velvet pouch on the floor of my bedroom. He still doesn’t step inside, and I suspect that’s more for my own benefit than his. We shouldn’t be unchaperoned while the staff are roaming the halls. We shouldn’t risk my reputation. “I’ll see you at breakfast,” Ben tells me as he leaves.

I go to the pouch and open it. Inside, like the still-glistening organs of a gutted animal, are the jewels that once belonged to the Romanovs. I sift through them—chains of silver, strings of gold, sapphires, rubies, amethysts, emeralds, topazes, diamonds, pearls—conjuring no memories of my family, feeling only the weight of a planet mined raw by other people’s hands.

For the first time, I wonder what exactly jewels like these might be worth.

~~~~~~~~~~

The vast dining room table, to my dismay, is strewn with all the trappings of a Full English Breakfast. Before I can make myself a plate—taking a polite portion of each component and nothing more, perhaps pretending to forget about the blood pudding—Ben emerges from the kitchen with a platter of thin pancakes topped with butter and cherry preserves. They’re his version of blini; they’re his version of a Russian breakfast. Ben sets them down in front of me and then sits at the opposite end of the table. Joe’s eyes leap between us as he sips a cappuccino.

Ben and I speak to everyone except each other. Mr. Lee talks about how much he is going to miss having us here. Mrs. Lee tells us about Australia, kangaroos and koala bears and endless golden beaches, and she implores us to visit her homeland one day if we can. I’ll almost certainly see Australia in my lifetime. It’s a part of the British Empire, after all.

In Italian, Joe says to me: “You must promise that you will come to New York someday, Lana bella donna. You will come and you will dine at my pizzeria and I shall become outrageously famous and wealthy. You must not forget us, because we will not forget you. You must come to New York. Do you promise?”

“Si, lo prometto,” I reply, knowing already that I’m lying, and Joe knows it too. No British monarch has ever set foot in the United States, not even when they were still colonies. Who says that I could be the first? Who says that I could have any choice in the matter at all?

I can’t just sit around all day waiting for the clock to strike 3:00, so after breakfast I take a walk to see Kroshka in the stable several blocks away. Ben trails after me—quietly, hesitantly, from a distance, like he did on the ship we left Saint Petersburg in—crunching rust-colored fallen leaves beneath his boots. In the stalls I find Thoroughbreds and Hackneys and Cleveland Bays, dignified Oldenburgs and arrogant Arabians and one massive Suffolk Punch. I give them each a fond yet fleeting scratch on the forelock before continuing on to Kroshka. She has been given the smallest stall, a dark little cubby hidden away at the end of a row. She is meant to be invisible. Kroshka doesn’t seem to mind; she dozes and chews on a mouthful of hay as I glide my palm down the length of her plain, honest face.

“Who’s a lovely mule?” I murmur. Kroshka’s long scruffy ears perk up. “You’re a lovely mule, yes you are.” I glance back to where Ben stands a few stalls away. “What will happen to Kroshka when you go to New York? You can’t leave her behind. Someone else might not understand. They might abuse her, might even send her to slaughter. She needs you.”

Ben stares at me like he’s seen a ghost, then shakes it off. “She’s coming to New York too, no need to worry.”

“Good.” Kroshka’s nose twitches beneath my hand. I offer her the sugar cubes I took from the Lees’ kitchen, and her velvety lips gobble them up. Everyone else is going to the New World. Everyone else is starting over.

“I thought you didn’t approve of the unattractive mule,” Ben says.

“She’s grown on me.”

“Animals have a way of doing that.”

“So do people.”

On the periphery of my vision, I can see him watching me, curious. He waits for me to continue. He waits a long time.

Still stroking Kroshka’s muzzle, I speak without looking at Ben. “All I ever wanted from you—from the second Mother told me you were coming—was for you to like me. Not just for being a grand duchess, but for who I was as a person. And I just assumed you would like me, that it was inevitable, like gravity or time or waves on the ocean. But then you didn’t. And you didn’t just not like me…you made me feel idiotic and unwelcome and small, so vanishingly small. I couldn’t wait to get away from you. I would have clawed through the earth with my bare hands to get away from you. But then…then…” I turn to him, tears burning in my eyes. “Ben, you made me feel alive. And truthful. And understood. And wanted. Wanted for everything I am but also everything I’m not, like every sliver of empty space, every piece of the human experience that I’m missing was an opportunity for you to teach me something new, to watch me grow, to spend time with me, infinite and cherished time. All I ever wanted was for you to like me. And now you do. But somehow that just makes all of this worse.”

“I don’t like you,” Ben says.

I smile. “No?”

He smiles back, the most hopeless smile I’ve ever seen. “No.”

Last night hangs in the air between us like spiderwebs, like a noose. We could touch it, but we don’t dare. “So I guess you’ll have a few nice things to write about me in your article.”

“There isn’t going to be an article.”

“What?” I exclaim, almost shout at him.

“I’m not going to profit from your family’s murder,” Ben says resolutely, like he’s known it for weeks. “I’m not going to profit from your heartbreak. I’m not going to spill salacious gossip that will give the world more reasons to hate you. I’m not going to be yet another person who expects you to sacrifice for their professional advantage. I’ll find something else to write about. And if I can’t, then maybe I don’t deserve to be a writer.”

When was the last time I saw him scribbling in his leather-bound notebook? Saint Petersburg? That feels like forever ago. Several lifetimes, at least. “Where’s your notebook, Ben?”

“At the bottom of the Gulf of Finland.”

“Ben…you can’t…you can’t just…I thought you…what about…?”

“The decision is made. That’s it. I appreciate your concern, I really do, but this isn’t something you get a say in.”

Across the stable from him—in the midst of horses nickering, hooves stomping, eaves creaking when the wind blows, the bleak autumn air sharp like a razor—I am shellshocked. What about his career in New York? What about the money he needs? “You should write about yourself, Ben,” I say eventually. “Your life, your family, your people. They have stories worth telling. You have stories worth telling.”

“Maybe,” he replies, but he doesn’t seem particularly interested. He doesn’t think that’s something customers would care to read about. He really hasn’t thought of a new plan yet. I find that equally heroic and horrifying. What’s going to happen to him? What’s going to happen to me?

We leave the stable together, walking without speaking but our steps in tandem. Outside there’s a street vendor braying about newspapers and candies and flowers. “Last of the season, last of the season!” he cries, waving bouquets in the air. “Get your mum or your sweetheart something nice. Buy yourself out of the doghouse. Last of the season! Last of the season!”

Ben points to flowers laid out in haphazard piles on the cart. “That’s valerian,” he tells me, making conversation so we have a reason to look at each other. “And zinnias, and helenium, and over there are calla lilies.”

I smile warily at him. “I know, Ben. We grow all of those in Russia.”

“Oh. Right.”

“The gardens at Tobolsk were crawling with calla lilies.”

“What color?”

“White, mostly. Mother called them snow lilies.”

Most of the calla lilies on the street vendor’s cart are deep purple or burnt orange or a pale listless blue, but Ben buys a white one, just one single flower. He weaves its stem through my braid until it is secured there, until the curling, vase-like petal rests behind my ear.

“How do I look?” I ask Ben. “Adorable? Formidable? Regal? A woodland faerie princess?”

“A woodland faerie grand duchess. After last night, are you even still allowed to wear white…?”

I laugh and shove him, gently, playfully. Ben chuckles and drags me into him and slings an arm around my shoulder. I breathe him in: the darkness of smoke and cologne, the light of his latent optimism. Because Ben is an optimist way down deep, he must be. You have to be an optimist to jump at the chance to start over on a new continent with nothing. You have to be an optimist to carry others’ burdens on your shoulders believing that it will, in some infinitesimal way, make the world a less violent place.

We go to Hyde Park and sit on a bench in the midst of spiraling leaves and blade-sharp wind—saying nothing, thinking everything—and listen to Big Ben strike noon, and then 1:00, and then 2:00, time receding from us like a broken fever.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the small travel trunk, I pack my copy of Tarzan of the Apes from Tobolsk, the book about British monarchs that Ben gave me, and the green scarf I bought in Moscow. The silver-thread bears shimmer as I fold the fabric once, twice, again, and then tuck it away safely. I don’t have much to bring with me to Buckingham Palace. Nothing I’ve been wearing is suitable for a princess.

I peer down at the bed, still unmade and rumpled. I go to the side where Ben slept last night and peel off the white pillowcase. When I press it to my face—tentatively, fearfully, bracing myself for no remnants of the night before—it smells just like him. And then I’m beaming without even realizing it. I pack the pillowcase in the travel trunk, then turn to the pouch containing my family’s jewels. It’s still waiting there on the hardwood floor. I close the trunk lid, secure the clasps, and wait for Ben to collect me.

He appears in the doorway just a few minutes later, grim like storm clouds. “Are you ready?”

“Almost.” I pick up the pouch of jewels. “Come inside and close the door.”

Ben does, but diffidently. “Aren’t you going to pack those…?”

“As it turns out, I’m not.” I hand the green velvet pouch to him. “I want you to have this.”

Ben is so shocked he nearly drops it. “You…you…? Want me to…?”

“You need money,” I say simply. “You won’t have a bestselling New York Times article about me to launch a career off of. It will take you longer to find your footing. But the jewels will help.”

“I…you…” He opens the pouch and blinks down at the gleaming metal and gemstones. “I can’t take these from you. No. Absolutely not.” He tries to give the pouch back to me. I refuse it.

“I owe you my life, Ben. This is the very least I can do for you.”

He is aghast. “Look, I get that you don’t really understand how money works, but even if I take these it’s not like I can walk into a bank with them and leave with cash. People are going to notice. They’ll probably think they’re stolen.”

“You can break them apart, can’t you?” I say. “Pry the stones out of the metal. Sell them one piece at a time. Someone will buy them from you, surely. Someone will pay quite a lot for them. They’ll last you years, I suppose. Perhaps decades.��

“But…but…” Ben shakes his head. “I ripped up the photograph. I didn’t get you to London in time to save your family. These are the last pieces of them that you’ll ever have.”

“My family isn’t in these jewels, Ben,” I say, my voice quiet, my eyes slick. And for once, I feel like the wise one. “They’re gone. They’re just gone. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

There is silence, and stillness, and then Ben embraces me. He doesn’t try to kiss me. He doesn’t offer any words. He just holds me until we hear clopping hooves and carriage wheels slowing to a halt on the grey cobblestones outside.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ben loads the travel trunk and then steadies me as I find my footing on the single thin, metal step. The driver is a middle-aged, mustached man who says little to us. Ben and I are left alone inside as we roll towards Buckingham Palace, each of us gazing absently out our own window.

Ben murmurs, his eyes on the streets of London: “Well, you said you wanted a carriage.”

At first I don’t know what he means, and then I remember, laughing wildly. It’s difficult to imagine being that girl who left Tobolsk in the back of a mule cart. She feels more like a sister than me. “This is the last time you’ll see me without having to bow,” I tease, trying to make Ben smile. It doesn’t work.

He rests his forehead against the cool window. His breath paints fog on the glass. “I’m never going to see you again.”

“No?” A desperate, frantic sort of distress seizes me. “We might cross paths. You can sail back to visit sometimes. I’ll arrange everything. Surely we’ll keep up correspondence, at least.”

“You don’t understand,” he says. “I can’t speak to you. I can’t be around you. I can’t wake up every morning wondering if I’ll get a postcard or a letter. If I do, I’ll never move on from this. I’ll never burn you out of me. Every woman I’ll ever meet will be standing in your shadow.”

“So after everything that’s happened, I’m going to lose you too.”

“I was never yours and you were never mine and that’s exactly how you wanted it.”

“I’ll be able to help people, Ben,” I plead softly, pained. “As a princess. As a queen.”

“Yes. When they let you, and in the ways that they let you.”

“This is really the end of us?” I can’t comprehend it. “The very end?”

“I’m sorry,” Ben whispers, still unable to look at me.

He’s beautiful like that, sad and introspective and wise because he’s had to be; and as he wills himself to forget, I force myself to remember. I commit every scrap of him—voice, scent, edges, tenderness, wrath—to my memory like permanent bruises trapped beneath skin. I study his cheekbones and the crinkles around his eyes. I count the freckles I can find on his face. I wish I had more pieces of him to take with me; I wish I had a single thread to bind us together. I wonder if David Windsor will one day be able to dull the pain of losing Ben, or if my children will, or perhaps some new man—a secretary, a guard, a Master of the Horse—with whom I’ll tumble into some blithe infatuation that my chivalrous husband will pretend not to notice. I wonder if I’ll have to learn to pretend I hate Ben in order to survive losing him…but even as the thought sweeps through me I doubt it. I can’t hate Papa for the mistakes—all those dreadful, lethal mistakes—he made as tsar. I can’t hate Mother for her weakness and her apathy. I can’t hate my siblings for being born wealthy and naïve and adored. I love them in a way that is bone-deep and immutable, without conditions, without rationality. It is the same way I will always feel about them, I believe wholeheartedly. It is the same way I feel about Ben.

“We’re here,” he says, breaking my contemplation like a flute of champagne. I startle; indeed, outside my window is Buckingham Palace.

We pass Queen Victoria’s memorial and proceed through the iron gates. There is a swarm of guards and servants waiting for us there. They spirit me out of the carriage and into the palace, Ben battling to keep pace. My single small travel trunk is carried away and disappears up a flight of stairs. I think of its contents: the scarf, the pillowcase, the book of bloodletting kings and chained queens, the novel in which Tarzan renounces his rediscovered birthright and leaves to give Jane a chance at a better life with some kind, passionless, impeccably normal man. There’s a sequel to Tarzan of the Apes, isn’t there? I think dizzily as I’m rushed through cold, gorgeous rooms. I’ll have to read it someday. I wonder what happens next.

The last time I was in Buckingham Palace there was a dusting of snow on the earth and a towering Christmas tree in the ballroom and sprigs of holly in my hair, and my parents were still alive and my sisters were giggling with me about all the eligible royal bachelors and Alexei was eating sticky toffee pudding until he had to be carried off to bed groaning but still wearing a triumphant grin on his drawn, smug, pale little face. Now everything looks different. Everything feels different. I can’t seem to wrap my head around it. It’s like returning to a place that had been so vast and magical when you were a child only to find it dull and confining and somehow…in every way…less. I wish I had never been born into royalty, or that I had never glimpsed life outside of it; I wish I was not this misfit patchwork of experiences that condemns me to belong nowhere. I wish I’d never heard the name Benjamin Hardy. I wish he was a country I’d never visited instead of a world I can’t seem to leave.

“My darling,” the Prince of Wales croons when he comes into view. He is standing beside a closed door, tall and lean and tidy and pristine, wearing an immaculately tailored suit and grinning widely, wolfishly. I had never really known what Tati meant when she complained about men being brutish and beastly and…and…hungry. Now I think I understand.

I take the prince’s hand when he offers it to me. He presses his lips to my knuckles. The hallway goes quiet. Everyone else leaves, vanishes through doorways or corridors; everyone but Ben, that is. “David,” I say.

“Your Imperial Highness.” He looks me up and down. “Good heavens, what’s happened to your hair? Father won’t even recognize you.” He yanks the tie out of my hair, unravels my braid, plucks out the calla lily and tosses it casually away. Some servant will pick it up later, surely, some servant whose name David wouldn’t be able to recall. They’ll snatch it up off the floor and take it outside with the rubbish and forget about it entirely. I wonder how long it will take me to forget about it, about the man who gave it to me. “There, isn’t that better?”

“Where…?”

“His Majesty will grant you an audience in the Throne Room.”

“Now?” I hope my voice doesn’t quiver. I hope David can’t see the panic in my eyes. Ben is still standing beside us, tense and silent and watchful.

The Prince of Wales only has eyes for me. He beams. “Now.”

He twists one shining golden knob. The door sweeps open. The Prince of Wales enters first and then beckons me inside. As I step through the doorway, I have a sudden vision of Mother radiant with pride, her face glowing and striped by shadows in the amber lamplight; I can see Papa puffing contently on his pipe by a roaring fireplace with a newspaper in his hands; I can imagine flesh and nerves and blood vessels knitting back together to cover their scattered bones as the promise of my legacy, my descendants, my fulfilled responsibility brings them new life. And then, following immediately, I see a different sort of vision, not the future but the still-lingering past: Ben whispering to me, all over me, inside of me, but not until I was trembling and gasping and begging him for it. I can still feel how eager and yet careful he was; I can still feel the mystifying absence of any pain. I can’t imagine a better initiation into lovemaking than that. I have no fear of it now, no shameful curiosity, no timid trepidation. I’d like to believe that Mother could forgive this indiscretion if it meant I would spend the rest of my life cradled tidily in the footprints she left for me.

The Throne Room is gold and red, a vivid bloodlike red. The Prince of Wales shows me where to stand. He smiles idly as he fidgets with my hair again to bring it forward over my shoulders, as he brushes a few stray horse hairs from my black lace dress. He is making me presentable. I wonder what my wedding night would have been like with him as my first lover: polite kisses, prissy words, that inevitable hissing pain that marks a woman as virtuous, an emptiness afterwards instead of a dreamlike peace. I wonder what my sisters’ wedding nights would have been like had they lived to marry princes and dukes and emperors. I can picture Olga shuddering with anxiety, Anastasia slapping unwanted hands away, Tati locking herself in the bathroom and sinking to the cold tile floor and hugging her knees to her chest. I think of all the women—girls, really—who have been sent, oblivious and fearful, into the bed of a man they barely knew. I think of their soft vulnerable flesh being roughly uncovered, prodded, invaded, reaped like wheat at harvest. And I realize, with a nauseating stab to my gut, that I will be expected to raise my own daughters to endure the same. All so that the bloodline can continue. All for the sake of royalty.

Ben is here in the Throne Room with us, lurking by the door we came in through. Why hasn’t he left yet? Because no one has told him to. Because they barely see him at all. And perhaps because he’s not ready for this to be the end of us either.

Another door, the one closest to the throne, opens. King George V strides in wearing full regalia, his medals and his ribbons and his cords. He clangs and rustles when he walks. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me. Instead, his eyes glisten as he smiles and opens his arms. “My dear,” he sighs with great sadness, and I soar across the room to him.

“Uncle George,” I sob as I delve into him, ribbons jostling, medals cold against my cheeks. He looks so much like Papa that it’s almost like being able to touch my father again, being able to atone for not saving him. It is a homecoming that knocks the breath out of me.

“You’re alive,” the king marvels softly. He kisses the top of my head. “David told me. I had understood it. But it is quite another thing to feel it firsthand.” He lifts my chin so he can look at me as the Prince of Wales observes us approvingly with his hands clasped behind his back. “You poor thing, you’ve been through so much. I can read the grief on your face.”

“My family…” I can’t finish; I choke on the words as they burn in my throat.

“They would be so proud of you, my dear,” the king says. “So very, very proud.”

I hope this is true. I hope it with every drop of blood in my veins that escaped the blades of revolution. “Thank you,” I wrench out in a jagged whisper.

“I had always hoped…Nicky and I had always planned…and now, at last, against all odds, here you are. The last Romanov. The only remaining heir of a great house. The recipient of the pity of all mankind.” He studies me meditatively. “Yes, I can think of no better match for David. I can think of no brighter future for the British monarchy.”

I belong here. I belong here. This is the only place I will ever belong. If I repeat this enough, surely it will begin to feel real. Time is whirling blindingly forward and yet standing still.

The king notices Ben for the first time. “And who might you be?” Then he recalls, boredly, like it’s an awkward logistical afterthought. “Oh, yes, the press attaché. My secretary will meet you in the Green Drawing Room. You will be given a handsome reward as a gesture of our appreciation.”

Ben should bow and dismiss himself, but he doesn’t. He stares at me, doubtful, immoveable. He’s waiting for me to tell him it’s okay to leave. He’s waiting until he knows I’m alright.

“Uncle George,” I say, regaining my composure. He does look so much like Papa, but there are small differences. The king is slightly shorter. His flesh is leaner, harder, less yielding. And while Papa’s eyes were dark and gentle and warm, the king’s are a clear and glacial blue. David Windsor has the same eyes. Perhaps one day my children will too. “I would like Ben to stay for just a moment longer. I have a few requests to make before I agree to marry into your house, and some of those requests concern him.”

The king furrows his brow and smirks, as if it is amusing that I have requests of any sort. “Alright. Go ahead, my dear.”

“Ben has a brother serving on the Western Front. His name is Franklin Hardy. I believe he’s currently in Passchendaele. I want him honorable discharged and brought home immediately.”

The king nods uncertainly. “As you wish.”

“I want Great Britain to accept Russian refugees,” I say. “There are millions fleeing the revolution. We can take some here, and perhaps France, Italy, Canada, Australia, and the United States can each match our commitment. We cannot save them all, but we can save many.”

“It will have to be discussed with the prime minister and Parliament, but I believe something like that would be possible. It would certainly make us appear more compassionate, more…sympathetic. It is a wise suggestion.”

“I want to be a patron of settlement houses that assist such immigrants.”

Now the king is no longer amused. His smile is dying like unfanned coals. His eyes are hardening like ice. “The children must come first, but yes…I suppose you may have some spare time to devote to charitable causes.”

“On the subject of children,” I say, steeling myself, making my final request. “I want permission to name my firstborn son Alexei. And my first daughter Tatiana.”

George V—King of the United Kingdom and the British Dominions, Emperor of India, cousin to a slain tsar, father to a shallow prince—chuckles and waves a hand dismissively, as if this is the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard. “The children will have British names, of course.”

His flippantness, his amusement…it sends a bolt through me like lightning. Why isn’t he just as desperate for some way for my family to live on? Why isn’t he still mourning like I am? Like I will be for the rest of my life? Suddenly, the king looks completely different to me. He doesn’t look like Papa at all. I ask him, my voice sharp and unwavering: “Why didn’t you save us?”

“What?” the startled king replies. The Prince of Wales recoils. Ben’s eyes widen as he covers his mouth with both hands.

“Papa, Mother, Tatiana, Alexei, Anastasia, Olga, Maria, me, why didn’t you save us?”

“You couldn’t possibly understand,” the king says patiently, as if I am a child who doesn’t know any better. “Our house, our dynasty…we are not so secure ourselves these days. The people resent our wealth in times of conflict and scarcity. They are suspicious of our German ancestry, of the fact that so many of our nearest relatives are on the other side of this Great War. They lose sight of our vital importance to their pasts, their futures. I could not risk inciting their outrage. And Nicky, though I loved him so fiercely…though I advised him otherwise…he made so many mistakes. He made so many enemies. The British people could not have stomached him.”

“It wasn’t the prime minister at all,” I realize with dawning horror, with swelling rage. “It was you who chose to abandon us.”

“My dear, I swear to you, no one believed that the Romanov children were in danger—”

“But you knew that Papa and Mother were,” I pitch back at him. “And you left them to be butchered.”

“There was nothing else to be done,” the king pleads with me. “There was no other option.”

“If your circumstances had been reversed, Papa would have saved you, your wife, your children. Nothing on this earth could have stopped him.”

“Yes, Nicky was famously weak. And that’s exactly how he ended up where he is now.”

“He trusted you,” I seethe. I can feel scalding heat in my cheeks. I can feel Ben gaping at me, not knowing what to do. “I trusted you. I loved you, I placed all my hopes in you!”

“And you have put them in the right place,” the king insists. “You are safe now. I can keep you safe. The people will accept you, they will cherish you, you are an innocent who cannot be blamed for any of the horrors that have befallen our world. When they look at you, they will see widows and orphans and wounded soldiers returning home, they will see themselves. You will inspire heartfelt sympathy. They will love you, my dear. And they will love us for saving you.” The king reaches out, strokes my cheek, gazes adoringly down at me. “The very last child of a great dynasty. The very last Romanov.”

In his cold blue eyes, I see the lifetime that awaits me if I stay here. I see duty and dispassion and opulence and hollowness. Papa wouldn’t want this for me. Mother wouldn’t want this for me, not if she really knew what it entailed. Everything in me shifts, readjusts, clicks into a new rhythm. I look across the Throne Room at Ben. He stares back, not understanding. “Yes, I am the last Romanov,” I say. I step back to where the king cannot touch me. “There will be no others after me. My children—if I have children—will not be royals. They will know nothing of my bloodline. They will not build their lives on the backs of servants and slaves. They will not kill to keep their thrones. And they will not be fathered by a prince, not here and not anywhere.”

“What do you mean?” the king asks, confounded.

“I am leaving,” I say. “I am leaving the palace now. Forever. With Ben.”

“With who?” The king peers around in confusion. “With…the press attaché…?!”

“Yes.” I glance at Ben. He is too stunned to say anything, too stunned to move. The Prince of Wales blinks stupidly at Ben, as if becoming aware of him for the first time.

The king’s eyes dart to Ben, slide back to me, and then narrow suspiciously. “Are you still intact?”

“No. I cannot count all the pieces of myself that I have lost since Papa’s abdication. But none of them were taken by Ben. He has taken nothing from me. He has only given.”

“You…you…you are a disgrace!” the king sputters. “You are a humiliation. You would be better off dead with the rest of your family. At least then you would still have some dignity.”

“Then let me be dead,” I say. “Let the world think I died in Russia. I was never here. I never rejected this offer of marriage because it was never made. I am not a grand duchess. I am a typist named Lana Brinkley. I am a nobody. And I am crossing the Atlantic with Ben to build a new life in New York City.”

“You…you…you’re what?”

“You’re what?!” the Prince of Wales echoes, shrill and petulant like a little boy.

“Let me go,” I demand of King George V. “Let me go and no one will know that it was you who left my family to be slaughtered. There are other royal women for your son to marry. And I assure you, for your purposes, I am already ruined.”

“Not ruined,” Ben says. He has appeared beside me and taken my hand.

The king is repulsed, furious, incredulous. His eyes are a wasteland, a tundra that freezes and starves. “Get out of my sight. Both of you.”

“Father…” the Prince of Wales nudges.

“Out!” he shouts at us, all three of us. The Prince of Wales departs from one door. Ben and I leave through another. The king, perhaps the richest man on the planet, is left completely alone.

All the way out of the palace—down the hallways, through the ballroom, past the ogling servants and guards—Ben never drops my hand. He doesn’t speak, but he knows exactly where he’s going. Our palms skate down golden staircase railings, our shoes pound against hardwood floors, our eyes flash under the bright electric lights of Buckingham Palace. And when I steal a glimpse of Ben’s face, he is smiling.

Outside in the brisk October air, the entire world is dying so it can begin again. I am half-terrified; I am entirely free.

[lavishedinjimin]

Crybaby - 3 (m)

— synopsis: he calls you crybaby, crybaby. but you don’t fucking care.

alt: Jungkook doesn’t want to leave you.

↳ pairing: jungkook x reader

↳ genre: smut, fluff

↳ rating: r-18/18+

↳ word count: 12k

↳ warnings: the usual dom!jk x sub! reader, ddlg themes, reader is small in height, degrading terms, he’s aggressive this chapter YIKES, jungkook gets turned on seeing you cry, manhandling, uses of rope and a vibrator, kinky sex, size kink, multiple orgasms, rough intercourse, jk’s a sadist, throat fucking, dirty talk, teasing, very possessive jk, and aftercare!!! there’s also some tooth melting fluff to (hopefully) balance everything out ;)

A/n: Before anything else, I want to repeat saying that everything written here is purely fictional, consensual, and doesn’t mirror the mentioned artists’ personality in real life.

Jungkook thinks you’re the most adorable person in the entire world.

“How did you even fall in love with me?” you ask innocently, resting your head on his lap as you both let Edward Scissorhands play in the background. You didn’t even want to watch it in the first place but of course, a little bit of his desperate ‘please’ and puppy eyes always wins your meek heart.

He wraps his hand around your jaw, leaning down to kiss your lips tenderly. Giggling from the sudden impromptu kiss, you feel his soft, supple lips fondle with your own so gingerly. His grip on you tightens before he pulls away with a smirk, noticing the blush on your cheeks.

“So suddenly, baby?” Jungkook mutters as he feeds you a spoonful of Reese’s ice cream he holds in one hand. Looking down at your endearing face, he replies, “Don’t you remember our arcade date? That’s when I confessed my love to you.”

“Yeah, but…” you ponder, “Did you plan it all along?”

Jungkook shuts his eyes before giggling, his dimples peeking through his cheeks. Watching black strands of hair fall down right in front of his eyes as you gaze at him in confusion. Jungkook just sits there. “Well, there’s this exact moment when I knew that I just had to make you mine.”

With your eyes slowly expanding, you try to hide the smile that was slowly creeping up your face. He places the spoon inside the tub, letting his hand stroke your delicate cheek. “Wanna know what it was, baby girl?”

The way how fast you nodded your head was a little bit embarrassing. He grins nonetheless, “So…”

*flashback*

“Y/n,” Jungkook’s arm snakes around your waist before he tugs you closer to him. He gazes down at you with a smile before he points to the shelf full of toys and stuffed animals. “Which one do you like?”

Gulping, you stare at him with furrowed eyebrows, “Why?”

He doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Because I’m gonna win as many tickets as I possibly can to get it for you.”

You didn’t know how to respond for your shyness takes over you once again. On the other hand, Jungkook finds this so charming about you.

“The pink penguin…perhaps?” you mumble.

Jungkook immediately walks closer to approach the male employee behind the counter and inquires, “Excuse me, but how many tickets to get that penguin over there?”

You giggle as you watch how serious he looked as if talking about a huge business deal with his arms crossed together.

The man replies with a bright smile, “1500 tickets, that is!”

“That’s a lot—” you exhale.

“Let’s go, Y/n!” he abruptly pulls you by the arm and tugs you along with him, “I’m gonna get that lil’ penguin for you, baby.”

Your heart swells at the petname. It wasn’t his first time saying it, you just can’t get used to it.

Even though this was the fifth date, the post-nervousness was still there. Before he picked you up from work, your hands were sweating bizarrely. It wasn’t like you weren’t comfortable with him, no, you were always at ease when you’re with him. The reason for the nervousness was you haven’t been in a relationship with someone for so long, and Jungkook has his bars set up high. 

Plus, it was overwhelming in a good way; Jungkook was the confident type and he likes to display how much he adores you – either in private or public places, he didn’t care. As long as he can properly show how much he likes you.  

The arcade has a very 80s feel to it, with a color scheme of mostly red, yellow, and blue. It was lively and has a fun atmosphere going around. Children were running around with their parents, eager to search for another machine to take over, teenage boys were competing against each other in a game of Tekken, and a lot of girls were having a blast inside the Karaoke rooms. 

While time goes on in the arcade, you never realized that he was super competitive. “Y/n, I’m gonna beat this record, watch me.” He says in a deep tone as though wanting to sound serious, stretching his arms to prepare for the punching machine.

“Are you sure?” you chuckle as you hold all of you two’s well-earned tickets from the past hours, “The record is 877. Are you even strong enough?”

You could’ve sworn to yourself that it was an innocent, genuine question. But Jungkook, on the other hand, turns behind to look at you with those dark yet sensual eyes. He precipitously cracks his knuckles, succeeding to intimidate you.

“What a weird question, Y/n,” he says sarcastically with a smirk daubed on his face, “I don’t think you know how powerful I am, babe.”

As soon as those words left his lips, he turns back around in a flash, swinging his right arm with all his might until his fist crashes against the punching bag. You let out a loud gasp, mouth forming into a beaming wide grin as the machine slightly thuds from the harsh impact.

Still, he doesn’t look at the score and he looks at you with a cocky grin, boldly spreading his arms out.

“Kook—” you snort.

“What did I tell you, Y/n? I’m the strongest man you know.”

“Sure but,” you cover your mouth to prevent yourself from laughing too loud, “You s-scored 878!”

Jungkook whips around instantly. Surely, surely he didn’t win by only 1 single point! He groans and stomps his foot like a little child. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You couldn’t control your laughter anymore as you reach out to him, hugging his body from behind. Jungkook throws his head back in despair while he places his hands on top of yours. Your hug felt warm and soft, feeling your cheek pressed up against him. Jungkook turns you around until he was face to face with you.

“You’re so small,” he practically whispers underneath his breath. He places his long, slender index finger below your chin and tilts your head up. Then with his other hand, he uses it to remove the lost strands of hair away from your face. “So fucking cute.”

You can’t help but look away as your body freezes in place. And once again, you feel yourself wanting to crawl into a little ball and hide from everyone from how tough he was staring at you. There was a fuzzy, fiery feeling going on inside your system that you can’t seem to handle.

“Nuh-uh, keep those pretty eyes on me.” He applies just the right amount of force on your chin and angles your head to look up.

Your breathing almost stops at that single sentence.

Jungkook looked like as if numerous of thoughts were running through his brain. His eyes were not only fixated on yours but were darting all over. He memorizes the pattern on your face; the distance between your nose to your mouth, the little creases near your eyes, your moles, and even the little pimples you had on your temples, he thinks you’re so beautiful. Too beautiful to handle.

‘How can a person look so perfect?’ He asks himself.

“Kook?”

Oh, how soft your voice is. His mouth curves into a gentle smile for he can’t help himself but pull you closer.

“Hm?”

“People are staring.”

Jungkook scoffs quietly, “Let them stare, Y/n. This is our world and they’re just living in it.”

You had a tough, long day at work and this date really made your day better. You were laughing and having fun with Jungkook the whole time, experiencing one of the most enjoyable days you’ve ever had. It was as if all of your problems went away whenever you’re with him. You and he played almost every game in the arcade, except for the Dance Dance machine which was sadly under maintenance. You were really looking forward to beating him in Dance Revolution because he insists that he’s a good dancer. He has yet to prove that to you! 

“Yes! I won!” You yelled, turning your hands into a fist after successfully beating Jungkook at the Hockey table. He chuckles when you stuck your tongue out at him like a child.

“I obviously allowed you to win that one, babe,” he playfully rolls his eyes. “I mean, you have to win at least something, right?”

“Hey!” you pout, treading heavily to his side. Jungkook gawks down at you with his brows raised. “I won because I’m good at it, okay?”

“Aww,” he teases, “Alright then little one. Say whatever you want.”

“You’re so,” you gulp, “so m-mean.”

Jungkook looks around the arcade, zooming his eyes all over the place until he spots an ice-cream seller just outside the building.

An idea pops up inside his mind.

“I’ll treat you some ice cream, how’s that?”

He notices how your eyes glimmer as if little shining stars replaced your pupils. You nod frantically.

“Yeah? Alright, wait for me here, okay? And in the meantime, how about you turn in all of our tickets, and let’s see if we can get the penguin stuffie.”

“Okay,” you jitter excitedly, holding the stack of tickets tighter. You watch him walk out of the area, catching the way he pulls out his black leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

Making your way down the hallway to the main entrance where the ticket eaters are, you smile at a couple of strangers who had their eyes on you. When you arrived, you can’t take your eyes off of the shelves full of plushies. Especially the pink penguin that you were after. You had an instinct to squint your eyes at the toy as if having a little staring contest with it while the machine consumes and counts all of the tickets.

After a little while, you hear Jungkook’s voice calling your name.

“Y/n!” he shouts, holding up two cookies and cream ice cream cones, “come, come!”

You sprinted. You didn’t know why you were so excited to get the ice cream, leaving the tickets counting all alone behind you.

“Yaaay! Ice cr—oomph!” 

There was a step slightly higher towards the exit and your feet immediately collides against it. Like a quick wisp of air, your body smashes upon the hard, cold cemented floor. A loud, painful cry escapes your lips as you close your eyes, trying to endure the building pain on your forearms and knees.

‘This is so embarrassing!’ you say in your mind, struggling to regain your composure. 

People around you looked, some tried to hide their obvious laughter by covering their mouths, but none helped.

Jungkook saw everything. Quickly handing the ice cream back to the vendor, saying that ‘he’ll come back for it’, he dashes to where you are and handles your fallen body with utmost care.

“Hey, hey baby,” he whispers, placing his hands on your underarms to lift you up with ease, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

His heart drops to his stomach right when you looked up at him with your big, teary eyes.

“Oh god,” Jungkook’s voice weakens, “No, no, don’t cry baby girl, don’t cry…”

You were so humiliated. You shouldn’t have run so fast like that, you should’ve watched your step! Now everyone will look at you weirdly!

Whimpering when Jungkook makes you walk, you shake your head to show that it hurts as you try to hold back your tears. “Ohh, Y/n,” he sighs before he lifts you up, and carries you to a nearby brown bench just outside the arcade. He crouches before you, “Does your knees hurt, hmm?” his hands caress your exposed legs up and down, trying his best to soothe you.

Biting your lip, you nod slowly.

“Aw, goodness,” he leans closer to you and kisses your forehead, “What did you do, huh? You should’ve been more careful and watched your step.” He clicks his tongue, making a ‘tsk’ sound, “Good thing there’s no scratches.”

The stern, strict tone of his voice caused you to look away and hang your head low. “S-Sorry…” you sniffed.

A single tear flows out of your right eye and it slowly treads down your cheek. Jungkook was quick to notice, wiping your tear away with his thumb. “Hey, it’s okay baby.” He reaches your hand and gives it a little kiss, “Don’t cry now, hmm? Look at me,” he tilts your head up with a single finger underneath your chin, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re okay, you’re with me.”

You only stared at him with glossy eyes, not giving a reply. However, Jungkook’s mind comes up with a plan. “Wait here Y/n, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“No!” you whine, shaking your head. Your hands grab onto his muscular biceps as you try to pull him closer.

He chuckles quietly and holds your face in his big, warm hands, his eyes staring deep into yours. “I won’t be going far, baby girl, I’m not leaving you alone, yeah? Stay here for me, I’ll be back in a quick second.” With a final kiss on top of your head, he shuffles back inside the arcade, leaving you alone on the bench while the soft, supple air kisses your skin. The wind whooshes your hair to one side, causing a few strands to get caught in your mouth. You hiked your knees up to your stomach, hugging yourself in search of comfort.

You never want to go inside that arcade ever again.

A few moments have passed and you see Jungkook walking back to you with a huge grin on his face, hands behind his back as if hiding something.

Your mood instantly picks up again when he surprises you with the soft, pink penguin stuffie, handing it over to you with a big smile. You eagerly reached your arms out to grab for the toy, but he doesn’t give it to you just yet. 

“Uh-uh, promise me you won’t be sad anymore?”

“I promise!” you giggle, eyes laid still on the penguin. “Gimme!”

“Right,” he sighs amusingly, “Here you go, babe.” Jungkook laughs from how fast you snatched the stuffie away from him. He looks at you with love as you cuddled the toy in your arms, pressing your cheeks against it.

In the meantime, he leaves you to get the ice creams that the vendor was still keeping an eye on the entire time. Jungkook pays him and apologizes for the wait, before coming back to you with two cones in each hand.

“Ice cream,” he gives you your cone, “for my crybaby.”

Jungkook, somehow – as crazy as it may sound – feels his chest warming up from the sight of you. How come he likes seeing you this way? Something about taking care of you drives his heart pounding. Was it because you look so cute, yet so vulnerable? Or was it his caretaking, nurturing personality that was beginning to emerge? Whatever it was, Jungkook was fond of it.

Jungkook walks you back home, his hand intertwined with yours, while you carry your penguin toy that you named Perry. 

“Perry?” Jungkook chuckles amusingly, “Like Perry the Platypus?” 

“Nope!” you shake your head with a serious glint in your face, “Perry the Pink Penguin!” 

“Well that’s just horrific.” 

The air around the two of you was great – it wasn’t hot nor cold either. You two had little sweet talks and short conversations here and there as your shoes brush along the paved sidewalks.

When you both end up in your doorstep, you bid Jungkook goodbye. “Thank you for today, Kook,” you speak shyly, “And um, for this—” you refer to the penguin stuffie. He chuckles but not a word has been spoken. So you continue, “I-I also want to say sorry… for uh… because you had to see me cry…”

“No, no, it’s alright with me,” Jungkook quickly reassures you, enveloping your small figure into a hug, leaning down so that his chin rests on top of your head. “It doesn’t bother me. In fact, uh, Y/n?”

You raise your brows, pulling out of the hug to stare at him, “Yeah?”

Jungkook gulps the ball that has been formed in his throat, looking away from your beautiful face for a moment before recollecting his thoughts, “I’ve…I’ve thought about this for a while now. Like a really long time.”

You listen with your mouth slightly agape, watching him get a little flustered.

“I really really fucking like you, Y/n. I know you know that already.”

Your heart beats a little faster.

“And I want to spend more time with you. There’s not a day where I don’t think about you. Almost every second of my mind is filled with you and your pretty smile. I w-want to treat you and take care of you everyday without having to think twice. So, uh, if you want can you…can you be my girl—”

“Yes!”

Jungkook was taken aback from your quick reply. His eyes slightly expand as the corner of his lips curve up, “Yes?”

“Yes! I-I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Jungkook’s heart was filled with joy and ecstasy for he was so glad that you felt the same way. He lifts your body up and spins you around, causing you to squeal and hold onto his shoulders.

“You’re mine now, Y/n. Fucking finally.”

*end of flashback*

“What do you mean?! So the entire time we were playing games at that arcade… the moment you fell in love with me was when I cried because I tripped?!” You bellowed, sitting up straight on the couch as Jungkook laughs his ass off from your reaction.

“Well, obviously it’s not only that! That moment just sticks to my mind a lot. You’re too adorable when you cry.” Jungkook smirks on the last sentence, having two meanings behind it. 

You huff, standing up to head to the bedroom. “Hey, where are you going baby?” With him still giggling, he tries to catch your arm.

“Bedroom! I’m scared of Edward Scissorhands. You’re weird, Jungkook.”

“I’ll be with you after I finish my ice cream!”

Being a graphic designer can be challenging yet enjoyable at the same time. You get to do what you love which was drawing and editing digital photos, yet the only downfall was that you had to work in an office building. Being an introvert, having a lot of people around your workplace was a lot to get used to.

But thankfully, you have Jimin.

Not only is he one of your best friends, but he was also a senior designer who is assigned to you – his inferior.

Sometimes you two can’t even get a single thing done because all you both did was fool around your office, instead of him guiding you and teaching you the ropes.

“Hey, Y/n!” Jimin gleams as he walks inside the office room, hands in his pockets. He was wearing black fitted pants and a white long-sleeved shirt tucked inside. “Have you ate yet?”

You stretch your arms out, twisting your body side to side to crack your bones. “Uh, yeah! I ate two cups of ramen before you got here.”

He smiles at you, “That’s good. Anyway, are we still working on the designs for our Christmas calendar?” Jimin sits across from you, eyeing all of the scattered papers filled with colorful drawings.

“Mhm! This is my fourth edit. Director didn’t like my designs,” you pout.

“That’s why you need my help, Y/n.” He speaks slowly with his eyes squinting, enunciating his words, “Me and no one else.”

“Sure.” You roll your eyes.

“That’s no way to talk to your superior!”

Meanwhile, Jungkook tilts his head to the side in dismay when he gets stuck in the long traffic. He was on the way to your office building to pick you up from work, but of course, it just had to be a busy Monday today. No cars were moving even a single inch, the whole highway motionless that causes Jungkook to zone out a little bit.

Zoning out isn’t a good move for Jungkook for he tends to think about the most ridiculous, absurd things ever.

But suddenly, as if his thoughts were infatuated by a demon, the image of your sobbing, fucked-out face flashes in his mind. He unconsciously bites on his lower lip, remembering how much your little body shuddered, and how you keep withering around the bed from even the slightest of touch.

“Shit,” Jungkook breathes out, feeling uncomfortable in his seat. He shuffles around until he finds a good position, sensing a tightness in his pants. He recalls how he got so turned on just from your sensitivity, the way you were whimpering and trying your best to hold back your tears.

Knowing that he’s the only person that can make you cry from having sex really strokes his ego. Before he had you, he didn’t know that he had a kink for making his significant other cry during intercourse. 

It may be just the sadistic side of him getting fueled up whenever he sees your tears, he can’t explain how much it drives him wild.

Jungkook smirks while he rests his elbow on the car door as his fingers play with his lip. He’s cocky about the fact that he can make you sob and quiver like that. Make you turn so fucking submissive and obedient for him, letting him take over and control your frail, poor body.

He remembers the first time he discovers your filthy kinks and fantasies, how baffled he was to know that an innocent, shy girl like you can be so wild. It was always the ones you don’t expect to have a freaky side.

Jungkook grunts as his hand grip the steering wheel a little tighter, knuckles turning white. He chuckles to himself as the raging boner hardens beneath his black ripped jeans, almost being a little too painful to bear. He hears your cries of pleasure ringing in his ears, the way you whimpered so cutely every time, your sobs growing louder and louder, he loves those noises. Thankfully, the traffic eases up and cars finally move.

“Oh, Y/n,” Jungkook mutters whilst shaking his head, “What an angel you are.”

If it weren’t for the traffic lights that always reminded him to slow down, Jungkook would’ve driven in light-speed just to see you again. His dirty thoughts that won’t go away was making him impatient and hornier. 

When he successfully arrives at the building, he speed-walks to the elevator, heading to the second floor. Jungkook taps his foot impatiently, crossing his arms together. “Fucking hell,” he grunts as his mind keeps repeating images of your cute body trying to take his dick, how your legs shake, or the way your eyes couldn’t keep themselves open from the pleasure he was giving you. He sighs with a little grin on his face, “Why am I like this?”

The door opens and he makes his way to your area, knowing which hallways and turns he has to make thanks from his previous visits. He makes long, quick strides until he finally reaches your office.

But the excited smile that was once planted in his face fades away when he spots you from outside the window, with Jimin behind you. Jungkook feels his body tense when Jimin leans his body from behind, his arms trapping your upper body with his cheek pressed against your face.

“What the fuck?”

Jungkook’s blood boils and he feels himself getting enraged. Why were you letting him touch you like that? He knows that Jimin’s only a friend, but he was not supposed to act all touchy like that with a girl who’s already taken. It made Jungkook furious to see some other man holding his girl like that – for he was supposed to be the only one. The only arms that are supposed to wrap around your body are his.

He tries to calm down. Jungkook really does attempt to calm down but his nerves don’t stop heating up. With a shaky exhale, he grabs his phone from his back pocket and calls your number to test if you’ll pick up.

“Oh, wait, is that your phone?” Jimin asks, “Someone’s calling you.”

You giggle while you make your way to the desk while dragging Jimin behind you. Your phone displayed Jungkook’s name – although it made your heart skip a beat – you declined the call.

“Huh,” Jungkook scoffs, smirking wrathfully. He doesn’t even try to wonder why you didn’t pick up. He feels irritated and all the flirty, playful mood he once had was gone in a single moment.

You jump in surprise when the door swings open, revealing a very angry Jungkook making his way to your desk. Jimin instantly distances himself away from you.

“B-Babe!” you laugh nervously, palms getting sweaty. You quickly glance at Jimin, sending him a worried look before turning your attention back to Jungkook. Your boyfriend stands tall across the desk with his arms crossed, glaring at you with a lifted eyebrow. “You’re here e-early!”

He doesn’t reply.

Unwillingly, you clasp your hands behind your back and your head hangs low from Jungkook’s intimidating, hard glare, falling right into submission. You gulp from the immense tension that builds up in the room.

“Uh…I’ll be heading off—” Jimin says, making his way to the exit but Jungkook doesn’t speak a single word to him, nor to you. 

You take this chance to gather all of your belongings, packing your laptop, tablet, and shoving all of your papers inside your tote bag in a rush. 

“So we’re allowed to let other people touch us, hmm, Y/n?” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. His head was tilted up although his gaze looks down on you. 

“I-It doesn’t mean anything!” you feel your knees getting wobbly, wanting to just disappear from the harsh look he was giving you. 

He rolls his eyes, “Of fucking course it doesn’t. But tell me, Y/n, if it were the other way around. If you saw some other girl’s face pressed against fucking mine while she had her arms around me, would you like it?” With your feet shuffling against the floor in fear, you look away from him. “Huh? Would you like seeing some other girl in your place?” 

“No.” 

“No. That’s correct. So I have the right to be fucking angry.” 

Jungkook rushes forward, “Why didn’t you answer your phone, hmm?” he slams his hand on the desk, causing you to gasp. “Y/n?”

While your eyes look down on the ground, you can hear the heel of his boots clicking against the floor, walking closer to you. The air that surrounds the two of you immediately thickens, and you weren’t a fan of the tense atmosphere at all.

“I was w-working—”

“Bullshit.” He grips your jaw tightly in one hand, forcing you to angle your head up and look at him. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Your heart clenches and drops down to the floor from the stringent attitude of his voice. You mewl when he tightens his grip and feverishly rattles your head side to side. “Use your fucking words.”

“I…w-was…” you stammer, “talking with Jimin.” Instant regret fills your mind and body for even being so close with Jimin when you should’ve answered his call. “I’m sorry—!”

“Save your sorry’s for later. I won’t be accepting your apologies soon enough, brat.”

He releases his grip on you and walks away without sparing you another glance. “We’ve been together for so long, Y/n. Haven’t you learned that I don’t like it when other men oggle you up?” Jungkook turns back around, lifting the hems of his long-sleeves so that it exposes his forearms. “If I wasn’t here, you would’ve allowed him to keep touching you like that, right? Yes or no?” 

You immediately shake your head, “N-No!” 

“No? Really...” he laughs darkly, “Please, Y/n, I wasn’t born yesterday. Since he’s ‘just a friend’ I still think you would’ve let him touch you. I know you, I see right past your fucking lies.” 

He wasn’t wrong, and you feel so guilty. So guilty that all you wanted to do was to hug him and apologize, but you know that it isn’t easy. 

“Head down to the car. Don’t make me wait for you because if not, I’m gonna fucking leave you here.” He brushes his long hair back and with that, he was gone.

A chill came running down your spine and you immediately follow right behind his footsteps.

The car ride back home was quiet and you didn’t like the silence at all. You were trying to force yourself to talk, say sorry so that everything will hopefully go back to normal. But there was as if a thick wall separating the two of you.

“Babe?” you whisper meekly, your hand nervously playing with the hem of your thigh-high stockings. Jungkook clenches his jaw yet he doesn’t respond.

A pout creeps up your lips instinctively, “I’m really really sorry…”

No response.

You feel a heavy burden in your heart, upsetting you even more because he was giving you the silent treatment. Jungkook has never ignored you like this before, not even in your most heated argument. Looking at his face in hopes that he’ll at least give you a single glance, you depict how his eyebrows were furrowed and eyes straight ahead on the road. “Kook, please talk to me—”

Your words got cut off when the engine suddenly roars loudly and the car accelerates, your body going in a state of shock as Jungkook shifts the gear. He steps on the pedal and the car goes from a steady 60 to 80 miles per hour.

“Jungkook! S-Slow down!” your left hand reaches out to grab a hold of his own hand, but he was quick to shove it away, leaving you sad and whining in your seat.

Jungkook clicks his tongue, “The faster we get back home, the quicker I can punish you.” He says without looking at you.

Your core jumps and twists at his demeaning words, feeling confused yet excited at the same time. Unintentionally, you clench your thighs together as his hot, sultry voice resonates throughout the car.

“You can smile all you want right now baby,” he mutters, “Gonna wipe that cheeky little grin on your face later when I force your orgasms out of you.”

“Put your hands against the wall,” Jungkook immediately commands after he drags you to his bedroom. He stands tall behind you, watching your poor figure slowly obeying his words. His lips curve up when he studies your body, already trembling in fear. This feeds unto his primal, dominant desires to take over you and ruin you. Your little hands touch the cold walls with your back slightly arched, already knowing what’s about to come.

Jungkook’s dick throbs in just the sight of the combination of your skirt and thigh-highs. He doesn’t hesitate to firmly grasp your ass cheek below the flimsy material with his big hand, causing a whimper to fall off your lips. “Look at this fucking outfit you have,” he muses, “If it weren’t for that sweater you have on, I would’ve said that you look so much like a fucking slut.”

“Jungkook—”

He suddenly blows a hard slap, “That’s not my name. Huh, you really wanna disobey daddy?”

You whimper, “N-No.”

He hikes your skirt up to expose more of your plump ass, landing another harsh spank that caused your body to jolt, eyes fluttering shut from the sting. “No? Isn’t it disrespectful to ignore daddy’s phone-calls?” he hits your ass again, harder, his muscles flexing. “Tell me, what was Jimin doing that he just need to fucking put his hands all over you with his head so fucking close to yours, huh?”

Your eyes instantly start to become glossy from the solid, rough slaps on your tender ass cheeks. Chewing on your bottom lip, you try your best to cover your little sniffs.

Within a quick second, Jungkook flips you around until your back was pressed firmly against the wall, his hand wrapped around your throat. You hitch your breath up from the aggressive behavior, how his eyes were quick to scan your body up and down like a predator. “You’re not gonna answer me?” he scoffs, “Fucking god – you love to make daddy mad, don’t you? Acting like such a bitch.”

Furiously shaking your head side to side, you disagree with his statement. Jungkook is scary when he’s angry – even though it can be seen as hot sometimes – you never want to make him mad on purpose!

“T-That’s not true, daddy!” your bottom lip faintly quivers as your eyes can’t seem to focus on him.

Jungkook’s eyebrows raise up, giving you a mocking expression, “Ohh really, baby?” the grip on your throat tightens, making you gasp for air, “You don’t like making me angry? When in fact that I know you like being punished like this. You like daddy manhandling your frail, little body, and letting him ruin it in every possible way. Are you gonna lie and tell me that that isn’t true, hm? ”

You didn’t know what to answer. Your chest heaves up and down in panic while you release a quiet, little mewl in desperation. Jungkook – somehow – finds that adorable; how your big, teary eyes look up at him in utter fear of what’s about to come.

He smirks as he leans down to your height, your faces so close to each other as his lips barely graze against yours. You can feel his hot breath upon you, the warmness of his body resonating. 

With a low, almost gravelly voice, he asks you; “Do you not talk?”

Those words seem awfully familiar…

Gulping nervously, you tremble, “I-I can…”

“You can? Sorry darling, I just needed to make sure because you seem to be silent every time I ask a goddamn question. Now, get on the fucking bed.”

Jungkook watches you scramble and obey his command, the cold mattress rubs against your skin from the air conditioning. He stands at the edge of the bed, watching you with primal eyes. “Undress.”

“W-What?”

“I said what I said. Strip,” he crosses his arms, revealing his toned biceps, “Leave your skirt and stockings on. Remove everything except those.”

You can’t seem to look at his eyes because you were afraid that you were going to melt when you do so. You tug your sweater up, your skin exposing to the air that surrounds the two of you, followed by your bra. Your boyfriend sees your cute hardened nipples, making him smirk a little bit.

“Now your panties, go on.”

Before you can even yank your undergarment down, Jungkook speaks, “Look at me while you do so. You’ve been avoiding my eyes all this time.”

Jungkook barely hears the quiet whimper that emits your mouth while your eyes finally lock onto his. Wanting to tease you furthermore, he sends you a cocky smirk with a quick raise of his brow as you pulled your panties down.

His breath almost hitches up from the sight of you, all naked except those kinky pairs of stockings and skirt. He wonders if you specifically wore them just to tease him, heck, was it even appropriate for your work? Even so, he’s glad that he’s the only person to see you like this, so beautiful and ready to be ruined.

You wonder if he’s going to crawl on the bed with you and touch you, waiting for him to make a move but nothing happens. You look up at him expectantly with wide eyes as your hands timidly fumble with your skirt.

“Touch yourself.”

Your heart sinks to your stomach. Did you hear him correctly? Like... does he really want you to play with yourself right in front of him? You can feel your tummy do backflips from his words while you instantly turn shy once again.

“Fucking hell, is one instruction not enough for that brain of yours to comprehend? I said—,” he leans down to grab your thighs, forcing your legs apart with vigor, exposing your cunt all to his eyes. “—touch yourself.”

You whine when he suddenly crawls on top of you, arms on either side of your figure to support himself up, his face hovering above yours. He leans down and whispers in your ear, “Bring your hand down, little girl, and play with your pussy the way daddy does.”

Without angering him further, you obey and brought your hand down to touch your clit. Jungkook never removes his eye-contact as he watches your face slowly contort in pleasure. With two fingers, you gently circled your clit, making your mouth part open from the meek pleasure. “O-Ohh,” you can feel your wet lips when you dragged your fingers along them.

You feel so embarrassed masturbating in front of him like this. Jungkook chuckles and kneels in front of you, placing his knees in between your spread legs to watch how you play with your cunt. You moan when he finally grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up, revealing his toned body for your eyes to see. This encouraged you to rub your clit faster, but it just wasn’t enough.

“Daddy…” you whine, “please...”

Jungkook notices the frown that was beginning to form your lips, but instead of feeling bad, he takes the opportunity to degrade you. “What is it, baby? Hm? Do you even know how to touch your pussy?” he teases, “Do you still fuckin’ need daddy’s help?”

You don’t even care if you look pitiful, shaking your head up and down. “Y-Yes, please touch m-me…” you say with a quiet voice. As you continue to masturbate, Jungkook sees how your body trembles, knowing that it wants more.

But sadly, you look too good in this position that you’re in. Your skirt hiked up to your abdomen while your toes curl in desperation. Jungkook lightly scoffs as he doesn’t hesitate to palm his rock-hard cock through his jeans. “Mmm, I would if you had been a good girl. But daddy wants you to cum with your own fingers, prove to me that you’re a big girl who can fucking cum without my help.”

You release an exasperated groan, arching your back in utter need. Jungkook was cruel to do this to you, as he definitely knows how much you prefer his own fingers on your juicy little pussy.

The sight was boosting his ego, whether he likes it or not. He observes how your cute, middle finger tries to insert itself inside your tight little hole, earning a loud moan from you. Jungkook sees your arousal dripping down from your entrance, the glistering liquid running down to your ass. You were so wet, and he was dying to taste you. Jungkook feels his dominance taking over as his patience was wearing thin, wanting to shove your hands away and just take over. It frustrates him how desperate you make him feel without even trying.

You finger yourself with one hand, as the other continues to rub your clit. You try to remember how Jungkook does it, your mind trying to reminisce his techniques, making you distracted from your own pleasure. It doesn’t even feel half as good as his! You let out a loud, frustrated whine, feeling your eyes well up with tears once again.

“I-I can’t,” you sniff, a tear rolling down your cheek as you try your best to make yourself feel good, “Please, daddy I need y-you!”

Jungkook leans forward as he wipes your tears with his thumb, licking his lips slowly while he watches you with a sensual look. “What do you need from daddy, hm?”

You groan, hating how much he can torture you like this. Your breathing was already unstable and your mind was thinking of ways on how you can make him touch you. “I need your fingers, daddy – please? I can’t cum like this,” you shake your head desperately, “I can’t.”

“Holy fucking shit, I think I need to get a new baby girl. One who knows how to pleasure herself without my help.”

“No!” you yell, closing your eyes as more tears wells up, “N-No! I-I’m sorry I just can’t…”

Jungkook almost feels bad. Almost.

“That’s sad, baby girl. If you can’t cum then don’t try anymore.” He abruptly spanks your inner thigh, leaving you crying for more, “You’ve been a bad girl today and you’ve got to endure your punishment.”

Jungkook tugs your hands away and your pussy clenches from the sour loss. “Keep crying, slut, this is what you deserve.” He stands up from the bed and makes his way to the closet to get something. You obediently lay there with a frown as you wiped your eyes, ogling his broad, muscular back in the meantime.

When he was taking up more time than you wanted, you kicked your legs impatiently while whining.

He smirks, rolling his eyes, “Impatient, I see?” After that, he swiftly turns around to reveal a red-colored rope, dangling it side to side for a little tease.

“What are you g-gonna do with that?” you ask with wide, glossy eyes.

Jungkook walks back to you with that signature sultry yet teasing look, making you anticipate what’s about to come even more.

“Daddy’s gonna tie your hands behind your back until your wrists bruise, little one.”

Your core throbs from the image he paints in your mind, how the rope would probably scratch against your skin, and how turned on he would be from the sight of you struggling. Jungkook motions you to turn around with a little spin of his finger. You kneel, looking away from him while he grabs your wrists together in one hand. The arrogant smirk doesn’t wipe off of his face as he ties the rope around your hands, whimpering when he pulls it tight. 

“Is that too tight baby girl?” he asks, stopping himself from laughing, “Does it hurt?”

You sniff, “A l-little bit.”

“Good. I was actually planning to bind your legs together as well, but I don’t think you can handle that anymore.” He says behind you, “I don’t think your precious body can handle being daddy’s little ropebunny.”

With his words, you turn your head to look at him with a confused expression, “Rope…ropebunny?”

Jungkook chuckles and nods his head once.

“What does that mean, daddy?”

Jungkook’s heart swell, “Means that you’re letting me tie you up, restraint your body with rope – and letting daddy do whatever he fucking wants to you. Bruise your skin until it hurts too much. If maybe you weren’t such a crybaby and a sensitive little bitch then I would’ve done that to you by now.”

He doesn’t let you reply as he gives your ass a loud, stinging spank using the palm of his right hand. You whimper in pain, closing your eyes for a mere second as your mouth parts.

“Head down, ass up. Now.”

You do as you’re told, and not going to lie, your heart was doing backflips from the nervousness and intimidation of the position that you’re in. Your ass and cunt were so exposed, allowing him to see how wet you are. Your cheeks pressed against the sheets, tilted to the side so that you can at least see a portion of his figure behind you. Although you release a loud cry when he suddenly lands a slap directly on your throbbing clit. Your hands instinctively moved to grab onto something, but the rope was preventing them from doing so.

“Daddy—!” He slaps your pussy again, this time harder. He slides his index finger down your wet slick, teasingly prodding against your entrance that causes your arousal to gush.

“God, you’re so fucking noisy. I’d put a gag in that loud mouth of yours to shut you up, but daddy loves your cute whimpers too much.”

You dig your nails onto your palm when Jungkook finally plays with your pussy, using two fingers to gently – barely rub your clit. The tip of his index and middle finger brushes against your throbbing clit, using the slightest bit of pressure. He bites his lip from the way you wiggle your ass, desperate for more. “You can’t even masturbate without my assistance, fucking hell,” he muses, “did it embarrass you, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you hum meekly, grinding your teeth together because you needed more friction, and you were too afraid to tell him.

“Yeah?” Jungkook smirks, “You had to cry like a pathetic little bitch, too.” Without a warning, he easily shoves his middle finger in, making you arch your back painfully, drawing a loud squeal. He starts pumping it in and out at a fast pace. The wet squelching noise that your cunt makes, paired with your moans was music to his ears. “I guess it feels better when daddy plays with your pussy, right slut?”

When you don’t answer immediately, too focused on the pleasure, he inserts two more fingers in – stretching your pussy. You gasp loudly, his long, slender fingers reaching the most intimate places inside of you. Jungkook bites his lip harshly, getting so turned on from your sweet moans and whines. 

“Y-Yeah… yes daddy – oww fuck – it feels much better,” even though your mind was filled in lust and can’t think of anything else but the way he was furiously pumping three fingers in and out of you, you answer him in fear that his punishment will turn way worse. His three fingers were almost too much for your hole to handle, making your hips tremble as it tries to accommodate the girth. 

“Who owns your pussy, hm?” he uses his other unoccupied hand to rub and pinch your clit, providing you with overstimulation of pleasure. His fingers reach deeper until it hits your g-spot, making your toes curl while you once again tear up. He growls, “Who fucking owns you?”

“You!” you moan, vision getting blurry, “You own me d-daddy…” you can already feel yourself coming close to an orgasm – one thing you can’t do with your own fingers. Your stomach tightens and tightens, waiting for your oh-so needed release. You sob onto the sheets, eyes closed in desperation.

“Good thing you know—” but he suddenly pulls his hands away, leaving you shaking and breathless. “This is my cunt and I get to do whatever I want with it.”

“No!” you groan in frustration from the denied orgasm, eyebrows furrowing as your legs shake, “Fuck y-you.”

Jungkook’s ears pick up the words you muttered.

“What was that?” He roughly wraps his hand around your neck and forces your upper body to lift up. You start to panic as Jungkook chokes you, “What the fuck did you say, hm? Getting fucking bold today, aren’t we?”

“S-Sorry,” you stutter, not having the courage to speak. You didn’t mean to say that at all! You were just frustrated and the words slipped out without realizing it! He sees a droplet of tear dripping down your cheek and he rolls his eyes.

“What a bratty, disobedient little fucktoy.” Jungkook quickly stands up to unbutton his jeans and pulls it down, leaving himself in his underwear. “You’re not the good girl that I know.” He hops back on the bed with you and moves so that he kneels in front of you. He holds your face up with one hand on your jaw as the other pulls his boxers down. Your mouth waters from the sight of his cock springing out, the angry red tip hitting your cheek.

“If I stuff my cock down your throat then maybe you’d shut the fuck up, learn your lesson, and think before you speak. Huh, slut?” He strokes his length a few times, letting his precum lube his cock.

He nudges the tip against your lips, signaling you to open your mouth. He releases a long, guttural moan when you wrap your lips around him as he pushes his length further and further, your mouth feeling so warm and wet. Jungkook initiates the pace as he starts to rock his hips steadily. A sudden gush of tears escapes your eyes when he shoves past your gag reflex, whining as your throat struggles to take in his big cock. 

“Choke.”

Jungkook doesn’t wipe the tears off of your face like he used to, this time letting them flow and drip down your jaw. Your pussy clenches every time he thrusts forwards, feeling yourself get wetter and more aroused from the noises he makes. He twitches whenever your throat contracts, feeling it tighten and squeezes his cock so good.

“Do you like this, baby girl?” he smiles sadistically, “You like being throat fucked?” Jungkook knows you can’t answer so he continues to torment you, “I like you better when your mouth is stuffed with daddy’s cock. Much more useful than being an undisciplined, rude slut.”

You shut your eyes while you slack your jaw, trying to take all of him the best that you can. He grabs a bunch of your hair, pulling at your scalp, the pain making you kick your legs repeatedly. While he snaps his hips, thrusting in and out, Jungkook watches how your saliva drips down from to your chin that makes a whole mess of your face.

Jungkook finally gains some sort of empathy, pulling his dick out to let you breathe. You emit a harsh, rugged exhale. He lowers himself until his face was directly parallel to yours, “Why was he touching you like that?” His eyes scans your poor, messy self, eyes puffy with your hair all over the place. 

You sniff, “He’s just a f-friend!”

He wipes the saliva on the corner of your mouth using his thumb, “Don’t you have a boyfriend? Hm? Doesn’t he know that you’re mine? Even if he’s your goddamn friend, he doesn’t need to touch you like that.” His voice somehow turned soft, a bit more like his natural talking voice. He shakes his head whilst staring directly at your weary eyes, “And what if I wasn’t there, huh? What if he did something to you that I wouldn’t like?”

“Are…” you tilt your head, trying to lighten up the situation in hopes that he’ll go easy on you. You start to giggle, “Are you jealous, daddy?”

You didn’t know that it was a bad move until his face immediately hardens, raising an eyebrow up. He scoffs, “You think I would be punishing you like this if your actions took a toll on me, Y/n?” he stands up from the bed and walks over to the bedside table, opening the drawer, “Lay on your tummy. I won’t say it again.”

Jungkook grabs the remote control vibrator from the box of toys the two of you had been collecting. You certainly love your toys, he knows that, but it’s a completely different situation if he uses them to torture you. It’s better for him that you can’t see what he’s doing, bringing your anticipations up for what’s about to come. He turns the toy on, your breath immediately hitching when you hear the buzzing sound. The hot pink, egg-like looking toy with a slender tail vibrates against his palm.

“Daddy? Wha…what are you gonna do with tha—” Your words painfully got cut off when he plunges the toy inside your pussy, the vibrations instantly resonating throughout your core and lower abdomen. You sobbed loudly, the rope tightening around your wrists whenever you tried to struggle away. “Oh my god!” your back arches, feeling your eyes rolling to the back of your head, “Daddy!”

He walks to the other side of the room to go sit on the plush loveseat, twiddling with the remote on his right hand. He doesn’t hesitate to crank the setting up, noticing how your ass trembles and wiggles. Your mouth drops open while you feel an immense tingling sensation down there, moaning and shuddering on the bed. 

Jungkook wraps his hand around his cock and starts to pump slowly, observing how your cute little figure trembles and makes a mess of the sheets. He notices the way your pussy clenches around the toy so tightly, and how your cunt never stopped dripping in arousal. 

He teases his swollen tip with his thumb as he turns the toy’s setting up another notch. The smirk grows on his face from the noises you make. He was addicted to the sight of you right now; your hips shuddering as you try to escape all of the vast ecstasy, the stockings you wear making you look as adorable as ever – if he had a camera he would definitely take a picture of you.

“Daddy, p-please – I’m gonna cum!” you sob, chewing on your swollen bottom lip. That was his cue to put the setting to the highest level. Within a flash, your spill your cum down your pussy and onto the bed, ruining the sheets as your body contorts, hands balling into tight fists. Your orgasm feels like you gushed a whole waterfall, cumming so hard while your hips involuntarily lifts up off of the bed. 

He continues to fuck his hand, staring at your sweaty, hot body with hooded eyes while he groans darkly. His cock was rock solid and was also begging for a release, but he knows to control himself. Jungkook hears your sobs get louder and louder, knowing that the overstimulation was too much for you to handle.

He stands up and crawls back with you on the bed, his warm hands starting to caress your inner thighs.

“Da—” you cry, “daddy… t-too much…”

“Yeah?” he smirks before lifting your ass up until he was directly in front of your cunt. he smells your arousal and it caused shivers to run down his back. Without holding back, he wraps his mouth around your throbbing clit and starts to suck harshly on it. 

Jungkook was absolutely nasty to do this to you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel his tongue swirl around your bud, flicking and sucking at the same time. You can’t even comprehend the pain and pleasure that as going through your body right now, for it was all too much. “A-Aawwh shit,” you breathe, “D-Daddy, I can’t... oh m-my god!” 

The combination of the powerful buzzing vibrator inside you, plus his mouth on your clit caused another strong climax to wash throughout your system. You flail your arms behind your back as your body can’t seem to keep still. Jungkook holds your hips in place as he licks your pussy clean of your cum. He grunts from the way your legs were quivering after forcing another orgasm out of you. 

“Taste so fuckin’ delicious,” he says after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “What a good little pussy.” 

Finally, he pulls on the tail and the toy plops out with a wet sound. Though your chest doesn’t stop heaving up and down, your system is still riled up from the strong orgasms you just had.

“What will you say, baby girl, hm?”

You perk your head up from the sudden question. Your mind quickly wanders for an answer but was quickly distracted when you feel him squeeze your tender ass cheeks. 

Leaning down to your ear, he whispers with an awful smirk, “Say ‘thank you daddy’.” His monotone voice sent shivers all throughout your body, “Say thank you for letting you cum. I would’ve stopped the toy and edged you when you were about to orgasm to further your punishment, but glad I didn’t, right baby?”

“Thank…” your cheeks start to heat up, “Thank you for l-letting me cum, daddy.”

“Mm, good girl. I just had to get a taste of your sweet cunt after seeing you shake and tremble like that. Such a good, pretty little girl.” 

He was actually supposed to reward you after this. That was just his initial plan, until he is distracted by your phone suddenly ringing from the other side of the room. He quirks a brow up and starts heading to where your bag was placed, rummaging through it to get the device that interrupted the moment.

He reads the caller ID.  

Jungkook is dead quiet as he reaches back to you until he takes a seat on your thighs. His silence further builds up your anxiousness, your gut twisting and turning after you hear him groan underneath his breath. “Daddy?” whispering, you tilt your head to the side to figure out what he was doing.

“Y/n! I’m so glad you picked up the phone,” Jimin speaks in a rush, “I was so worried about what happened. Are you and Jungkook okay?” He rolls his eyes and doesn’t hesitate to put the phone on loudspeaker, placing the device in front of you so that you can see who was calling.

Jimin’s voice unsettled you, leaving your body in a state of shock, humiliation, and awkwardness. You furiously shake your head, lips pursed in a straight, pungent line – making it known to Jungkook that you didn’t want to talk to him. Why can’t he just hang up?!

“Hello? Y/n?” As Jimin worries from the other side of the line, you quietly mewl when you feel him poking the tip of his dick right up against your dripping wet entrance, sliding the head up and down your soaked slit slowly to torture you. “Answer him,” Jungkook growls from behind, “Talk to him as I fuck your tight little pussy.”

“Y/n, do you hear me?” Jimin asks once again, and this time you pick up the courage to reply.

“Y-Yeah,” your voice strains, closing your eyes as you try your best not to moan out loud as Jungkook pushes the head in, feeling your walls flutter around his thick girth. “I hear – oohh – I hear you.”

While inching his cock further and further, he grasps your bounded wrists in one hand, as the other firmly holds onto your waist. He struggles to keep quiet, only releasing quick little grunts here and there as he slowly thrusts his hips. Your body squirms from the humiliating situation he has put you through, yet he holds you down.

“Hey, I’m really sorry about what happened earlier,” You notice the sad tone in Jimin’s voice, “I really didn’t mean to touch you like that, and I should’ve known better. You’re taken.”

“M-Mhmm—!” Jungkook shoves his length deeper and deeper, hit tip hitting your g-spot again and again, rougher and harder with each sharp thrust. Your eyes generate more tears, definitely making your nose a little bit stuffy while you struggle to breathe properly. Jungkook groans underneath his breath from how tight your pussy is after being teased and tortured.

Jimin continues with his apology, saying that he wants to personally apologize to Jungkook – but you weren’t listening anymore. You can’t! His words were going in one ear and out of the other because your mind only focuses on how his big, thick cock was tearing your cunt apart. With each outward stroke, your pussy keeps sucking him back in. He smirks from the way your pussy was gushing your arousal endlessly, soaking the sheets and making a mess of yourself.

As if everything can’t be humiliating enough, Jungkook blows a hard, loud spank on your ass, definitely not caring if it can be heard from the other end of the call. Gasping, you mewl from the stinging sensation but also worried if Jimin heard. Jungkook laughs menacingly, spanking your ass again.

“Y-Y/n?” Jimin says slowly, “What’s happening over there?”

“Nothing! I’m o-okay – mmngg shit,” your jaw drops when he fucks you faster and rougher all of the sudden, his balls starting to clap against your poor, throbbing clit. Jungkook feels impatient so he takes the phone back, puts it against his ear, and speaks for you. “Jimin!” he greets happily as if he’s not pounding your pussy until you break, “Don’t worry about Y/n, she’s doing just great.”

How can he talk so steadily like that? Your teeth sink down on your bruised bottom lip again to stop you from moaning too loud. “But I’m trusting you, Jimin, not to touch my girl like that again, okay? I know you two are friends, sure – but there’s a limit. She has a boyfriend now.”

The possessiveness in his voice turns you on so much, not even expecting such a dark tone as he talks to him like that. Your arms start to hurt after being tied for too long, wrists getting sensitive as it keeps scratching against the rope.

“Yeah, okay, goodbye.” He finally hangs up, throws your phone somewhere on the floor. After that, he firmly grips your waist and changes your position with ease. He sits down on the bed, flips you around to make you straddle his cock.

His breath almost gets stuck in his throat from the way you looked. His hands immediately flies to cup your head, thumbs wiping your tears away from your cheeks as you look down at his with lustful eyes. “Baby girl,” he whispers, eyes raking your body up and down while you don’t stop bouncing on his cock, “Keep crying. I wanna see you get ruined on my big cock.”

He pulls you closer by wrapping his right hand around your neck, squeezing tightly, as his other hand guides your hips up and down. Your hard nipples slightly graze against his chest, adding more pleasure than you already can take.

“I’m g-gonna cum,” you grit, eyes drooping, “I’m gonna fucking cum again, daddy.”

He chuckles and nods his head. He can’t stay angry at you for too long. He can’t wait to provide you the aftercare that you deserve after this. He helps you to your orgasm by meeting your thrusts, fucking his cock into you while he brings a hand down to rub your clit with vigor. Your moans were getting louder, higher in pitch, as you can feel the oh-so-familiar tightness in your stomach again. You throw your head back, hands trying to pry themselves out of the rope. Thankfully, he gives you the benefit of the doubt and finally starts undoing the knot, unwrapping your wrists so that they can finally be set free. “Here you go princess,” he groans, “Ah ah, keep your arms still.”

Within a second of your hands being free, you quickly hug his sweaty body so tightly, pressing your cheeks against his shoulder, not only to have something to hold onto but to feel his comfort after a long time of being suppressed and denied from it. Jungkook laughs and kisses your shoulder, “I love you, Y/n.”

“Love y-you— awh god, thatfeelssogood!”

“Yeah?” he bites his lip, feeling the urge to tease you with his words for the hundredth time, “How good?” He attaches his mouth on your damp neck, sucking and biting on all of the sweet and tender spots that he knows you love. Trailing kisses all over, you were certain that he’ll leave marks all over your skin. Your body shivers when he uses his teeth to bite down on you, adding more to the buildup of your climax. “So g-good, daddy,” you whine, bouncing up and down harder, “Your big cock f-feels…feels so good inside my tight fucking pussy, daddy.”

Jungkook’s cock throbs from your unexpected words, gasping a little with a cocky smirk, “Mmm, when did you learn how to talk like that, huh?” a spank lands on your right, tender ass cheek, “Such lewd words coming out of that pretty mouth.”

Your mind starts to feel dizzy, almost to the edge of blacking out as your orgasm overpowers your body. He grunts from the way your walls were clenching around him so firmly, using his dick to your own good. Wrapping his arms around you tighter, he forces you to stay still on his cock while letting you ride out your high. “There we go, baby, there we go. Cum for me,” he insinuates, “Fucking hell, such a good, pretty girl for daddy.” He lifts your chin up with one hand, trying your best to make eye-contact with him but your tearful eyes feel too heavy. “Cumming so hard, oh my fucking god darling.”

Almost seeing black and white spots, your mind goes into a frenzy for you have no thoughts but the overwhelming sensation of your climax taking over your body. Jungkook moans as he lays you back down on the bed, bringing himself to his high. With your body shivering from the high sensitivity, Jungkook doesn’t stop.

His thrusts were sloppy and his pace becomes unsteady, moans getting louder. His body tenses and goes still inside of you, trapping your small body in his as he blows his load. He fills your cunt up with his cum, painting your walls in his seed. You can feel him twitch while you claw your hands on his back, trembling.

Jungkook mutters a series of curse words as your pussy squeezes his cock so hard, milking him properly until the very last drop of cum. After a little while, he pulls his dick out and he sees his cum leaking out of your pulsating little hole and dripping onto the bed. Licking his lips from the hot sight, he caresses your inner thighs as he tries to calm you down.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart. Deep, slow breaths for me.” He hovers back on top of you as he places his right arm underneath your head for support, his other hand gently stroking your side. All the anger, all the controlling and dominating aura that he previously had ten seconds ago immediately fades as he takes the role to comfort you the best that he can. He wipes your cheeks clean with the back of his hand, almost looking down at you with a slight pout. “Baby girl, look at me, hm?” Jungkook whispers gently, “Look at me.”

Once you do so, he feels himself almost collapsing from the poor, worn-out look that was embedded on your little face. “Oh, sweetie,” he sighs, “I’m so sorry.”

“N-No,” you slowly shake your head, still breathless, “Don’t say…”

“I should’ve, fuck—” Jungkook tilts his head to the side in dismay, feeling almost frustrated in himself, “I should’ve fucking stopped, look at you baby.” He holds your hand, gives your bruised wrist a wet, long kiss.

“Kook, I’m okay,” you giggle, a hint of tiredness in your voice, “I l-loved it.”

“Are you sure? Baby girl do you remember what I told you? If you ever feel too uncomfortable, or pain that you couldn’t bear anymore, or if you just want me to stop completely, what will you say?”

Perhaps this was one of the best things you love about Jungkook. His duality. One minute he’s rough and would dominate the fuck out of you, and the next minute he’s treating you like his princess.

“I’ll say my safe word.”

“Good,” he kisses your lips once, smiling down at you, “always remember that.”

You were awfully thankful that he’s the type to always shower you in kisses after a whole round of sex. Always caring about your well-being, that’s what he loves to do. Jungkook has cleaned himself in the bathroom first before he can handle and take care of you. He comes out of the bathroom dressed only with a pair of gray sweatpants with a damp towel and one of his t-shirt in his hand.

Kneeling before you on the bed, he starts to gently wipe your inner thighs and genitalia with the cloth. It was ticklish on the spot of your inner thighs, releasing a giggle as you try to move away from him. He smirks, grasping your leg down. “Tickles?” he grins at you.

“Turn around, little one. Let me massage your back.”

Your heart beats happily at that. But once you followed his command, his eyes immediately fly down to your ass. He hikes up the skirt that you still had on a bit higher, and he sees his handprints imprinted on your precious, delicate skin. “Holy shit,” he breathes out. Your body twitches when he carefully lays a hand down. “Sorry for this, little one. Guess you aren’t sitting for a couple of days, huh?”

Hiding your face in your arms, you quietly squeal, his words having an effect on you. “I g-guess so.”

Jungkook proceeds with his mission to massage your back, using his big hands to his advantage to knead your skin with just the right amount of pressure, massaging your arms and shoulders, pressing down on your lower back. Little groans emit from your mouth, enjoying the warmth of his hands. Your eyes eventually close, feeling that you were eventually going to fall asleep from how relaxing it is.

“Want some tea, darling?” he asks.

“Mm, no thank you. I’m a little sleepy…”

Your mouth curves up into a grin when he starts peppering kisses all over your back as well, moving your hair to one side. Jungkook, too, was smiling. He can’t even figure out how he got so lucky with you.

“You wanna nap, Y/n?”

“Mhm,” you nod.

“Okay, let’s get you in this shirt first. C’mon sweetie, flip back around for me.”

He holds onto the hem of your skirt and tugs it down, throwing it somewhere on the floor. His shirt reaches almost on your knee after slipping it on. Soon, he lays down beside you and starts spooning your body. It was easy for him to enclose yourself in his warmth, for his limbs were obviously bigger than yours. “Let’s take a rest and clean everything up later, okay?”

Although you didn’t reply.

“Baby?” he tilts your head to make you look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Kook, I-uh…I wanna say sorry for what happened earlier—”

“Shh, shh, settle down now, sweetheart. I’m not angry about that anymore,” he gives you a beaming smile, his dimples peeking through. Oh, to swim in someone’s dimples…

“Don’t worry about it. I love you, Y/n. More than this fucking world.”

“Impossible!” giggling, you eventually squirm around him because you know for a fact that he’ll hug you tighter.

He did.

“Nothing’s impossible when you’re mine – my girl.”

God, you can never take a break with him and his impeccable word choices. You feel your cheeks heat up, shying away from him that caused him to laugh in amusement a little.

“I love you too, Kook,” your heart says genuinely. Jungkook pulls you closer and makes you rest your head on his arm. “Cozy? Let’s take a rest, baby. You’ve had a long day today, you did well. You might be sore afterwards but I’ll be right here when you wake up.”  The only thing you can remember after that was the gentle kiss he placed on your cheek, and the feeling of love and comfort in the air that encloses both of you. 

“You know, Jungkook,” Taehyung speaks while munching on his Cap’n Crunch cereal, watching Jungkook come back to their apartment after driving you back to your own building. “You’re fucking lucky I was out partying. If not I would’ve…” Jungkook rolls his eyes when Taehyung fakes a gagging sound, “I w-would’ve thrown up hearing the two of you.”

“Funny,” he says blandly while heading towards the cupboards to make himself his own bowl of cereal.

Taehyung walks to his side, “Aren’t you and Y/n together for almost a year now? I don’t know much about relationships, but don’t you think it’s time for you guys to have a place of your own?”

Jungkook chuckles, heading towards the living room as he sits on the old green couch with his cereal on one hand. “So you’re kicking me out, Tae?”

“Well yeah, maybe I am, asshole.”

The youngest abruptly turns his head to him with a look of confusion, “Wait, really?”

Taehyung smirks, “Yup! I’m sick of you bringing Y/n here just to fuck, and not even let her hang out with me!”

Hang out with him? Since when was Taehyung interested in her? After a little moment of silence, Jungkook finally thinks of a reply, “What do you even wanna do with her? Also most of the time you’re either out getting drunk or locking yourself up in your room playing video games.”

“Threesome.”

Jungkook almost spits out the mouthful of milk and cereal.

“What the fuck—”

“Let’s have a threesome together.”

“No fucking way, bro.” Jungkook scoffs, pointing a finger at him, “We are not doing that.”

Taehyung was having the time of his life teasing Jungkook. He stands up in front of him, blocking his view of the TV. “I’m not having a threesome just to see you naked, cunt,” slowly, his mouth forms a smirk, “I wanna see Y/n nak—”

“Don’t even think about finishing that, Taehyung. I’m not fucking joking around.”

“Okay, shit, chill man,” he laughs, watching how Jungkook rolls his eyes. “And here I am thinking that you’re kinky and open-minded.”

Taehyung just loves to get into his nerves.

“I am,” Jungkook says in all seriousness, looking directly at his eyes. “But you know how I am with her. How selfish I can be. Other people will be fine with this, sure, but her body is for my eyes only, Tae. You can fuck anyone you like but not my girl.”

Taehyung sighs, walking away as he throws his hand in the air, “Fine, fine, whatever.”

Jungkook crosses his legs together, leaning back into the couch as he closes his eyes. The fact that he just had to put that image into his mind – someone else fucking his girl – he just can’t do it. He can be too possessive of your body and he wants it only for him.

“But if your girl ever wants two cocks to play with one day, hit me up.”

“If she wants two cocks then we’ll use a fucking dildo. Shut your ass up or else I’m gonna beat the fuck outta you,” Jungkook warns with a menacing chuckle.

Although Taehyung isn’t bothered by it, he fakes being frightened, “Oooohh, scary! Don’t hit me daddy!”

“Yep, that’s it.” Jungkook places the bowl down on the couch before abruptly standing up. Taehyung runs away while laughing like a madman with Jungkook following behind him. His roommate ends up locking himself inside his room where Jungkook can’t come in. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He says in the middle of laughter.

“You’re fucking hideous, you know that?” Jungkook crosses his arms.

“Tell me something I don’t know, Jeon.”

When Jungkook turned nineteen, he remembered asking his mother when a man should introduce his girlfriend to his parents.

His mother, heart filled with genuine compassion, replied with; “When you are fully committed, and when you know for a fact that you will be spending the rest of your life with her – that’s when you let her eat at our table. So be very mindful of your feelings, Jungkookie. Remember this when you grow up, alright? I know you didn’t believe in long-lasting love when you were younger, but trust me when I say that it truly depends on the person.”

It was clear that Jungkook’s romantic side definitely came from his parents.

And fast-forward to the present, here you are sitting at their dining table, meeting his parents for the very first time. 

“So, Y/n,” Jungkook’s mother beams from the other side of the table while passing her husband more rice for his bibimbap, “How did you and Jungkook meet?”

“Mom,” Jungkook chuckles, “Haven’t I told you that a hundred times already?”

You blush from his words, trying your best not to look down in shyness. Though you feel your boyfriend’s right hand rests on your knee to ease you up.

“I know! But I just want to hear it from Y/n’s point of view! Who knows, you might be hiding some details!”

Before you can speak, his dad talks before you, “I was actually there at the time,” he smiles at you, “I think you should thank me for making Jungkook talk to you!”

“Hun, please let Y/n talk—”

Jungkook grins, “I think I would’ve talked to Y/n whether or not you told me so, dad.”

“Let the girl talk!” his mom balls her hand into a fist and pounds on the table.       

You busted out a laugh, quickly covering your mouth as you shook your head in disbelief. You’ve never encountered such a fun, happy family like this. This was your first time being introduced to someone’s parents, and truthfully, you wanted them to be your last.

“So, um,” you take a glance at Jungkook before continuing as if asking for permission first. He smiles down at you and nods his head, feeling his hand squeeze your knee. “Jeon’s Kitchen was actually a favorite place of mine! And of course, it’s still is—” you beam at his father, “It was raining very hard so I decided to stop by to eat some food before work.”

“Brown coffee and banana bread, yep, I remember that!” His dad proudly says.

“That’s correct, Mr. Jeon,” you giggle, “I sat alone and waited for the order until Jungkook here suddenly bursts into the café, all drenched from the rain!” You turn your gaze at him with creased eyes from the way you were smiling as you talk, “If I remember correctly, his car broke down and he had nothing to do, so he decided to help Mr. Jeon with work, is that right?”

Jungkook responds with a hum, staring amusingly into your glimmering eyes that were full of love.

“Until Mr. Jeon told Jungkook to keep me company! So yeah, that’s where we started talking.”

Of course, you had to leave out the fact that you had such an intimidating first impression of their son. You recall how hard his stare was as he talked to you, and how he literally made you blush so easily just by his handsome smirk (that until now you couldn’t get used to!). He carried such a strong aura, even up to this day.

“After that, well, we exchanged numbers and everything went from there!”

Before Jungkook drove you to his parent’s house so that they can finally meet you, you were an absolute nervous wreck. Overthinking that what if you say something embarrassing? What if you humiliate yourself in front of them? You were driven to have a good impression on them, which Jungkook founded adorable. Of course, he reassured you, saying, “They already love you from all of the stories I’ve told, baby.”  

And he was right. His parents never would’ve thought that a girl like you would walk into his life. You’re a blessing for their son.

Jungkook doesn’t sway his eyes off of you as you continue to chat with his parents, telling them your goals and dreams for the future. He watches the way your mouth tilts into the prettiest smile he’s ever seen, lips tinted with lipstick that was just begging to be kissed. He also catches the way your head slightly tilts as you talk, oh – he can’t forget how your knees were nervously jumping! With his hand slowly caressing your knee up to your thigh, he reminds you to calm down.

His breath hitches up a slight bit when you unexpectedly hold his hand under the table. He feels how cold your hand was so it was good for you to take his own warmth. Using his thumb, he strokes your skin delicately, and you instantly feel much better.

When the time is right and when he garners enough money, he will buy a house for the two of you. It doesn’t have to be fancy or anything elegant, but enough to keep you happy and contented – he knows you’ll understand that. Needless to say, he’s excited about the future he’s going to have with you. His mind wanders to the point of your first anniversary, the second anniversary, even up until marriage and having kids. It’s a huge stretch, yes, but he’d rather spend his life alone than without you. 

If his past self can read his mind right now, he’d definitely laugh.

He can’t wait to live his whole life with you by his side. You already have all the qualities he’s been looking in a person, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to leave you anytime soon. 

His mother’s voice cracks him from his thoughts, “Y/n’s such a pretty girl. So amusing to look at, too!” She gawks at you with excited, wide eyes. Her eyes reminded you of Jungkook, the same big and round ones, “Next time when you come to visit us, let me teach you my signature shrimp fried rice recipe, okay? Are you allergic to shrimp, Y/n?”

“Nope! I love shrimp!”

“That’s great!” his mom claps, “Jungkook, thanks for bringing Y/n here with us. She’s so wonderful.”

Shaking your head, you try to take her compliments as much as you can but of course, your bashfulness takes over.

Your boyfriend removes his hand from yours, only lifts it up so that his arm can rest at the backrest of the chair while he starts to stroke your head lovingly. The corners of his lips tilts up to form a smile, he feels as if fireworks were going off of his whole body, for he was so in love with you. How can a person love someone this much? 

He mutters the next sentence underneath his breath, thus only he and his pounding heart can hear; “That’s my girl.”

The End.

Thank you so much for all of the amazing support for Crybaby! I never expected so much love and anticipation in the first place. I wrote Crybaby without any serious plot with a ‘tragedy/problem’ in mind, for it was only supposed to be a oneshot haha! Crybaby was mainly about the fact that Jungkook has dacryphilia and that’s it. But thanks to the support I’ve gotten, I made a part two and three! It’s sorta sad to end this series because I know a lot of people (including me) love this couple soo much! But they’ll make an appearance in short drabbles or even kinky hours. I’m sorry for the sudden ending, but this will not be the end for them!

Please tell me what you think by commenting or sending an ask, I really love to read your reactions!

Please stay safe, especially in these times. Remember that you are loved, and please be happy. I love you!

[thetaoofzoe]

Fic: A Wild Woman 1/1

Title: A Wild Woman

Summary: By Victorian Standards, you are considered the dreaded Wild Woman! Your aunt and uncle threaten to disown you and turn you out into the streets unless you agree to a little re-education on how to be a proper lady.

Rating: Mature, fluff, Soft Dom Sherlock!Henry, sex, unconventional

Pairing: Sherlock x YOU

Note: This was inspired by  "A wild woman brought up a wild child. We'll make her acceptable for society." from the EH trailer.

Want to read more? Click for my Masterlist

Your Aunt and Uncle had had enough of you. They were fed up with your lack of female decorum and your absolute insistence to star gaze, associate with male aeronauts and start fires from chemistry experiments gone awry. But you couldn't help yourself. After the scandal of the woman who attempted to join the Chemistry Society a few years back, you had been forever changed. Women could do anything and you were intent on grabbing that elusive gold ring. If that meant attending boisterous underground resistance meetings, or not wearing your corset, then so be it.

Unfortunately, your family did not see it that way. To them, you were a wild woman who had no place in decent Victorian society.

One gloomy autumn evening, when your uncle returned from the gentleman's club, he sat both you and your aunt down at the dining room table for a talk.

Your uncle then gave you a choice.

Well, it was a choice between scylla and charybdis, but a choice nonetheless.

You were either to be turned out into the street to fend for yourself, with no money and no prospects and definitely no husband, or you were to travel to London to be kept, re-educated and made acceptable to be returned to society by a pair of reputable brothers who promised to produce reputable ladies.

What could you do, but agree to the latter, as the former was a nightmare you never wanted to experience.

So you made the long involuntary train-trek cross country to London.

The man who met you at the train station was tall, and slim with a well-manicured moustache that curled up at the ends in the most fashionable way. When he reached for your single suitcase and turned to walk away, you followed without protest.

**

Baker Street was a short narrow avenue that seemed unnecessarily busy for so early in the morning, and when the Hansom slowed, your companion opened the door and hopped out. He offered his gloved hand, which you took and followed him to the ground.

The cab rode off and gently taking you by the arm, the man guided you across the road. He walked up the steps to a dark painted door with the numbers 221b etched on a half-moon of glass above it.  He led you inside and up the stairs to a room at the end of a long corridor.

It was a well-appointed room. Against the wall was a large bed with a patchwork cover flanked by two low dark wood tables upon which sat twin lamps with beaded green lampshades. To the left, a tall window brought in the hazy morning light and illuminating the small writing desk beneath it.  There was also a large wardrobe stood in one corner opposite a bookshelf which was crammed with books.

'Your room, for the duration of your stay. I expect that it will be maintained without clutter.'

He then looked at you and slowly perused your form. You felt scandalised! No man had ever dared make his inspection of your body so plain before. Scandalised, yes, but a slow simmer of heat in your belly belied your inner outrage.

He humphed, and his  eyes moved to meet yours again.

'Sloppy,' he said. 'That you expect to be taken seriously, dressed like this is insulting.'

You opened your mouth and he lifted his brows, waiting for you to speak.

'I expect, sir, for you to watch your tongue when addressing me.'

He laughed quietly.

'My brother will be home shortly,' he said ignoring your protest. 'I believe you will be spending the evening in his company. Granted, he is less strict than I am, so don't get used to his...'

The man pinwheeled his hand in the air as if searching for the most appropriate word, but the opening and then the closing of the front door distracted him.

'Ah,' he murmured. 'He's come home early. Please wash thoroughly and change your clothes. I expect that you have something better than this?'

You narrowed your eyes.

'I will give you one hour and then come downstairs and into the study for inspection. The study is to the right at the bottom of the stairs. Have you... questions?'

'Do you intend to stand here and watch me wash and dress?'

He smiled and wordlessly turned to leave you to your task.

'We'll break you of that attitude,' he promised and closed the door behind him.

You wavered on your feet and collapsed on the fainting couch at the foot of the bed. You were breathless, excited, astounded that you were aroused by the man's quiet dominance.

'This is ridiculous girl!' you chided yourself aloud. 'This whole thing is ridiculous.'

But at least you were in London. You had promised your aunt and uncle that you would be 're-educated' and that you were going to come home the niece they always wanted so that you could be married off to the local farmer's son. What they didn't know, was that you were going to use the little stipend they'd provided and run away into the arms of the big city.

In the meantime, this was what you needed to do to get to where you needed to go.

You got up, stripped out of your travel clothes and inspected the pitcher and basin on the wash stand in the corner. There was water in the pitcher and a clean cloth hanging on the railing. There was also a lump of lanolin soap sitting on the side of the basin and you went about washing the dirt from your travels off of your skin. You didn't bother with a corset, or your stockings. You merely shrugged into your chemise, dress and shoes and went down to the study.

You stood at the closed door, humming with excitement and terror. What if this brother was a hunchback, with a mutilated face and was only gentle because his looks terrified everyone. What if he was old and decrepit and smelled of liniment! You wrinkled your nose at the thought and opened the door.

The study was beautiful, quiet and a fire burned in the small hearth. The walls were covered with dark tapestries and old maps. Books and newspapers were stacked everywhere, but it did not appear to be done in a chaotic manner. There was an order to this room and your heart clenched when your eyes fell on the man who was rising from the high wing-backed chair.

If Gods walked the earth, on a regular basis, you would not have been surprised by his appearance. He too was tall, like his brother, broad across the chest with a narrow waist and sturdy thighs.  He was in his shirtsleeves with a high starched white collar and dark brown tweed waistcoat and matching dress trousers.

And the curls. Oh the soft mass of chocolatey brown curls were stylish and clipped short and nicely complimented his handsome chiselled face.

'Turn around, please,' he said, his voice all honey and milk and you obeyed immediately.

'Face me again.'

You did so and he approached, hands clasped behind his back. He shook his head.

'You know this is unacceptable, don't you.'

It wasn't a question.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go, you thought. You had practised on the long train ride to London. You knew exactly how you were going to respond and exactly what you were going to say. But your mind had gone blank and only silence came out of your sweet quivering mouth.

You lowered your gaze.

His dark shoes were buttoned neatly and had been shined carefully. He was obviously a man who cared about his appearance.

'I expect things from you, when you're under my roof. This shabbiness and unruly nature will not be permitted and if you continue to pursue these avenues, you will be...'

He trailed off, and began to walk in a slow circle around you, prowling, like a sleek beast and you couldn't help feeling helpless.

Like you were prey.

He stopped after one revolution and stood at your back. He was so close that the heat and scent of him engulfed you. You closed your eyes, and sweat broke out across your upper lip and brow.

He 'humphed', sounding just like his brother and stuck a finger against your side. You didn't dare squirm away from his examination and you held yourself taut.

'No corset,' he said, finding you soft and unrestrained beneath your clothes. 'And I wager, no stockings or combinations.'

You were silent and it seemed that the very silence was a living creature, pricking your skin.

'Answer me.'

'No, none of that.'

He took in a long breath and let it out slowly.

'Upstairs, now. Gather your undergarments and bring them here.'

You turned so fast that you nearly banged into him. But you managed to scurry round him, and dart up the stairs as fast as your legs beneath your full skirts would carry you. You blindly grabbed everything that you had and nearly tumbled back down the stairs in your haste to please this man, this stranger, who within moments of meeting him made you want to drop to your knees and worship his masculinity.

He was still standing in the same place where you left him, back straight, head up, elegant hands clasped behind his back.

Out of breath, you stood before him, arms full of undergarments and he smiled. That smile took your breath away. He directed you to dump your clothes on the nearby desk.

'Now,' he began, scholarly. 'The makings of a society appropriate lady, begins at her skin. Do you understand?'

You swallowed hard and nodded.

'Good. Now, remove your clothing. We have to start from the skin.'

There was heat in his voice, filled with a demand that brooked no argument, and with trembling hands, you unbuttoned your waistcoat, unpinned your skirt and shrugged out of your rough collared shirt until you stood there bare beneath your chemise.

You worked your hands together in front of you feeling damp between your legs and ready to show him everything that was private about you.You unlaced the chemise at the collar and let it fall.

He looked at you for a long time, appreciating you, drinking you in and he was very obviously pleased with you.

He pointed to the combinations lying in a heap on the desk.

'Combinations.'

Your combinations were in two pieces so you stepped into the split bottoms and pulled on the top.

'Now corset.'

You went back to the table. You had two corsets, and you looked to him for his opinion.

'Blue,' he said. 'It laces in the back.'

Normally, as you dressed yourself, your corsets (when you wore them) laced in the front. But this one, he chose purposefully. He wanted to have control over dressing you.

The blue one was already partially laced so all you had to do was pull it over your head and hold it in place. You turned your back to him and waited. He began to slowly tighten your laces, starting from the top and working his way down, one after the other after the other he pulled the narrow fabric through the eyelets closing the boned corset around you, trussing you like a tart and stealing your breath.

The corset was tight, but not overly so, just enough to make you realise that you liked it. He tied the remainder of the cord round your waist and tucked in the excess.

'Will you take it off me when it's time?' you breathed, lightheaded with arousal.

And he hummed a soft response.

Then followed your simple cream and blue coloured dress, which you stepped into with his help. It buttoned up the back and he took his time doing so.

After what seemed an eternity, he stepped away from you and mourning the loss of his heat, you watched him walk to the chair, turn and sit down.

'Come here, and bring your stockings and ribbon.'

Like a puppy, you followed and stood at his knee.

He took the stockings and thin blue ribbons and laid them across his lap.

'Right foot,' he murmured and patted the spot on his thigh where he wanted you to put it. 'Balance yourself on the chair if needed.'

You put a hand on the top of the wing back and sighed softly when he rolled up the first stocking and slid it on your foot and up your leg. You bit your lip, but you couldn't look away from the deft fingers that trailed fire along your skin. He tied the ribbon just below your knee and folded the top of the stocking over it.

'Left.'

You switched legs and he repeated the process, only this time after he had tied the ribbon and folded the stocking down, he held your calf with both hands and looked up at you.

'Now you are finished. Is there anything that I did that you did not understand?'

You shook your head, not trusting your voice to come out as anything but a squeak. He nodded to acknowledge your answer, paused, and then slid one hand up your calf, to your thigh and over the material of your combinations to where they split to reveal your tender sex. He lightly brushed his fingertips over your naked mound and you made a noise that was quite unbecoming of a society lady. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you did the only thing you ever wanted to do the moment you laid eyes on him; you widened your legs.

'I prefer an unruly woman,' he said, sliding one finger into your slick wet cunt. 'I think they have spirit.'

Whining, you grabbed onto the other side of the chair and leaned on it for support. He stroked your clit slowly, carefully, pushing back the swollen little hood and pinched it between his fingers. You squeezed your eyes shut and stars burst against the darkness. You were going to scream if he continued.

'Please,' you whispered, jerking your hips forward, encouraging his further exploration. 'Please... just please!'

He slid his fingers out of you and with his eyes still on your, he put those same fingers into his mouth.

A cry of frustration escaped you. You hiked your skirts and climbed onto his lap, giving him just enough room to unbutton the opening of his trousers and draw out his leaking cock. You took him in hand and he grabbed your hips and pressed back into the chair as you positioned yourself enough to sink slowly down onto him.

You leaned back into his hands, tipping your chin up and moaning loudly, voluptuously, clenching tightly around him, circling your hips to feel all of him filling you completely. He groaned quietly, much more subdued, but no less aroused and he looked up just as you looked down at him. You grabbed his exquisite face between your hands and kissed him, lapping eagerly into his delectable mouth, letting your body rise and fall as your cunt greedily devoured him.

You pushed your fingers into his soft curls, and held his head up, kissing and biting at his plush lips, riding him slowly at first, and then faster as the crescendo of desire and lust and pleasure crested then exploded inside you. Every part of you clamped down hard on him and you rocked and back and forth, milking the shuddering orgasm out of him.

It took a moment before the two of you finally relaxed from your shared high. Still holding his face, you kissed his cheeks and his forehead and his lips over and over until his softening cock slipped out of you. You sat back on his thighs and imagined his cum leaking out of you and onto your combinations.  You giggled at the dirty thought.

'I'm Sherlock,' he said after a long silence, looking up to meet your gaze.

'I'm... smitten,' you answered.

Maybe a little re-education wasn't such a bad thing.

-End

I hope you enjoyed it. Please like, share comment reblog all that good stuff. :)

[sanguine-tenshi]

I just finished Inazuma and I have words

TL;DR: Hate the story, mixed on characters, love the design and tired of being treated like a 4-year-old with a learning disability.

SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT

Let’s start with what I like.

Inazuma is absolutely beautiful. I’ll admit Inazuma hits a lot of aesthetic points for me. All the islands are different enough to feel unique but they still look like they are a part of the same land. There are a lot of secrets to discover through just exploring. Each island has a world quest to help it (make it less hostile towards you) so it very much feels like you are saving Inazuma from itself.

.

The puzzles are alright.

I like the cubes that rotate, I always put in the effort to figure them out properly.

Hate the ones that don’t rotate, they just aren’t engaging enough for me, so I just hit them at random and hope for the best.

The glowing floor tiles were fun, once you actually realized what they wanted you to do. A little bit too easy if I’m honest.

The electro compass isn’t really much of a puzzle, more of a fetch the nearest electrograna quest.

Those little pillars that require an electro connection are kinda boring to me, again not much of a puzzle, the hardest part is finding both pillars.

I love the new electro seelie, kinda hard to follow the jittery thing in certain parts but they make a nice contrast to the regular seelies.

.

I’m very much mixed on characters.

Yoimiya is adorable. She is so bright and bubbly. What little game play we had with her was fun and I love her over the top style of fighting. Kinda disappointed she’s another pyro archer but I do admit it fits her character well. It was also wonderful seeing her just settle down and be quiet, just be a part of that moment that obviously meant a lot to her. It’s always nice to see that bubbly, energetic character have that one quiet thing, ya know. Kinda funny it’s fireworks, of all things, for her.

Gorou I like, from what little we’ve seen of him. My man killed a dude with his thighs so I’m down. I do find it kinda ridiculous that a resistance general has his whole damn belly exposed. There is also something about his voice that just does not fit. I cannot for the life of me put my finger on what exactly it is. Could be the tone itself, could be just voice acting. It sort of feels like the VA is trying to sound deeper than he actually does.

Sangonomiya Kokomi, mixed. I like her design, she looks like some sort of mystical priestess. Again something about the voice is jarring. I expected her to sound sort of airy, like she isn’t 100% present, like she’s seeing something we can’t. TBH she reminds me of Luna from HP for some reason. 

Yae Miko, I was interested because of her design. She sounds very arrogant and up her own ass, which would have been fine...if she hadn’t given us that god-awful line. “...I have high hopes for you, child. Don’t disappoint me.” Dear lord I wanted to punt her off the mountain. Or fucking what! Also she’s some bigshot priestess of the Sacred Sakura and yet she can’t do her damn job properly. Why couldn’t her arrogant ass come down from her high perch and cleanse the stupid roots? Why did the traveler have to do that shit?

Baal looks dead inside. Booba sword is overrated, get a life. I want a remach! And no cutscene shenanigans this time!

Kujou Sara seems like one of those ‘honor above all else’ characters. Those are either hit or miss with me. You have my attention for now. Also what are those shoes woman?! I’d rather you wear those leg-killing, needle point stilettoes instead of those Wish gag shoes. How in the name of all that is holy can you run in those?!

Thoma, I like him. At first I thought we were gonna get another Childe incident, but Thoma is too much of a innocent puppy to pull anything that horrible. To me he fits a fox a lot better than Childe does. Childe is a dingo and I stand behind that.

Kamisato Ayaka...hate her. At first I was neutral on her. Nothing about her design really spoke to me, but I was willing to wait and see. But then miHoYo started to violently push her friendship at us. We are totally friends now, this is the first time you see my face, but we are so totally friends now. And during her story quest everyone was like “Ah, you are so good Ayaka. You are so nice Ayaka. You are so perfect Ayaka. We all love you so much Ayaka. And oh, how could a mere merchant like myself...” Ew, go away. This is the first time I’m actively not pulling on a character banner. Normally I pull even if I’m not particularly interested in a character, because you never know how good their gameplay is until you take them out in the map. But I think I’ll be skipping this one. No thanks.

.

And now, the worst part, the story.

We’ve been hearing about the situation in Inazuma for a long time. There has been also a lot of talk about how hard it is to get there. About the wall of thunderclouds that surround the islands. So to have it cut to black and then voila Inazuma, feel just so cheap.

I was expecting something. An animation. A struggle. A quest. A minigame. At least show us the horrible weather! Something! Anything!

Hell if they wanted to be assholes about it they could have made it so that if the player fails at this point the ship is damaged, you return to Liyue and have to wait until tomorrow for the ship to be repaired. No Inazuma for today. That sure as hell would have raised the stakes.

The next complaint I have is with Yurika, the 2 milion mora processing fee girl. Later on Thoma mentions that the agency people see the fees as easy money, so her attitude doesn’t make much sense. After all someone like her would want to extract as much money as she can, but you still want the people to be able to pay that.

So it would make more sense to me if she was overly friendly and asked way too many questions. She’d need to get a much information as she can and after all the previous hostility people would be very open with her. So she’d be able to quickly find out why someone is here, what they are selling and roughly how much money they’d be able to pay. A merchant selling expensive silk would have more many than a regular ore merchant. So she’d be able to extract as much money as she could.

“I know this is a lot of money, especially for something so simple, but there is nothing I can do about it. I’m so very sorry.” And people wouldn’t say anything bad to her because she’s the first friendly face they see in Inazuma.

The stealth mission was just god-awful and I hope we never have to do that nonsense again.

Getting off of Ritou was a bit janky at the end, Chisato should have had a better reason for coming along. But I’m honestly just glad we didn’t get out the usual way...getting stuffed in a crate and smuggled out.

As a side note, I’m getting really tired of characters overexplaining things to me, especially Paimon. Dear lord, not everything has to be said, you can leave me to come to my own conclusions and solutions. Just please, who cares if a few player struggle for a bit, you don’t have to hold my hand through the whole thing.

Ayaka’s three were...ugh. It was basic emotional manipulation. Oh no this guy forgot about the love of his life and he’s been waiting for decades. And oh how sad this guy was so good and he helped these people so much but now he can’t remember. And oh the tragedy this guy forgot his life goal and is now hunted by the demons of the past. Oh the humanity! 

And it did not work. Know why? Because I have no emotional investment in any of these people, in this land. What is happening to the vision bearers in Inazuma is tragic, true, but that doesn’t make me want to overthrow the government. I don’t live here. I just got here. I wanna ask a question or two and then move on. None of this concerns me.

I was so happy when the traveler just flat out refused to start a revolution. And then we had to go and meet some people and immediately I knew this was going to be some oh noes the tragedy moments and then we would agree to help them.

It’s so forced.

Wanna know what would have been better?

Just as we are leaving the Kamisato estate Thoma catches up with us. And he tells us he gets it. We are an outsider and this doesn’t concern us. He was hopeful but he expected the denial. We shouldn’t hold it against Ayaka.

He joins us as a guide because he knows of the people we have to meet.

And so as we help these three we also get to know Thoma. We find out he was an outsider too. He got in just before the worst of it started and then he was stuck in Inazuma. He lost someone to the Vision Hunt. They slowly lost their mind after loosing their vision, their ambition too closely tied to their personality to continue without it (what is happening to Domon hits a little too close to home and he has to walk away, this is where we hear the story of the one he lost). And the same would have happened to him if the Kamisatos hadn't taken him in. He owes them his vision, his sanity and his life.

So this rebellion is personal for him.

At the end of the three wishes the atmosphere is somber. We tell him we understand why Ayaka fights, why he fights. We know that this is all wrong, that it should be stopped...but not by us. We came here to get a lead on our brother. And rebellion isn’t an overnight affaire and we can’t loose so much time in Inazuma.

And yeah, he expected as much. He just asks that we let Ayaka down gently. It’d be a shame if someone as idealistic and hopeful as her lost their spark.

And so we are gentle but firm with Ayaka. She looks like she wants to argue with us but Thoma shakes his head at her. So she sighs and tells us that a promise is a promise. We should come to the Komore Teahouse in a few days and she’ll have a plan for us to meet with the Shogun.

Now we can still have a character story quest with Yoimiya and we can still somehow get involved with helping Master Masakatsu, but it’s through Yoimiya instead of Ayaka.

And instead of a character story quest with Ayaka we have one with Thoma. Hell, give him a whole damn hangout event even.

You can probably guess why I’m pushing the friendship with Thoma so much.

Because. He. Gets. Kidnapped. For. The. 100th. Vision. Ceremony. 

And that would have been the perfect emotional in to get us involved in the rebellion. After all we just saw what happens to people who have their visions taken away and we are not letting that happen to Thoma, someone we just got close to.

So Baal makes it personal for us as well.

.

I have a few more minor complaints.

Aoi is stupid for asking for compensation after she tells us everything we needed to know because, ya know, we could have just walked away. We should have.

The whole stupid misunderstanding about the value Kurosawa’s sword holds. Kinda obvious he meant emotional value instead of monetary.

The suspicious amount of visionless NPCs and by that I mean this is the first time we have NPCs with vision. This wouldn’t have been a problem if we’ve seen NPCs with visions in Mond and Liyue.

The whole rebellion camp bit feels incredibly rushed. We just sort of lollygag over there and then there is a fight (against Sara and her stupid shoes).

Don’t make us fight Baal just to force us to lose. It would have been better if we were forced to retreat, because Thoma was injured, because there are too many soldiers for us to handle on our own. Hell, you can have a funny scene where we straight up jump off a cliff with Thoma clinging onto us and screaming bloody murder until he realizes we are slowly gliding away and he’s not about to plummet to his death.

The Sakura cleansing quest should have been voice acted.

The Mirror Maiden and Pyro Agent are totally on a date, I will not be told otherwise.

[alienisticxo]

Ad Astra

{Elon Musk x Reader - one shot} {Authors Note: Totally AU, just a short little heart-wrenching, romantic, first person POV one shot that I thought about after watching the first two episodes of the Inspiration4 doc on Netflix last night. I literally wrote it all in one shot (ha ha) so take it for what it is. 

I hope you enjoy! <3 Warnings: None

Elon looked down at me, eyes weary from days worth of missed sleep. I could see the pain in his eyes, accompanied by a twinge of fear and desperation I’d never seen in him before. The situation was impossible, deadly, and to see him that way made me crumble into a million pieces inside.

The revolution that we’d all been warned of had finally arrived. There were riots and wars all around the world. All of humanity's issues had finally come to a head, and the last chance anyone had of salvaging their lives and furthering humankind was a one way ticket to Mars via any space agency they could reach.

The wind blew around us, kicking up the dust and dirt that usually only blanketed against Starbase’s grounds. He looked different, his usual black ensemble of jeans and a t-shirt swapped out for a SpaceX space suit that I knew he never thought he’d have to use in such a situation. I held onto his bicep with one hand, our daughter on my hip in my other arm as I savored the way his fingers dug into my waist; committed it to memory the best I could.

There were explosions, massive, earth shaking explosions that no matter how far away they were, you could hear their ominous echo. It was a war zone, not just in the United States, but across all lands, and even sea.

The roar of engines all around made everything sound even heavier, people leaving their loved ones behind in a rush, unable to save them. Sacrifices being made, goodbyes being painstakingly said. This was the final blow. We both knew that.

I wanted to speak, wanted to cry and scream, but ruining the moment wasn’t worth it. I wanted to remember him exactly as he was. Staring me in the eyes, holding on to me as though he’d never let go.

But he had to.

“Come with me,” Elon said again, the softest trembling in his deep voice.

I inhaled, my own breath shaky as I briefly closed my eyes and shook my head. “I can’t leave my family behind... I couldn’t live with myself on any planet.”

“{Y/N}… “

I fought back tears, my throat tightening with physical pain as I tried my best to keep them at bay.

“Elon..” I inhaled again. “You are the most important person to leave. You’ll help build an entire new society.. Save humanity. You don’t need me for that.”

He shook his head, his hand moving to my cheek. I couldn’t feel the warmth behind his fingers through the suit. It broke my heart even further.  

“I can’t force you..” he mumbled, though I knew he wanted to. “But I’ll never find someone to love again. I’ll never stop loving you.”

Tears involuntarily ran down my cheeks as I held his gaze that was only pleading with me silently. He knew I wanted to be by his side no matter what, to remain his person until we both turned to dust. But there wasn’t room for everyone. I was stuck between abandoning my one true love and my family who’d been there for me through everything in my life. I prayed for hope, that somehow we might pull through, and I might see him again one day.

He and I both knew deep down it was near impossible.

An explosion hit closer, nearly knocking us off of our feet. How my daughter managed to sleep against my shoulder was beyond me.

I looked down at her, and he did the same. He placed a hand on her back and I felt my chest tighten then. Without giving myself time to think, I squeezed her gently and kissed the top of her head, looking back up at him as I ever so carefully passed her over into his arms.

Swallowing hard, I tried to compose myself. His brow knit in slight confusion as he kept his eyes on me, cradling her against his chest. He’d guard her with his life, there was no doubting it, and I quickly came to terms with reality. The state of the Earth was not one I wanted her in, no matter how badly I didn’t want to see her go, either.

I couldn’t let her die, too.

“Take care of her…” I choked gently. “You’re all she has. And she’s always a part of me.”

Elon held onto our sleeping child tightly as the radio went off, a panicked, urgent voice on the other end of the line calling him into the spacecraft before it was too late. For the first time ever, through all the stress and tribulation before, I saw a tear roll down his face.

“I can’t lose you,” he tried one more time.

His words cut me like a knife though I knew he didn’t mean them to. I only kissed our little girl's sleeping head before leaning in towards him, a hand on his cheek, the only exposed flesh from the helmet still being open, and pressed a fervent kiss to the familiar lips I’d fallen so much in love with over the years. It tasted of sorrow and passion, regret and love. I knew he could taste the tears on my lips, parting my mouth slowly before we stopped, eyes remaining closed, savoring the last encounter we’d ever have together for a few seconds more as the world collapsed around us.

The voice over the radio called again, near threateningly this time. I furrowed my brow, more tears falling.

“Go,” I whispered against his lips amidst the chaos, feeling my whole purpose in life slip from my grasp.

He hesitated.

“I loved you before I even met you, and I’ll love forever after I’m gone,” I assured through a soft sob. “And if I can make it out of this, I’ll do everything I can to make it back to you… To both of you.”

“I love you, {Y/N},” he replied. “I’ll always love you.”

He wiped the stream of tears falling from my dampened eyes. The hurt in his expression indicated he felt exactly how I did. He held our girl close and kissed me again, one last habit of each goodbye we’d ever had before. Turning to leave, he made a run for it towards the spacecraft. I could feel my beating heart breaking behind my ribs.

We never thought this day would come in our lifetime. We certainly never thought it would separate us. But as he reached the large rocket, someone took our daughter into the safety of its confines and he stopped, turning back around to face me one last time.

I hoped despite this moment, he’d simply remember me smiling every morning with a cup of coffee for him; hazy vision through lowered lids as we entangled ourselves beneath silk sheets in the throes of irrevocable love. Only the best parts of every second we’d gotten to spend together.

I caught my breath. Deep down I hoped he’d stay, but it was selfish of me. Even further down, I hoped my feet would just carry me on autopilot to the ship. I loved him, with all I would ever have to give.

But I couldn’t leave with him.

And he couldn’t stay with me.

He remained there a few seconds more, no doubt absorbing what was happening. I bit into my lower lip.

“Ad astra, baby,” I cried out, my voice merrily distraught as I forced a broken-hearted smile to egg him on the best I could manage.

“Ad astra, babe,” he called out in return, cutting through the blasts and gunfire.

And with that, he pulled the screen down on his helmet, and disappeared into the ship.

[eternallysarcastic]

winter moon/ch.1

Helloooo, I finally decided to post my little Xiao fic that I’ve been thinking about for a really long time. I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is appreciated.

Title is from Erutan - Winter Moon 

   You were slowly assembling the lantern, nimble fingers gently folding the paper, careful not to smudge the small writing on it. Sitting on your knees on top of one of the tall mountains on the edge of Liyue Harbour you let the lantern fly up in the air, joining the hundreds of small lights.

 You sighed as you watched the beautiful scenery, feeling the nostalgia and sadness creeping up your throat. You put your hands together as if to pray, to whom you weren’t sure but you hoped there would be someone higher than a God, than an Archon, hearing your prayers.  

 But you knew there was no one, no one was more powerful than an Archon. 

 Except yourself. 

And yet here you were, the God of all gods, praying for someone else to come and help you. Pathetic.

But you were desperate for someone to hear your wish, to rescue you and so you stayed all night, praying until you could barely feel your legs.

If you didn’t know better, you would have already confronted the man who had watched you the whole night from a distance far off in the forest of mountains. You could feel his wariness and his disdain, for what, you didn’t know. You had already felt the fact that he was no mortal, waves of condensed, rippling power coming from his direction miles away.

Once the sun rose, so did you. Supporting yourself on a nearby rock wall, you allowed your weak legs to gain circulation back to them and dusted off your white attire. You had a long day ahead.

Knocking on the funeral parlour door, you were surprised to be greeted by a short girl with brown hair and red eyes.  

“Welcome, welcome! My name is Hu Tao and I am here to provide you with our funeral services! How may I assist you?” She spoke in a high and excited voice. She seemed a little too hyper to be working for a funeral parlour but to be fair, in all your years of life, it wasn’t the most peculiar thing you’ve seen.

“Uhm...” You were unsure how to continue. “I am looking for someone actually.”

“Oooh? And who may that be?” Her eyes lit up with curiosity. She reminded you of a small child.

But you weren't sure who exactly you were looking for. You haven't seen him in 3000 years, you didn’t know what form he might've taken this time. If it was even a ‘he’, but the stars had led you here and you trusted them more than you trusted anything else.

You had to guess. “A man?”  

The girl, Hu Tao, pouted and crossed her arms childishly. “Everyone’s always looking for Zhongli and never me! Hmph!” You smiled sheepishly at her cute display of annoyance as she stepped aside to let you in.

The parlour wasn’t anything extravagant but you could see it was doing well enough to have all kinds of commodities. You stepped into a giant room with a long table in the middle, and as your eyes followed the length of it, at the head of it you saw a man.

He was sipping his tea, eyes closed and demeanour calm but as soon as his eyes opened, you knew. It was him.

The second you stepped into the room his golden eyes had snapped open and landed on you. He studied you for a second before those same gorgeous eyes widened. The sudden pressure in the room made the eccentric girl beside you obviously uncomfortable.

“I-I guess I’ll leave you two here to talk things out,” she said and she exited the room with hurried steps.

“You...” He seemed to not be able to form any further words and his eyes had filled with the foreign feeling you had recognized as hope. “You’re alive?”

“Have been for some time,” you chuckled and scratched the back of your neck uncomfortably; you really didn’t want to talk about it. “how have you been, Rex Lapis?”

That seemed to take him out of his stupor as he regained his usual calm demeanour, even though his eyes would still not leave your form as if you’d vanish into thin air at any moment.

“It’s Zhongli now,” he cleared his throat “Rex Lapis is no more.” He said and pulled out a chair for you to sit, “but you knew I hadn’t actually passed away did you, neither Gods nor Archons could ever escape your sight.”

“Isn’t that my job anyway? To be an observer and a protector-”, you laughed softly “or at least it was at one point in time. However, that’s not why I'm here, Rex L-, sorry, Zhongli. I need your help.”

“I am glad to offer my help, anyway I can, but you must know – my power is not what it used to be,” he said solemnly.

“What? Why? I knew something must be wrong as soon as I heard about your death but at the same time your constellation stayed as bright as ever.”

“I made a deal with the Tsaritsa. I gave her my gnosis,” he said as calm as ever. As if he didn’t just say he gave away the most precious thing to an Archon. You’d be furious if it wasn’t Rex Lapis himself, the god you’d known for over 4000 years and knew he’d never do anything irrational without having thought it out.

So as calm as he himself was, you asked simply. “Why?”

“Liyue’s protection and its people are my first priority. You might have heard already that the Tsaritsa is planning a revolution, a war against Celestia itself. It would be no easy feat and it will require sacrifice – I cannot allow my people to be that sacrifice,” he sipped his tea. “You must also be careful, as a God born from Celestia itself, once it’s destroyed so will your powers fade.”

“I know, that is why I looked for you. I need to find someone before that happens, my powers are only enough to point me in a vague direction but ever since that night 3000 years ago, they’re a quarter from what they used to be, I am not strong enough.” You sighed and held your hands in a fist over your weakness. Because of that fateful night 3 millennia ago, you were now reduced to begging for help – something your pride didn’t allow you to.

It was quiet for a few moments and you could feel his gaze on you. “I’d ask you what happened but I’m sure you don’t want to talk about it.”

You breathed out in relief, “Thank you, Zhongli.”

“I may not be able to help out much. Ever since I gave away my gnosis my powers have also waned, I haven’t had enough time for them to recover. However I know who can.” He seemed to have finished his tea and stood up from his chair.

Looking at him fully now, you could see the similarities of his stature and face to the one you remembered 4000 years ago. You knew he probably never meant to go back to godhood ever again, but he seemed happy where he was and that relieved you more than you thought it would.

“Shall we go, little lady.” He outstretched his elbow for you to take and laughed softly the moment he noticed your annoyed expression.

“I’ve told you a million times not to call me that!”

The full moon was high in the sky when you crossed a wooden bridge and could finally see the giant tree – hotel hybrid up close. It looked much bigger than you had thought it would at first. It’s height intimidating against the moonlit night sky. You and Zhongli used the elevator and got to the top floor.

“You can see every point in Liyue from here!” you exclaimed excitedly, leaning over the ledge of the balcony.

When you had entered a lady at the front desk had only nodded at you and Zhongli wordlessly, letting you through. You figured this was a place Zhongli frequented often. The view was as beautiful as you thought it would be, the gentle light of the moon covering everything in a beautiful silver colour.

“Rex Lapis, what may I do for you?” You heard a deep voice from behind you, turning around in time to see the boy bowing at Zhongli.

Your eyes met his golden ones and time seemed to stop for a moment. You felt pressure constricting your lungs and an unfamiliar feeling building in your chest. You didn’t understand what was happening, you weren’t even able to think, your head felt lightweight and heavy at the same time. There was a tiny ache right where your heart was supposed to be.

Yet, he also stood there, those golden eyes wide in surprise and something else you couldn’t recognise. His fingers twitched once, then twice as if hesitating before he slowly outstretched his hand towards you.  

That seemed to wake you up from your state and as if you had just jolted awake you shook your head to get rid of that weird feeling that had made every hair on your body stand on end.

“I-I’m sorry, have I met you before?” You asked him quietly, eyebrows creased.

His outstretched hand stopped in its tracks before it fell down lifelessly by his side. His golden irises clouded with confusion for a split second before his expression turned blank, as if that whole exchange hadn’t even happened in the first place.

He turned away from you and towards Zhongli with his arms crossed against his chest. “No, we have not.”  

It was like a lightbulb went off in your head. He was the person who had watched you for the whole night praying during the Lantern Festival! That must be it. You had felt his irritation at you from miles away, so this must be it. You had done something to disrespect him surely.

You had almost forgotten Zhongli was even here before he cleared his throat to get your attention, having watched the whole display in front of him with eyes filled with confusion. You could feel the cogs in his brain turning, thinking, analysing.

“Let me introduce you then. This is Xiao, the guardian Yaksha of Liyue and one of my trusted adepti and Xiao,” he turned to gesture at you “this is one of the celestial Gods, Goddess of the Moon.”

[yesimwriting]

Anastasia (prologue)

A/n ive been talking about my Anastasia x SOC story for awhile and im finally ready to post the prequel,, ive also been working on some requests and thinking about my next multi-part fic (ive made some posts about it lol)

things to know before reading: i tend to like to make up my own countries when writing these type of politically/plot driven fics that revolve around a royal family bc i think it makes it not only easier to write but less confusing bc it takes out the issue of potentially conflicting with canon, so i made up the country ‘Anastasia’ is from,, this also follows the musical Anastasia a little more bc i feel like that version of the story is more mature and easier to write for SOC (the only difference is that not everyone is happy that Anastasia is alive and someone tries to kill her bc they hate the royal family)

Series Summary: y/n makes an unconventional deal with Kaz to save the life of her best friend. No one’s ever made a deal with the infamous Dirtyhands that resulted in them shedding the title of orphan from a revolution-torn country that can’t remember her life before the orphanage and taking on the title of Princess Anastasia. As time progresses, things are made more complicated as y/n has to deal with royals, revolutionaries, a grisha general who has a lot to gain from an alliance with a princess that doesn’t know what she’s doing, and potential feelings for a conflicted Kaz Brekker that has more to do with Anastasia’s disappearance than he’s ever admitted. 

--

The world seems to be made up impossible things. Each day, people defy odds, strangers fall in love, the universe expands, and the Saints watch it all. I am not the kind of person to sneer at a miracle, to try to explain it away instead of acknowledging it for what it is. 

But what this stranger is proposing is laughable. 

I lean more into the chair, doing all I can to get away from the desk that he sits at. A nervous kind of giggle threatens to escape me, a laugh at the expense of the foolishness of the situation. If his demeanor was any less brooding, I would have already laughed at the irony. Kaz Brekker, the Dirtyhands, creating a ploy so colored by the fairytale notions of dreamers.

The longer I go without reacting, the worse this situation becomes. I haven’t seen Verne since Brekker and his people separated us. I can see the world of torment my eldest friend must be experiencing at this very moment while I sit at this desk. 

“Me?” I’m the most ridiculous part of his plan. He said the only reason me and my partner are still alive is because I fit the general description of the kind of person he needs, and if I’m blackmailed into it he won’t need to waste kruge paying me. “A princess?” 

He blinks, as uninterested and stoic as he’s been since he first ordered me into his office. “A pretend one,” his correction feels like a slight, “a surrogate one.” 

My eyebrows furrow together. “But what--I know the odds of the real Anastasia coming back are beyond slim, but if we’re caught in a lie the Dowager Duchess of Avila will have all of us killed. She may be in Ravka now, and her title nothing more than decorative due to the revolution, but she still has people loyal to her.” 

“Anastasia can’t come back.” The graveness of his voice is so certain a part of me has to wonder if he could have anything to do with her death. I dismiss the thought almost immediately, I don’t know his exact age, but he doesn’t look much older than me. He couldn’t have been more than two or three years older than Anastasia when she died, and she was a child at the time. “No one remains missing that long unless they’re dead.” 

I awkwardly scratch the back of my wrist, “You’re the expert here.” No--I did not just say that out loud. “Sorry--I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Not that thinking it makes it any better, but at least then you wouldn’t know and I’d seem like less of an idiot and I wouldn’t be talking about it right now, and just rambling at a really inconvenient time for me to just...” I cringe slightly, opting to stare at his desk instead of meeting his judgmental gaze. “Sorry, again. Normally Verne is here, and he just kicks me in the shin or something to shut me up.” 

“If you’d like to see what apparently is your only source of impulse control alive and in decent enough condition to kick anything ever again, you’ll agree to what I’m proposing.” 

I straighten my posture slightly, nerves and guilt twisting in my stomach. “I’m going to be as transparent as physically possible.” The warning is for both of us, the urge to hide all my weaknesses bubbling in my chest. “Mr. Brekker.” That’s awkward--what am I supposed to call him? “I’m a university student that’s only in Ketterdam because of an academic scholarship. I’m from somewhere average--I’m not from a place nice enough to give me the manners I’d need to pass as a girl who spent her fundamental years growing up in luxury and I’m not from a place grimy enough to make me a quick enough liar to make up for what I don’t know.” I inhale slowly, ignoring the sting of the flaws I laid out for a cruel stranger. “I’m not particularly graceful or sly or talented in any field that someone like you would value. The closest thing I have to talent involves things that can be tracked on paper. I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight, I was just doing a friend a favor.” 

“You claim that you’re not a decent liar or a thief and yet your closest friend is one who believed himself talented enough to challenge me?” 

I resist the urge to shrink back into my seat. “This is Ketterdam, you try finding someone that doesn’t dabble in crime and ambition.” He does’t reply to my retort, which I think means I won. “Cards on the table, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save Verne, but you don’t want me for something like this.” 

He pauses, jaw locked and eyes too stony for me to interpret. “Every flaw you just pointed out, every reason you think makes you unfit for this job, is exactly the reason I’m offering you this.” I keep a thousand questions to myself as I wait for him to continue. “Those used to lying lack the warmth that will be needed to sell this. The Dowager Duchess is a grandmother first when it comes to Anastasia, that’s why she’s offering so much gold. She, and the rest of the royals that desire to know what happened to Anastasia, want to believe the story I’m telling. If you present yourself as someone real and warm and you understand table manners enough to not disturb the serene picture they want, they’ll squint at ugly details until they disappear.” 

Wow. I know that he’s intelligent, but what he’s constructing is so much more bullet proof than I thought it’d be. “I’ll admit you’ve constructed an airtight narrative.” 

I know my approval means nothing to him, but it’s the most agreeable I’m willing to be. “A narrative the background you told me of fits perfectly.” I shouldn’t have answered all those questions he asked me earlier so honestly. “A child born in Avila who was sent to a Kerch orphanage due to a war-relief effort during the revolution. A faceless orphan who was found during the height of the revolution with no memory of anything before the morning she woke up in a hospital cot.” 

I say nothing. My skin burns in protest of someone knowing so much about me. He must take my silence as a sign of me teetering the line away from what he wants, because he then says, “your friend is fortunate, if things aligned a little less perfectly he’d be dead already.” 

Dead already. The words elate my heart in a way that pinches. He’s still alive. Verne is alive. “If I agree, you let me see him and then you let him go.” 

“If you need a contract to believe me, I can have that arranged.” The words have an almost mocking edge. I guess it’d be a little ridiculous to get an official contract drawn up for something so small. “If you at any point change your mind, I’ll do the same.” 

The threat is clear. I back out and Verne pays for it in blood. Verne’s safety is once again in my hand. This situation is much more precarious than Kaz Brekker wants it to seem. “You need me to do something that will literally last the rest of my life. Tiaras aren’t something you can slip in and out of.” 

“Yes, I’m forcing you to give up a life in the slums for a palace for your friend’s life. This must be a difficult choice for you.” 

I look down to avoid rolling my eyes. “It’s still permanent, and it’s large because at any point I could reveal the truth and take you down with me.” 

“Remember who you speak to.” His voice has turned to pure darkness. 

Don’t wince. Don’t wince. Don’t wince. “All I’m saying is that you’ve offered Verne’s life to buy my cooperation, but you have yet to mention the cost of my silence.”

His expression is sharp enough to draw blood. “The Dowager Duchess is old and sick, wait at most two years and you’ll have more gold than you could ever spend. The revolution took that family’s power, not the wealth the Duchess took with her to Ravka the night of the massacre.” 

I shift awkwardly. “I’m not trying to get kruge from you for me.” I fold my hands neatly on my lap to avoid fidgeting. “Verne--he’s beyond desperate for kruge, that’s why he risked angering you.” The urge to shy away threatens to break my resolve. I think of all the times Verne has saved me. “Let him keep what he tried to take.” The request is awkward from my lips. I’m asking for more when I should should be grateful any type of mercy came from him. Any type of offer. “Half. Let him keep half.” 

He’s silent for a long moment, weighing the implications of loss. “You’re already entitled enough to pass for royalty.” I don’t let myself shrink. “Deal, but not because you threatened me--try that again and you’ll find yourself wishing you had never left the orphanage you came from.” The relief is practically crushing. Verne is going to be okay. He’s going to live and my resistance earned him enough kruge to have a week or two without worry as he plans what he’ll do in my absence. “You better be as good a study as you made yourself seem to be.” 

I don’t understand the second threat. “Studying?” 

“You didn’t think you could wander into the Dowager Duchess’s home, use the excuse of amnesia to explain why you don’t even know your own mother’s name, and expect them to think you more than an Avilan orphan with a desire for wealth.” 

“I actually don’t know my own mother’s name because of amnesia.” 

He’s in no mood to be contradicted, glowering sharply, “not anymore, anything that doesn’t fit the narrative I’m constructing is no longer true.” He straightens slightly as he begins to pace away from me. “You’ll have five minutes with your friend and then we’ll see where your table manners are at. I know someone who knows enough to correct you.” 

I try to picture where someone like him would meet someone that knows about etiquette. My mind provides nothing useful, but it doesn’t matter--I’ve agreed. It can’t be undone, not without having the blood of my dearest friend on my hands. 

[onecanonlife]

In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (next part)

(word count: 3,098)

--------------------

Part Two: Sapnap

Sapnap has never thought of himself as an outwardly sentimental person, but nights like tonight make him consider changing his mind on that front.

Things have been weird, lately. Weird in a different kind of way from the usual weirdness. Personally, he blames Wilbur Soot and his dumb drug van that has somehow evolved into a dumb country and a dumb revolution, because apparently he thinks it’s fine to be invited onto someone else’s server and promptly declare independence. But whatever, it’s fine, and so what if it’s getting a little more intense than the games they usually play? So what if Dream’s starting to get strangely obsessive about the whole thing? Sapnap thinks he might too, in his position, and there’s no need to get too worried about it anyway. There’s no way this war—if it can be called a war at all—will last much longer.

But it’s been weird.

Nights like this, though, remind him that it’ll all be okay in the end. Because tonight started out as a war meeting, all of them hunched around a table in Dream’s base, talking over plans and hypothetical ways to kick the L’Manbergians straight into next week the next time they fight. But over time, conversation shifted to other things, lighter things, and Dream flicked water at George’s face for some reason, and George retaliated by throwing small objects at Dream’s mask, and somehow that’s resulted in them all piling onto each other in front of the TV, watching really terrible horror movies. Dream tosses popcorn at the screen whenever someone makes a horrendous decision, and they’re all cracking stupid jokes and making silly commentary, and Sapnap feels warm and tired and safe. It feels like old times, when it was just the three of them on this server, or maybe even like just a few months ago, before Wilbur got it into his head to create a drug empire and they were all still friends, and the stealing and the griefing was all in good fun and the disc thing was a joke and not something that Dream is still weirdly preoccupied with.

It’s a nice reminder. Things were good before, and they’ll be good again. Everything will go back to normal soon, and right now, with Dream draped across his lap and George half sprawled over both of them, he can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be.

And then, Tommy stumbles into the room.

He blinks a few times, because what? But no, Tommy’s still there, even though this is about the last thing he expected to happen. Scratch that, it’s like, the negative third thing he expected to happen tonight, because what is Tommy doing here?

There is a split second in which his instinct is to go for a weapon. But even disregarding how fucked up that is, because this is still Tommy, still the kid he joked around with and hung out with in the early days, and he doesn’t want him hurt or dead no matter how annoying he’s been lately—even disregarding all of that, the urge fades quickly.

Because Tommy looks like shit.

He’s unarmed and unarmored, nothing on his back but his usual t-shirt, and that appears rumpled, like he slept in it and didn’t bother to change before coming here. His hair is mussed, even more than normal, and his eyes are red-rimmed. Sapnap would chalk it up to sleep deprivation if there weren’t obvious tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

Which, holy shit. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Tommy cry before. So what the hell could have happened that he would show up in Dream’s base of all places, alone and looking like this?

“Uh,” he says, very eloquently. “We’re having a war meeting? What are you doing?”

Tommy’s gaze drifts from them to the TV and back to them again.

“Oh, good,” Tommy says, and he sounds… off. Like he’s trying too hard to sound casual. Sapnap’s not quite sure how he knows that, except that there’s an odd strain in his voice, and the words don’t seem to come easily, like he has to search for them, and that’s wrong. Tommy delivers insults as easily as breathing, even when they’re not particularly clever ones. “Here I was worried you were having a sleepover. Like middle school girls.”

“We can have a sleepover if we want,” George mutters, sounding slightly offended and also like he’s too tired for this. Which, honestly, Sapnap completely agrees with.

“If this is supposed to be a sneak attack or something, it’s a really bad one,” Dream says, and finally puts in the effort of rolling to his feet in one smooth motion and taking a few steps in Tommy’s direction. “Why are you here, Tommy, and how soon can you leave? Or do we need to make you?”

It’s definitely too late at night to sound threatening. Even Dream can’t manage it very well, too much sleep creeping into his voice.

Except it seems to work. Tommy flinches, and takes a step back. Alarm bells start clamoring in Sapnap’s head, because the one thing Tommy has never been is scared of Dream.

Dream catches it too. His head tilts, and he stops his advance. Sapnap exchanges glances with George, and they both get to their feet as well, the earlier warmth and comfort almost forgotten. The movie continues to play in the background, disregarded.

“I’m not here for a fight,” Tommy says, and Sapnap can’t stop his snort.

“You’re always here for a fight,” he says, and Tommy—

Tommy looks at him. Just looks at him, and it’s only for a second, but he could swear that there is something dark in Tommy’s eyes, something dangerous, something that Sapnap has seen before but never in the face of someone so young, something that speaks of loss and bloodshed and an unshakable determination to do whatever it takes. To accomplish what, he doesn’t know, and he can’t find out, because Tommy blinks, looks away, and the moment is gone.

“Not tonight,” Tommy says, and turns his gaze on Dream. And keeps it there. “I want to propose a deal.”

“You want to propose a deal,” Dream repeats. “You want—you came here at three in the morning to try to make a deal with us? I—okay, why? What do you want, and why do you think we’ll give it to you?” Dream’s voice is increasing in both volume and snappiness, and Sapnap can’t blame him; deals, when coming from Tommy, inevitably end in some sort of scam, in his experience, and if Tommy’s really trekked all the way over to their base to try to pull one over them, he’s got another thing coming to him.

But at the same time, Tommy has actually trekked all the way over to their base, looking like he’s halfway to death via exhaustion. His voice is flat, and he’s watching Dream like he’s some sort of predator, like he’s going to attack at the slightest provocation. Which might just be the case, but the point is that Tommy has never seemed this aware of it. Never been careful, never given Dream the respect and caution that his skills deserve, despite Dream besting him in combat time and time again. So somehow, Sapnap doesn’t think that a simple scam is the end goal here.

“You’re going to give it to me because I know you, Dream,” Tommy says, lifting his chin defiantly, and there, there is some of his usual spark, his usual confidence. Odd, though, that it seems to be just that: confidence, not false bravado, not a child playing in shoes several sizes too big, not Tommy trailing after Wilbur like a puppy trying to learn to be a wolf. Just surety. “I know what you want.”

“Oh?” Dream crosses his arms. “And what do I want?”

“The discs,” Tommy says, and Sapnap feels his jaw hit the floor. “And I’ll give them to you. No scams.”

Dream has gone still. Shocked, Sapnap thinks. “You’ll give me the discs?” he says. “Just like that, you’ll give them to me?” He’s disbelieving—but he’s interested. That much is plain as day. And Sapnap still doesn’t understand why Dream cares about those things so much, because sure, Tommy was being really annoying about them, but at the end of the day, discs are all they are. Music discs like any other music discs.

“I mean, no, not—not just like that,” Tommy says. “This is a deal, man, I want something from you. But that’s what I’m offering. The discs. Both of them.”

Sapnap scans his face, his posture, searching for any sign of a lie. There is none. Tommy’s lips are drawn in a thin line, his expression more serious than any Sapnap has ever seen from him.

“Okay, what is it?” he asks.

“L’Manberg’s independence,” Tommy says. “Independence for the discs.”

And that’s—that’s laughable. This revolution of theirs has barely been going on for a month, and it’s already painfully obvious that they’re going to lose, and badly, that they don’t have the resources or the manpower to defeat Dream. They’re going to crush them; they’re not about to let them form their own country right in the middle of the Greater SMP just because of a couple of music discs. That would be stupid.

Except Dream’s still interested.

“You’d be willing to give up the discs?” he asks, an odd note in his voice, and—he’s considering it. He’s actually considering it.

“Oh, come on, Dream,” George says, apparently thinking along the exact same lines. “You can’t just—”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and shifts his weight between his feet. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off Dream. His whole body is tense as a bowstring. “I mean, you know. Sometimes you’ve got to think about what’s important.”

“Did Wilbur ask you to do this?” Dream says.

Tommy stays silent. For a moment, Sapnap takes that as a yes, as agreement, and a burst of anger flares, surprising him. But the core of it is this: sure, Tommy’s irritating, but the discs are important to him. That much has been made extremely clear. So for Wilbur to force the kid to give them up for the sake of his grand country would be messed up.

But Dream laughs, soft and low. “He doesn’t even know you’re here, does he?” he says, and Sapnap starts, looking back to Tommy for his reaction.

Tommy winces.

Did the child really waltz into enemy territory without telling anyone where he was going? That’s stupid, even for him.

“What Wilbur doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” Tommy snaps, and then scowls. “Well, usually. I take that back, actually. But I’m not here because he told me to. I’m here because this—this is the best choice. It’s the best outcome. So how about you just take the fucking things, and then you go away and leave us alone forever, eh? How about that?”

Dream hums. “And how do you know I won’t take the discs and then raze your little country to the ground anyway?” he asks. “What would stop me?”

Tommy levels a flat stare, and for a second, it’s like there’s someone else peering out of his face.

“I’d fucking stop you, you bitch,” he says. “I’m not—I’ve got news for you, buddy. You think you’re some kind of god. Well, you’re not. You’re just some guy, just like the rest of us, and so what if you’re all strong and shit? There’s always someone stronger.” He pauses for a moment. “There are worse monsters out there than you, Dream. More powerful things. And if you start trying to play your games with me, I’ll take you the fuck out. Don’t even try me. I don’t—I don’t have time for this.” His voice cracks suddenly, and Sapnap looks on in horrified fascination, trying to make sense of anything he’s saying. “Look, you still want the discs, yeah? You can have them. Just give L’Manberg its independence. I won’t try anything. They’re yours to keep, forever. I won’t fight you. So c’mon, you green bastard, do we have a deal?”

Throughout this speech, Dream has gone very, very still.

“More powerful things than me?” he asks. “Tommy, this is literally my server. I think you’re underestimating me here.”

“No,” Tommy says. “No, I’m really not.”

Dream stays silent for a moment. Sapnap would bet anything that underneath his mask, he’s frowning.

“Alright,” he finally says. “Show me that you have them here, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Sapnap would protest. He feels like he should. A couple of discs aren’t worth allowing a whole new country to form in their server. But Dream’s tone brooks no argument, and more than that, there’s definitely something wrong with Tommy, something that grabs his attention and keeps it, even though he can’t put a finger on what it is. So he just watches as Tommy brings his enderchest out of his inventory, and pulls out two music discs, staring at them both for a long second.

And then, he holds them out toward Dream.

“The discs for L’Manberg,” he repeats, and his voice is colorless.

“The discs for L’Manberg,” Dream replies, and takes the discs from Tommy’s hand. Tommy jerks his arm back quickly, face going pale as a sheet as he stumbles a bit.

“Don’t,” he says, and he’s shaking, shaking hard, “don’t you fucking, don’t fucking touch—”

Sapnap’s not sure what the issue is. Dream’s fingers might have brushed Tommy’s when he accepted the discs, maybe, but he doesn’t know why that would cause such a reaction. Dream freezes in place, startled, and it’s impossible to tell where he’s looking, so Sapnap exchanges another glance with George and steps forward, intending to calm Tommy down, perhaps, to guide him out of the base so he can get back home. Maybe he’ll walk him himself; he’s not sure he trusts the kid not to get eaten by a zombie on the way, in the state he’s in.

But Tommy wheels on him, stabbing a shaking finger at him, and he stops in his tracks.

“Don’t,” he says, and he’s near tears, barely getting the words out, and Sapnap feels so lost. “Don’t get near me, just, just fuck off, why don’t you?”

“You’re in our base!” he says incredulously. “Tommy, what is up with you?”

Tommy just shakes his head. His eyes drift back over to Dream, and the discs in his hand. His face contorts, and Sapnap can’t even begin to interpret the expression he’s making, something sad and angry and desperate all at once, but with something else, something… weird. Everything about this is weird, though, and he doesn’t particularly want to admit that he’s slightly worried about TommyInnit, but frankly, he’s not sure he has a choice.

Because he’s slightly worried about TommyInnit.

“It’s for the best,” Tommy says, quietly, as if to himself, but his voice sounds so wrecked that Sapnap’s first instinct is actually to give him a hug. It’s easy enough to refrain, but still. “It’s for the, it’s for the best. For L’Manberg. It’s, um—” He glances up, right at Dream’s mask, and flinches again. “Right. I’d say it was a pleasure doing business with you, but it never is. Bye, Dream.”

And then he’s backing out the entrance, and he’s gone.

“Bye, Tommy,” Dream says, somewhat belatedly, and then they all stand there in silence for a good two minutes. Dream turns the discs over and over in his hands, a repetitive motion. Sapnap recognizes it for what it is—a self-soothing mechanism, something to calm himself with. He’s rattled.

“So, that was really weird, right?” George says, and Sapnap lets out a long breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’d say that was weird, George.” And then he whirls on Dream. “And you! Are you serious right now? You’re just going to, what, let them make their country, just like that? Over a couple of discs? Seriously?”

Dream takes a moment before replying, and when he does, his voice is low, considering.

“I want to see where this goes,” he says. “I didn’t see this coming. I didn’t think that Tommy would be willing to give up these discs for—well, for anything. And the fact that he did this on his own? Without even telling anyone? You’re right, it’s weird. I want to figure it out.” He shrugs, posture untensing. The discs vanish into his inventory. “Besides, I have the discs now, which means I have power over him. And we can always declare war again later if we want. I promised him L’Manberg’s freedom, not that they would get to keep it.”

He frowns. “I guess.”

Power over Tommy. Normally, he’d agree. Holding the discs over his head in the past has worked wonders. But the way Tommy looked, the way he came to them of his own volition, suggested giving up the discs himself—something about him has changed, and Sapnap’s no longer sure that it will be that simple. Because sure, his face when he gave them up was agonized, but then there was everything else, too, everything he said, the way he was acting, like he thought there was some bigger threat on the horizon, and that it wasn’t Dream.

Weird. Just, so weird.

“Alright, I guess we see how this goes, then,” George says.

“Yeah, we’ll see how it goes,” he echoes, and wonders why the words inspire such dread in him.

They go back to their movie. But though they sit together again, pressed into each other’s sides, none of them relax. The tension in the room does not leave, and he knows that none of them are paying attention to the movie at all, that all of them are lost in their own thoughts, and he resents it, a bit. He wants that easy camaraderie back. Wants his friends, his friends and simpler times, before war, before discs, before Tommy-fucking-Innit and all the rest of them. Just him and Dream and George, messing around, doing what they want, making a server into a home.

Simpler times seem like a long way away. Sapnap thinks about it long into the early morning, long after the credits stop rolling, and can’t come to a conclusion that satisfies him. Can’t find peace. He doesn’t think the other two can, either.

But then, he’s not sure what else he expected. Sometimes, he thinks he’s forgotten what peace means.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 23

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: There's Chekhov's gun and then there's Ernesto's poison.  You know the rule.

Art is by @lunaescribe​ and @swanpit​!

***

“This way, all of you, don’t make noise.”

“But Sister Antonia, these are your quarters--”

“And you’ll stay here until you’re told otherwise, chicos. Make no noise. We’ll bring you food here until they’re gone.”

“But the girls…?”

“They wouldn’t take them for their ranks. God willing, they’ll leave them be. We’ll keep them safe, too. Now you stay here, all right?”

A few terrified, wide-eyed glances from the boys. No reply. 

“Am I clear?”

“S-sí.”

“Can we pray, Sister?”

“... Quietly,” Sister Antonia said, her voice tight in the way one’s voice gets when it’s so close to breaking up, and she closed the door, turning the key in the lock. When she turned to grab the bookcase and drag it across the floor, Imelda stepped in to help her push it. It left deep scratches on the wooden boards, but no matter. They would cover that with a rug. 

“Is Miguel still missing?” Imelda asked, her voice as firm as she could make it. Antonia lowered her gaze with a nod. 

“He’s the only one who didn’t come back. None of the boys has seen him since they went out to play hide and seek.”

Imelda bit her lower lip hard enough to almost break the skin. “Nor Óscar, have they?” she forced herself to ask, and the slow nod felt like a blow. Where was he? Where had they both gone? Could it be that they had both made it to her parents’ home, that Miguel had followed Óscar there? Maybe he had, maybe they were both safe. 

God, please.

“I’m sorry, Imelda,” Antonia’s voice reached her as though from a mile away, and she scowled. Anger came easier than despair, and it was more than welcome. No point in fearing the worst behind the safety of those walls.

“They may very well be safe and sound,” she snapped, and marched to the door. “I will go out looking. If they ask, I’m looking for some of our girls. Make sure they’re all in - if anyone asks, this is a girls-only institution.”

“... Do you know where Sofía is?” Antonia spoke up, fear now showing in her voice, and it made Imelda pause. As much as she rolled her eyes at their antics, poorly hidden behind hastily closed doors and too thin walls, Imelda knew they cared deeply about one another. 

“She’s taking care of something important. She will be here soon. Don’t worry,” she added, and smiled in the attempt to convey a sense of calm she did not feel. “She can handle herself just fine.”

Antonia’s own lips curled in a weak smile. “I won’t tell her you admitted that. Be careful out there. I really do want to see the gringo’s face when Padre Ernesto officiates your wedding.”

Imelda, who rather liked the idea of her wedding actually being both legal and valid in the eyes of God, knew they would probably have to settle for the gringo to officiate it, but that was not the moment to voice that thought. Except that, as she stepped out and ran towards the plaza, she quickly found out that perhaps the gringo would be in no position to officiate anything anymore, either. 

“What…?” Imelda stopped in her tracks, stunned at the sight of several men quickly carrying a body towards the church on a sheet, dark blood a stark contrast to the man’s pale skin and fair hair. He looked-- was he-- dead?

If they go around shooting priests, none of us is safe.

There was no love lost between her and Father John Johnson, and yet there was a stab of something in her stomach at the idea he may be dead. He had been trying to help, after all. He had left the relative safety of the parish to help its people.

Maybe he just said something stupid. He does it a lot. Only this time they were armed.

“Go call doctor Sachéz,” Imelda heard someone saying as they passed her by, but before she could even voice her question - would the doctor be of any use, was he even still alive? - someone else called out her own name. 

“Imelda!”

Ceci’s voice caused her to tear her gaze off the gringo who was perhaps an ex gringo. She was running up to her, hair dishevelled in a way Imelda had never seen it - she had always been dignified, even when they were young girls.

But today was not a normal day. 

“They have Miguel,” Ceci panted, grabbing her shoulders. “And Óscar.”

No. No. No.

For a moment, just a moment, the world seemed to spin around her. It was as though sunlight itself faded for a moment, distant screams muffled, leaving the world empty and dark. Imelda’s knees may have buckled, they almost did, but she couldn’t allow herself to collapse.

“Their commander is loco,” Ceci was saying, eyes wide. “He just kept screaming about a deserter, one de la Cruz, and the more we swore none of us knew him the more he lost it. And when Padre Juan stepped in-- Imelda! Wait! Come back!”

Imelda didn’t listen: she just tore away from her grasp and ran, towards the plaza, towards the cries. 

They had her brother. They had her charge.  She had to go to them.

Whenever she thought about that nightmare scenario, Imelda was so certain of what she’d do: get the pistol she had taken from Ernesto, and use it the second it was necessary. But now that it was happening, she knew that taking out the gun would mean signing her death warrant, and that of God knew how many others in the village. A lone woman with a pistol - she would be killed quickly, and retribution on everyone else would be swift. She would be of no use to anyone dead. 

Maybe Ernesto had been right, after all. What involvement she’d had had been from the sidelines. She knew nothing of war; Santa Cecilia knew nothing of war. 

But war had come to them, and it was a matter of learning fast or dying. 

He just kept screaming about a deserter.

There is no mercy in war, Ernesto had said.

He’s one of our own now. I can’t give him away. 

They have Óscar.

I promised we would protect him.

They have Miguel. 

We protect our own.

He lied to us. 

There must be something we can do. Anything. 

As she ran as fast as her robes allowed her, blood rushing in her ears and thoughts going in circles, Imelda could only pray that Ernesto would stay at the González farm, unaware, for as long as possible. 

If he returned too early and they found out he was there, and that they hadn’t handed him over, it would spell disaster for all of them.

***

“Miguel!”

Héctor’s scream was loud enough to hurt his throat, and it was still lost under the echo of the gunshot, under the wordless cries of the people of Santa Cecilia trying to back away, the shouts of those calling out for doctor Sanchéz and the stunned cries of ‘he shot him, he shot a man of God ! ’ coming even from the Federales themselves. 

It was lost beneath all the confusion, and Miguel’s screams. 

“No! What have you done! What have you done!”

“Be still-- be still, brat! Don’t try my patience, there is a bullet for you too if you won’t--!”

“Let me go!”

“I am warning you!”

“Murderer! Let me g--!”

“Wait! Por favor!”

This time, Héctor’s cry was loud enough to be heard. That, and it’s rather hard not to notice someone in a priestly robe throwing himself in front of your horse, gripping the reins and looking up at you with a look of pure anguish on his face. 

The commander seemed startled, pistol still in mid-air, and he let his gaze shift from Héctor to the motionless priest bleeding out on the cobblestones, a few men already trying to press on the wound to stop the blood loss, calling for help to take him to the doctor. Héctor didn’t look down, didn’t focus on the fact he had just witnessed a man being shot down, didn’t even think he was putting himself in danger of being next. 

All he knew was that the man had Miguel, and he couldn’t have him.  

He opened his mouth to plead, but the commander’s eyes were back on him and he spoke up before he could. In his grasp Miguel was shaking, eyes full of tears and skin ashen.

“Are all priests in this village eager to become martyrs? Let go of the reins now, or--”

“I’ll join you,” Héctor blurted out, holding tighter onto the reins. “I beg of you to let him go. I’ll take his place.”

The soldier’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline; Miguel, on the other hand, let out a gasp.

“Héctor, no--!” he choked out, only to trail off when the man gave him a shake. 

“You know him?”

“He is a warden of the Church. I--”

“Well, go back to the Church. We don’t take in priests.”

“I am a novice, not a priest,” Héctor spoke quickly, and fell on his knees. Blood soaked through the robe, warm and wet, while somewhere behind him Father John was taken away on a sheet. Federales allowed it, most of them probably still stunned at the notion their commander had just shot a priest; many held no more love for the Church than Huerta himself did, but fear of God’s punishment was too ingrained in their hearts since childhood not to hold some weight. “I have taken no vows-- none. I can join the army. I’ll do it right now. I’ll do anything you ask.”

There was a hiccupping sob, tears spilling down Miguel’s cheeks. He was always such a lively boy, so smart, always up to something - but now he only looked like the scared child he was. Héctor desperately wanted to comfort him, but he dared not tear his gaze from that of the commander, whose harsh expression had softened even so slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was… calmer. 

“You seem to care about this muchacho an awful lot.”

“He’s like a son to me,” Héctor said, and he realized the truth of it only as it left his lips. Miguel let out another sob, trying to wipe his eyes. 

“Héctor…” he managed, and Héctor finally dared smile at the boy. A shaky smile, but a smile nonetheless. 

“It will be all right, chamaco, I promise,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it, and looked back at the soldier, who stared back a few moments… and finally lowered the pistol, putting it back in the holster. 

“What is your name?”

“Héctor, señor.”

“Héctor and what else?”

“Just Héctor. I-- I have no family.”

“Can you hold a gun?”

“Sí.”

“Shoot?”

“I-- only tried a few times. But I will learn.”

“Mph. I guess it’s something. We can’t be picky these days.”

“You won’t regret it. I swear.”

The man sighed. Much later on, Héctor would wonder if the look he gave him that moment truly was somewhat apologetic, or if it had just been his imagination. To his last day, he would never be entirely sure. “... Very well, Just Héctor. I am Commander Hernández. Welcome to the Federal Army,” he said, and let go of Miguel. The boy jumped off the horse and was in Héctor’s arms the next moment, crying hard, face pressed against his shoulder. 

“Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,” he sobbed, holding on tight. “You’ve got to get married-- I’m sorry I was so mad at you-- please don’t go--”

I’m sorry, Imelda.

“It will be all right,” Héctor managed, trying to sound as optimistic as he could. “I’ll be back once this is over and I’ll have plenty of stories to tell.”

Miguel sniffled, still holding on tight. “Promise,” he choked out. 

“I swear.”

Another shuddering breath. “Did you-- do you really--?”

“All right, all right, enough. Just looking at you makes my teeth rot.”

Gustavo’s voice rang out suddenly, and Miguel was torn from Héctor’s arms before he could react. He tried to protest, to break free, but Gustavo had already pushed him back towards Chicharrón, who trapped him in a steely grip the boy had no chance of escaping - Héctor would know, he had been on the receiving end of that a few times before. 

As the old gravedigger began pulling Miguel away despite his protests, and Héctor stood - so much blood on the cobblestones, surely the gringo was dead - Commander Hernández gave Gustavo a somewhat weary glance. “And you are…?”

“Gustavo Torres, señor. I wish to join your ranks,” Gustavo said, making a dismissive gesture towards the plaza behind him. “I’ve had enough of this place. I am a good shooter, too,” he added. Héctor knew that was an absolute lie: Gustavo couldn't even hit his own foot with any type of firearm. What the hell was he going on about - and why join the Federales? He was a pendejo, that much was no mystery, but since well did he support Huerta? What was going on?

Commander Hernández tilted his head, seemingly taken aback of for entirely different reasons. It probably wasn’t often anyone volunteered to join. “... Well then. If you’re willing to join, I see no reason to deny you.”

“Uh, Commander…” a soldier approached them, looking a little shaken up. Either he was new to all this, or he found his commander had gone a step too far in shooting a man of God in cold blood - gringo or not. He gestured towards a group of people behind him, separated from the rest of the plaza; all men of varying ages… and, to Héctor’s horror, among them there was a boy. Óscar. “We have the thirty men you ask--.”

“No you don’t,” Gustavo muttered. “What you have is twenty-eight men and a half,” a pointed look in Héctor’s direction, “plus a child. The muchacho with glasses over there? Those two bottle ends on his face are not enough to make him usable with a gun. He couldn’t tell his sister from a donkey. I mean, sometimes no one can,” he added, making Héctor want more than anything to wrap his hands around his neck, thumbs on the throat, and squeeze.

But he could see what he was trying to do, so he held his tongue and his hands. Just barely.

Commander Hernández raised an eyebrow. “If this is an attempt at taking the boy’s place, it is rather transparent,” he said, and Gustavo shrugged. 

“Then I can replace anyone else,” he replied. Either he did an excellent job at sounding like he didn’t give a damn either way, or he really didn’t give a damn either way. “Or you leave with thirty-one men. It just seems fair to warn you that the boy’s eyesight is awful and he’d make a poor soldier.”

Commander Hernández turned back to look directly at Óscar, who pressed himself against the wall under his gaze as though trying to make himself feel smaller, all skinny limbs and huge glasses. In the end, the man shrugged. “Mmh. Those glasses do seem awfully thick, and you do look like you’d make a better soldier,” he said, and he gestured for the closest soldier to let him go. Cries of mercy for others rose up from sisters, wives, parents - but none was heeded. There would be no more mercy that day. 

As he watched in relief Óscar being pushed away from the lineup, eyes wide and bewildered, Héctor only vaguely heard the commander’s orders for his men to give the new recruit uniforms, get supplies and fresh horses from the village, and be ready to leave within the hour. He let out a long breath and turned to Gustavo. 

“Gracias,” he murmured, only to get an annoyed look in return. 

“Don’t thank me. If we survive this, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Let me guess. This is all my fault?”

“Of course it is. It’s always your fault, somehow,” Gustavo grunted, glaring at the ground while they walked to get their uniforms. “We can only hope the puta is going to follow my instructions and get us help.”

A thought crossed Héctor’s mind, unexpected and blinding as the flare of a match in a darkened room. He found himself blinking, taken aback. He had no clue who the puta may be, but the rest was… revealing. “Those messages-- the instructions-- was it y ouch! ”

“Scream it for everyone to hear, why don’t you!” Gustavo hissed, falling back into step after stomping on Héctor’s foot. It caused him to walk a bit awkwardly, but he didn’t protest or say anything more. Only after a folded uniform was pushed into his arms - obviously used, ill-fitting and with specks on it that looked a lot like dried blood - did Héctor dare turn, heart heavy in his chest, hoping to get at least one last glimpse of Imelda before he left. 

And, for the second time that day, he got his wish. Imelda stood at the front of the crowd, holding onto Óscar. He was already taller than she was, but she cradled his head the way she did when she was a girl and he was just a young child. Miguel was there, too, having somehow escaped Cheech’s grasp. He was holding onto her robe but, unlike Óscar, he was looking towards him. Both him and Imelda were, his face tear-soaked and blotchy and hers terribly grave, and terribly pale. 

I’m sorry, he ached to tell them both. Stay safe. I love you. I’ll be back soon.

But they were too far away, and he could only hope his glance would be enough to tell them that. He could only hope they knew. 

When I return, Héctor thought, refusing to contemplate any other scenario, to add any ifs to that. He’d be back, whatever it took. When I return and we marry, Miguel will stay with us. 

Only then, with that thought in mind, Héctor was able to give them a weak smile.

***

Had it not been for her brother holding onto her like he hadn’t in years, or for Miguel clinging to her robe while shaking with hiccuping sobs, Imelda may have ran forward. She may have pushed through, to the commander, and screamed to him that she knew where to find the deserter he wanted - that he could have him, if he released everyone else.

One man’s life against thirty. Thirty men, including the one she loved, that could be released in exchange for one. 

I could save him. I could save them all, here and now. 

Later on she would not be proud of what she came so close to doing, but neither would she be ashamed. She had promised Ernesto she would protect him from the Federal Army if it came to it, and she had meant it; if it came to taking a bullet to keep that promise, she’d have taken the bullet. But letting other people do the same… that was where she balked. 

As much as it tore at her heart, she knew Héctor had made his choice. He must have known that giving Ernesto away would save him and Miguel both, but he had decided to take Miguel’s place and keep Ernesto safe instead.  The others, though, had no choice at all. Twenty-nine men who knew nothing of Ernesto’s deceit and could not make their own decision as to whether he should be protected with their lives or not.

There were young husbands, young fathers, family men who may never return home, leaving widows and orphans and lonely parents. Who were they to make that choice for all of them? Who was she to do it?

We protect our own. 

He is one of ours, too. 

One life. One life against thirty. 

Héctor may never forgive me.

He can hate me, if it means he’ll be alive to do it. 

Imelda watched, her head wrapped in silence, as Héctor took a uniform and finally, for the first time, looked back. Their gazes met, the coldness in the pit of Imelda’s stomach turned to ache, and the idiota did the unthinkable. He had the galls to smile at her, and somehow it was the most heartbreaking thing she ever had to endure - seeing that smile, and knowing it may be the last time she did.

No. No, she couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t let that smile be taken away from the world a day too soon than it had to, no matter if she would never again see it directed at her. She would live with it. They both would.

With a long breath, Imelda made peace with the fact she may never be able to sleep well again as long as she lived, and gently pushed Óscar away. “Go home,” she told him, stroking his cheek, and went to step forward and go speak with the commander. 

Only to stop as Miguel’s grip on her robe tightened and he pulled her back, looking up at her with a tear-streaked face. “Don’t do it,” he choked out, and Imelda’s blood ran cold. It was as though the child had read her intentions on her face, plain as day. “I promised him he’d be safe here. I promised.”

Oh, my little one. It was too much responsibility to put on you. 

Imelda swallowed, unable to speak for a few moments. “Miguel…” she managed, her voice barely audible, most of it stuck somewhere in her throat. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. Sometimes we need to make-- choices we’d never want to make.”

“I don’t want to choose,” Miguel pleaded, still holding on with both hands. “I don’t want either of them to die. He-- he’s loco, you didn’t see how he shot Padre J-Juan, he… he really hates Ernesto, I don’t know why, we can’t let him have him…!”

She sighed, and crouched down, wiping his face with a sleeve. “Miguel, listen to me--”

“No. You listen before you do something I assure you you’d regret.” 

Sofía spoke suddenly before Imelda could say anything more, crouching next to her as though to comfort Miguel as well. “First of all, lower your voice, Jesus Christ. Second, don’t do anything. We can kick Ernesto around for putting us into this mess later, and I’ll be first in line, but no need to see him hang.”

“None of those men has ever been in a battle. If they take them--”

“We’ll take them back.” Sofía pushed something into her hand, a folded piece of paper. “We will have reinforcements.”

“What…” Imelda read the brief message, taken aback. Then she read it again, and again, and again; the handwriting itself struck her as much as the content itself. “Wait… this is…?”

“Same handwriting as the instructions you’ve been getting, yes. It was Gustavo all along.”

Somehow, Imelda may have been less surprised to be told that the Pope himself had been behind the entire thing. Gustavo, of all people? Someone who never cared about anyone other than himself?

Except that he took Óscar’s place just now. I owe him. Oh God, he made me owe him. He will never shut up about it, will he?

“It-- what?” was all Imelda managed to say in the end, stunned. But it made sense, suddenly - how José and his men had known their bell needed repair, and why they had come running to fix it after Ernesto’s unsuccessful attempt, once Gustavo took it upon himself to find a solution. She knew there was something behind it, but she had no idea what. Now she knew.

The bell had always been their means to call for help.

Once they have left, ring the bell to a death knell and don’t stop. Help will come. Tell them to follow the trail. They’ll know.

“Wait, what… what did Gustavo do?” Miguel was asking, confusion overriding his anguish. Sofía smiled, and pulled him close. 

“Don’t worry, niño. We’ll fix everything,” she said, brushing back his hair. She smiled, but even her smile was wrong, sharp, teeth ground tightly. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Imelda stood slowly, slipping the note in her sleeve, and glanced up. Now all she could see were people huddled together mourning their losses, while soldiers took all that was not nailed down in the small weekly market. The men the Federales had chosen to join their ranks were gone, Héctor with them, without so much a last word between them.

No matter. This is not the end. We’ll bring them back. By any means necessary. 

“... Let’s take Miguel back to safety, and be ready to ring the bell once they’re gone.”

“And what do you plan on doing?”

“There is something in my room I need to retrieve, and a horse I need to borrow,” Imelda said, very quietly, as they began walking away from the plaza. Sofía still held onto the hand of a very confused Miguel; she knew she was referring to the pistol, she had to know what she meant to do, but she didn’t say as much aloud or try to talk her out of it.

“Of course,” was all she said. "Be careful.”

“What’s happening?” Miguel asked, his voice small. Desperately wanting to be hopeful, but terrified of seeing that hope shattered. “How… can you really fix this?”

“... I’ll do my damndest,” Imelda replied, getting a somewhat shaky laugh from Sofía.

“If the gringo heard you, he’d have a heart attack.”

“Oh!” Miguel seemed to recoil. “Padre Juan! Is he-- did they get him help?”

“Huh?” Sofía looked down, taken aback. “What happened to the gringo?”

“He was shot.” Miguel swallowed, and tugged at her sleeve. “He was trying to save me and… and… can we go to doctor Sanchéz first? Por favor-- just to see if he’s… if…”

His voice faded, and Sofía looked over at Imelda with a bitter smile. “First one points a gun at me, then they shoot a priest. Our robes aren’t much of an armor anymore,” she said, and turned back to Miguel. “... I’ll send one of the sisters to see him as soon as you’re safe with the others, and let you know how he’s getting on. I promise.”

Miguel protested, but not too much. He was exhausted, still in shock for everything he had gone through in the span of little over an hour, and all things considered it was testament to his resilience that he was not curled into a ball and screaming. 

He let Sofía lead him back to the orphanage, and Imelda watched them disappear with a long sigh. He was safe now. He could rest. Her own work, however, had only just begun. 

Imelda gave another quick glance behind her, towards the plaza, before she headed back to her room, where a pistol lay hidden beneath a floorboard, waiting to be loaded. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to it; she had hoped the Federales would spare their village until the end of that war. But there they were, and there she was. 

It was time to see if the hours spent learning to load and aim had been worth something.

***

All right, so maybe the painfully slow trip to the González farm had been worth it, after all. 

Ernesto was almost entirely sure his half-assed blessing had precisely nothing to do with the young bull suddenly realizing what went where and enthusiastically getting to work - too enthusiastically, he had definitely seen more bull than he ever needed to see in his life - but he had to admit, the timing had been nothing short of amazing. 

The look on old Manuel’s face had been a sight to behold, and the fresh eggs he had gifted him immediately afterwards were a nice plus. He’d probably been moments away from falling on his knees and declaring him a true miracle worker, which would have been flattering but also rather awkward, right next to a bull and a cow getting down to business.

Ah, he couldn’t wait to tell Juan his blessing had worked, after all. Maybe he’d suggest Manuel González to name any resulting male calf Ernesto and a female Juanita, just to be spiteful. That would teach him. 

Ernesto was snickering to himself at the idea when suddenly, on the other side of the hill, the bell of Santa Cecilia’s church began tolling - slowly, with long gaps between strikes. It was enough to make the smile fade from his face, heart dropping somewhere in his stomach as always whenever he heard that sound. A death knell. 

What happened? Who died? I was away only hours, what did they do?

It may be nothing, of course; one of the old parishioners may have kicked it, a sad but not really unusual occurrence. With some luck, it may be the insufferable gravedigger. Maybe the sexton had finally fallen off the stairs and broken his stupid neck.

But that couldn’t be it. The death knell would only ring out during a funeral, or… or maybe the damn Pope had died, didn’t all churches do that if news came that the Pope croaked? He was almost sure they did. Or maybe someone had just climbed on top of the belltower to fuck with the bell for no reason. 

I was only gone for a few hours. What can possibly happen in a few hours?

Anything, was the answer. He’d learned the hard way that anything can do wrong in a few hours. Everything can go to shit in less than a few hours, and something in his gut told him that was exactly what had happened. Trying to keep a sudden wave of panic at bay, Ernesto spurred the stupid donkey to go faster until he reached the top of the hill, and looked down.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe; it was as though something had taken hold of his lungs, and squeezed all air out of him. From way up there in the distance, nothing about Santa Cecilia looked amiss - but it was not the village itself he stared at. What made his blood run cold was the column of men on horses and carts further west, leaving it behind. Federales.

They’re leaving, Ernesto thought, hands shaking on the reins. It’s all right, he told himself, but it was a lie and he knew it. The Federal Army never left anything behind if not devastation, and the bell kept going on and on and on, the continuous death knell making him want to scream. He could taste bile, stomach clenching.

Dead, dead, dead.

There it was again before his eyes - the men who stood blindfolded before the firing squad, his own rifle gleaming in the sun, the wails of women and children and the elderly quieted down by the deafening bangs once the order was shouted and they obeyed. When they left those villages, too, had he heard the church’s bell ringing to a death knell. Mourning. 

Santa Cecilia was in mourning. His village, his parish. His people. His friends. Who did they take? Who did they kill? 

Not me. They’re leaving, they must not have been here for me. It’s all that matters, isn’t it?

… Isn’t it?

Ernesto didn’t answer his own question. He shut down all thought the way he desperately tried to shut out the ringing of the bell, and spurred the donkey down the hill as quickly as he could, heart hammering somewhere in his throat.

***

They’re mourning us already. 

The thought was enough to almost break him, but Héctor forced himself to keep going, holding onto the reins of the horse he had been given, clad in the too-small uniform that had been drenched with someone else’s sweat and blood. Forcing himself not to turn, not to break, because he knew that if he did he may never be able to put himself back together. 

Was that how soldiers got through it? Was that how Ernesto had survived until he'd found refuse in Santa Cecilia - by focusing on nothing but the road ahead, never turning back to look at what they may never see again?

No. I will be home again. I’ll be with them again. 

Héctor held tightly onto the reins and followed the horse in front of him, holding onto that thought with all he had.

***

They’ll come as soon as they get the message. They must.

Towards the back of the convoy, Gustavo shot a glance ahead towards the commander. He kept riding, not turning once. Thinking the bells were ringing to mourn them, most likely, or the stupid gringo priest who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, or both. Either way, he would be wrong… but he didn’t know that. He wouldn’t know until it was too late. 

Gustavo Torres pulled a knotted-up handkerchief from his pocket, one of several he’d stuffed in, and prepared to let it drop as soon as the column of men turned to another path.

***

With how little he’d lasted in bed the one night she had been dumb enough to spend with him, Sofía had written off Gustavo’s stamina as non-existing. However now, with her arms already aching from ringing the bell no more than a few minutes, she had to take that back. 

Not that she would say that aloud, let alone in his presence, but apparently he wasn’t bitching for no reason when he said bellringing was more work than it looked like.

No matter. Keep ringing. Keep going. Help will come.

So she did keep going, letting her gaze wander towards the column of men, their men among them, leaving the village right ahead of her. She kept ringing as she noticed Imelda leaving the parish down below, clearly having recovered the pistol they had taken from Ernesto and heading towards her parents’ home to… borrow one of their horses.

Be careful, Sofía thought, and might have prayed for her safety if she still believed God gave a damn. Instead she bit her lips and kept pulling. Kept ringing, focusing on nothing else.

And thus failing to notice Ernesto rushing down the hill, into the village and towards the plaza as quickly as the donkey - and then his legs - could carry him.

***

“They came upon us like locusts--”

“I turned and they were there--”

“They took my son! My only child, what will I do--”

“Why didn’t God smite them where they stood!”

“Thirty men, my brother among them, I ran but I was too late, I couldn’t say goodbye--”

Ernesto heard all of it, heard the cries and pleas, the anger and pain, but they seemed so very distant. He stood on the spot, reeling, eyes fixed on the ground in the middle of the devastated marketplace. 

There was blood. There was so much blood, soaking into dirt and pooling in the cracks between cobblestones. People and carts and horses had stepped over it in the chaos, tracking it everywhere; no matter where he turned, there was blood. A trail of it left the plaza, away from it, towards the church. Only one clear trail.

Only one body. 

“Who…?” Ernesto managed to ask. His ears were buzzing, and his tongue felt too large. The reply came like a blow to the pit of his stomach. 

The Delgado widow crossed herself, her skin pale as ash. “Their commander knows no God. He tried to take an orphan, the boy Brother Héctor spent so much time with-- Marco, was i--”

“Miguel?” Ernesto blurted out, horror stealing his breath for a moment. He looked at the woman with wide eyes, feeling as though all strength was sapped away from his body. All that blood, it seemed impossible it had all come from a child. It felt like a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

No, not him. It can’t be. Héctor will never recover. 

“Yes, Miguel… the poor child, he was so scared. Padre Juan tried to save him, to stop that man, but that beast pulled out his pistol and… and… ay, I told you, he knows no God. To shoot a man of god like an animal!”

“What-- Juan?” Ernesto looked around again, at the blood, at the weeping people all around - and back towards the church, where the trail led. Above him, all around him, the death knell kept ringing.

“He shot-- Juan?”

Dead. Dead. Dead.

“Sí. Ah, it was horrible. He fell back, and didn’t move-- so much blood, I couldn’t bear to watch.”

Ernesto staggered back, light-headed, struggling to make sense of what had happened. How had it happened? Only hours earlier, Juan had been alive and well - in a good mood, even. Messing with him by sending him out to bless a stupid bull. He’d chuckled, patted his arm like the insufferable bastard he was, promised there would be no Latin lesson that evening.

And now there would be Latin lessons at all, ever again, because that idiota could learn every stupid rule of an useless dead launguage but didn’t have enough brains not to step between a man with a gun and his target. 

Bile rose to Ernesto’s throat, and he closed his eyes. Behind his eyelid the sun still shone, merciless, and he stood in the desert, beneath two swaying hanging corpses, talking to a priest on the brink of death. Left to die for trying to be merciful when the world would not, for trying to put himself between prisoner and executioner. 

It was a bad call, Padre, Ernesto had said.

It was my duty, Padre Joaquín had replied. 

Stupid priest. Stupid gringo. 

High above, the bell kept ringing.

Dead. Dead. Dead. 

When Ernesto heard himself speaking again, his voice was barely audible to his own ears. “... And Miguel?” he managed. Had Juan’s death at least been worth something, anything at all?

“Oh, the child is safe-- Brother Héctor took his place, it was heartbreaking to see, but at least he has a chance of coming back alive.”

Ah, of course. Of fucking course Saint Héctor had taken the boy’s place. What was it with that village that made everyone so damn inclined to martyrdom? What was it about Santa Cecilia that made those who lived there so eager to die a stupid death?

God damn you, stop dying on me. Stop leaving me behind. 

“Padre Ernesto, will you pray to God for our men’s return?” a voice spoke up, and Ernesto turned to face a small, scared crowd. It was the first time he got to linger in a village after the Federal Army left it behind, and he found he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand the anger, the pain, the pleading looks. He couldn’t stand how the first thing they chose to do was praying to a God who would not hear, or chose not to listen. 

God had never been any good to Ernesto. He had long since learned that if you want a job well done, you have to do it yourself. 

Ernesto gave a kind smile, seething with anger behind it. Anger was good, though. Anger would get things done. Anger was something solid to cling on to, so that he could ignore that other thing gnawing at him, threatening to undo him if he let himself acknowledge it.

He knew what he had to do.

“Of course,” Ernesto said, still smiling. “I will immediately retire to pray for their safe return in the chapel. If you’ll excuse me.”

He rushed towards the parish before any of them could say one more word - and before any of them could mention anything about the deserter they were looking for. He followed the blood trail for a distance and then diverged towards the back of the church, the death knell unbearably loud in his ears. He did his best to shut it out, to focus on the small voice in the back of his head. Juan’s voice, back when they had only just met. 

“As the founder of my order said, todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina.”

Any means to find the divine will. 

Ernesto had seen the wisdom in de Loyola’s words then, and he certainly saw it now. By the time he reached the small shed where holy wine was stored, among other things, the blood rushing in his ears almost covered the incessant ringing of the bell. His hand closed around the cold metal key in his pocket, and bared his teeth in a smile that was almost a snarl, jaw clenched so tightly his face hurt. 

He had no idea what the divine will was, and neither did he care. He knew his own will, and he would see it become reality. 

“Todo modo,” he gritted out, and turned the key in the lock.

***

“... Do you think he has any chance of pulling through, Doctor Sanchéz?”

The man didn’t reply right away, washing his hands in a bowl of warm water that had by now turned almost completely red, as had the towels strewn about. For several moments all Antonia could hear was the quiet splashing of water, the distant echo of the bell ringing outside - what was Sofía doing? - and the painful-sounding gasps as Father John Johnson struggled to draw in each breath, eyes shut, skin pale and clammy, covered by a sheet. 

“Mph. I stitched up all I could, but my guess is that he’ll be the gravedigger’s problem before sundown. I have never seen a man lose as much blood as he did and live to tell the tale.”

Ah. Antonia nodded, folding her hands. There was no love lost between John Johnson and… any of the sisters, really, but this was not something she would wish on anyone. 

He tried to stop them. 

“I see,” she finally said. “We will pray for him.”

“Getting Padre Ernesto to come as soon as he returns would be a better use of your time. He will need the final rites,” Sanchéz muttered. Antonia barely had enough time to open her mouth to let him know she would when she was cut off by a groan. They both turned towards the bed; the gringo was still unconscious, but stirring weakly. Or was he regaining consciousness? Had he heard them? Or--

“Er-- nest--o,” he choked out, and that was it. His head fell back on the pillow and he made no more noise except for a weak, low whimper. 

After a long silence, doctor Sanchéz sighed. “... Go get him, for Christ’s sake, so he can give this poor bastard his final rites.”

Antonia nodded, something heavy in her chest, and went out to do just that. She was told almost as soon as she stepped outside that Padre Ernesto had indeed returned, and headed to the church to pray… only that he was not there. He was not in the chapel, not in the living quarters - not in the yard, nor in the orchard, or in the orphanage to comfort the children, or even back at the plaza. No one had seen him since. 

Padre Ernesto had returned, they told her... only that now he wasn’t anywhere.

***

Chicharrón needed a drink. 

It wasn’t that the events of the day had left him shaken, that he had felt powerless, or that he was terrified out of his mind of how quickly Héctor would die in battle, after a lifetime learning how to handle a guitar and barely touching a rifle. It wasn’t that he worried about Miguel’s state of mind, or that he was generally so upset even Juanita looked crestfallen. 

No, of course not. He was too old for that nonsense. He needed a drink for reasons unrelated to the day's mess, that was all, and he knew just where to find it.

But it seemed someone had found it before he did, because the shed’s door was open and what caskets of holy wine had been left were gone. 

Of course, better of them to have found the wine rather than any weapons or other supplies hidden away - that would have probably made them decide to burn Santa Cecilia to the ground - but that was the last straw and Chicharrón was suddenly too furious to even try and see a silver lining to anything. 

“Those bastards! Even the wine! Is nothing sacred anymore?”

Chicharrón would have kicked the door, if not for the fact he would have probably lost his balance or even broken his peg leg, so he did the next most reasonable thing, and punched it. 

“YOWCHGODDAMNIT!”

He punched the door again for good measure - his hand already hurt, anyway - and limped inside. Maybe they had left at least some wine, at least a casket; it wouldn’t hurt to check.

As luck would have it, there was one casket left, but Chicharrón didn’t pick it up right away. For a long time he could just stand frozen on the spot, staring at the empty space where something else had been stored. Something that was not wine at all. 

Well, look at that. Had those damn idiots taken the rat poison, too? God, he hoped they thought it to be sugar or something or the other. He hoped they would eat it and choke on it. 

Chicharrón limped right out of the shed with the remaining casket under his arm, slamming the door shut behind him and getting ready to toast to that wish - entirely unaware of the fact that a priest who was not a priest at all was currently clambering up the hill with two donkeys, one of whom carrying nothing but caskets of wine, hellbent on making that wish come true. By any means necessary.

High up in the belltower, the bell kept ringing.

***

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midnight promises {zuko}

Part 2 to flames & deception

avatar the last airbender MASTERLIST

Pairing: Zuko x Earth Kingdom!Reader

Prompt: Once Azula finds out about the readers relationship with her brother, she sends the Dai Li to lock the reader up in a prison in Ba Sing Se. Iroh sends a friend to sneak into the capital and save the reader before the comet arrives, fearing that she would be transported during the fight. Zuko then arrives at the White Lotus camp with the Gaang and rejoins with the reader.

lol guys, In my mind Zuko is such a baby. Honestly I am thinking about coming out with another part to this. I just love the dynamic, so lmk if you guys want more!

“Dinnertime!” the guard spoke through the metal door, sliding a tray of mushy gunk through the small opening. You rolled your eyes, picking up the plate to sit on you rock of a bed. You slowly picked away at your food, knowing all too well if you were ever to escape this hell you would need the energy.

After the fire nation took control over Ba Sing Se, many generals and war officials; including your father, were taken captive. Just a few nights after your father was arrested, the Dai Li showed up at your house and took you to the Capital’s prison. Apparently, Princess Azula of the fire nation had heard of your ‘treacherous acts’ and demanded you be thrown in jail. (All for being a peasant dating the crowned prince of the fire nation. The audacity.)

As for Zuko... He had been gone for half a year now. Disappearing the night before the siege of the city. For all you knew he could be dead. You would often playback the memory of the last time you saw him, in search for any hints to what may have happened to him.

***

“Hey.” you walked over to Zuko pressing a light kiss to his lips. “Why’d you guys shut down the shop early?” you questioned, picking up a stray tray of dirty teacups. “We have been invited to the royal palace to serve tea to the Earth King!” Iroh sang out, his belly bouncing as he giddily paced around the shop. “He’s been humming and dancing around the shop ever since he got the invitation.” Zuko shook his head, grinning from ear to ear.

Iroh swiftly swooped past you sliding the tray out from your hands, “I will finish cleaning up down here. Now you two run along, go upstairs and pack the supplies.”

Zuko was already halfway up the steps before Iroh could finish. “Congratulations,” you said giving Iroh the biggest hug, “I’m so happy for you, you deserve this.” As you pulled away he rested his hand on your shoulder, “I am sure I am one of many tea-makers awarded with this honor. It is just nice to be recognized.” You placed a kiss on his cheek before running up the stairs.

You only made it a few steps into the apartment before feeling his hands wrap around your waist, warm fingers caressing into your skin. “Do firebenders always have warm hands?” you pondered, feeling him dig his face into the side of your neck. “Mmm what kind of question is that?” he mumbled into your skin as you wrapped your arms over his, swaying with to non-existent music. “We are always warm; its in our nature.” he said pressing his parted lips into your skin.

You turned to face him, lifting your hand over his head to rest on his shoulders. “Sounds like you would freeze to death in the snow.” you teased messing with the short raven strands of hair on the nape of his neck. He leaned into your touch, “Mhmm, spirits, don’t remind me.”

Before your could question his response Iroh boomed from downstairs, “Lee, the carriage to escort us to the palace has arrived.”

Zuko groaned, “Alright Uncle, I will be down in a second.”

He hesitantly left your arms to grab a beaten up green and yellow case, “So can I come see you later tonight?” you shrugged, “My father will be home till late, military stuff. So just come over when you’re done at the palace.”

“Good girl.” he purred and cupped your chin to pull you in, his soft lips claiming yours.

He broke away before you had time to react, jogging down the stairs. Leaving you standing in the middle of the apartment. Flustered and dumbfounded.

***

Awoken in the middle of the night by harsh grunt and an ‘oof’, you sat up in bed; listening to the footsteps inch closer and closer to your cage door. The lock clicked open causing you to jump up. A tall man in a dark red robe stood in the doorway before you, the faint outline of a sword peeking out from his coat.

“Who are you?” you said holding your hands up, prepared to attack. (Being the child of a military general often meant self defense classes on the weekends). The man pulled back his hood, “I am Piandao, member of the white lotus.” he said bowing.

Is he fire nation? You wondered, noticing the placement of his hands as he bowed.

“I’ve been sent to break you out. Iroh sends his best.” he says with a wink, before stepping to the side, gesturing for you to exit your cage.

***

It had been a week since your rescue. Uncle Iroh had greeted you when you first arrived, the both of you sharing a few tears during the reunion. Since then you had not seen him around camp. According to your new friend Bumi, who you had spent most of your time with sparring, Iroh was leading a revolution to take back Ba Sing Se. You could understand he was busy.

As much as you grew to love all the members of the white lotus, they still were old men. There was only so much Pai Sho you could handle. So, you set up your tent on the outskirts of camp. Far enough away so you could have some privacy. You weren’t disturbed often, so when the front opening of your tent began to open you yelped, throwing your discarded shoe at the stranger.

“Oof, what the hell?”

You immediately recognized his voice.

“Zuko?!”

He ducked further into the light, his hair longer than before. Instead of wearing brown and green garments, like you were used to, he wore a red tunic lined with gold outlines. He looked worn, his eyes slightly sucken and tired— accompanied with a nice set of baggage.

“Y-you’re alive.” he whimpered, practically falling to his knees, pulling you into him.

“Of course I’m alive,” you said, “Why would I be dead?” You barely finished your sentence before Zuko pressed his lips into yours, hands reaching up to cup your face. You gripped to his shirt, pulling him closer to you, worried he may disappear again if you were to let go.

He pulled away, “Azula said... I thought she had killed you.” he explained. You studied the gold specks in his eyes, glimmering from the candlelight. You chuckled, “Nope, I’m still here.”

“Thank the spirits.” he praised swiftly pecking your lips once more, “Cause I am never letting you out of my sight again.”

You spent the next few hours talking non-stop. He explained his return to the fire nation- distraught after being told by Azula that you had been targeted and killed by the Dai Li. He spent a lot of time telling you about his confrontation with his father, finally standing up against his years of abuse. You listened carefully to each and every word, making sure he felt heard, and even shared a few tears with him. But when he would talk about the avatar and his new friends would light up. Explaining their adventures and new experiences. You couldn’t keep yourself from smiling.

He was absolutely outraged to hear about your time spent in prison. At one point he had been angrily stomping around the tent, “I- I- How could she do this!! You did nothing to her- you were not a threat! And she just-“ You had kissed him to calm his nerves, helping to forgive what had happened.

***

The sun had set hours ago, the candle slowly simmering to a low dull. The two of you had somehow ended up on the floor, ears pressed against your single pillow to face each other. You had been quietly combing your fingers through his hair, his eyes rested shut.

“I like long hair on you.”

He opened his eyes, peering at you through his long eyelashes. “It gives me something to grab onto now.” you teased lightly clasping your hand into a fist. He snickered, “Oh really.” His hand made his way down your backside to reach and grab your leg, pulling it to hook around his hip. “Oh god, don’t even get me started on the red. I mean, I knew you were fire nation, but flameo hotman.”

He practically lunged at your lips, pulling your hips to flush against his body. “Shuttup.” he playful murmured placing another light kiss to your lips. “Spirits I missed you.” Your hands fiddled with the golden wrap tucked around his waist, slowly unraveling the cloth from its knot. “The comet- This whole battle everyone is talking about...” you whispered-- eyes avoiding his, “It’s tomorrow isn’t it?” Zuko rolled onto his back, skimming a hand through his hair. He exhaled anxiously.

“Yea...”

“Are you going to stay here? Help take back Ba Sing Se?”

“No.”

You lightly leaned onto his chest, “Where will you go?” you questioned. His hand came up to caress a strand of your hair. “ I have to confront my sister. Someone needs to be at the capital... To take over the fire nation once this war is finished once and for all.” His hand slid to your cheek, rubbing his thumb against the side of your face. “Come with me.” your eyes widened at his sudden offer as he begged, “I can’t defeat her alone. And when its all over you can live in the Fire Nation. With me.”

“I- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I can’t”

“Why not?”

You could tell he was serious. He stared at you, waiting for an answer. “I just- My duty is here... I have to help get my city back. Get my father back.” He groaned, throwing his head back. “You’re right, you’re right.” he murmured folding his hands behind his head. You crawled up his body, turning his chin to look at you. “Hey.” a low hum echoed from his body as he grunted in response.

“I’m going to follow you no matter what. Once I’m done here I’m getting on the first boat to the fire nation.”

“D’you promise?”

You laid you head against his chest, tucking your hand through the opening of his tunic to rest on his midriff, “Promise” you whispered as he wrapped his hands around you. “Good.”

Tag List: @11mb0 @svgakookie @coldlilheart

[thetorchwoodarchive]

Gwen Focused Stories as Submitted by the Mods and Users of the Torchwood Archive

Everyone! Thank you so much for your submissions! Recs are under the cut!

As always, please mind the warnings and ratings listed on each individual story. 

Feel free to reblog with additions!

Something Beautiful by Cyus (Gen | complete | 4,500 | PG)

After Torchwood, after Jack, Gwen lives her life, even as Jack comes back.

Domestic Disharmony by thirteeninafez (JackIanto, GwenRhys, Gwen&Ianto, Gwen&Jack | complete | 3163 | G)

In which Jack and Gwen get stuck in the Archives and discuss green milk, thermostats and Ianto Jones.

Side Note by Aliciajazmin (Gwen&Ianto | complete | 1027 | T)

A few months after her best friend's funeral, Gwen runs into Rhiannon while grocery shopping. Ianto's sister has some questions and Gwen has some things she needs to say to her.

Inevitability (and other hard truths) by violetmessages (Gwen&Ianto | complete | 1236 | T)

There's a clock ticking down at Torchwood, and Gwen realizes she's the only one who hears it.

All Around Me are Familiar Faces by gwendolyncooper (Gwen&Ianto, JackIanto, GwenRhys | complete | 2602 | G)

Gwen Cooper wakes up in Jack Harkness' bed. Ianto Jones wakes up in Rhys Williams'. And they find themselves in each other's bodies. As close as they are, this might be a level too deep in their friendship.

Blueberry Knees by Violetmessages (Gwen&Ianto, JackIanto, GwenRhys | complete | 3878 | T)

If Ianto thought about it, the way Gwen’s illness progressed was rather like falling asleep. Slowly and surely, but then all at once.

He hadn’t noticed it at first - he still loathed himself for not recognizing that something might be wrong. But he hadn’t, no one had, so it slipped through, like little crumbs falling between the crack of their ancient sofa.

And there was nothing to be done about it.

Power Struggle by Prochytes (GwenTosh, Gen | complete | 1416 | T)

How Gwen ended up in charge by the start of Season Two, based on the premise that one should never assume Jack Harkness is joking.

Bad at Communication by engagemythrusters (JackIanto | complete | 1740 | G)

In which Gwen visits a hospital, where Jack and Ianto, respectively tired and high, are complete idiots.

The Hands on the Clock Keep on Ticking by Violetmessages (Gwen&Ianto | complete | 10235 | M)

They all knew it could happen to anyone. They’d all seen the proof. Even if it happened to a miniscule amount of the population, it was still a possibility.

But they had grown complacent. They had forgotten that they too were also at the mercy of the Rift, that the Rift did not make an exception for those who knew its existence.

They had forgotten until they were faced with it themselves.

In which Gwen and Ianto get sent back to 1969 by the Rift.

Pastries, Avoidance Tactics, and a Bottle of Scotch by pocky_slash (Gwen&Ianto, GwenRhys, JackIanto | 6220 | G)

In which Gwen said something she regrets, Ianto makes a poor dinner choice, Rhys offers sound advice, and Jack has a key. A different sort of "Meat" post-ep.

Children, Daleks and Mopeds: How Gwen Cooper Got Her Groove Back by paycheckgurl (Gwen&Jack, GwenRhys | complete |  9603 | T)

Following a disastrous shopping trip that put her at the center of an explosion, Gwen finds a little alien boy.

Or: The series of events in which Gwen acquired another child, had a much needed conversation with Jack, bought a moped, defeated a Dalek with a boxing glove, and learned that loving yourself and saving the world don’t need to be mutually exclusive.

A coda to Revolution of the Daleks where I explain why Gwen has a son all of a sudden.

I Don’t Know What to Think by  aliciajazmin (GwenTosh | complete | 2637 | T)

Gwen and Tosh travel with the Doctor through time and space, taking a break from Torchwood. Gwen decides to bring along her pet rat Owen (not to be confused with Human Owen). Also, Gwen and Tosh are desperately in love with each other.

Lost Inside by Xennon (Gen | complete |  36,642 | T)

The team go in search of some smugglers.

A Vision Too Removed to Mention by Pocky_Slash (Gwen&Ianto | complete |  13920 | T)

In which Ianto is stuck in a time loop that feels more like hell.

Club Wales by Pocky_Slash (Gwen&Ianto | Series |  69,530 | G-T)

 In the wake of Jack's disappearance, Gwen finds comfort in a new friendship with Ianto. Gossip, bonding, and other hijinks of understanding ensue.

To the Waters and the Wilds by Violetmessages (GwenTosh, JackIanto | complete | 13190 | T)

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Tosh whirled around. She’d thought she was alone, she’d expected it.

Then she locked eyes with the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen, a woman who seemed to radiate an ethereal glow, a woman that emanated an otherworldly light.

Cold Pizza by  Eberesche (GwenRhys, Gwen&Ianto | complete | 4767 | T)

With Jack missing and the Rift running the team ragged, Gwen's plans for a single night in are foiled.

Safe by DinoDina (GwenToshRhys, GwenRhys | complete |  1191 | G)

After the cannibals, Gwen doesn't go home with Owen. She rides back to Cardiff — back to Rhys — in an ambulance with Tosh.

Dead on Arrival by violetmessages (JackIanto, GwenRhys | complete | 13582 | M)

Ianto Jones wakes up. The only problem is, he's certain he was dead.

You Won’t Be Seeing Us Today (You Won’t Be Seeing Us in Hell) by Beleriandings (GwenRhys, JackIanto, Gwen&Ianto | complete | 11141 | T)

One day, Syriath took Gwen's voice. She should have realised Gwen wouldn't stand for that.

Girly Night In by Mathemagician (GwenTosh | complete | 1088 | T)

The girls and Ianto have a night in. Gwen figures something out about herself.

For the Torchwood Femslash Fest prompt "Sexual Identity"

This Earth is Empty Without You (But the Grave is Not) by violetmessages (Gwen&Ianto, GwenRhys, JackIanto | complete | 1036 | G)

Ianto Jones' funeral happens on a perfectly sunny day. Gwen hates every minute of it.

In a Polaroid Picture by innocent_until_proven_geeky (GwenTosh, GwenRhys, Gwen&Jack | complete | 2176 | G)

Gwen finds a photo of her and Tosh, and remembers.

Exit Protocol by Beleriandings (GwenTosh | complete | 6139 | G)

Not long after the deaths of Tosh and Owen, Gwen gets a message from an unnamed user on the Hub system. That really shouldn't happen. And yet, there it is.

To the Sticking Place by zephyras (JackIanto, GwenRhys, OwenTosh, MarthaMickey | complete |  96433 | M)

The end justifies the means. Failure is not an option. There is always a choice, except when there isn't. These are the phrases Ianto Jones lives by and he refuses to allow anyone, even Captain Jack Harkness, to change that. Jack/Ianto, AU, Torchwood One Agent!Ianto.

These Happy Days by Violetmessages (GwenRhys, JackIanto, Gwen&Ianto, GwenJackIantoRhys | series |  16,777 | G-T)

A series of non-chronological stories in which Ianto miraculously survives CoE in some fashion and Torchwood Three (plus Rhys and Anwen) settle down near the seaside.

Piece it Together by Beleriandings (JackIato, Gwen&Ianto | complete |  3442 | T)

Gwen realises that for all they talk, she's never asked Ianto about how he and Jack got together before. The answer is a lot more complicated than she was expecting.

Respite by Beleriandings (Gwen&Ianto, JackIanto, GwenRhys | complete |  2590 | G)

Even by their usual standards, Gwen thought it was absolutely fair to say it had been a rough week.

Dancing in the Midnight Garden by Fionn_sgeul (Gen | complete |  17660 | G)

In which Gwyneth the Maid and Gwen Cooper are the same person, Jack meets someone else whose life was completely turned around by the Doctor, and Torchwood is invaded by garden gnomes

Don’t You Know For Years You’ve Haunted Me by Virtualsilver (GwenRhys, JackIanto | complete | 12083 | T)

Gwen has inherited a recessive trait that has lurked in her ancestors' blood for generations: she is prescient. She can see flashes of where the timeline is heading and can feel when something - or someone - changes it.

She tries to use her foreknowledge to change events for the better, but securing the outcome of her interventions proves to be a challenge.

He Really Loves That Coat by DracoPendragon (JackIanto | complete | 585 | G)

It was quiet when Gwen entered the Hub that Monday morning. And the sight that greeted her was not one she’d expected, but wasn't one she minded seeing.

Sink Your Feet into the Mud (and I’ll Return) by violetmessages (Gwen&Ianto, GwenRhys, JackIanto | complete | 3404 | G)

What if she could bring Ianto back?

It’s a dangerous idea. It’s got the potential to be catastrophic. But Gwen is all out of options. She’s surrounded by the graves of the people she loves, abandoned, save for her husband, and she refuses to let her best friend go without a fight.

Painted in the Sand (To be Washed Away) by moonlightrhosyn (Gwen&Ianto, GwenRhys | complete | 1992 | T)

Gwen could still see their bodies every time she closed her eyes.

This is Me Trying by gwendolyncooper (GwenRhys, Gwen&Tosh, GwenOwen | WIP | 2524 | T)

“Sometimes you do stupid things to try and cope, to get a sense of normalcy, to make all this chaos and the Rift and space and aliens and the things we see make sense. Stupid, horrible things that should never have happened, and they come back ‘round to bite you again, and--” “What happened, Gwen?” Tosh’s prodding is soft and careful, but it speaks the glaring truth they both know - Gwen is stalling, talking around the issue at hand. Verdant eyes flash upwards with a startling intensity now, wide and filling with unshed tears again, the special agent’s plush lips pressed into a trembling line as she attempts to retain a semblance of control over her emotions. “I told Rhys about Owen.”

Fourty-Eight Hour Stand-Down by pocky_slash (JackIanto, GwenRhys | complete | 2740 | G)

"You and Ianto had a domestic," Gwen guesses. Jack scowls at her. In which Jack is kicked out, Gwen just wants a night off, Rhys buys milk, and Ianto clears table space.

Ret-comp (Retroactive Compensation) by reiley (LisaIanto | complete | 499 | T)

The phone. The one that could call any place or any time in the whole universe. The one Jack had locked away and warned them all that it was never to be used.

Any Other Day by Amand_R (JackIanto, JackGwen, GwenRhys | complete | 84055 | complete| NR) 

Hey, this one time? At Torchwood? Gwen and Jack switched bodies and everything went pear-shaped.

Space Tripping (in spaaaaace!) by Princessoftheworlds (JackIanto, IantoOther, GwenRhys, Gwen&Ianto | complete |  5115 |T)

Gwen and Ianto road trip across space - space trip, get high, shop, have a light existential crisis, face grief, and get massages - not all necessarily in that order.

Empty Chairs by princessoftheworlds (Gwen&Ianto | complete | 412 | G)

Gwen tends to Ianto's wound.

Forever, And What Comes After by Violetmessages (JackIanto, GwenRhys | Complete | 10028 | T)

“Hm, imagine if they did,” Ianto said. “Torchwood would have to come out of retirement.”

In which Gwen and Ianto relax at a spa, Jack and Rhys attempt bad science, and Anwen is just along for the ride.

One In The Same by Violetmessages (Gwen&Ianto, GwenRhys | Complete | 1638 | T)

Ianto, Gwen thinks. Her best friend would never turn her away, and maybe she can sleep on his couch for the night. Perhaps by the morning she’ll be okay again.

Wastin’ Away In Margaritaville by Paycheckgurl (Gwen&Ianto, JackIanto, GwenRhys, Gwen&Jack | Complete | 1419 | T)

Jack’s bad coping mechanism is agreeing to be a surrogate for an alien spawn baby. Gwen’s is at the bottom of a bottle.

Big Finish: Expectant from Gwen’s POV

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

Do you have any stories or figures, etc. (of your creation OR already existent) that you'd like to see adapted into an opera? Who'd the dream cast be and what would it look like, sound like?

I have two stories I wrote in high school that I'd love to see as operas:

For Every Spring--short story about a mother and daughter during the Reign of Terror

Madeleine: Ying Fang

The Mother: Joyce DiDonato

sparse unit set, cross between music of the time period and a quintessential French Romantic style

The Last Testament of a "Monstrous" Condemned Woman-- prison flashback story about rediscovering art, burglary, and murderous arson

The Woman: Marina Rebeka

The Investigator: Gerald Finley

not sure about who to play the smaller characters, it's set at an unspecified point in the mid-to-late 1800s, so look reflects that, sound kinda reflects that but I also envision it as Korngold/Expressionist-esque

(the full text of both stories is below. please keep in mind that these are both at least three and a half years old):

For Every Spring:

March 19, 1794, evening.

“Go on now. Do it.”

The woman’s voice filled her daughter’s ears with that simple command. The daughter was standing with a pair of scissors in one hand, staring into a mirror hung on the otherwise bare wooden wall. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Mama, how much more can this revolution take from me?”

Her mother could hear her daughter’s weariness and despair, and for a moment, felt pity for her, but steeled herself. “You must do it. There is nothing left for me. But perhaps you could still escape.”

“I don’t want to go without you.”

“You must. There is no way I could escape… the revolutionary leaders know me too well. But they wouldn’t recognize you if you dressed in an urchin boy’s rags and had a dirty face.” Mother glanced at her daughter’s shining blonde hair that went almost halfway down her back again and sighed. “The hair, though. In order to look like a boy, you have to cut off your hair. If they see long hair, they’d suspect you’re hiding something…” She shivered. “And they would investigate, and it wouldn’t end well for you.”

“But what if I pulled it back? Tucked it in under my hat?”

“It could fall down. And if they took your hat off and saw a bunch of pulled-back hair…”

“I know, but other than you, my hair is my one joy left.”

“It’ll grow back.”

The young woman paused. She fell into a swirl of memories: how her father had loved her long golden hair, how when she was little, he would toy with it and tell her it was more beautiful than any princess’s, and finally, how the Reign of Terror had brutally claimed him, just like it was about to claim her mother.

Her mother went on, “Your life is more important…” Knowing her daughter was still hesitant, she took the scissors out of her daughter’s hand. “Now hold up your hair so I can cut it.”

The daughter obliged, but at the same time, a single tear trickled down her pale cheek.

Snip.

The first cut, like a dagger to the heart.

Snip-snip-snip-snip-snip…

In just a few minutes, the deed was done. The girl’s long golden locks were scattered all over the bare floor.

Mother turned her around and gazed into the girl’s eyes. She slowly whispered, “You look just like Papa…”

The tears her daughter had tried to hold back burst forth in her grief, and she collapsed in the middle of the cut-off locks of hair, weeping.

“I lost Papa, and now I must lose you! Why must I lose everyone and everything that brings me any happiness?”

The woman took her daughter in her arms as outside in the streets, people cried, “Vive la révolution! Vive Robespierre!” She said, almost under her breath, “You haven’t lost your life like I will tomorrow. You can make it out of the country, and you will, I know. Don’t stay to see me die, or you will too. Remember the plan?”

“Wear the peasant rags. I’ve done that,” she broke off, gesturing at the clothes she was now wearing. She quickly continued, “Dirty your face in the soot. Take the sack of bread, cheese, and money and leave under cover of night. Tell the guards at the city gates that your name is Raoul, and you’re going to see your sick aunt in Calais. Go to Calais; tell the guards there that you’re going to London to see your uncle. Get to London somehow- stow away on a ship if you must, and start over again. Without your mother who cares for you and wants nothing more than-“ She stopped, momentarily unwilling to recite the last part of the instructions her mother had drilled into her head.

But she took a slow, deep breath and finished,“To go with you, but she must be with you from afar, not by your side.” Her body shook with her sobs.

“Yes,” her mother replied. Now she was crying too. “But take heart, my child, and remember I love you more than the sun and the moon and the stars and the whole world.” She sighed. “Madeleine…”

“Yes, Mama?”

“I wish it didn’t have to end this way.”

“Me too.”

Now it was raining outside, and it was dark. The only light came from the half-moon shimmering in the black sky. It was silent now except for their weeping.

At last, Madeleine said, “It’s raining. See? The sky is crying because of your death.”

“No,” her mother firmly replied, not wanting to hear of any pity. “The sky is not crying- not for me, not for you, not for anyone. It is merely raining, my child. Spring is coming, don’t you remember?”

“Yes, but for every spring…” Madeleine did not dare say the second part of the saying she had heard about spring.

Mama sighed and finished it for her, “A winter melts away.” She shivered and continued, “I am the winter. I have lived a long life, I am old, I am about to die.”

Madeleine wept.

“But you- you are the spring, so young, so beautiful, with such a bright future ahead. Go and live. Do not stay to see me die.”

Madeleine, still crying, sat by her mother, and her mother took her into her arms. They held on to each other, not wanting to ever let go, though they both knew inside that sometime, they would have to let go of each other- forever.

At last, Mother whispered, “Go, my child.” She let go.

Madeleine grabbed the sack and was almost out the window before she looked back at her mother for the last time. She whispered, “I love you, Mama.”

The response, softly spoken through quiet tears, was simple. “I love you too. Goodbye.”

Madeleine slipped out the window.

Some time later, a church bell chimed midnight. “The beginning of a new day, a new spring. Today is the first day of spring,” she thought.

At last, she whispered into the air, to her daughter, wherever she was now,

“For every spring, a winter melts away. But please, Madeleine, do not think about the winter melting… ”

The Last Testament of A "Monstrous" Condemned Woman:

“The Venetian government sent me here.”

The man faced me, with a look that could best be described as a mix of utter contempt and bewildered curiosity, but still managing to be very official, on his face.

“Why? Do they usually do this to prisoners awaiting their imminent execution?”

“No,” he replied very sharply. “They sent me here because even after the questioning and your trial, they still do not understand why you did everything that you did. And your crimes- they are sensational, to say the least. Your trial had the whole city in an uproar. And, mia piccina,” he added with disdain, “that is a very hard thing to do in such a city as Venice. So before you are executed at dawn, they want to know why-why you caused such destruction so heartlessly, why you took so many lives like a hardened assassin.”

“Heartless? A hardened assassin?” I just managed to get out the words. “No, no. You do not understand. The reason I did not talk is because they would not listen. They saw a monster. That is all they saw, just like I know you see me now.”

“Do you not want to preserve your own story before you die?”

His words startled me. And then I realized it: This is my only chance to show them that I am no monster.

“Very well, then,” I replied. “I will tell you everything.”

Without looking at me, he reached into his bag, pulling out a notepad and a pen and setting the pad on his lap. After that, with eyes still averted, he told me, “You talk, I take notes. Begin now, for dawn will come before long.”

“I was born in the English countryside, the only child of a scholar who had come into some wealth thanks to his marriage to the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in all England. Throughout my childhood, I was constantly exposed to all sorts of wonderful thoughts and books and ideas because many scholars would come and share their thoughts on every subject imaginable. My father was always one of the ones who talked the most- he knew so much, and he always wanted to learn more, to discover more-”

“Will you please stop wasting time and get to the point?”

“That was just what I was doing,” I snapped back. “Anyway, he was very ambitious. As time went on, I became more interested in art than anything else. I could not draw, paint, or sculpt to save my life, but I marveled at its beauty, the way some people were just able to recreate something out there in the world, and I wanted to understand how they did it. And there was another aspect of it, too, that fascinated me: there would be scholars that came from Paris, from Rome, from the Netherlands to share these great lost artworks that they had rediscovered, and to tell how they had become renowned for finding these artworks, how the art would be preserved for eternity and so would they, for the simple reason that after all these years, they had found these masterpieces and given them new life. And I? I wanted to do just that too.”

At that moment, I noticed him hurriedly writing, trying to keep up with everything I was saying.

“I can wait for you to finish writing,” I offered.

He nodded, and for several seconds, I said nothing as he finished his notes.

“So what does this have to do with you coming to Venice?” he eventually asked.

“Well, the time came when my father passed away. When he died, he left his entire estate to me, including all of the books in his library. I had never seen many of them- he never let me read them, because they were too precious. But he promised me that when I inherited the estate, I could read as many of the books as I wished.”

“Those books,” I continued, “became my way of healing from the grief. To read the same books that my father had studied from somehow felt like a way of being near him, and that eased the pain. I spent almost every waking hour exploring the library, reading and then reading some more.”

I paused, and a thought shot through me: This is the moment you set down this road of sorrow. I shook it off though, and went on:

“One night, I was browsing through the shelves when I came across a set of eight dusty old books. They were all about Italian artists from the Late Middle Ages and the Renaissance. I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They had a massive effect on me, but not for the reason you think.”

“Well then, what was the reason?”

“The front cover of each book had a most interesting thing written in it. Together, they seemed to make up a series of instructions for finding a lost artwork. And those instructions were thus:

‘The city of the winged lion has many secrets yet to give up,

Including one by one not older, but younger.

A fire blazing in the Palazzo Ducale

Took the lives of many masterpieces,

And this was thought to be one of them.

But a saint still lives, preserved in that palace,

Old but still preserved, and still preserving,

Francesco’s St. Jerome writes, though he is asleep, and does not die!’

Now I knew enough to know this: the city of the winged lion is Venice, and the fire was the great Doge’s Palace fire in the late 1500s. The “younger” was almost certainly Palma il Giovane, who was the great-nephew of Palma Vecchio, a good enough painter, and who painted extensively for a Francesco, Duke Francesco Maria II of Urbino. It was known that Palma had painted St. Jerome for Francesco, but everyone assumed that the painting had been lost. And as soon as I figured all of this out, I thought, ‘What if this could be the great discovery I have hoped to make?’ You understand, I was very ambitious, and at that moment I resolved to find it, no matter what.”

“Let me get this straight. You pieced together some handwritten sentences, thought overly hard about their implications, and decided to go and do whatever it took to get this precious painting?”

“Exactly.”

“You are British, yes? You are just like Lady Macbeth! You get a hint of an idea, and you murder anyone who stands in the way of you!”

“No. I never planned on murdering anyone, I swear! Now if you would just be quiet, I would get to that!”

Silence. I shook my head, and went on:

“The next day, with nothing but two hundred pounds, a sack of food and water, and the instructions copied onto a sheet- you see, I wasn’t planning on staying in Venice- I left home, and went to London. And from there I traveled on, first to Le Havre, then to Paris-”

“No one needs to know your travel itinerary.”

At that moment, a church bell chimed twice.

“It’s summer, and dawn will be here before too long,” the man advised. “Now I suggest you stop wasting your last hours and skip to you getting to Venice and exactly why you did what you did here. You don’t have much time left to tell your story, you know.” He seemed not so much impatient now as considerate, as if he were genuinely interested in what I was telling him.

“Fine. Anyway, I arrived in Venice, and I immediately set out for the Doge’s Palace. When I got there, it took me forever to find the painting, especially because I had no idea what it actually would look like. No one knew anything about the dimensions or the medium or what it looked like because it had been lost for so long. But everyone was saying that it had been called a masterpiece in its day, that it would be a major find. And that was what kept me going during those hard days and nights of searching. And at last, I found it inside one of the private rooms once used by the Doges of Venice.”

“So you found it. Congratulations. And how did you get here?”

“I wanted to return home, to my books, and bring the painting with me. I was planning to study the painting and only then reveal to the world what I found. But there was a problem, one I had not anticipated.”

“And what was that, mia piccina?” He no longer said it condescendingly, but as if he genuinely cared about everything I had gone through.

“I had no money left, no money to return home, and no way of getting any money, or at least, I did not think I had a way of getting any money.”

I shuddered with remorse now, thinking of where I had gotten the idea.

“Later on, I was roaming the streets, thinking about what I could do in order to get back home. At first, I was thinking of begging, but I thought that was weak. I am not a victim, and I would not allow myself to be weak like that. And then, I saw a jewelry house, with many fine jewels in the windows, the most and the finest diamonds by far I had ever seen! And the store- it was called the Salvadori Diamond Atelier, I believe- was not even guarded! Even though it had all these wonderful jewels worth thousands, thousands of pounds, I tell you!” I cried.

His brows had furrowed, and I knew what he was thinking now.

“Sir, sir, I feel so much remorse for this, it’s true, but when I saw all those lovely diamonds, I could not help but think, ‘This is my way to get money, to go home at last and someday show the world what I have accomplished, and fulfill my ambition.’ And I resolved to steal as many diamonds as I could that very night, so I could sell them for money.”

No, no, no. I cannot bear to tell this… but all of Venice already knows this…and I must tell this…oh God, but it haunts me so much…

My face must have gone pale, because the man asked, “Are you ill? Do you need to rest?”

“No, I just feel so, so guilty and horrified by what I am about to tell you…” I took a deep breath. “But I must tell you anyway.”

“That night, it happened to be a new moon, and the full darkness of the sky covered me. I felt so confident that everything would go according to plan. I would get in, take some diamonds, and leave Venice at once.”

“And indeed,” I continued, “at first, everything went according to plan. There was a door in the back, a very small door, that had been left unlocked. I slipped inside and slowly felt my way into the shop until I found the glass cases. And that was the point when things started going awry: I had found a pin, and since I had been taught how to trick a lock using a pin, I thought that I could simply use the pin, unlock the case, and stuff the jewels inside my bag. But the pin did not work- I don’t know whether the lock was very special or whether I just performed the trick wrong. It wouldn’t open though, so I had to resort to smashing the glass.”

“Let me guess,” he said, looking up from his notes. “Someone heard, and started shouting for the police?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know, because of how concentrated I was on my work, although that is probably it. But in any case, the police arrived, and in that moment, I realized that if I was caught, then I would be arrested and likely never return to England again. And I also realized that there was no way for me to make it to that small door unseen. But there was still another option.”

“What was it?” Now he was leaning forward.

I panicked inside. Please, I want to go back in time somehow, make it so I never did this, so that I never caused so much pain, which I never wanted to do…

“There was a small oil lamp with a flame inside the case, some wood that had broken off the case frame, and a jar of oil. And I realized that a fire would cause confusion, during which I could possibly escape. So,” I shut my eyes and said as fast as possible, “I poured the oil onto the wood, dropped the lamp on top, yelled ‘You will die before you discover me!’, and ran out of the shop, to the streets, and as I ran, I saw the whole building burst into flames and I heard screams, screams of officers burning, burning to death. Those screams, they haunt me still, even after all these weeks in prison and in court. And I smelled their flesh burning, and I relished it at first, knowing I had made it out.” And I realized I was shaking, and yes, starting to feel sick.

“But you seem so full of pain and remorse now,” the man said, confused.

“Just a few minutes later, I ran into another officer. The sight of him made me realize what I had done- I had killed innocent men just for money…” I was crying now, but I knew I still had to finish. So I continued, “At that moment, my conscience overwhelmed me for the first time ever, and I started weeping, just as I am now, and started screaming about how I had burned a group of officers in the Salvadori Diamond Atelier to death. The officer was confused, but I led him there, and showed him- the burning building, the people screaming, the firemen bringing out the bodies of dead officers. And then he arrested me right then and there.”

I fell silent. I have nothing left to say.

The man looked at me. “Do you have anything else you want to tell me?”

Through my tears, I choked out, “No, the rest of the story, you already know it…the trial, my sentencing to death…I just want it all to end. I never wanted any of this, and now I just want it to end, to spare the world any more horror I could cause…You see, the world is right- I am a monster…” Again, I fell silent.

“It is a strange thing, life,” he observed. “So many times, good people are driven to do unspeakable things which they never would have dreamed of doing except in the moment they did them. And for that, they are unjustly called monsters, for that one black blemish in an otherwise good life, and they are condemned to eternal damnation in the minds of the world, to be forever called a monster. Most of the time, the condemned do not speak.”

The cell door opened.

“Dawn breaks,” the jailer said. “And with it, your monstrous life ends.”

“-But you have broken the silence. You are very brave and strong to do that. That man will soon realize, like the rest of the world will, like I already know, that you are not a monster.”

“Now I must leave, for the hour of your death has come. Remember, you might die to expiate what the world has labeled you a monster for, but soon, your legacy will be realized for what it actually is. Go. Hold your head high. You have suffered much, but you do not deserve to suffer forever, and you will not suffer forever. Goodbye, mia piccina.”

And with that, he left. I rose, and surrendered to the jailer.

That black blemish he spoke of, I thought to myself as I walked with the jailer, will never be excusable. But it is not everything I am. And the world will know it is not everything I am.

Suddenly emboldened by this thought, I raised my head and held it high.

I know that I will find redemption somehow, for the world cannot truthfully say now that this is all I am. For I have said otherwise.

Now I am ready to die.

[oncejaw]

@gerichteter​ said: "Marcel," A hand shoots skyward, waving with juvenile enthusiasm. As soon as he spots his friend, he darts away from the loose throng of trainees he has been chatting with. Bertholdt is already taller than most children, no matter how many years their junior. They are worked hard, one and all, and it is only going to get harder: a bunch of hopefuls stumbling blindly through a muddy field with someone firing live ammo over their heads. There are so few moments of light for them, half their childhood already forfeited as they compete to sell the rest of their lifespan, too. But in darkness, in bloodshed and toil, trust children to find the means to play. Bertholdt, too, keeps a crudely packaged bundle under his arm. He comes to a stop before Marcel and proudly sticks out the present he was carrying around all morning. "Happy birthday, to many more!" The words stumble out of his eager mouth too fast. What he presses in Marcel's arms is no bundle at all but a ball. Something that resembles a ball. Tied with strings, wrapped again and again with cloth, stitched haphazardly by a child's fingers, it is slightly lumpy, slightly unfortunate, and nothing like the polished smooth toys they might glimpse in the windows of Liberio's stores on their long trek home. Still, Bertholdt beams, unaware, bravely smiling in the face of his shortcomings. "It's not quite round but it bounces really well. For football. You said you'd show Porco and me how to play if we had a ball, so I made one for us."  (inbox)

-------------- When grown-ups call his name, Marcel always stands at attention, stiff and stern; reminiscent of the big scary-looking dogs some of the soldiers in Liberio wander around with at their heel. When the voice is a few pitches higher, betrays youth and kinship, the attitude is different; more akin to a labrador, Marcel perks up, full attention dedicated to the little boy or little girl asking for assistance or mere presence, tail wagging with either concern or excitement. When he spots Bertholdt parting from the group, he trots up to him, happy smile etched on his face as though he hasn’t seen his friend in weeks (it has been less than twelve hours). Before he can say anything, little Bertholdt pulls the rug from under his feet, surprises him with a youthful grin, rejoiced wishes, and a proud present. Marcel’s heart swells in his chest, and his smile widens across his lips. Of course he knows Bertholdt is a smart little boy - still, he had not expected him to remember the exact date, much less plan for it. 

Nobody owns much, in Liberio. One makes do with what one has, works tirelessly til fingers bleed for minimal results - handiwork and craftsmanship hold more value here than anything else. Bertholdt’s gift is invaluable. A glimmer of happiness, a promise of fun in the grim reality of the hungry maw they call their home, bred for the slaughter - a reminder that they are still, in spite of Marley’s best attempts to beat it out of them, children. That Bertholdt has put so much care and effort and thoughtfulness in making this ball because he remembered a promise he’d made; besides the ball itself, what Bertholdt gifts him is a way of making true to his pledge, and the promise of happier times with his two best friends - and his two brothers. It’s not even like Marcel is an expert at football - more like he’s a quick learner, and observed and mimicked soldiers he saw on their breaks. It’s not even that he really knows the rules - those they can make up as they go. What matters is the game, and the play, and the time shared and torn from Marley’s greedy hands. Play, inside these walls, is an act of rebellion, one Marcel clings to as one does to oxygen. Does Bertholdt even realise what he’s putting in his hands is a little revolution? 

“You made it?” Marcel repeats, amber eyes wide with awe and excitement. Marcel drops the ball, catches it with his foot, watches it bounce back up into the air and catches it with his hands again. A perfectly fine ball, if you ask him! “Bertl, it’s perfect!” Exhilarated, the oldest of the two boys slings his arm around the youngest’s shoulders, higher than they ought to be, but who cares, and ruffles the boy’s dark hair with outpours of affection in grinning eyes. Cheeks flushed with excitement and gratitude, and an odd emotion he can not quite name (perhaps emotion is enough of a word, after all). “You’ll have to tell me how you did it, yeah? Oh, and as a thank you...” He leans in closer, mischevious little conspirator. “... want me to show you a few tricks so you can impress Porco too?” 

[arch-venus25]

The Head and the Heart, Part 4

Hello everyone,

I submitted this for @just-the-hiddles‘s The Damnit Jim, I’m A Vampire, Not A Landlord Fic Frenzy.

This chapter is less action heavy, but just as important. Thanks for hanging in there and reading!

Series Masterlist: The Head and The Heart

Summary: The twins are taking a night off from their graduate studies-- or at least Tessa is; her twin sister, Antha, is just trying to keep her out of trouble. What starts as a night of good old-fashioned fun and flirting quickly changes as they find themselves at the doorstep of the Hollow House Bed and Breakfast.

Characters: OFCs Antha and Tessa King, original characters/vampires

WARNINGS: 18+ for suggestive themes and violence, cursing, implied drug use, implied rape, stressful/scary situations, vampires, and characters with incredible hair-- you’ve been warned. Read at your own discretion.

Word Count: 3812

Part Four: The Aftermath

           The weathered professor seemed very confused but stood her ground and insisted, “Miss King, take the summer off.”

           “I just need a week, that’s all—and then I’ll get the methodology section to you—Dr. Watts I just need another week, please!” Antha pushed back. Dr. Watts set her glasses on her desk and then waved her over to a deep-tufted-leather sofa.

           “Antha,” her voice lowered, “I’ve known you for what—five years? You don’t become a valedictorian because you don’t like to write. You have been moody these past few weeks, you barely passed the final exam, and you’ve pushed back the thesis methodology three times. Last class, you were so distracted I would have rather you skipped. I know you, talk to me, what’s going on?”

           “My sister and I had a Friday night out with some friends and something happened.” Antha murmured, staring down at her feet.

           “Friday nights aren’t what they used be; did you hear about the fight that broke out at that dive bar off of—oh, what’s it called? You know the place—well, it was all over the news,” she paused gravely, “you weren’t there were you?”

           The twin nodded slowly. She felt overwhelmed in front of her advisor. She pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut before replying. “Tessa’s date got into a fight with an old flame, it was a whole thing. But after…” She couldn’t continue. The advisor took her hand gently.

           “Did someone hurt you?”

           Antha’s eyes welled and all she could do was stare. As if she said the words out loud, it would become more true than it already was. The doctor’s forehead wrinkled as her brows gathered together. Having lived through the revolutions of the sixties and the proceeding struggle for equality, Dr. Watts knew the dangers women faced. She didn’t need an answer; she just wanted to offer shelter to a young woman. She knew just from looking at her student that whatever happened, it was beyond words.

           “You’re taking the summer and fall semester off—or at the very least take the summer off and go to a student counselor; its free, it comes with your tuition, so please use it. If you need anything you know you and your sister can come to me.” She wrote down her personal number and one for the counselors’ office. Antha held the little shred of stationary. She promised she would do just that.

        Shortly after, she left her advisor’s office and floated through the campus green and then waited by the bus stop. Her feet told her she was going home, yet her attention was somewhere far away. What can I say to a counselor? Who would understand what we saw at Hollow House? Without realizing, she had retrieved something from her pocket; she stared dumfounded at the pewter-colored iris that gleamed back.

        Antha couldn’t get rid of it. But in a moment of frustration, she chucked the marble-like eye into a nearby drain. She returned to her spot and tried to focus on scheduling a counselor. Moving forward, that’s what I need, she figured.

        A familiar wheezing crawled up the street. The sluggishness of a muffler that had seen better days filled her ears as she dazed at the phone number-laden scrap paper.  “—Antha!” Someone yelled. To her surprise she peered up to see Doug hanging out of his rusty Buick, looking just as timid as ever. He seemed anxious, for what reason she didn’t know. “I’ve been calling your name. You’ve gone deaf ol’ girl—you want a ride?” He asked with forced humor in his voice. She watched him blankly as his expression fell. “You alright?”

        Antha thought about it and suddenly felt stupid. All of her gusto about moving forward had evaporated; she lamely shook her head like a weary child. She felt like a little girl in a world that was too big for her. It all just seemed too much.

        The July swelter didn’t let up even with the windows down. The two didn’t speak as they made their way to their favorite pizza joint. Thrilled to be out of the unairconditioned Buick’s steel embrace, they collapsed into the far back booth of the pizzeria. All the servers knew it was Doug and Antha’s spot; they habitually kept it clean and empty, knowing they would eventually roll in. They made it to the “golden hour”. The sacred three hours between the lunch and dinner rush. It was their favorite time.

        “Whatchas want?” The straggly blue-haired waitress chewed her bubblegum like a goat.

        “The usual—uh hold on—when did you eat last?” Doug asked. Antha shrugged and realized she didn’t know. She couldn’t even think that far back. “Can we get a double order of the usual? But make two of them to-go?” The waitress didn’t even answer as she went to get drinks. “You want to talk about it?”

           “Nope. I said everything already.” Antha wasn’t mad at him, she was just tired. She was more annoyed that he would ask about the matter and then dispute the realism of what she explained. Doug grumbled when the waitress slopped the pitcher and straws down, vanilla coke-a-cola splashing everywhere.

           “—Hey, don’t we get like a punch-card or something? You know, for every hundred pizzas we buy, we get the next one free?” He politely suggested, his way of being confrontational. He was growing exasperated with the women in his life; he didn’t mind taking it from his close friends, Zoey and the twins, but he was having none of this waitress. She paused, chewed her gum, and left again.

           “Whoa, cool off killer,” Antha snarked, her spirits lifting with each sip of her fountain soda. She looked him over and thought on their friendship for a moment as he griped about that one particular server.

        Doug was a shy, lanky, ginger-bearded young man. He was passionate about things and supportive of the people he loved, but didn’t reserve much attention for the people outside of that parameter. He lived in vintage band t-shirts, had friendly light eyes, and a funny smile. No one could resist his unkempt wolfish hair or his corny sense of humor; he had a way of growing on a person. But he always showed up, his guitar in tow. That’s why Antha didn’t fight him when he asked about that night; she knew he actually cared and was trying his best to understand. He couldn’t help her though. No one could help.

        “How about we hang out this weekend, do a barbeque? Nobody grills a burger like you—and Tessa can make her sangria, huh, what do you think?” He tried to turn the conversation to open her up.

        “Uhh… I don’t know. I can’t plan that far ahead, I’m real busy.” She declined. The sausage pizzas arrived faster than expected and Doug dropped slices on their plates.

        “Busy yeah? Mmm-hmmm,” he bit into his slice, cheese tangling in his five o’clock shadow, “busy not writing your thesis, not eating, and not sleeping? Ant, the last time I saw you eat was a few days ago when I brought pizza over. You gonna talk to me?”

        Antha sighed loudly and glared at him. She was worn-through with the people in her life too. I’m too tired for this shit, she thought. She pushed her plate forward and abandoned her half-eaten slice. He saw her mild protest and his cheeks tinged pink. They silently stared each other down, him chewing as loud as he could manage while she obnoxiously slurped her soda in reply.

        Before they could hash out their issues a patron burst through the front entrance. “Hey—hic—you seen Ant? Where she at? The back?” Tessa was hiccupping and talking all sorts of loud, like she was in a club on a Saturday night. “Oh hey girls!” She pointed at the staff and sashayed herself to the booth; her bedazzled sandals slapping the linoleum like a jackhammer in the quiet place. The front door jingled again and in rushed Zoey.

        “I’m sorry,” she apologized to the front of the house and then chased after Tessa. “I picked her up because she was texting me weird messages—I thought I could calm her down with something to eat.” She explained to the table as she took a seat next to Doug.

        “I already ate today.” Tessa insisted, sliding in next to her sister and almost toppling over a pizza.

        “Oh yeah, what did you have for lunch?” Doug asked, his patience wearing thin.

        “GIN and uh—” she had to think about it but excitedly rebounded, “and uh water ice. Breakfast of champions!” Tessa thought she was quite funny, regardless how everyone else disagreed.

        “How about we have a little slice of pi—” Doug pandered but she wasn’t going to hear any of it.

        “Now who would put sausage on a pizza? Oh, no. I have enough meat in my life—you know what I’m sayin’ Zo—you feel me?” She howled.

        “That’s cute.” Doug’s patience officially went on vacation as of that second. He tore the sausage off some of the pie and then thrust the mangled slice in front of the drunk twin. “There ya’ go, just cheese—And you eat your damn slice too! This has gone on long enough—we’re going to have a barbeque and chill like we always do! It’s Fourth of July this weekend, did you know that?” He directed at the other twin.

        “This white boy’s hollering at you, oh lord…” Tessa cackled; her cheese dripped down the side of the table as she reached for some ice chips from an empty cup. Zoey was mortified and motioned to Antha for help, her friend was out of control.

        “Yeah—well this boy’s about tired of this foolishness! I don’t know all of what’s happened that night, but neither one of you will talk to me about it! Ant you’ve been practically dead, a walking zombie for three weeks—and Tessa, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, what the hell has gotten into you?”

        “Gin.” She giggled.

        “Hey Katy? Can we get all this to go, with some two liters?” He yelled across the full length of the restaurant.

        Zoey handled the food transport as Doug buckled the twins into his car. He mumbled to himself, “…goddamn vampires my ass…” as he cleared his fogging glasses. Tessa began to mildly complain about the heat when the car stopped at a red light. They all noticed a young man struggling to get into a car at the gas station across the way.

        “Is that José?” She whispered. They witnessed his mother trying to steady him, juggling his crutches and searching for a spot on him that wasn’t bandaged. Adorned in a neck brace, shoulder sling, full posterior elbow splint, and full left leg cast. Poor José appeared like he faced-off with a combine. Doug glared at the girls in his rear-view mirror. The light turned green and not another word was said.

        He parked the Buick under the tree closest to the house and got the girls inside. Zoey did the same and brought the provisions to the shaded porch. It was too hot to do anything other than sit around by the fan or stay in the AC. Tessa went to her room when they got in; she felt awful about what she had seen at the gas station.

        They worked together to set up the tall pedestal fan on the porch, because the porch fan just couldn’t combat Mother Nature alone. They were in the midst of dawdling about when Antha accidentally fell asleep on the porch swing while Doug played the guitar. Zoey elicited his help inside to leave Antha to nap. The two were shocked with the state of things.

        Momma’s house was a frightful mess. They never saw it in its condition before: Dishes with dust, articles of clothing haphazardly dropped, laundry either half started or half done, it was difficult to tell. “Momma would roll over, I swear…” Zoey whispered. They agreed to tidy up while the twins rested, lest Momma rise up and haunt them. That woman was meticulous and was not above coming back from the grave to tell everyone what’s-what.

        As if life had been frozen in time from the month prior. The twin’s incident hit like a meteor and their friends now saw the wreckage. While they hadn’t admitted it out loud, they had stopped living too; obsessed with what happened that night at Hollow House. Grasping for a truth that they couldn’t reach.

        The overloaded dishwasher whined as it cycled and it reminded Doug of seeing José, busted up and struggling. That’s what really happens after a bar-brawl. There’s always a winner and always a loser. He half-heartedly swept the floor and thought to himself: these are the parts they edit from movies. The aftermath. The guns, the glory, the blood all made the cut; but the estranged motions we go through to try and find the thread leading back to our lives doesn’t. These are the quiet moments without answers, like loose ends dangling.

        Zoey crept into the kitchen and signaled for him to follow her to the porch. She had just hung the last load of laundry on the line for the afternoon. They were both beat and sweat through from cleaning. They shimmied the big metal ice bucket to the front, fearing they’d disturb Antha. She was so far gone that an earthquake couldn’t wake her. They popped two well-earned beers and exchanged the bits and pieces of what they learned from the twins over the past few weeks.

        “…that’s crazy, right? Like there’s no way what Tessa told me could be real, right? Did someone roofie their drinks?” Zoey asked him as she tied his wavy hair into a top-knot.

        “I’m just worried that something happened they won’t say, like they’re traumatized—I mean, Zo, I was driving to the bar and I seen them covered in blood on the side of the road. Tessa was screaming in the ER that a vampire attacked her sister—and then Antha all of a sudden, calms her down and explains to the doctors that they were lost in the woods, came upon the bed and breakfast for help, and that a strange man assaulted them there. Said they used a fireplace poker in defense, bloodied him up real good, and they escaped to the main road.” Doug took a swig of beer to recuperate.

        He was getting worked up just relaying the story, “But the cops, they investigated that place and found six bodies—slaughtered—in the basement, two of them the owners. The bodies had been sitting there for days before the twins got to ‘em. I’m scared that maniac’s out there. I mean—I’m scared in my own damn apartment when I think about it. What if they were found in that basement? What if we couldn’t find them?” He shook his head.

        “What can we do for them? Are there groups for people like this, who think they’ve seen something supernatural?” Zoey mused aloud as she pinned her jet-black pixie cut hair out of her face. The two pulled fresh beers out of the ice bucket and vowed to do some research after the weekend. They agreed their first goal was to get the twins fed and cared for.

        They watched the sun set into folds of purple, pink, and orange over the high grass. The heat of the day receded with the light, but the humidity persisted only to remind them that it was an intermission; the threat remained that the summer’s full force would return at tomorrow’s dawn.

        The grasshoppers were summoned as Doug strummed his guitar, not truly playing anything particular. Zoey brought out cards to shuffle, waiting on Tessa to play. The evening began to set in peacefully until a rumble cut through the twilight.

        A huge pickup truck barreled down the long drive and parked in front of the house. Out jumped the infamous Flake. His blond hair contrasted against the lavender sky, budding starlight glinting off his aviator sunglasses, and a tooth pick in the corner of his mouth completed his redneck-chic visage. He swaggered up to the porch and was met with a startled Antha; she had jumped up like a viper at the sound of his wheels. He donned a large patch like bandage over half an eye and his hands were wrapped too.

        “Tessa around?” Franco didn’t even offer small talk which had Antha go straight from just waking up to furious.

        “Not for you.”

“Well, I wanted to check in on her—haven’t been able to call on account of that scuffle at the bar. Them boys got my tires and my phone.”

        “Looks like they got your eye too.” She scoffed.

        “Yep,” he laughed and pulled his sunglasses down to reveal those piercing big blues, “you should see the other guy.”

        “We did.” Her disdain seemed to suck the air out of the whole yard. Franco leaned on the porch banister and pulled a smoke from behind his ear. Her eyes burned so hot on him she could have lit his cigarette.

        “I can see you’re not much for visitors, so I’ll just leave this. If you could give it to Tessa, I’d be mighty grateful.” He handed her a number, but she walked away not even considering it. Zoey jumped up and took the note. “Night ya’ll.” Franco flicked his butt into the yard and made his way back to his truck.

        Long after he left and the noise of his truck faded Antha sat, her arms crossed, on the porch swing. Her friends idled by, every so often glancing in her direction waiting for her to speak her mind. The disgruntled twin couldn’t connect the pieces of her dislike for Franco. It wasn’t as simple as his jeans were too torn, his truck too loud, or his gaze too heavy; it was the fact that she knew nothing about him. No one did. Where did he come from—and where was he going? It didn’t add up to Antha that he was the first hillbilly she ever met without a tan. What working man doesn’t have a farmer’s tan? Finally, after a good twenty-five minutes of contemplation Antha announced, “I need a drink.” With a flutter of Zoey’s sundress, she presented a liter of honey whiskey, lemon wedges, and shot glasses.

        A few shots and some pizza in her stomach, Antha started to feel somewhat whole. The four-hour nap revived her a bit, or least lessened the haze she had been wading through. She could finally take in her surroundings: she was lucky to have her friends. When the mosquitos really started to bite they brought their party inside and relished the cool—and now clean—house. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two, I’m sorry I can’t,” she paused, “I just can’t right now.” Before Antha could work out her sentiment the queen bee descended from her room.

        “That’s it! I have decided!” Tessa announced, thumping down the stairs like a sentinel charge. “I’m going to visit José tomorrow—even though it’s not my fault he got his ass beat, I still think it’s only fair to show love.” She waited, her hands on her hips, for their unyielding approval or preferably a round of applause.

        “Look at you growing a conscious,” was the general consensus of the other three. Tessa saucily tossed her braids as she dusted her shoulders. They all scooted into the kitchen table and fed her dinner. Just like a heart, she had a way of pulsing life into a room. Before they knew it, they were swapping stories like always.

        Tessa was laughing and teasing Doug when she took a shot. She threw her empty glass down on the table as was customary, but when the glass met the table it then clinked as if something had been dropped into it. They all sat forward to see a silvery-gray eye in the bottom.

        “Did you just spit that in there?” Doug’s eyes were wide.

        The twins beheld each other knowingly.

        In the beginning, they initially freaked out over the eyes returning. Now it became a sickening fascination of what they could do to them. The eyes always returned. They burned them, they drowned them, and they threw them away; every time the eyes returned to the twins.

        “I tried to tell you, but you’re not listening,” Antha began, “these eyes are following us. Ever since we killed that thing at Hollow House, we’ve had them.” Doug and Zoey’s faces were pained in disbelief.

        “Here.” Tessa got up roughly and held the eye over the sink. She turned on the garbage disposal and dropped it in; it made a grotesque metal sound and then after a few rotations, crunched like glass. Antha showed the eye that was always in her back pocket and explained she threw it away in a drain across town earlier that day. She threw hers in too, directly into the disposal.

        “Well, how long does it take for them to come back?” Zoey asked.

        “They’re not coming back—this is a trick!” Doug looked like an angry leprechaun with his reddened face and stubble. The twins’ faces didn’t even shift with the accusation.

        “Sometimes its seconds, sometimes hours, or a day. It doesn’t matter, they’ll be back.” Antha confirmed and the twins took their seats at the table. The room became solemn as Tessa popped another round of beers and poured a flight of shots for them all, knowing the liquid courage was needed. Doug jumped up from his seat and began checking under cushions, searching cupboards, and drawers. The girls sat back and waited as he processed.

        He huffed, “…you got back-ups, or hiding ‘em somewhere—I don’t know why you’re playing with me right now…it’s not funny…” But then a loud plop sounded on the kitchen table, like a golf ball dropped from the ceiling. He turned to watch a second oversized marble drop seemingly out of thin air. He returned to the table and gawked at the two eyes sitting in front of the twins. “You got to tell us what happened at Hollow House.” Doug’s voice was hushed as he shakily accepted the whiskey shot from Tessa. In unison they saluted and threw back the shots with beer chasers.

        While the four friends went over the sordid events, in gruesome detail, a mysterious figure watched from the unlit porch window. The uninvited guest crept off through the yard, down the dirt-path driveway, and made a phone call:

        “They got them eyes,” it reported, “I reckon there’ll be a war.”

Twinning Taglist: If you want to be added or removed just let me know; please share with anyone that might be interested. I would love any and all feedback so I can learn and become a better writer. Thank you!  I tagged some people that I thought would be interested in this. @myoxisbroken​ @just-the-hiddles​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @nildespirandum​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @latent-thoughts​ @emeraldrosequartz​ @villainousshakespeare​ @hopelessromanticspoonie​ @caffiend-queen​ @poetic-fiasco​ @lokimostly​ @dianamolloy​ @marvelgirlonamarvelworld​ @brightsunanddarkmidnight2-0​ @cateyes315​ @mooncat163​ @nuggsmum​ @myraiswack​​​ @wolfpawn​​ @plastic-heart​​ @confusednerd09​

[freddiesaysalright]

Journey to the Past - Chapter 1

Joe!Dimitri x Anastasia!Reader

Summary: The royal family is overthrown in a violent revolution. However, rumor grows that one daughter survived. Could the last of the line be found? Will a con man and a princess put a twist on what it means to live a fairy tale? 

Word Count: 3.4K

Tag List: @psychosupernatural​, @someone-get-a-medic​, @bensrhapsody​, @deakyclicks​, @crazylittlethingcalledobsession​, @minigranger​, @crazyweirdocalledfriday​, @the-moving-finger-writes​, @assembledherethevolunteers​, @rose-writes-prose​, @queenlover05​, @26-7-49​, @drowsebaby, @im-an-adult-ish​, @queen-paladin​, @rogerina-owns-me, @mirkwoodshewolf​, @whitequeen-ofwillowgreen​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: Thanks for keeping up, everyone! Hope you enjoy the first chapter!

Warning(s): None

Moodboard

Prologue

Chapter 1 here we go!!!

That same face swam before you. The kind looking little boy, just a year or two older than you, with soft brown eyes and auburn hair. His face stuck out, but there were glimpses of other things around you. A parade. Dancers. And then chaos. He was always in a crowd. At least until the last hazy memory. The clearest sight of him as you focused on his features instead of the searing pain in your shoulder and abdomen. 

You sat up, pushing the image to the back of your mind. He had to be a dream. You had never been to a ball or a parade, anyway. At least, not as far as you could remember. And you couldn’t remember much before the day you came here, to the orphanage. 

Now that you were an adult, you worked there, but you’d been a resident from the time you were eight or so. Having no memory of who you were before then meant you had no idea when your exact birthday was. A doctor examined you and diagnosed you with amnesia due to a traumatic head injury, and guessed your age based on your development. The women at the orphanage had chosen the day you arrived to be your birthday - not that it meant any celebrations, but so that they had something for the record. 

You tried to remember your past. Especially as a child. You were visited by doctors and specialists, but no one could trigger anything that brought something significant back. All you knew was that you had been wounded, a kind boy brought you to the hospital, and from there you went to the orphanage. You couldn’t even remember what your parents looked like. 

There was only one clue as to who you were that was found among your belongings. A necklace. It was a fine, gold chain, at the end of which was a pendant, with jewels creating the shape of a flower. On the back was an inscription that read “Together in Ramimont.” 

You found out that Ramimont was the capital city of a country to the south. Why you would have family there was beyond you. But someone had given it to you, and whoever that person was must have loved you. Who else would give such a sentimental trinket?

With a sigh, you stretched and got out of bed. You padded over to the chair in the corner of your room and stepped into the dress you wore every day. There was an almost exact copy of it hanging in the wardrobe next to your coat. The choices at the orphanage were limited - so you’d taken whatever fabric you could to make your dresses. Old curtains mostly. And while they weren’t fashionable, they certainly kept you warm. 

Stuffing your feet into your boots, you left your room and headed downstairs. Sophie, the headmistress of the orphanage was waiting for you. Your brow furrowed. That was unusual. 

“Is everything alright, Sophie?” you asked her, coming to a stop. 

She wrung her hands and looked desperately at you. 

“Come with me, Y/N,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

Heart rate quickening, you followed her into her office on the main floor. Upstairs, you heard the children beginning to rise and dress. You hoped whatever this was wouldn’t hurt them too much. 

Sophie closed the door behind you and gestured to the old dining chair that faced her desk. You took a seat right on the edge. She moved the newspaper out of the way and you caught a glimpse of the headline: RUMORS OF THE PRINCESS… but you couldn’t see the second half. It didn’t concern you anyway. This country had no royalty. Not since the Revolution.

“Y/N, I’m terribly sorry about this, but we’re going to have to let you go,” she said. 

Your stomach dropped. You were...sacked?

“I…” you trailed off, searching for the right words. “What? Did I do something wrong?”

She shook her head. “No, dear. It’s just that the city has cut funds for this place, and now I can only afford to pay myself and George.”

George was in charge of the boys at the orphanage. He answered to Sophie at the end of the day, though. 

You took in a shaky breath. Fear made your blood feel cold as ice. 

“W-what am I going to do?” you wondered. 

It was half to yourself, half to her. This place was the only life you had ever known. 

“I’ve arranged for you to get a job as a street sweeper for one of the hotels nearby,” she said. “I’m afraid they can’t pay you as much as we did, but you’ll have a roof over your head.”

You swallowed even though your mouth felt dry. You barely made enough to live with your current salary. How could you survive on less?

“There is something else you could do,” she said, lowering her voice. 

You scooted closer to hear, eager. “What?”

“Go to Ramimont,” she whispered. 

The government was very strict about travel, so you understood her secretive actions. To discuss leaving could be considered treason, so not even George could overhear. 

“What?” you gasped softly. “You really think I should?”

“It’s up to you,” she replied. “But if you’ve got some money saved, I think it would be the perfect opportunity.”

“But I don’t even know who I’m looking for,” you said. “How can I -”

“Whoever gave you that necklace is probably missing you just as much as you’re longing for them,” she said. “But going is your only chance of finding them.”

You sat back, considering the idea. You had always wanted to go. And you did have a bit of money saved. Only, you had no idea what was required of you. If you had to get some sort of papers, what could you provide? You had no evidence of your identity. 

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” you said aloud. 

“I don’t really know, either,” Sophie admitted. “But the knowledge is not behind the walls of this building. You’ll have to move on first.”

Tears welled up in your eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”

Her eyes were equally watery. “Oh, dear. I’m going to miss you too.”

You jumped to your feet, crossed around her desk, and hugged her. She sniffled and patted your back. And before you knew it, it was time to pack your bags. 

***

Joe read over the words again. RUMORS OF THE PRINCESS ANASTASIA ALIVE. Beneath the headline was a photo of the princess - the rest of her family cropped out so it was just her proud face. He could never forget that girl. And the horror he witnessed that day. There was no way she was alive. 

He re-focused and started to read the article. It mentioned that there was a reward offered by the girl’s grandmother, the Dowager Empress Marie Malek Lee. His eyes widened at the number. That much money meant the kind of freedom he had longed for all his life!

The wheels in his head began turning. If anyone had a chance at that money it was him. He had worked in the kitchen, he had met the family. And then there was the music box. He had more proof than any other person could hope to provide. Plus, he had Roman. 

As if summoned by the mere thought of him, Roman came through the door. He shook some snow off his jacket and hung it on the rack. Joe looked up and smiled. 

“Morning,” he said. “How was town?”

“Ugh,” Roman groaned. “Everyone’s all aflutter about this rumor regarding the princess. It’s clearly a distraction!”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “A distraction? From what?”

“They closed another border today,” Roman said gravely. “They’re shutting us in, Joe. We need to get out if we’re going to do it.”

Joe paused. Another border closure was definitely concerning. And it meant difficulty in their plan. But Joe’s new plan meant getting out with the addition of money. He would have no qualms splitting any earnings with Roman, who had become his closest friend. 

Roman was only about ten years old than Joe, but with a whole different experience. Being the scandalous love child of an earl, most would have thought his life difficult. It was in some respects, but astonishingly, Roman’s father welcomed his son with open arms, and tried to make him part of society. The mother being a prostitute made some members of the nobility scoff, but when King Nicholas himself accepted Roman, the rest of that class had to suck it up. 

That is, until the Revolution came. The earl packed up his family, and had to pay for each of their exit visas. In their rush, Roman was left behind. He was the forgotten son, after all. 

Roman got his revenge. He went to his father’s mansion and completely ransacked it. He took all the valuables left behind - jewels, furs, antiques, etc. - and sold them. He kept one thing, a diamond ring that belonged to his father’s wife, and he gave it to his mother. She didn’t live much longer, but Roman still had it. 

“I was thinking about this whole Princess Anastasia thing,” Joe said. 

Roman rolled his eyes. “Not you too! I thought you had some sense!”

“Hear me out,” Joe insisted. “Between the two of us, we could train any girl to be that princess. We just gotta find someone who looks enough like her.”

“Are you serious?” Roman returned. “You want to con the Dowager Empress?”

“What’s she ever done for either of us?” Joe pointed out. “Why shouldn’t we get something out of our knowledge?”

Roman paused, mulling it over. 

“What woman would agree to this?” he said. “We’d have to split the reward money three ways.”

“Believe me, the amount is more than enough to split three ways,” Joe said. 

He tossed the paper to Roman, who began reading it over. Concern crossed his handsome, angular features as he read. 

“Let’s say we do this,” he said. “How will we find the girl? We can’t exactly put out an ad for people to audition. We’d be shot where we stand.”

“I know some people, I’ll get the word out,” Joe insisted. “Come on, Ro, this is our chance.”

“I think we should just consider ourselves lucky to be able to get out of the country,” Roman replied warily. “Is money really worth all this risk?”

“Money is the most important thing in the world, Roman,” Joe said seriously. “And I don’t intend on being without it anymore.”

“Money has never been the most important thing in the world,” Roman said. “The Lee family had more money they knew what to do with, and they still ended up dead.”

Joe didn’t answer that. He was all too familiar with that story, though he’d never shared it with his friend. 

“Ro, I’m doing this,” he said. “Whether you’re with me or not.”

A beat passed as Roman eyed him, a bit worried. Then he smirked. “You couldn’t pull it off without me anyway.”

Joe beamed. “So you’re in?”

“I’m in,” Roman said. 

They shook on it. 

“Who knows? Maybe we will find her,” he continued. “If the Dowager is offering a reward, there must be some substance to the rumor.”

A fleeting image passed in the front of Joe’s mind. Bloody snow, a weak girl in his arms, her eyes falling shut as he called to her. He shook his head to clear it away.

“I doubt it,” he said. 

With that, he took to the streets, telling his most trusted contacts that he was looking for the lost princess. 

***

The snow crunched under your boots as you trudged up to the hotel. You didn’t imagine there were many tourists in the country. What was there to see? The capital was only government workers and poor people. There was the old palace, but it was boarded up. As far as anything else, you had no idea what might draw people here. You noticed that most of the people coming to the hotel were in uniforms of some sort. They must be visitors from around the country. Or even other countries. 

You set your bag down and stood across the street from the hotel that was to be your new home. If you took the job. There was also Sophie’s suggestion to consider. The latter was definitely the more frightening option, but if the reward was finding your true family, then it should be worth it...right? 

You glanced down at the necklace, thinking it over some more. If you went into that hotel now, you may never get another opportunity to leave. You picked up your bag, determined, and walked away toward the train station. You had to take your chance. 

The train station was toward the edge of the city, near the old palace. You could see the towers looming over the land around it. The area was rather deserted, which you found surprising. As you looked at the abandoned fortress, you felt a sort of pull from it. Like you had been there before. 

You ignored this feeling and pressed on to the station. You couldn’t be worried about some crumbling castle. You had to get out as soon as possible. 

The line for tickets was excruciatingly long. You waited for nearly two hours before you were face to face with the attendant at the booth. He looked impatiently at you. 

“Where to?” he asked gruffly. 

“One ticket to Ramimont, please,” you said. 

“Exit visa and passport?”

“I - uh - well -” you stammered. “I have some money.”

“You can’t purchase a ticket without an exit visa and a passport,” he explained, rolling his eyes. “You may get those documents at the parliament building downtown.”

“How long does that take?” you asked. 

“Depends on how much money you have,” he said. “And who you know. But until you have those, get out of my line.”

You started at the harshness of his address, but did as you were told. You felt a tap on your shoulder and turned to face it. It was a woman. She was not really dressed for the cold weather, with her chest that exposed and skirt just under her knee. She also had a heavy rogue on her cheeks. 

“If you’re looking to go to Ramimont, you should see Joe Mazzello,” she said quietly.

You stepped closer to her. “Who?”

“Joe Mazzello,” she repeated. “He’s at the old palace. I hear he’s got a ticket, but there is a catch.”

“What’s the catch?” you wondered. 

She shrugged. “Dunno. Heard it from a friend. But you might have a better shot with him than with the government.”

“I see,” you said. “Thank you, Miss…”

“You don’t need to know my name,” she said. “You didn’t hear this from me.”

You nodded. After thanking her again, you left the train station. This time, heading for the one place you were avoiding earlier. Perhaps it was fate calling you in. Hopefully, you were meant to meet this Joe person and he would deliver you to your family. 

You stopped yourself. You didn’t want to get carried away in a hope. 

The castle was a sorry sight. With wooden planks in the windows where glass used to be, dustings of snow being blown in by the wind, and a fully collapsed tower, it looked a bit haunted. And of course, the lack of people added to the eerie feeling. You peered in between the boards and into the darkness. You couldn’t see anything, really. 

You picked this window because it was far enough away from the main entrance that you might be able to sneak in without startling anyone. You tested the plank in front of your chest. It was fairly loose - whoever had done this did it quickly and carelessly. You supposed the New Order didn’t want anyone to see the symbol of the old ways as up for grabs. 

You tugged on the board. It groaned beneath the force until finally you pried it enough and it came clean off. You stumbled back as the pressure released, but collected yourself and tossed it away. There was enough room for you to get in. You stepped through first and then reached back for your bags. You set them down against the wall, and then looked up and gaped at the high, grand ceilings and plush carpet. Everything was so...regal. And even stranger, it felt familiar to you. 

Across the corridor from the window, you saw a dusty, faded painting. It was enormous, and a portrait of a man and his family. He was tall, with soft brown hair and bright blue eyes. Unlike the portraits of men before him, he was smiling. The lady beside him looked equally happy with a wide grin. A silly detail you noticed on her was that the artist had depicted her shoes to be made of glass. 

She had a baby on her lap, and three other children surrounded their feet. A gold plate on the frame appeared to have some information etched into it, so you stepped closer to read it. It said, “King Gwilym, his wife, and children.” 

You were struck with a pang of sadness. You looked up at King Gwilym’s smiling face and felt such pity that his line was ended. That his descendants had met a tragic end and his legacy was disappearing into time. You had no idea why it broke your heart like this. You didn’t know the man or his relations, and yet, you felt this hurt for him. The only comfort was that wherever they were, they were all together now. 

To the left, were more paintings. You guessed, more generations of royals. You walked on and observed them, heartstrings still pulling at their fate. Three paintings over from Gwilym was the final royal family. King Nicholas greatly resembled his great-grandfather Gwilym. He had a wider face, and a thick beard which added to it, but the eyes were exactly the same. Round, blue, and kind.

His wife, Alexandra, was stunning. She wasn’t as warm as her husband, but she had the grace and elegance of a queen, for sure. Similar to King Gwilym’s queen, she had the youngest child in her lap for the portrait. The only boy. On the floor, four girls sat together, holding hands and smiling. 

You blinked and a tear slid down your cheek. Hastily, you wiped it away. Why on Earth were you crying? Sure, you knew the royal family’s story was unfortunate, but why was this feeling so personal?

You shook your head and continued on, re-focusing. You needed to find this Joe person, and quickly. This place was overwhelming. 

Every part of the palace felt like something you had dreamed and were trying to recall after waking up. It felt fuzzy, but certain things were coming through with perfect clarity. Then you came upon a ballroom. 

For a fleeting moment, it was dazzling with light and glittering jewels. Important people waltzed around it, and you spotted King Nicholas amongst the crowd. He spun his daughter around, lifting her high in the air, and you giggled along with her. 

As quickly as the vision came, it went. Once again, the room was dull, faded, covered in cobwebs and other debris. You stepped and a plume of dust formed around your boot. You scanned the ballroom and spotted a long table against the wall with serving platters and the like spread out. The silver was tarnished and pieces were missing. Even so, you picked up a tray. You examined it, and wiped the dust away. When it was clear, you looked at your reflection. What you saw startled you.

It was you, but as a little girl, looking remarkably like the youngest of the four in the painting, in a pink silk gown and a tiara sparkling on the crown of your head. You gasped at the sight and dropped the platter. It clanged to the floor and you winced. 

“Hey!” cried a voice from the other side of the ballroom. 

You whirled around to face him. It was a young man, probably about your age, with auburn hair. His face was familiar to you the same way this palace was, and it frightened you. 

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“What’s going on?” another man questioned as he jogged to join the first. You felt as if you’d met him before too. 

You didn’t answer either of them. Instead, you took off running back the way you came. 

“Hey, wait!” the redhead called, and he pursued you.