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phynoma · 1 year ago

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HALLOWEEN COUNTDOWN

As a countdown to Halloween, I'm sharing the original statements I wrote for the Consuming AU! (<<click for ao3 link) The statements function as horror shorts that work on their own, and I'm proud of them, ngl

Without further ado:

Statement 1: The Chocolate Pot

CW: Manipulation, supernatural compulsion, accidental dead-naming, drowning

[Tape clicks on. Head Archivist’s Office]

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Corey Garrett, regarding his discovery of a vintage, silver chocolate pot. Original statement taken August 9th, 2007. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

It was an estate auction that did it.

My cousin, Niamh Flaherty and I, would get out of mum's house by taking our bikes up and down Elvendon Lane. There aren't a lot of turnoffs, and it's one of those narrow, country lanes that seems like it keeps its own secrets. We were lonely, in the way that two young adults in the countryside could be: on the edge of adulthood and the fears of being cast into the unknown, even as we longed for it with all our fledgling desire for flight.

It was the end of summer, and Niamh was visiting from Limerick, and we were terribly bored with country life. Just eighteen, the both of us, and playing at being proper adults. Independant, all that. Both of us had a thing for antiques–though I’ve lost a bit of my taste for it, now–and we were incorrigibly curious.

There's not much that goes on around Woodcote that the whole village doesn't know about, so when Niamh and I saw the lorry at the end of a short drive, nearly blocking the narrow road into town, we stopped. The drive itself was far too small for the mini tipper to navigate; just a blind opening to a gravel track so overgrown it could have just been a path into the woods that would end, like a fairy-path, with no house or sign of humanity in sight.

My parents had moved out to the village when I was at school, and I didn’t know whose house it was that had attracted the house clearance auctioneers like flies to a decaying corpse. All I knew was folks that needed seven tonne lorries were likely old and rich, and that sounded like a magic combination. A proper treasure hunt, you know?

Maybe it was a bit ghoulish, but the idea of a dusty, mouldering house of forgotten and unwanted treasures really got to us–Niamh and me. Like I said, Niamh and I were still pretty young, but I was always impressed with her. She seemed sort of worldly, always got men's attention. She wasn't that pretty, I don't think–well, I mean, I don't know. I'm her cousin, aren't I? But she had a way about her, something that drew people in. I could never figure out if I was jealous of her or if I wanted to be her.

Anyway, watching strangers pack up a lorry with some old, unlucky geezer's worldly treasures might not seem like a good time, but we made the most of it. We made guesses of what was in the boxes, what kind of person they'd been, why they didn't have any family to collect the goods. It was an “adult” kind of fun, nothing kids would be interested in, but now that Niamh and I were grown up we could watch the delivery men carting boxes and furniture down the dusty drive and feel like we were gossiping like real people, real adults did. We were so hungry for a world beyond us.

And there was plenty to gossip about. Crates of old knickknacks and rubbish– porcelain table sets shaped like too-quaint dolls, ratty old tapestries from the 70’s made to look mediaeval and missing the mark– that sort of thing. We sat on our bikes across the lane and kept our eyes peeled for the priceless artefacts we knew we’d spot among all the junk. With our keen, young minds we had a plan that if we did see anything, we’d be the first down at the auction houses and charity shops in Reading to snatch it up. Ghoulish, like I said. But at the time we felt very clever and sophisticated as we guessed at values and made crude but cutting remarks.

We could see a bit of the house from the road–disappointingly normal, all told. Renovated maybe in the mid-90s, one of those monstrosities that was probably a fine thing when it was built two centuries ago and which had been “upgraded” nearly out of existence. We were guessing at how terribly the inside had been refurbished when a woman wearing a cream suit left the front door. For a moment, I could have sworn she looked right at us, down by the road. And she smiled. I don't know how, but I could feel it, like an itch behind my teeth. Then she turned and disappeared behind the hedges and fruit trees that blocked most of the house.

I shook off the shudder that half-imagined smile had given me, and put her from my mind. In any case, Niamh hadn’t seemed to notice the woman. I’d have almost thought I’d made her up, except after a good ten or fifteen minutes she appeared again at the bottom of the lane. She must have walked all the way down, and her cream suit was coated in a fine layer of dust. She held a small crate in her hands.

I don’t know how, but I knew that crate was full of the treasures Niamh and I were waiting to see. I tried to be subtle watching her, but Niamh and I were the only ones on a long, lonely lane, so it was pretty obvious we were gawking. I expected an annoyed glance, maybe, or for the woman to shoo us off. Instead, she looked up. Our eyes met, and I got that weird feeling again, like she was…amused, somehow. It turnt my stomach right over.

I didn’t notice that Niamh had grabbed my arm until later, when I saw the bruises, because I was so focused on that woman. She walked over to us with that little half-smile, the crate still in her arms. She said her name was…I think it was Karen? Karen…something common, I think, but like an old man name. Withers, maybe.

Anyway, she came right up to the both of us and asked if we had known the owner of the house. I don’t remember what we said–if we lied and claimed we did, or what. The answer didn’t really seem to matter. She said the owner had been old and eccentric, and he hadn’t had anyone to leave his belongings to, so they’d been called in. Hope Charities, she said, and pointed at the lorry. There wasn't a name painted on it or anything, but the men doing the loading were wearing white coveralls with B&H on the back. Don't know what the "B" stood for.

She– Karen– showed us the crate. It was open. Inside was a jumble of knick-knacks, exactly the kind of thing you’d expect: a couple of old books with faded dust covers from the 50s or 60s, some miscellaneous silverware, a snowglobe that was nearly opaque from the dissolved snow, a single Skittles pin.

She said it was a box of the things they didn’t think would sell, and offered to let us take anything we’d like. She smiled when she said it, and the smile didn’t match her eyes. Even though it’d been what we were hoping for, I was suddenly uneasy. It didn’t feel like we could say no. I wanted, desperately, to say no. I think I hoped Niamh would do it for me.

Niamh took a book–at random, I think–and I picked up a tarnished chocolate pot. I had half a mind that I could give it to my mum as a birthday gift, with a bit of polish. Karen nodded like I’d made a good choice and gave me one more of those little half-smiles. It reminded me of a crocodile, somehow.

“Enjoy,” she said, and brought the crate back to the lorry to be packed away.

Niamh and I went home after that. There wasn’t much more for us to do, really. We laughed about it, about how we thought we’d been in trouble. Niamh said I must have charmed her with my wicked good looks–but Niamh was always the charmer, and she didn’t seem to realise I didn’t have her way with people.

She showed me her book. It looked like it’d been a library book at some point, and the dust cover was a bit torn. It had one of those generic, oil-painted landscapes as the cover art, of a circle of grey-green mountains with a blue-grey sky behind. It was called A Very Windy Day, and I didn’t know what possessed Niamh to choose that over everything else in the crate. When I asked her, she shrugged and said it reminded her of something.

In the end, I was rather proud of my chocolate pot, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to shine it up with some of my mum’s old Wright’s jewellery cleaner. Niamh settled down with her book–I don’t know if she was actually that interested in it, but after my teasing she made a point of reading it in front of me. She even read a bit out loud–something about big spaces and the ever-expanding entropy of the universe. It was way more dry than I expected, and it made me feel sort of funny and small, so I told her to read to herself.

The chocolate pot shined up nicely, though it took a good deal of time. By the time I looked around to ask Niamh something, she had left with her book–probably to get away from the smell of the cleaner. I was a little miffed that she hadn’t said anything to me; but then again, I had been rather focused.

I cleaned the inside of the pot, and noticed that it was in good shape but had some strange scratches on the inside, like someone had gone in with a wire scrubber at some point in the past. The scratches weren’t deep enough that I was concerned it would be unsafe to drink from, and I resolved to make some tea in it, just to try it out.

I steeped a few bags of breakfast tea directly in the pot itself–after all, if the thing was to be used for brewing chocolate, it shouldn’t have any sort of flavour itself, and there was no point in putting hot water from the kettle into the pot and then pouring it over bags from there. But when I poured the tea into my cup, it was almost black, and thick as mud. It had a strong, earthy aroma that wasn’t unpleasant– a bit like a very strong, very unsweetened cocoa.

This was rather off-putting, but I figured to myself that perhaps I hadn’t cleaned the inside of the pot as much as I’d thought, and the hot water had now cleared it out. The vaguely-chocolate-like scent could be from years of accumulated grime, for all I knew. I poured out the rest, washed out the remainder, and tried again.

The second steeping, the stuff was a little thinner, and the aroma thick but sweeter. Perhaps, I thought, the boiling water was doing its job to scrape out the inside of the pot. I poured it out again and resteeped it a third time. This time, the liquid was a warm, golden brown, like a well-sweetened and milky cocoa mixed with cinnamon or turmeric. It smelled mouthwatering.

I realised, belatedly, that I hadn’t added the teabags at all, and couldn’t help but wonder if that had been the reason for the odd black sludge the first time. Whatever the reason, the fact was now that this chocolate pot was a more exciting find than I could have ever hoped for in my attempted grown-up adventure-seeking. I allowed myself a bit of childish delight, that I had something truly special.

Of course, I wasn’t a fool– I wasn’t about to start serving this mysteriously appearing chocolate to my family without some more research. I did some internet research and found very little in the way of magical chocolate pots or cursed items. There was absolutely no record of regular chocolate pots creating chocolate from hot water, although there was plenty about cast iron and other sorts of well-seasoned kitchenware, and some tales of Chinese clay teapots being used for so long that one only had to pour in hot water to get tea.

This seemed unlikely for my silver pot, but I clung to the idea that there was at least some reasonable explanation. I would have even taken a reasonable supernatural explanation–anything that meant I wasn’t simply going mad. And, just in case I was somehow hallucinating the sight and smell of the chocolate, I figured a few other senses were necessary.

For some reason, it was very important to me that I was alone. The childish feeling was stronger; that I had something special, something precious, like a stuffed animal worn to an inch of its life. I wanted to test the chocolate pot in privacy, in a little tent of my own making, someplace dim and close and warm. I imagined sharing chocolate with Niamh like we had as children in a fort made of cushions and blankets, our small hands wrapped around second-best china, in a small, dark world of our own. Safe. Intimate.

I locked myself in the bathroom and climbed in the tub, pulling the curtain around me in as much of an approximation of a fort as I'd allow myself. I poured myself a new cup of chocolate and dipped my finger into the liquid. It was pleasantly warm, not boiling, and thick and silky smooth. I rubbed it between my fingers, marvelling at it, and then without thinking I licked it from my fingers.

It was delicious, just as rich and sweet and full as it smelled. Emboldened, I took a sip directly from the cup. Flavour exploded over my tongue, rich and complex and very clearly chocolate. I finished the cup within minutes and poured another. I was starting to rethink my idea to gift the chocolate pot to my mother, when I could just as easily share its contents with her but keep the pot to myself.

I refilled the pot only once with more water–which I got straight from the bath tap– and looking back, that should have been an alarming sign. At the time, I was simply amazed at how the flavours seemed to change with every cup, perfectly setting off the previous so that each was distinct. It was impossible to tire of, and it seemed to spread through my stomach and then my whole torso and limbs like a good scotch.

I was feeling pleasantly warm and buzzing when Niamh returned. Again, I didn’t hear her come in through the door, but she was suddenly there, in front of me, asking what I was doing. I hesitated, wondering if she would want a cup. Dare I share my magic? Of course, I decided, with a warm, happy surge of devotion. How wonderful, to share in the chocolate pot! How lovely, to be embraced together in such a remarkable creation! It occurred to me that everyone was deserving of such a gift. Perhaps I could sell it. Even better, I could give it away. I could open my home to any and all and share this incredible, magical drink that tasted like the very essence of comfort!

But first, I wanted to share it with Niamh. I wanted to capture a bit of that childhood we'd been so fierce in pushing away. I invited her into the tub with me, my sanctum, my fortress.

It was then that I noticed how distant Niamh's eyes were–as if she were in the room with me, but not. I felt as if she were looking at me from the other end of a very long tunnel, like a mineshaft. She stood in a square of light, while I crouched safe and warm and hidden in the dark. It pressed around me. It was deep, fathomless, but the pressure was comforting. It was the darkness of the womb, of a mother's arms who would never grow too frail, would never turn away. There was no need to fear growing old, there. It was a place where we could huddle in the dark and drink chocolate and always be children.

By this point, it felt as if the chocolate was in my very blood. Its thickness coated the inside of my oesophagus, my mouth. In a slurring, muffled voice, I offered my cousin a cup of the magical liquor. She refused, her eyes still empty.

I felt a surge of despair that she should be so far from me, when all I longed for was closeness. I took Niamh's hand, and when she tried to pull away with a cry of anger, I simply wrapped my arms around her instead.

For a moment, it felt as if I were holding a thousand stars in my embrace–or a million dandelion seeds, about to be blown away by a breath of wind. Niamh wiggled in my embrace and then, all of a sudden, slumped against me. As I hadn’t anticipated this, I could only lower her as slowly as I possibly could to the ground, where she lay curled and sobbing. Her face was a mask of fear and anguish. She draped over the tub, spilling the pot over. Dark liquid poured from it, thick and endless, clogging in the drain and slowly rising.

I righted the pot and handed her a cup of chocolate. This batch was dark as a moonless night and it smelled bitter and woody, but it was still obviously chocolate. When Niamh trembled so much that she would spill it, I helped tip it into her mouth.

At once she became still and quiet. Her eyes were wide and very dark, and she stared at me as if she had seen unknowable horrors.

I drank the rest of the cup, as she seemed uninclined to finish it, and felt the bitterness prick through me like deadly nightshade. My head swam. For a moment, I was drowning. My mouth was filled with thick nectar, and it ran down my front in muddy rivers. My eyesight blurred.

For some reason, my only thought was that I had something in my throat, and that the solution was clearly to wash it out with more chocolate. I poured another cup with shaking hands and slipping gaze, and when I spilled it I simply raised the chocolate pot and poured the sweet liquid directly into my mouth.

There was no end to the flowing chocolate, and for a moment I had a vision of the chocolate continuing to pour, and pour, until it flooded the room and down the street. I imagined the faces of the village as they saw the approaching wave, surprised and then delighted. I pictured them licking their hands like I had, or scooping up teacups full of the stuff to fill their own, hollow bodies. Like a children's story, a fairytale. All was innocent and sweet again, simple. I could save the world with my chocolate pot. All I had to do was keep pouring.

I could imagine how it would sit in us like ballast, thick and choking and so full that no one would ever have to feel loneliness again. To be embraced, inside and out, in thick, sweet nourishment. It was horrible. I had never imagined anything better, or worse. If I’d had any air left in my lungs, if the chocolate wasn’t already pouring from my mouth in an endless fountain, I would have screamed and not stopped. I sobbed, for the fear that I might never reach the beautiful image in my head, the promise of an endless, close embrace.

I felt arms around me, and then Niamh was trying to force the stuff from my stomach, my lungs. I coughed and choked and only managed to let more of the chocolate fill in the last bits of air I had. I was drowning in it. No, that's not right–it was swallowing me. I lay back in the tub that was slowly filling with chocolate and knew it would be my tomb.

I saw, rather than felt, Niamh’s hands pound against my chest. The tub could be our tomb, if only Niamh would join me. I tried to grasp her hand, to pull her into the warmth with me, but the chocolate coating my hands was too slick and she pulled away.

I wailed for her. My consciousness slipped. I was sinking into a deep, black pit of primordial warmth, and I knew I would never escape.

Except…well, I did, didn’t I? I’m still not completely sure how. I think Niamh did it, somehow.

I woke in my bed, with a horrible pressure headache, and Niamh at my side. I could have sworn, in the moments before I woke, that I heard her reading aloud to me–though I can’t recall the story, I do have a vague memory of her setting aside that little hardcover book she’d taken from the crate when I woke.

She explained that I had fallen asleep in the bath, of all places, and nearly drowned. I asked about the chocolate pot, and she seemed confused for a moment. I reminded her about the house, and the crate, and her eyes lit up. She brought to me a small, silver teapot and claimed that this was the thing I had chosen.

I was so tired that I hadn’t the energy to argue with her, and simply decided to ask about it more when I woke again. By the time I did, I could hardly recall what the original chocolate pot had looked like, and I couldn’t truly confirm whether or not the teapot she showed me was the one I had taken from the crate.

Niamh left at the end of that summer, and besides a few emails, we’ve mostly lost touch. It’s too bad, because we were very close once and I have a strange feeling that something that happened that summer contributed to her distance. She moved to Switzerland, I think, to be a ski instructor.

I gifted the silver teapot to my mum after all. She adores it, and it makes very good tea. But sometimes, whenever I’m drinking something, I get a thick, sweet taste on the back of my tongue like the finest of chocolate.

Statement ends.

ARCHIVIST (CONT.)

If I’d read this a year ago, I’d have dismissed it out of hand. It's exactly the kind of urban legend I'd expect would flood the shelves. But perhaps The Magnus Institute is a far less interesting or gratifying audience for such creators of tall tales than the usual, hungry internet forums.

(sigh) Nevertheless, there are a few details of note.

[Paper flips]

ARCHIVIST (CONT.)

(clears throat) Hm, excuse me, it seems that–Cora Garrett has not suffered any long term effects from her experience.

(to self) Note to self, re-record the intro of the statement using the correct name and pronouns.

(aloud) From the preliminary follow-up, it seems like Cora spent a few days in the hospital to get rid of what appeared to be a sudden case of pneumonia. No police report was ever filed, and we've had difficulty tracking down any relations to the original owners of 15 Elvendon Lane, assuming that number 15 was, indeed, the correct house. It was certainly the only house on auction around the correct time. It seems to have been renovated by the new owners, and there are no pictures online of the original house to try and match to Cora's description.

Karen Withers, or Smithers, or whatever her name might be-- the auction agent-- does not seem to exist��either in the Reading area or beyond. I am exceedingly curious to know who and what she is, or if she even exists. For all we know, she could be an invention of Cora and her cousin to explain away an adolescent break-in, or a hallucination like that of a (heavy sigh, dry) overflowing chocolate pot.

The most interesting piece of this statement, to me, is of course the reference to A Very Windy Day. The details are vague, but it could very well be a Leitner, and if that's the case I–

[Door opens]

ARCHIVIST (CONT.)

Ah. Martin.

#tma #the magnus archives #horror shorts #fanfiction #original statements #the consuming au #jonathan sims #the Archivist #fanfic #ao3 #phynoma #phyn writes

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nossbean · 2 years ago

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For the WIPs, would love to know more about #7, we held our breath 👀

Okay so this one is back from where I was doing a pandemic watch of New Girl and was Very Taken with the scene when Jess and Nick finally kiss, around the same time I wanted to practice writing makeouts and sexual tension, AND the whole thing earlier in the episode with Nick going out the window to avoid Jess struck me as a Jaime mood (if with something of a different vibe) so I played around with some dynamics. It's been mostly written for Some Time (which is why it actually has a title!) and I've been toying with posting it for literal months, whether to do it as its own thing or as part of a collection of snippet fics since I'm not likely to do much more in this AU. I think eventually it will probably be part of the latter, but for now, here's a bit of it!

Brienne and Jaime have been shoved in a room together in the midst of a game, banished until they provide evidence they've kissed. They've tried arguing their way out, lying their way out and forcing their way out to no avail:

“Look,” she said, and Jaime cut an incredulous look at her. She was distracted for a beat, looking at him closely for the first time since they had been trapped here. The line of his jaw was particularly sharp at this angle, his neck long and accentuating his shoulders clearly defined by his tailored t-shirt. His arms crossed drew attention to his biceps, to sculpted forearms, the veins leading down across the nobbles of his wrists, to his strong hands. They were feet away from one another, and it was ridiculous, but she imagined she could feel the heat from his skin. She swallowed, met his gaze and found his eyes narrowed, watching her closely. Her words lodged in her throat: anger flashed in his eyes and something else. Hurt? Nothing about his expression made any sense to her.

She cleared her throat, tried again. “Look. I-I’ve kissed people.” Jaime’s lips curled at this, and her cheeks heated.

She remembered, suddenly, that night when he’d encouraged her to have a one-night stand shortly after she’d moved in and when she was still nursing her broken heart, and she had rhapsodized to him about how whatever other people did safely was their business but she would never kiss anyone she didn’t want to see again.

It was partly self-defensive. If she made herself out to be a serial monogamist, her friends were less likely to push her to use dating apps or try to pick up men at bars or set her up on blind-dates. They meant well; Brienne knew how those tunes would go. But mainly, in her heart of hearts, she was a romantic. She wanted to be swept off her feet. She wasn’t made for such things, she had learned that well enough by now. It just meant she kept those romantic aspirations secret. And now stayed safely ensconced in her admittedly somewhat mediocre relationship with Hyle, where she knew exactly what to expect and never got her hopes up for anything else.

But Jaime wouldn’t believe she was so cavalier about this. And that… That was part of the problem. The other problem was.

The main problem was.

The problem was Jaime. And things she had thought about even when she told herself she shouldn’t.

But she’d agreed to play this godsforsaken game — never again with ‘Red Viper’ rules — and she’d be damned if she didn’t follow through.

So she ignored her flush, tipped her chin up, looked down her nose at him, still watching her, incredulous. “I’ve kissed people,” she said again forcefully. “You’ve kissed people. It’s not a big deal to just...”

He scoffed, his frown deepening as he looked ceiling-wards, but after a beat, he dropped his head and searched her face. She tried to look certain, tried to keep her other feelings hidden. She didn’t understand the gathering heat behind his expression, how his frown was loosening by the time his gaze fell to her arms wrapped around herself, and when he looked up, something soft now around his mouth, his eyes a shade darker, her stomach swooped. He pushed away from the wall and took a step towards her and her heart was the sea at its most playful, scampering up the shore to dance back, and absurdly she felt herself straightening, her hands tightening where they clutched her biceps.

“It’s. We’re not getting out of here until...” She trailed off, took a breath and tried again. “We should just do it. Just… Kiss.”

He took another step, tilted his head, eyes shining in the low light, and a lock of his hair fell across his forehead and she wanted to reach out, brush it back —

His voice was low, seemed to skim across her skin, when he said, “Is that what you want?”

Yes.

Her cheeks burned, and she fumed at herself, but it also wasn’t a lie, her breath catching and a tug of want from her core at the very thought, but there was Hyle, godsdamnit, but still she couldn’t stop looking at Jaime, watching him take another step. Jaime could be — he could be cruel, with his jokes, and a chill passed across her shoulders that maybe that’s all this was —

Jaime didn’t lie. Not to her. And she couldn’t actually remember when last he’d needed to apologise to her — except about Hyle — he’d learned where her lines were, and surely he would know a joke about this would be a line too far. Which meant.

Which meant she should stop this. Whatever this was. They were friends. Best friends. She should stop this.

Jaime was so close now. She had imagined earlier that she could felt his heat when he was feet away from her, she knew it now. Their friends — Hyle — were still chanting kiss! kiss! kiss! from the other side of the door as if this were a game, as if she wasn’t thinking — for the hundredth, thousandth time, guiltily — about how his lips might feel on hers, about licking into his mouth and learning how he tasted — she had always guessed whiskey this time of night, though more likely beer tonight thanks to the game — and about how hot he would be under her hands if she slid them across the firm planes of his chest, down, around his ribs, flat to his back to pull him flush against her, run her palms down the muscular lines of him to grasp —

“What’s taking so long?” Margaery complained loudly from the other side. Brienne was going to kill her, she could hear the mischief lacing her voice. “We’ve got a godsdamned game to finish!”

There was a chorus of yeah!s and then someone’s fist hit the door, then many hands started slapping it in time with kiss! kiss! kiss! kiss!

“No,” she finally answered, defiant. Jaime’s eyes flashed, her face and chest were hot and her heart would not stop — she cleared her throat, said more forcefully, “No, I don’t want that. It’s just — the game.”

He raised an eyebrow at her as if to say liar. Brienne opened her mouth to snap at him, but there was a tension in his face that stopped her. From the corner of her eyes, she saw as his hands flexed, and as he shook them loose. She knew what that meant. Jaime could usually school his expression when he wanted to, so his tells were elsewhere. In his hands, she had watched him, nervous with Melara, flexing his hands and forcing them loose, all while looking otherwise easy and relaxed. When finally he’d stretched his arm around her back, and Melara had sunk into his hold, his fingers twitched, settling on her shoulder.

His hands flexed again, and Brienne swallowed thickly. Then his tongue darted out, wetting his lips, which then stayed parted, his teeth a flash of white in the soft overhead lighting, and she swallowed back a whimper, caught between wanting to step forward and wanting to step back — Forward and everything changed. Back… she didn’t know what back might mean, and — Jaime tossed his head, another tell, no matter how casual it looked, and gods, but he wanted her looking at him, and she always wanted to be looking at him, oh this was a disaster, but forward seemed the more appealing and he was so close now, it would be one step —

“Just pretend he’s me, Brienne!” Hyle shouted, accompanied by wolf whistles and catcalls, and the heat fizzled like water tossed on a fire. The moment gone, left only with smoke, inexplicably acrid between them.

Jaime’s lips thinned, then he muttered, “Not like this,” and stepped away. He looked around the room, before striding to the window.

Brienne watched disconcerted, feeling dizzy and disappointed and guilty, and it took her too long to realize he was wrestling with the window catch. “What the hells are you doing?”

“You want to return to your precious Hyle,” he grunted, finally getting the catch open. “And I don’t want to be in here with you for another minute.” He shoved the pane so the window popped open, and hoisted himself up. “So. I’m going.”

Before she could do more than shout his name, he was up and out, onto the ledge that was four-fucking-storeys above ground, pressed flat against the glass and shuffling towards the living room.

Endless WIP meme

#thank you for the ask 💙!#writing meme #fic: one shot #ish

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faundlydreaming · 11 months ago

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Once Loved, Twice Loathed- Bg3 Fic

Summary: Fi unknowingly has feelings for Astarion but is the queen of denial, and only believes it to be a sexual attraction. She doesn't know what to do with said attraction and wants to be more confident in being sexy and alluring. So why not go to her bestie Karlach for advice? Unfortunately for Fi, Karlach's advice comes in the form of a smut book. Astarion catches wind and shenanigans ensue.

Characters: Astarion, Fi (Tav), Karlach contents: fluff, talking of feelings/crushes, playful nonsexual teasing, romantic advice, smut book warnings: mentions and quotes from smut book word count: 2,500

author notes: This is basically my first time writing a fan fic. :D I thought it'd be cute to write some fluff between my tav, Fi, Karlach, and Astarion

The unforgiving sun beat down on the encampment. Its heat battled with the cool breeze making the weather tolerable. Distant chatting and the sound of snoring from an afternoon nap joined the piercing screams of cicadas. Thank the Gods, after the constant battle for their lives the day was forgivingly lazy.

Fi squinted at Karlach’s tent as her fists clenched at her sides. A cold, wet nose nudged her knuckles knocking her out of her reverie. She brushed her fingers along Sasha’s muzzle giving a weak smile to the wolf in turn. With nerve-ridden steps, Fi had sought out Karlach to ask advice worthy of heated cheeks and thumping heart: how to be confident when flirting with someone. A certain someone who, at the very thought of, caused the shorter tiefling to cringe in embarrassment. Crushes were such childish things, weren’t they? The lack of any healthy romantic experiences in her past didn’t help.

“Why is your mom like this?” Fi asked the wolf. Sasha tilted her head, her long tail giving a slow wag in response to the tiefling.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

Fi jumped, her eyes snapping onto the much taller Karlach as she sucked in a breath. “Oh gods you scared the shit out of me.”

“Scared you at my own tent? You’re jumpier than usual, what brings you here, soldier?”

“Nothing at all, I just came to say hi-AHH,” Fi nursed the nip from her hand, giving a curl of her lip to the wolf who refused to let her escape. “Ugh, I came for advice.”

“Advice? On what?” Karlach asked.

Fi grumbled, her fingers now finding one another as she stared at her flame-haired friend with narrowed eyes.

“Advice on flirting. With people. Certain people.” The smaller tiefling played with a white lock of her hair as her crimson eyes darted away from Karlach.

“Oh?” Karlach’s face slowly lit up as she gasped into a wide smile. Fi hadn’t once met someone who’s eyebrows rose higher than at this moment. “Are you talking about Ast-“

“Karlach, do you want to give me advice or not?”

“Do I ever. Tell me all of the details, don’t spare anything.” Karlach swung an arm around Fi’s shoulders and dragged the woman into her tent. The once-soldier plopped onto the ground cross-legged and pulled Fi down next to her. “Okay. Go.”

Trust. It was a concept that had been so battered from others in her past that the idea of explaining everything to Karlach caused her to hesitate. Karlach’s copper eyes bore into her own, innocent with anticipation. The other tiefling was the closest to a best friend Fi had ever gotten. Now, the decision was to extend that trust to her, or to push her away? She held Karlach’s gaze until her joyous expression began to fall in concern. It was a leap, but did it really need to be so grave?

“Just… don’t judge me, I’m a grown adult and yet I feel like a kid.” Fi drew her knees up to her chest as she absentmindedly stroked Sasha’s head. She went on to explain her interactions with Astarion up until that moment. Like their first ‘exciting’ meeting with his blade to her throat, the consequential struggle to free herself from him, and the restraint it took not to meet her boot to his face. Or the curious shade of red in his eyes, similar yet more somber than her own and the sharp piercing of his fangs on her neck. She’d allowed him to drink her blood from her wrist thereon, but that fool of a man had the worst ideas at times. Yes, let us go after someone’s blood as they are sleeping surrounded by predatory animals. Kudos to the rogue, however, since he managed to get as close as he did.

Then there was that fateful night of the tiefling party where she’d somehow found herself sleeping with the man. Liquor was a hells of a thing.

“I knew you got some ass that night! And you let him bite your neck? Didn’t expect my girl to be so kinky.”

“Karlach.” It took one look to shut that woman up. A quick glance around them proved that no one had heard that particular outburst. She sighed, maybe talking was a mistake.

“The best advice I can give you is advice you don’t want to hear.”

“And that is?”

“Be yourself.” Fi groaned and Karlach fell into chest-heaving laughter.

“That does nothing. Have you even met me? “

“Yes! And you’re absolutely perfect. Now go get ‘em soldier.”

Fi played with the velvet-soft ear of Sasha. “I have to say, I got nothing from this conversation.”

“That ain’t true, give me a second.” Karlach sprung to her feet and rummaged through a nearby trunk. She pulled out a book and tossed it at the other tiefling. Fi caught it, eyes flickering over the cover before she stared at Karlach with the flattest expression she could manage.

“What?” Karlach asked. ”I’ve gotten plenty of ideas from this series. Sexy ideas. I’m sure you’ll be inspired too.”

“I guess I’ll give it a shot.”

“That’s the spirit, Lil’ Fi!” Lil’ Fi and Mama K, what a pair they were. The ranger-bard rose to her feet, shooting a sharp whistle to Sasha as the wolf stood up. The canine padded up to Karlach and gave her a big, slobbery kiss before turning to follow her mother.

“If this fails me it’s going to be all your fault, Karlach.” A beat of silence. “Who am I kidding? Knowing me I’ll be my own demise.”

“Just remember what I said, be yourself.” Karlach gave an exaggerated wink and Fi stalked off with Sasha.

•••

Once Loved, Twice Loathed. The book was well loved, its worn edges and dreaded cracked spine proof of that. The book Karlach shoved in her hands was the first in the My Most Beloved Betrayer series. Flirtation was a concept all too uncanny to the tiefling. She sat within her tent, leaning back on Sasha as the wolf’s pale fur brushed up against and enveloped her in an uncomfortable warmth. Kilbern, Fi’s raven, was nestled in his usual spot within the curl of Sasha’s tail and sat with his eyes closed, oil-slick hued feathers giving the occasional twitch. Fi gripped the book in her fingers scanning over the cover for the umpteenth time.

It featured a roguish, bare-chested male half-elf cradling an ornery, female drow. She flipped to the first chapter and settled in to read. Far too long did Fi focus on the first paragraph, reading it multiple times over to no avail. With a huff of annoyance, she set the book down in her lap and nearly gave up. Nearly. From the tent across from her she spotted Karlach doing gods-knew what. The other tiefling in turn, spotting Fi, gave a lopsided grin with an exaggerated double thumbs up. Fi’s body rose and fell with a full sigh. She loved Karlach, but sometimes her closest friend had her wanting to shove her own face in the sand from embarrassment. At least Karlach tried. Fi wouldn't dare share these thoughts with anyone else in camp. Except for Wyll. The Blade of Frontiers had a brotherly feel. He was also the least insane of their group and given his deal with a literal devil, that was saying a lot.

She opened the book once again and stared at the first page. And stared. And stared. This wouldn’t do. She could have all of the patience in the world for a good hunt or for stalking an elusive target, but when it came to something like reading a crotch novel for romantic advice, it evaporated into the ether.

Gods, why couldn’t she just read a dirty book like the very mature, very experienced, high-esteemed adult that she was? It was just smut. She wasn’t a child to be defeated by the threats of maturity. Fi thumbed through a few more pages before picking a random one to find a more interesting passage.

The man looked cooly towards the drow as her red eyes, shining with power, narrowed with glee. She pressed a pointed finger to his forehead, pushing until he fell to his knees, his gaze never releasing hers.

‘Sit.’ Her finger moved to trace his jawline and hook beneath his chin, forcing him to keep his eyes on hers as her heels dug into his chest, pushing him onto his back. ‘Good boy.’’

Everything was going as expected so far, what was she so afraid of anyway? Fi chuckled to herself, flipping the page until a dastardly intrusive thought wove itself into her consciousness. The man in her imagination was no longer from the book, but instead, replaced with her. The ice-cold expression of the drow was now Astarion and his stupid little grin. It was his finger that had hooked beneath her chin, his eyes boring into her, his smile that-

Oh my gods. She couldn’t do this. The embarrassment was agonizing. Fi shoved the intrusive thought back into the deep crevices of her tadpole-infected brain and set the book down on her lap. For a long moment she stared at the ground in front of her, studying the intricate, weaving patterns of the rug she’d placed at the bottom of her tent. No, she needed to read on, this time promising to herself that she wouldn’t let her wayward thoughts get the better of her. She skipped a few more chapters ahead.

‘The seductress railed the half-elf with her strap-on until he could no longer beg her to allow him orgasmic release.”

The book promptly closed. Exploring these feelings was allowed. It was natural after all, wasn’t it? To want to explore this part of herself in the relative safety of her own mind? A place where she could fight the self-judgment she felt due to her sordid past? Fi could allow herself to enjoy this moment, learning from this clearly very Official Guidebook to Sex at her own leisure. Perhaps, she might dare say, it was okay that instead of the protagonists, she imagined herself with this man who she’d slept with at the tiefling party many moons ago. She shuddered a sigh through her nose. How pathetic he’d think of her at this moment when he’d been so upfront about his desires. Deep inside, she knew from the tightness in her chest and ache in her throat that things like sex were more complex than that.

Fine. These thoughts were as well-protected as she could manage given the telepathy their tadpoles would occasionally grant. Fi began to read yet again, loosening the leash she held on herself in the words and actions of the protagonists who explored one another’s bodies. The warmth spread through her cheeks tingling with a quiet shyness as her eyes skipped through the words in haste. Her desire was tentative, though yearning, to replace the protagonists with herself and the elf she hopelessly pined for. Not romantically, of course. Never. Just, physically. She absolutely lost herself in Karlach’s filthy novel.

“Dare I say, you look quite taken by that book you’re so enthralled with. What title has your fancy, hm?”

With a startled yelp, Fi did the only thing she could possibly do in that moment. With one smooth movement, she clutched the book, arched her hand back, and chucked it as far from her tent as she could straight into the middle of camp. From above, the pale elf was almost invisible against the sunlight that bathed him making his expression indiscernible. She didn’t need to see his face to tell what his expression must have been.

“I’ve never seen you move so quickly. Impressive, really.”

“What do you want, Astarion?”

“As I said,” and he grinned with a bit of fang, “I wanted to see what you were so focused on reading. What was it, adventure? Romance? Something more?”

Fi sat up as he continued rambling, his guesses becoming more and more lewd as he went on. “If you’re not here for a good reason then go away. You caught me off guard, is all. Go chug a rat or something.”

Her tail tip whipped against the ground as he stepped into the shade, his features becoming more clear as he stared down at her.

“Oh, if you insist. But first, why don’t I do you a favor and go fetch it for you?” Red eyes gleamed with innocence as he flicked a wrist in the direction of the book. How many times would she be sighing of frustration today?

“No thanks. I’ll get it myself.” Fi shifted onto her knees when she froze, blinking a few times to get a clear view of where the book had landed. It was gone. She gave a tilt of her head, eyes narrowing as Astarion followed her gaze in curiosity. With a flash of feathers, Kilbern appeared above Astarion, dropping an object from his talons into the elf’s hands and landing smoothly into the tent with bristling pride. She’d never noticed he’d even left.

“Here, mother. This is what you wanted, right?” Kilbern preened his feathers for good measure.

“Have I failed you that much as a mother, Killy?” Fi shrank in defeat as she stared at her bird who cocked his head in confusion. Not one to take an opportunity for granted, Astarion had already devoured the title of the book and flipped through a few of the pages, the grin on his face growing wider, more asshole-ish.

“Darling, if you were feeling that pent up you could have just come to fetch me.” He leaned down, his face close to hers as he whispered in her ear. “No need to be so shy. We could always pick up where we left off?”

Fi’s eyes widened as she pushed his face away with her palm. “Not a chance. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean, the sight of watching you squirm? Perhaps a little.”

“I hate you.” “The feeling isn’t mutual, darling.”

“Alright, ‘harass Fi’ time is over. Go be a sexy vampire elsewhere.”

The low timbre of his voice rose to an amused lilt. “You think I’m sexy? I’m not surprised, it’s me, after all.”

“Out!” Yet another projectile launched from her hand, this time an embroidered pillow, and this time at his face. He dodged with ease, turning around to walk away with a shrug of his shoulders and that strange, trilly laugh of his.

“If you change your mind you know which tent to find me.”

Fi was done with sighs. This time she just stared at his retreating back, turned to glare at her bird, and flumped straight into Sasha’s side.

“I’m never listening to Karlach’s advice again.” Her words were muffled through fur and the heavy weight of shame. That was a lie. Not only would she finish Once Loved, Twice Loathed, but the entire series of My Most Beloved Betrayer.

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ladybugmeat · 2 years ago

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1. Children who Bite

On my first day of school, I bit the Woon twins. I was sent to stand by the wall with my back faced against the playground. A group of teachers gathered and spoke in fast, anxious tones.

“Children who bite other children-” Mrs Verhoeven began, her speech impeded by a murmuration of female voices.

“I had her for maths this morning… very quiet.” I could hear Miss Marwood’s glasses pressed into the tip of her nose.

I ran my fingers into the grooves between the bricks. When I had first looked up from Harry’s shoulder, there was no mark. And then all at once, there was a perfect indent. White water fountain. White nails. White indent. My entire smile on his arm -The two gaps in my milk teeth, my fangy canines, and my two front rabbits. George’s hand cleaved the empty space between his brother and my mouth. I had not wanted to bite him, nor had I planned to, but he had gotten in the way. His lips twitched as he held out his two fingers. His breathing was ragged. I didn’t look away. One, then two rings of indents, and blood.

“I’m sorry Grace. The parent complained.”

My mother took my hand from Miss Marwood’s and pulled me into the flap of her dark green coat. Kneeling down, she took the collars of my pinafore and smiled. She was wearing her make-up.

“I think it’s a McDonald’s kind of day, isn’t it?”

Miss Marwood’s expression stiffened. My mother straightened out her coat and nodded her goodbye.

‘...in case you missed it, we have an early parents evening coming up-’

Miss Marwood searched her pockets for the newsletter but my mother had already carried me away.

At home, I took the tissue from my book-bag and followed my mother into the kitchen. She had been singing this whole time and I wanted to sing with her. I placed it on the counter where I could still see it. She unfolded the squares and leant her tangled hair into the light. Now that I come to think of it, I notice that my mother’s appearance had always been made up in some regard. When she wasn’t wearing lipstick, she was wearing charcoal. When her hair was swooped into a formless mass, her finger-nails were immaculate.

The spider’s legs were craned inwards, its abdomen twisted outward from its pincers. With its legs flat, it would have been the size of my palm.

“I tried to stop them but they-”

My mother’s eyes narrowed. Once she was stood up she could see all of it. Taking tweezers from a ceramic bowl of salt water, she plucked the legs out one by one. She placed them vertically, wiping the head of the tweezers each time. They looked like dried cherry stems and splintered like matches.

“Harry stamped on it. He-He stomped on it.”

Taking its dappled brown abdomen up into the light, she turned it around and let it fall back onto the counter. She closed the tissue inwards. Her face seemed on the brink of crumpling into tears, tears that would pour down her closed lips in silence.

“I can get you another one. There are more, I saw them. ”

I tugged at her fleece arm but her whole body trembled. I expected her to say something in her defence, but she stood at the counter until my father’s keys sounded in the door.

“Go to your room, Edith.” Her voice had no weight to it, like feathers. It was neither sombre nor empty, as might be expected from someone who was unwell.

That night I sat up drawing spiders. I drew small spiders with long legs and small pincers. I drew their tiny snowman bodies and went back in with pen to do their legs. I drew the dead spider, its abdomen heavy and exploding with babies.

#novel #creativewriting #writing #novella #writes #writers #mine #poetry #poem #poets #writersoftumblr #writers of tumblr #writing excercise #writing community

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draculesmihawk · 11 months ago

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eyes like sinking ships on waters (i almost jump in)

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk x OFC

Summary: He’s a stranger. She’s an unusual assignment. He may be everything she’s looking for, but she’s a presence that grows more intriguing – and infuriating – by the moment.

CHAPTER TWO: the path to paradise (likewise the road to ruin)

[AO3]

Despite the threat at his back, Mihawk’s focus remained on the woman in front of him. Aurelia stood frozen as Mihawk narrowed the gap that was between them. She was very aware of the hand that remained on her. A large palm pressed just below her navel, fingers flexing slightly before he drew his hand away. Had she issued the challenge knowing these men would be there in case she failed? Or had luck’s scale simply tilted in her favor? There would be no time to discuss. Not with the small group that formed at the other end of the alleyway.

“Stay here.”

“I will n--”

“Behave.”

The order was not what stunned Aurelia, but rather what he managed to instill into the single word. Power. The initial reaction had been astonishment at the sheer boldness of his command. He noted the way her lips parted in shock at the order. Like no one had ever spoken to her in such a manner before. A finger raised to touch the tip of her chin, as if to mockingly raise her jaw from the ground. She was quick to reach up and swat the hand away. Her expression snapped into one of immediate defiance and he knew it.

Quite interesting.

Mihawk set one last look upon her before he reached for his cross necklace, unclasping it from around his neck and turning towards the group of men behind them. She saw him lift it from its case, revealing a small knife. The men who stood opposite him did not look to be Marines, nor did they look proficient enough to resemble anything close to a respectable pirate. Hired hands looking for a quick Berry was his best guess. Four of them. Hardly a fair fight. Mihawk expected this to end quickly. He would be able to dispose of them with little to no trouble, take his target, and leave as he pleases. At least that was the ideal outcome. Mihawk had the feeling that the woman he was pursuing had different ideas. Because the memory of Aurelia’s scowl lingered in the back of his mind, Mihawk reached behind him. His fingers caught her wrist. He didn’t need to turn to know that she had tried to climb the crates the second he turned his back from her. Her frustrated huff confirmed his thoughts as he pulled her forward, bringing her over to his side.

"Dracule Mihawk."

One of her attempted captors had recognized the man at her side. Dracule Mihawk. The name was unfamiliar to her ears. However, the man said the name with reverence. He also said it with great fear. Not a moment after he uttered the name, they would watch as one of the quartet turned and ran, leaving a trio behind. Ran like the devil himself was hot on his tail. Aurelia looked at the three remaining men. Each looked larger and more intimidating than the other. These men either knew who Mihawk was and didn’t care or the bounty placed on her head had been more than enough reason to go through the trouble.

“This woman is mine,” Mihawk announced, fingers flexing around Aurelia’s wrist as he spoke, “To raise your swords against me is to forfeit your life.”

Cold, yellow eyes looked from one man to the other. The first had two large scars over the side of his face, one less than an old associate of his. The second man, smallest of the three, held the biggest sword of the group. A move Mihawk could only assume was to overcompensate. The last man looked to have a permanent scowl on his face, determined to come across as threatening as possible to the Warlord.

When no other man made a move to leave, Mihawk sighed.

“Let’s begin.”

There was a beat of silence, then chaos erupted.

She tensed at the sudden roar from the other men, the way they held up their swords as they charged forward. She felt Mihawk’s hold on her wrist tighten. Her initial reaction was to resist when she felt his hand pulling her behind him. For Aurelia, this man -- this Mihawk -- was no different than the men he was facing. He was set on capturing her just like the others. She tried to tug her wrist from his grip, but found it useless against his strength. It wasn’t until she fell into step behind him that she felt the sword’s blade slicing through the air where she once stood. Aurelia had never experienced a fight before. She had never operated or held a weapon, much less thrown or received a punch. To say she was out of her depth was a severe understatement.

The man who currently held her in his grip clearly knew his way around a sword.

Or, in his case, a very small knife.

Mihawk wielded Kogatana with great skill, deflecting the wide swings from his opponents with ease. As expected, none of these men had the skill to truly be a challenge for him. The real challenge seemed to be trying to keep Aurelia from getting herself killed during the exchange. Despite the blades flying around her head, the stubborn woman seemed determined to free herself from the hold he had on her. He had safely maneuvered Aurelia from Scar’s blade with one hand, using his knife hand to deflect when Small advanced upon them with an upward swing. Mihawk took a long step back as Scowl went for a low sweep of his sword. The movement jostled Aurelia back in the process and the arm not being gripped reached out of instinct, wrapping around Mihawk’s waist. Her palm pressed against skin. She jolted slightly at the contact, hand withdrawing instantly before finding its way comfortably on his belt. He sidestepped when Scar took another swipe, hand on Aurelia’s wrist releasing before moving to her side. It came to rest against her ribs, guiding her along with him as he parried the incoming attack. With the flick of his wrist, Mihawk sent Scar flying backward onto the dirt before turning his attention to his two companions.

Small and Scowl’s attack both came from above and, unsurprisingly, were halted in one motion. Mihawk kept his knife hand up, single blade absorbing both blows with ease. The small distraction in combat was all it took for Aurelia to take her shot. Hand dropping from Mihawk’s waist, Aurelia quickly ducked under his raised arm. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder as she moved, though she could hear the small grunt of acknowledgement. He had spotted her taking her chance and Aurelia was certain that he wasn’t going to let her go without quite literally a fight on his hands. She felt his free hand grasp the bottom of her cloth satchel, determined to drag her back to his side. At the same moment, Small had withdrawn his sword, raising it back over his head to slash. Aurelia went flying forward as Mihawk released the bag, pulling his hand back and shifting away from the oncoming attack. She fell to the ground beside Scar, kicking dirt up as she quickly shifted away from the man when he reached for her.

Mihawk watched as she scrambled to her feet, breaking into a run towards the wall once more. She kept her eyes ahead, focus locking onto the wall she had nearly escaped towards earlier. Mihawk whipped his knife hand out, stabbing to his right where Scowl had begun to chase after Aurelia. He felt the knife catch skin, slice into the side of the man’s neck with no effort. It was the sound of his body thudding to the ground after Mihawk dislodged the blade that had caught the attention of his runaway. She had cleared the crate easily by then, one leg already slung over the wooden wall when she turned to look back at him. Mihawk’s eyes remained on hers as he took a half-step back, knife hand intercepting Scar’s sword attack.

It was then that he saw it.

Aurelia’s eyes dropped down to his boots and her expression shifted. Her eyes widened a fraction in immediate panic before her expression sombered. The corner of her lips that once smiled had turned downward. He threw back his knife, sending Scar crashing into the wall beside them. Yellow eyes flickered down, followed Aurelia’s gaze, and landed at the scattered mess at his feet. It seems her bag had gotten caught in the crossfire during the encounter. It had been torn and several of her items had spilled around them. Mihawk evaded Small’s quick attack, moving around the man and sending him staggering even as Mihawk’s focus was on the items around him. It was not the bag of sweets that had drawn out that look on Aurelia’s face, nor was it even the few Berry sprinkled on the ground. It was the leather bound journal two paces ahead of him that had caught her attention. It kept her locked into place, straddling the wall towards freedom.

Before she could shift back towards his side of the wall, Mihawk stepped forward and placed the tip of his boot onto the journal. Her dark eyes narrowed at him. He raised an eyebrow faintly, silently daring her to come for her treasure. The parting look in her eye was poisonous before she swung her other leg over the wall and dropped from his sight.

That look alone was nearly worth the trouble of the day.

Nearly.

Mihawk would find her again. It was a matter of principle now. She had a tally to her name, having secured a successful backup plan for escape. However, Mihawk believed enough that he had evened the game by forcing her to sacrifice something of value in exchange for her freedom. He felt a faint tingle of excitement at the idea of another chase with this woman.

His distraction gone for the moment, Mihawk turned his full attention to the remaining two men.

“Now,” he sighed, resigned to finish the fight with the last two combatants, “Where were we?”

God-fucking-damnit.

Aurelia cursed herself as she recalled the last few moments of her encounter with Dracule Mihawk. She had left behind the one thing she truly cared for. The Berry, the food, all of it she would have easily left behind if it meant her journal was safe in her now torn bag. She softly sighed, letting her head drop to her knees from inside her hiding place. Yes, she had to leave behind her journal. However, the time she had given herself led to success.

Admittedly, slipping into a shipping crate as a means to escape was not high on her list of proud moments. It was a ship though and that meant leaving this town. Hopefully it would also mean leaving behind the impressive swashbuckler hellbent on disrupting her runaway plans. She tried to sit comfortably, hesitant to make any big movements that could possibly tip off whoever’s ship this was. Due to the darkness, she couldn't see. However, she seemed to have at least chosen one of the more comfortable boxes to climb into. Some sort of fabric. Possibly for clothing, though she was unsure from the touch of it.

Head dropping back to rest against the crate at her back, Aurelia closed her eyes. Her fingers traced along the long slash that was cut into her satchel. She tried to think back on every entry she wrote, every sketch she drew. Most were scribblings of her travels. However, her brows furrowed as she considered the later pages and what they could reveal to the somber man with the yellow eyes. Yellow eyes. She had not expected such a color.

Her thoughts were disrupted as she felt the crate lift and begin to be hauled away. She tried to remain as still as possible, even when she felt the box she was in be placed down. Tipping her head to the side, Aurelia tried to sleep. There would be a long journey ahead. No matter where this ship would touch ground next, she knew she’d need her energy to face whatever came. If she was lucky, the ship would take her to the next island over. If her luck had run out, she feared it would sail right back home. Home. Aurelia was quick to push the thought away as swiftly as it came. She had no intention of returning there. No man would succeed in taking her back. Not even the devastatingly handsome ones with tiny knives and piercing eyes.

Quite ordinary.

Mihawk was already aboard the Hitsugbune when he had begun to investigate the journal in his possession. She wrote of the various towns she visited, the different foods and items she found particularly interesting. Nothing he could particularly use to find her. Everything she wrote about were things she already experienced. Something about this woman told him she had no intentions of going back. This one focused on distance, on how far she could take things, on what she could experience in the meantime. The green flames of the candles that were placed at the left and right of his coffin-shaped boat provided lighting as the sun began to set, the wind picking up at his back and propelling the boat forward as he turned page after page. His hand stopped turning pages as his gaze settled upon something odd.

It was his own eyes that stared up at him.

Drawn in charcoal, lacking in color. Yet it was his eyes. While the rest of his face faded, unfinished, it was his sharp gaze that was drawn with crisp lines. Clear intent with her markings. Each dash or curve that created his gaze was intentional, recreating his likeness with incredible precision. She drew like she knew his face. An impossibility, of course. He had never laid eyes upon her until that day. He turned the page, fingers gripping the edges of the journal as his hawk-like eyes narrowed, taking in the next image.

A remarkably familiar straw hat.

Aurelia jolted awake as the cover to the crate lifted open, a shining light overhead straining her sight. She didn’t know the hour. Just that it was late, much later than she anticipated. She had slept through most of the sailing, and had remained hidden until that moment. A hand raised from outside the box, pushed away what must’ve been a lantern, casting the glow away from above her. As her eyes blinked back into focus, Aurelia looked up. The concern in her eyes must’ve been evident.

“You’re safe. I promise no harm will come to you, Miss.”

It was then that a hand was offered, as well as a comforting smile, when she stared up at him.

Kind face.

Soft eyes.

Fiery red hair.

“My name is Shanks.”

#dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk fanfic #dracule mihawk fanfiction #dracule mihawk x oc #dracule mihawk x ofc #fic: eyes like sinking ships #fic: dracule mihawk #fic: mine

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shini--chan · 2 years ago

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👋Hello I love your work, it's so detailed! If I may request the England, Germany, Norway and Romano with a darling who has gone almost catatonic; not eating not reacting to anything even pain. Or the same group with a darling who refuses to kiss them. I read a story a while ago where a young lady was in an abusive relationship and one of the only things she could control was her kisses, something she refused to give. Interesting how something so simple can hold such power. Thank you for your wonderful work and I hope life goes well for you.😄

Now that is an interesting story – mind sending in the link somehow? Also, thanks for the kind words

Yandere Hetalia – Limited Affection

England

“I don’t know what you want to achieve through this, but it is becoming extremely frustrating”, Arthur commented, as you drew back. He had attempted to kiss you when you had bent down to set the tea tray in front of him, only for you to stubbornly tilt your face up, causing his lips to clumsily land on your chin. Now his grey-green eyes were narrowed to a glare and an unpleasant sneer lay on his lips as he regarded you. Of course, his hair-trigger temper was neigh to rearing its ugly head, but for now he was just irritated, for now you were relatively safe.

Sucking in a deep breath as discreetly as you could, you maintained eye contact. Arthur Kirkland frightened you, very much at times, yet you couldn’t allow it to show, because like a lion, he would maul you if he sensed fear.

“I could say the same about your doings”, you countered evenly, making sure to speak slowly and carefully. In return, he raised a thick eyebrow and snaped at you:

“Transparent excuses and deflections! Matters between us could be so lovely, yet you insist on being petty. Affection is something all humans crave, and if you want to have some, you better start bringing your own share to the table. Kiss me back when I wish to kiss you, or I’m cancelling that trip any future outings until further notice!”

England wouldn’t deal well with you refusing to kiss him. At first, he would let it slide, ignoring it in order to focus on more imminent problems, such as your manners and your general reaction to him. Though, as time, would pass, he would become more and more annoyed until one day he would lash out at you. Aren’t couples supposed to kiss and cuddle? Then why aren’t you doing it with him? Why would you insist on being so difficult?

He would start issuing ultimatums and if those threats wouldn’t work, he would start revoking rights. This would either culminate in a torture session in the cellar or somebody from your old life being harmed.

Germany

Ludwig leaned over to your side of the bed, fully intent on stealing himself a goodnight kiss, only for you to guess his intentions and curl in on yourself, burying your face in your arms. The sharp sting of rejection nestled itself in his heart. This wasn’t something new, yet it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. If anything, it was like dripping acid in a festering wound.

“Good night”, you said, the words muffled by how you had positioned yourself. He laid back down on the bed, tugging the duvet up to his chin. For a few forlorn minutes he just stared at the celling, listing to how your breathing eventually evened out as you drifted into uneasy sleep. You generally didn’t sleep well when you shared a bed with him, yet he did, and that was why he insisted that you stayed with him.

You were still upset with him. Of course, he had tried to make the transition from having a social circle to just having him, yet the whole operation had gone wrong. The cuts hadn’t been clean, and he had had to pull a fair amount of strings to get law enforcement to back off. Emotions were already hard to deal with when it were just his own; the problematic grew exponentially when having to deal with other people’s emotions. It wouldn’t be the first time where he had asked whey humans couldn’t be more like machines, following cold, hard logic and operating along predictable tangents. Then he could easily fix your attitude towards him – greasing the gears, swapping the burned through resistors and using a more flexible steel alloy for upgrades to the hard mechanics. Yet that wasn’t the case.

He rolled up to his side and curled into a fetal position.

It would rouse Ludwig’s guilt over the situation. He would be cognizant over the fact that what he would be doing would be illegal and immoral. It would gnaw at his conscience until he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Yet that wouldn’t be enough to persuade him to let you go. After all, you would be only one person, not a whole population. After all, wouldn’t he deserve a little something for having reformed so well?

If you could make him wallow in his guilt even more, then maybe you could convince him to let you go. That wouldn’t be achieved through kicking and screaming but rather through small acts of defiance and pointed observations. While he would be extremely self-critical, there would still be a hefty dose of anger and pride simmering underneath it all.

Norway

Lukas keenly followed you with his eyes as you drifted about the kitchen, gathering ingredients for a cake. As always, when you were nervous, you resorted to busying yourself with some menial task to distract yourself from your own thoughts. This time was because he had told about the publicity stunt that he had in mind. He was going to propose to you, and you knew well what that meant. It meant that you had have say yes and act overjoyed, embracing him and kissing him. You had have to kiss him, something you had avoided doing all this time.

You set down the glass jar with the sugar with far more force that needed. Oh yes, you didn’t like the idea of officially becoming his fiancée at all, and what made it worse was that you were well aware of the repercussions to openly rejecting him.

You knew that if allowed any of your true feelings to seep through, that the lives of your loved ones would take a drastic turn for the worse. Not to mention that most of your time would then be spent in a deary white room.

Lukas wouldn’t demand kisses from you in day-to-day life, and he wouldn’t mind that much if you would refuse to kiss him at all. He would simply patiently wait for the day where you would finally open up to him. Yet, he would also have a certain love for rituals, and some of them would involve kisses. While he wouldn’t outwardly show it very much, he would be very upset if you wouldn’t play along and there be severe repercussions.

South Italy

There was the smell of wine on his breath and his eyes were glazed over as he stared at you. At this point you didn’t know if it was because of the alcohol or your rejection for simple affections – it could be both for all you knew. After all, he could become very emotional after a glass to many.

“My love, why not be a bit nicer for once?”, he asked, his gait becoming slower due to his bad mood. You had your arms hooked together for a night time stroll by the beach. You were sure if this had been another person, somebody that wasn’t twistedly obsessive and possessive when it came to you, somebody that didn’t insist that you were beholden to him in every possible way, then you would be besotted.

You do what you can to soften your features, swallowing your distain, you said cooly: “Tit for that.”

This time you had gone too far. He stopped entirely, glaring at you and then snarling angerly: “Bullshit. You are ungrateful, obnoxious, selfish, frigid … and just terrible an ungrateful brat. Where do you get off saying such cruel things?”

Your refusals would dig at the insecurities that Romano would harbour. For a time, he would actually believe that you only wouldn’t want to kiss him because you were seeing somebody else without his knowledge or permission. As such, he could frequently lock you in your room or keep your unconscious for extended periods of time.

On the other hand, this could also cause him to revise his behaviour around you. Kisses are very important to South Italy, so he would try to find ways to earn your affections. If you wouldn’t go to far, then you could even use this to make him comply with many of your wishes.

#yandere hetalia #yandere england #yandere germany #yandere norway #yandere romano #x reader

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ragingbookdragon · 4 years ago

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What Is A Mother, But The Woman Who Loves Us Most?

A Batmom x Batfamily One-Shot

Word Count: 3.3K Warnings: Angst

Author's Note: I know there is a story like this already (by a different author) but I should preface that this is a story that I posted a year or so before but deleted my previous blog last year, so it's not going to seem like it. I haven't copied any ideas, this is my own that I posted a year or so ago, and re-posting again now. -Thorne

You are not my mother!

The loathing words came out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he watched the cave go deathly quiet around him. Everyone's eyes were wide, even hers, but a millisecond later, they set in a hard stare as she stood straight, her jaw tightening.

She nodded, staring at him. "You're right Damian. I'm not Talia al Ghul. I'm not your mother. But I will tell you what I am." She raised her left hand, flashing the silver wedding ring on her finger. "I'm your father's wife. And what I tell you to do in this manor is what I expect from you."

He shook his head in anger, glaring at her. "This is my father's manor!"

"No Damian, this is the Wayne Manor. And I've been, to use a rather weathered term, the lady of the house for almost fifteen years. Long before you were even a thought in Talia's mind." He stopped and she crossed her arms. "I may not be your mother, but you are a child and your father and I are the adults. When you turn eighteen, you can make all the decisions you want. Until then, what we say goes."

His lips drew in a taut line and she added, "I've already talked about it to Bruce. You're not allowed on patrol after what happened at the gala. If you want to complain to him about it, he's going to tell you the same thing." Her eyes shifted to the others, then she looked back at him one last time before turning around and walking up the stairs.

When she was gone, he let out a shout in anger and threw silver coffee pot against the cave wall. It hit the wall with a clang and dropped, rolling on the ground a few times as it spilled its contents, much like his mood.

He felt their eyes on them and he whipped his head up, glaring at them. "What?!"

Tim and Jason simply narrowed their eyes at him, but Dick walked forward and knelt in front of him. "Kiddo, that wasn't a nice thing to say to mom."

Damian scoffed at him before shoving past, climbing up the stairs. “Like the three of you haven't said that to her before." There was no return to his statement, giving him all the answer, he needed.

***

He stepped out of the study stretching his arms and listening to the sound of his bones popping before he shifted, moving towards the door. The boys had left a few minutes earlier to catch a rerun of an episode of Vikings, leaving him alone in the cave.

Alfred walked up to him, handing him a sweater before motioning to the door. "Mrs. Wayne has taken a seat out on the patio. I suspect you'll wish to see her."

Bruce nodded, taking the sweater from him before thanking him and moving out of the study and towards the patio. He crossed into the living room as he did, stopping to stare at his four sons passed out on the couch. The TV was still going, so he leaned down, gently taking the remote from Dick's hand and shutting it off.

He set the remote down and started his path again, but stopped when he heard, "You going to check on mom?" He turned around, looking at a his oldest.

Bruce nodded, taking in the sight of Dick’s arms wrapped around all of his brothers. “After you boys told me what happened, I thought I should talk to her about it."

Dick nodded, reaching up and rubbing his eyes, careful not to wake the others beside him. "He didn't mean it...he'll see that when he gets over being angry."

Bruce nodded and leaned over, ruffling his hair. “Tell Jason that you two should stay at the manor tonight...it's too late for you to head home anyway."

Dick started to argue, but a look from his father and quick, “Your mother would have a fit if you two tried to drive home now or later…you know that.”

His son nodded and Bruce turned around once more, this time making his way to the dimly lit patio. His hand curled around the cool metal handle of the sliding glass door, and he quietly opened it, stepping out onto the deck. She lay on the porch swing, covered by a heavy hound’s tooth blanket, with a barely full wine glass in her hand.

He walked towards her and bent over, picking up the wine bottle; he shook it lightly before quipping, "I can't believe you've drank an entire bottle in one sitting."

As if finally noticing his presence, she tipped her head lazily to him and mumbled, "It's empty?"

He snorted and tipped the bottle upside down. "As it was the day before it was bottled."

Bruce paused and grinned as she huffed a laugh and brought the glass she had in her hand up to her mouth. He watched her down the rest of her red wine before she set the glass on the table; he set the bottle beside it and shifted her forward, easing his way behind her until they were both comfortable. She rested her back against his chest, her head dropping against his shoulder. His arms came up around her as he pulled the blanket up to her neck, keeping her warm.

He was quiet for a second then he murmured, "...The boys told me what happened earlier."

There was a moment of silence, then she whispered, "I know I should be used to it after hearing it come from each of them..." She stopped, then continued with, "But it still stings to hear it."

A sad smile crossed his lips as he pressed his lips to her temple. "Of course it stings (Y/N)...you're their mother and you love them." After he didn't receive a response from her, he tipped his head and looked down. "(Y/N)? Love?" She turned her head, and he took in the sight of the tears in her eyes; his face fell at the sight and he brought a hand up, cupping her cheek. "Oh…sweetheart."

(Y/N) choked out a sob and pressed her face into the crook of his neck as she clenched a hand in his sweater. Bruce rested his chin on the top of her head as he rubbed her back, comforting her with quiet words.

***

Damian watched them from the screen door, feeling his heart clench in his chest at the sight of (Y/N) sobbing. He swallowed thickly and stepped back, only to come into contact with someone—something. He let out a quiet gasp and spun around, seeing Dick staring sadly out at his parents, Tim and Jason behind him doing the same.

Damian looked at them and whispered, "What are you three doing?"

Dick glanced at him briefly before motioning to them. "We heard the sliding door open, and we went to listen."

"I didn't know you were eavesdroppers."

A hand came up and cuffed him upside the head; he held his head, glaring at Jason who bit out, "Shut up, two-bit. You were eavesdropping too."

Damian opened his mouth to retort, but shut it and turned back around, looking at her. A moment passed, then he mumbled, "You said the same thing I did." He looked up at his brothers, who wore clouded expressions; each of them nodded after a few seconds, and he asked, "What happened?"

Dick was the first to speak, remembering a time from when he was a mere ten years old.

***

He stomped angrily through the house, not even caring about her following him; she called after him repeatedly. "Dick. Dick, honey, stop for a second."

He didn't listen, still moving. "No! You grounded me!"

"And I grounded you for a reason. You deliberately disobeyed me." He grunted at her and she called out, her voice ringing with authority, "Richard John Grayson. Not another step young man." He stopped at it and she continued, "You left the cave tonight and went on patrol without asking. As your mom-"

He spun around, his eyes angered as he spit, "You're not my mom! Stop acting like it!" Her mouth shut, and her eyes went wide from the declarations.

She blinked, obviously stunned at his words, and she stared down at her hands murmuring, "I may not be your real mother...but I...I am...I..." She drew off, bringing a hand up to wipe at her cheek. Dick's widened when she looked up at him, and he saw the tears beginning to spill, running down her cheeks.

He raised his hands out to her. "Wait! I—I didn't mean it!"

(Y/N) looked down and she brought a hand up to her mouth, moving past him, letting out a broken, 'excuse me'. He watched her go past him, then a few moments later, Bruce walked into the room and he turned to him.

"Bruce!" Bruce looked down at him, taking in the sight of Dick, who was almost in tears.

The lecture he had ready for him went out the window as he squatted in front of Dick. "Dick?"

The boy looked up at him, tears filling those big blue eyes. "I—I messed up B-Bruce."

He reached out a hand, wiping his tears away. "What happened Dick?"

Dick lowered his head and he whispered, "I a—accidently told (Y/N) that she wasn't my m-mom."

Bruce sighed at him and murmured, “Oh, Dick." The boy began to sob, and Bruce reached out, pulling him into a hug. "It's okay, bud."

***

Dick looked at her and murmured, "I've never forgotten the look she gave me after I said it to her..." He looked down at Damian, and said, "And neither has she."

Jason nodded at that. "I'm sure she's never forgotten how I left the cave telling her I had to go find my real mom.

***

"What are you looking at baby?"

He jerked forward, clicking the screen to minimize the images. "Nothing!" He spun around to see her walking towards him, an amused smile on her face.

"And I'm assuming that nothing is not important?" She questioned.

He nodded. "Not at all."

She stared at him until he sighed and turned around, clicking the screen to reveal the images of the three women; she walked up to him. "Who are these women?"

He pointed to each one. "Sharmin Rosen, Lady Shiva, and Sheila Haywood."

(Y/N) nodded, looking at them. "They're very pretty women." She paused and looked at him. "But why are you looking at them." He dropped his gaze and picked at his fingers. "Jason? Hon?"

He looked back up at her. "One of them is my mom."

Her eyes widened as she said, "Like...your biological mom?"

He nodded. "I found out after I went back to my old apartment." He looked between the screen and (Y/N). "I'm gonna track them down." She was silent, her eyes moving to the screen, and he turned to her, rising from the chair. "I have to go find them...I have to go find my real mom."

***

"And those were the last words I ever said to Ma." They stared at Jason as he leaned against a table by the door. "And it got a lot worse when I came back...I said horrible things to Ma...about her not caring...about her not being a mother." He went silent and shook his head. "I fucked up a lot of things between us for a good couple years."

Tim watched him, then nodded. "I hadn't even realized I'd actually said it to mom...it was such an offhanded comment that I didn't even know what I said until she was gone."

***

He barely registered the sound of his bedroom door opening, let alone the sound of her footsteps as she walked up to him. He did, however, hear the disappointment in her tone as she said, "Timmy...you need to go to bed."

He shook his head, typing on the keyboard. "I'm fine."

"Honey, you've been awake for almost forty-eight hours." She rested a hand on his shoulder. "It's not good for your body if you stay up like this."

"I'm fine. Really, I'm good."

She squeezed his shoulder, the other hand reaching out to close the laptop. "You'll be good when you're asleep in bed." Skimming the top of this laptop, she stopped when his curled around her wrist.

He turned to her and said, "Will you stop mothering me? I'm fine. I don't need your help."

He let go of her and turned back to the screen, barely registering the way she quietly whispered, “Alright Timmy...goodnight”, and walked out of his room.

***

"The only reason I actually realized what I said was after a few minutes, I realized that she hadn't told me she loved me after saying good night." He paused, digging a groove into the carpet with his toes. "Mom didn't say anything about it the next day, but I could tell that something had shifted. She was more reserved when it came to me." He looked at Damian. "Look, I know you and I don't get along, but I'm going to tell you something brother to brother. Go apologize to mom and tell her that you didn't mean it."

It was all he said before he looked at the others and waved. "I'm going to bed.

Jason soon followed saying, "I'm with Timbers. I'm gonna go crash."

The two of them began making their way to their rooms when the sound of the screen door opening and closing brought their attention back. They looked towards it, seeing Bruce carrying (Y/N), her head pressed against his chest.

He stopped when he saw them, his surprised look giving way to a hard expression. "Were you four watching?" They all started making excuses, but he shushed them, nodding at their sleeping mother; they shut their mouths and he brought his foot back, sliding the door closed.

"Is mom alright?"

Bruce looked at Dick and nodded. "She's fine. Wine drunk...but fine." He looked down at Damian. "(Y/N) does a lot for all of us. You owe her an apology when she wakes up." Damian nodded, watching as he walked past them, carrying her up the stairs to their bedroom.

***

The dull throb in her head told her the migraine was something she was going to need some aspirin, water, and a heavy blanket to block out the light to fix. She groaned lightly as she burrowed her face in her pillow, then she opened her eyes and looked around the room.

Immediately, she took in the sight of the four of her boys curled up like cats in the bed with her. A smile graced her lips and she reached down beside her hip, running a hand over Tim's head; he shifted in his sleep, burying his face in her side and she struggled to bite back the laugh that wanted to come out. She reached over again and ran her hands through Dick and Jason's hair, watching them do the same.

She smiled at them, then a voice sounded from beside her. "Are you awake, Umi?" (Y/N) looked to her side, seeing Damian curled up beside her. Bruce's broad shoulders made him look so tiny from where he was laying and she nodded, raising a hand and caressing his head.

"I'm awake, sweetheart." He nodded, then moved under her arm, resting his head on her shoulder. Her arm settled comfortably around him, and she brought up her hand, gently running her fingers through his short hair.

After a few moments he whispered, "...I'm sorry, Umi."

Her response was to press her lips to his forehead, and murmur, "I know, baby."

He swallowed thickly, feeling the beginnings of tears gathering in his eyes. "I didn't mean to say it."

She nodded; her lips still pressed to his forehead. "I know you didn't, sweetheart. It was something said in anger."

He moved to sit up, looking up at her as he whispered harshly, "But I have hurt you! I made you cry! I...did this." He dropped his gaze, closing his eyes, and (Y/N) watched the tears begin to fall down his cheeks. He looked back up at her a few seconds later and said, "You are my mother, Umi...you are the only mother I've known."

(Y/N) shifted, careful not to wake her sons, then she cupped Damian's cheeks in her hands. "Baby...it's okay...I'm not angry at you."

He shook his head in her grip. "But you're sad because I said you weren't my mother."

(Y/N) brushed her thumbs under his eyes, wiping away the tears. "We all say things that we don't mean." He looked up at her and she searched his eyes. "What matters is that when they are said, we try our best to fix what we've done wrong."

Damian nodded his head and whispered, "I'm sorry, Umi."

A sad smile crossed her lips and she leaned forward, kissing his forehead. "I am too, baby." She pulled away and brushed his cheeks again. "I still love you though...with all my heart."

"You do? Even after what I said?"

(Y/N) nodded, pulling him to her; he rested his head under her chin, and she wrapped her arms around him as she murmured, "The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness." She brought up a hand, caressing the side of his head as she whispered, "Each of you has told me as some point that I am not what I am. But I know deep down that none of you meant it. And each time I heard it, it hurt...but forgiveness is a good thing when used."

"To err is human...to forgive...divine."

She smiled at his quote and squeezed him gently. "I love you, Damian...my beautiful baby boy."

The feeling of tears gathered in his eyes, but he blinked them away, his hand clenching in her shirt as he replied, "I love you too, Umi."

There was a moment of silence between them until, "How come the demon-spawn gets all the love? We were here first."

Damian raised his head, glaring at Tim. "I am Umi's favorite, Drake."

"The hell you are, Tater-tot. If anyone's the favorite, it's me."

"I think you're wrong, Little-wing. Iwas the first. I'm the favorite."

"No one asked you, dickhead."

"Mom! Jason called me a mean name!"

"Stop mocking me!"

"Mom!"

(Y/N) rolled her eyes at her two oldest as they began to shove at each other, and eventually, Tim and Damian got into the mess, and she watched their fists and feet fly at each other.

A grunt sounded from beside her and she looked down to see her husband glaring at her. "You just had to get them going this early, didn't you, Mrs. Wayne?"

(Y/N) let out a 'pfft' and leaned down, pressing her lips to his before laying her head on his arm, their foreheads touching. "Yeah...but I know that when they're fighting like this, they're giving each other love."

"Tough love."

She snorted and tickled his side, feeling him jerk away. "But love nonetheless."

He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of someone grunting cut him off. "Mom! Jason won't let me out of this headlock!"

"Mom! Jason won't let me-"

"STOP MOCKING ME, JASON!"

"You're unbearable, Drake! I am Umi's favorite!"

"Keep telling yourself that, oompa-loompa."

"I am not an oompa-loompa!"

(Y/N) sighed and looked at her husband. "Never a dull morning, is it Mr. Wayne?"

He grinned at her but grunted when one of them hit his side. "No, it's not Mrs. Wayne. No, it is not."

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cassandraclare · 4 years ago

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The Whispering Room: James’ POV

Here it is finally — James’ POV of the Whispering Room scene from Chain of Gold. I wanted to wait until Chain of Iron was released to give more people a chance to read the book, and also because what we learn in COI does inform the scene. I hope you enjoy!

*art by Cassandra Jean

Cortana wove with her words, underlining each one with steel. She turned as her sword turned, and her body curved and moved like water or fire, like a river under an infinity of stars. It was beautiful—she was beautiful, but it was not a distant beauty. It was a beauty that lived and breathed and reached out with its hands to crush James’s chest and make him breathless. — Chain of Gold

James had felt a strange emotion when Daisy first took the stage at the Hell Ruelle. It was a mix of several feelings...

worry on her behalf, annoyance at Kellington, curiosity, and admiration for her bravery and poise. It was unfair of these Bohemians to force her to caper for them, and, he thought, a bit insulting to Shadowhunters in general. He supposed that Matthew had given them a rather unusual view of what the Nephilim were like in such circumstances.

And then she had begun to dance. And suddenly she was not Daisy, his old friend. She was Cordelia, whose name meant heart, whose every gesture was fire. Every earthly worry he’d had had been swept out of his mind. He was conscious only of Cordelia, whirling back and forth across the small stage. Cortana danced around her, shedding light like embers. The dull glow of the lamps illuminated her body, describing her every movement, her every curve as she danced. Her scarlet hair whipped around her in time to the music, and the golden light of the lamps in the Ruelle slipped across her skin, slow and hot, like beads of honey. The cadences of her voice, rising and falling, seemed to weave a cage of silken thread about her audience, and James was no exception.

Later, James would think it was odd that he had not compared her to Grace. Grace had never entered his mind at all. Cordelia danced, and by the end of her performance, James’s entire life had been disassembled and put back together in a new and different shape. He was conscious of Matthew, beside him, also staring as the crowd cheered, his sharp cheekbones flushed. He looked dazed; James couldn’t blame him.

Cordelia descended the stage and slipped through the crowd to come back to them, blushing at the looks and murmured comments she was drawing from the audience now. James could see the desire in the eyes that followed her. Everyone wanted her. He felt a dull fury. They had no right. They did not know Cordelia. She was more than just that dance.

When she reached them she let out a long breath of relief and smiled. She glowed with the exercise of dancing. Sweat beaded along her collarbones, shimmered between her breasts. Her eyes were bright as Cortana’s blade, strapped to her back.

“Bloody hell,” Matthew exclaimed. “What was that?”

A look of uncertainty crossed Cordelia’s face. James said, “It was a fairy tale, Math,” and Matthew nodded. His dark green eyes searched Cordelia’s face, as if looking for the key to a locked room he had only just discovered.

Cordelia looked uncertain. James couldn’t bear that. She’d been magnificent; she should know it. But he couldn’t say that, of course. It would only make her self-conscious.

“Well done, Cordelia,” James said instead; when he unfolded his arms; his wrist hurt and he wondered if he’d been clenching his hands.

Cordelia. He hadn’t called her Daisy, and she looked a little surprised. It seemed inappropriate, somehow. Daisy was Lucie’s friend, the Merry Thieves’ compatriot; he found it a smaller name than she deserved. Cordelia, though—she had been a queen, hadn’t she? Queen Cordelia, daughter of Leir, ruler of Britain before the Romans had ever landed on those shores. Like Boadicea, a legendary warrior queen. A blazing white fire behind fathomless black eyes.

“Anna has disappeared with Hypatia,” James said, noting the empty settee, “so I would call your distraction a success.”

Cordelia’s lips twitched into a smile. “How long does a seduction usually last?”

“Depends if you do it properly,” Matthew said, with a wink. James felt it as a spark of relief, a bit of lightness amid the feeling that something heavy was sitting on his chest.

“Well, I hope for Hypatia’s sake Anna does it properly,” James said. He registered, with the reflexes of a parabatai, that Matthew had gone still next to him, and wondered what was wrong. “Yet for our sake, I hope she hurries it up.”

All hint of Matthew’s jocular tone from before was gone. “Both of you,” he said urgently. “Listen.”

Did he mean all the muttering about Shadowhunters? Was he only noticing it now? It had followed them since they came into the place. But when James followed Matthew’s gaze, he found Kellington staring with an expression of vexation, not at them but at the door. All questions were answered as through the door came Charles Fairchild, looking around him with a haughty expression. He looked like was about to raid the place; so much for whatever work Matthew and Anna had done for Downworlder-Shadowhunter relations here.

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “Charles,” he sighed. “By the Angel, what is he doing here?”

Charles was, James thought, probably looking for them. He was making his way through the crowd and gazing around him. Luckily for them, the crowd was not interested in letting him through, and he was moving very slowly.

“We should go,” James said. “But we can’t leave Anna.”

In one way, at least, Charles’s arrival was helpful; it threw a bucket of cold water on the roiling heat that had gripped James’s heart since Cordelia had begun her dance. Back to the matter at hand: a demon, a Pyxis, a plan.

“You two run and hide yourselves,” Matthew said, still keeping his eyes on his brother. “Charles will go off his head if he sees you here.”

“But what about you?” said Cordelia.

Matthew shrugged, but James could see the tension in his jaw and his shoulders. “He’s used to this kind of thing from me. I’ll deal with Charles.”

Not for the first time, James wished that his parabatai wasn’t in such a hurry to sacrifice his own reputation. He exchanged a long look with Matthew, but Matthew was sure, and determined, and his desire to rush into his own humiliation was an issue that would have to wait. Nodding, he turned and caught Cordelia’s hand with his own. “This way,” he said, and she nodded back in acknowledgement. As he pulled them into the crowd he heard Matthew’s voice calling, “Charles!” in a hearty tone of pleasant, if entirely false, welcome.

James didn’t know his way around the place, and the crowd made orientating himself even more difficult, but after some trial and error he and Cordelia managed to get behind Kellington and slip into a corridor leading away. This wasn’t safe in itself, since from the main chamber one would have a clear view down the entire corridor. In fact, they were temporarily more exposed than before, and James’s hope for the hallway to take a quick turn or to contain large statuary to hide behind was quickly dashed. He continued to hold onto Cordelia’s hand, not that he needed to; she seemed to know her way better than he did.

Partway down the corridor, James caught sight of an open door — its silver plaque labeling it the entrance to THE WHISPERING ROOM. Swiftly he drew Cordelia inside, out of sight. He slammed the door behind them, causing a loud noise, but he thought it couldn’t possibly be heard over the crowd in the main chamber. Only then did he release Cordelia’s hand and take stock of their surroundings.

The room was dimly lit, but not cold: a scented fire burned in the grate, filling the space with the smell of sandalwood and roses. It was a study, he guessed, based on the gigantic walnut desk against the wall and the bookshelves opposite, but it was too richly decorated to be solely a place for studious contemplation. Phoenix feathers and dragon scales danced across the gilded wallpaper; there were no windows, but the walls were hung with patterned tapestries, the floor covered with a rug so thick James felt his boots sink into it as he moved further into the room.

Cordelia had leaned her back against the wall next to the door. Her eyes were closed and she was taking deep, full breaths, calming herself down. Cortana gleamed gold over her shoulder; the firelight gleamed a deeper gold on her skin, which seemed to take and hold its warmth. James curled his fingers in against his palm.

He wanted to touch her. He half-turned away, pretending to study the books on the wall. Any other time, he would have been fascinated by the titles. Now they seemed distant, neither immediate nor imporant. He could have sworn he heard his own heart hammering. He said, “Where did you learn to dance like that?” surprising himself with the roughness of his own voice.

His gaze snapped back to Cordelia as she opened her eyes and gave a little shrug. There was something magical about the dress she wore: it followed the shape of her own body rather than the shape of corsetry or whalebone petticoats. It slid softly against her skin as she moved, just as her dark red hair tickled the bare skin of her throat, her shoulders. “I had a dance instructor in Paris. My mother believed that learning to dance aided in learning grace in battle.”

The word grace pierced James like an icicle. He could not quite picture Grace at the moment, it was true; could not quite envision her face. He had given Grace his heart — that was an immutable fact, something he knew as he knew that two plus two equaled four. But he had to admit that at the moment his heart did not feel given. It felt like a thrumming machine inside his chest, pumping blood and heat.

“That dance,” Cordelia added with a quirk of her soft mouth that struck James like a blow to the stomach, “was forbidden to be taught to unmarried ladies. But my dance instructor did not care.”

“Well,” James said, keeping his voice steady with practiced control, “thank the Angel you were there. Matthew and I could certainly not have pulled off that dance on our own.”

Cordelia turned away from him, the smile still on her face, as though she were keeping it secret from him. She trailed her hand along the top of Hypatia’s desk. At one end was a stack of papers held down by a large copper bowl of fruit, and she brought her hand up to trace its rim.

James may have been distracted beyond the capacity for distraction he’d known before, but he was still a Shadowhunter. “Be careful,” he said warningly. “I suspect that is faerie fruit. It has no effect on warlocks—no magical effect, at least. But on humans…”

Cordelia pulled her hand back as though stung. “Surely it does not harm you if you do not eat it.”

“Oh, it does not. But I have met those who have tasted it. The say the more you have of it, the more you want, and the more you ache when you can…have no more.”

Cordelia was looking at him now, and though it took a great summoning of courage, he returned her gaze. In her dark eyes the silver and blue flames of the fireplace danced. James could not catch his breath. He had never felt this before, this breathlessness. It was like pain, but with a sweet, sharp edge. Like licking honey from a knife. He said, in a low voice, “And yet. I have always thought…is not knowing what it tastes like just another form of torture? The torture of wondering?”

The door shook on his hinges suddenly, making a clatter that made both he and Cordelia jerk their heads around to look at it. The knob was starting to turn.

Cordelia paled. “We’re not meant to be in here —“

James’s world closed down to just this: Cordelia was here, she was with him, and she looked frightened. He would do anything to stop that look on her face. He caught her in his arms, and the relief was incredible — he had not realized how much he wanted to be touching her until he was. Until he was holding her, and her strength and warmth and softness were all pressed against him, and her face was so beautiful it hurt, and her lips were parted in surprise and without another thought he kissed them.

He could feel her sharp intake of breath with his hands, clasped together at her lower back. She gasped, but did not draw back, or away — he thought he would have died if she had — she leaned into him, her full lips opening under his. She was kissing him back. He tasted honey, smelled jasmine and smoke. His hand slid up her warm cheek and into the soft fall of her hair.

Time stopped.

Cordelia’s arms were around his neck. Her lush mouth opened a little against his, and the kiss deepened. He moved his hand to the back of her neck to bring her closer. Her teeth grazed his lower lip, and he couldn’t help it; he moaned, and felt her tremble against him.

Very far away, a voice chuckled and the door closed with a soft click. This whole thing had been intended as a ruse, he knew, for the benefit of whomever was trying to get into the Whispering Room. Probably some Ruelle attendees, Downworlders most likely, who had snuck off for a rendez-vous.

Ruse accomplished, then. With intense regret, James drew back from Cordelia. Her hand, warm and soft and wonderful, was against his neck; her fingers stroked his pale white scar. Her eyes were fixed at the level of his shoulder. He could hear himself say her name — Daisy, my Daisy — instead of responding, she whispered, “I think more people are coming.”

He knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t care. He knew what she was saying: that she was asking and giving permission at once. All James’ life, he had struggled for control: control over his sudden falls into shadow, control over the dark world he could see, that was invisible to everyone else. He had worked and fought and trained for control every day, and for the first time in as long as he could remember it deserted him.

The walls he had put up burned to the ground in an instant as he caught Cordelia to him. He groaned against her mouth, his hands slipping over the silk of her dress, the hot satin of her skin. He undid the strap that held Cortana, got rid of it somehow — carefully, he hoped — and let himself fall back into delirium.

He did not ask himself why he had never felt desire like this before. He could not. He was lost in the feel of her, the incline of her waist, the flare of her hips, the rise and fall of her chest as she gasped. They were kissing wildly, uncontrolled; they fetched up against the desk, Cordelia’s back to it.

Her body bent backward in an impossible arch, her hands going behind her to brace herself. Her eyes half-closed, her head fell back, revealing the bare column of her throat. He pressed his lips there, eliciting a gasp of surprised pleasure.

His hands trailed up the sleek material of her dress — he could feel the heat of her skin through it — from her waist to the neckline of her gown. His palms followed her curves until the tips of his fingers were pressing into the bare bronze skin just above the neckline of her dress. She was sleek and soft and hot all at the same time, like nothing else he’d ever touched. He heard her whimper; she was saying his name, and his heart beat in time with her words: James, James, Jamie please.

The please undid him; shrugging off his frock coat, he caught hold of her around the waist, lifting her until she was perched on the edge of the desk. The material of her dress bunched around her knees, her thighs, as she took hold of his shirt by the starched front and kissed him. His mouth drove against hers, hot and demanding, even as he clambered onto the desk after her. She reached up her arms for him and he sank down on top of her, bracing his weight with a hand above her head.

He paused, just for a moment, looking down at her. Her scarlet hair fanned out across the desk, her eyes glazed, her full lips red from kissing. He was cradled by her body, her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt rucked up nearly to her waist. She wrapped her long, bare legs around him and he shuddered. What was in him, what he wanted, was inchoate but insistant, a force he’d never known. A yearning like hot wires in his blood, the pain-pleasurable ache of unbearable wanting that drove him to kiss her again, kiss her harder. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling at it as he kissed her breasts, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin until she gave a low scream and clutched at him with desperate hands.

He sank down against her and kissed her, hot and deep and hard. She arched into the kiss, her breath coming in gasps. He felt her through the thinner material of his shirt: the heat of her, the swell of her breasts against his chest, her hands smoothing over his chest, his sides.

His hands aching to touch her in kind, to find out what she liked, what made her gasp, and do it again and again . . . Nothing had ever felt like this, nothing. He’d known desire before; so he remembered, so he had believed. It turned out he had stepped into a puddle and thought it was the sea. As Cordelia moved in his arms, as her lips, he realized there was a depth to desire he hadn’t even guessed at: that it was more than just desperation, but joy and need and wanting and being wanted back. It was a fever dream, his hands sliding up under the heavy satin of her skirts, the salt-sweet taste of her skin, the soft sounds of her pleasure as she urged him closer, urged him onward, the desk seeming to spin beneath them.

He heard, as if at a great distance, the sound of the door opening. He lifted his head, saw the slim fair-hared figure in the doorway. Ice washed through his veins. Cordelia stiffened, began to scramble to sit up. No, he thought, but he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t blame her. It — whatever it had been — was over.

He slid off the desk. Already the fever was vanishing, that feeling —the glorious freedom from the burden of his own will — receding. Grasping at his control, he drew it around himself, reaching for his coat, turning to calmly meet the gaze of his parabatai.

“James?” Matthew said.

#the whispering room #james herondale #cordelia carstairs #the last hours #cassandra clare #cassandra jean #chain of gold

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koishua · 2 years ago

Text

⟡ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝟐𝟏𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 ─── park jay

synopsis ─── at seven years old, heather brown finds a friend in jay jeongseong park. at ten years old, she realizes that she found a lifelong partner in him. at eighteen years old, she wishes that she had told him she loved him for the first and last time (she does not—could not, of anything— and it's all because she can't live a life without daniel yeonjun choi).

starring ─── daniel yeonjun choi. heather nabeom brown, a female original character. jay jeongseong park. additionally, beomgyu choi, sunghoon park and heeseung lee.

genre ─── angst, childhood best friends to almost lovers, drama, hurt/comfort.

length ─── 10,019k words (part one)

warnings ─── mentions of hospitals, illnesses and death, some minor scenes depicting familial issues.

author's note ─── (heads up not edited whatsoever we die like newt.) damn. this has been brewing in my docs for exactly two years and i have rewritten it countless times and waz unsatisfied each time and couldn't finish it. im sort of very tired of it just sitting there, so here i am, posting this in a few installments so maybe i can get the motivation to finish depending on your reactions haha. make note that although the romance is still there, it's not as prevalent as the pure bond between the three protagonists. i have so many feelings bottled up in my wee lil heart for this fic because heather, jay and daniel are my babies and i love their bonds so much and i have so so much planned so yeah i hope y'all enjoyed what i have so far and we'll see. maybe you can read the second part next spring lolol. also heather and her thought processes are totally me lol

taglist no. one ─── @junityy @jeonqquk @leavethemonsteralive @iuwon @envirae @i-luvsang @rae-blogging @jitaros @jdyunvrs @kdyism @yourlocalhotgf @mark-lees-world @99outros @thekinkpopstandsforkrackheads @tyongishs @yutaalove @yangianwon @icywhatim @sunshine-skz @sooblvr @whoe-dis @injanggarden @90sni-ki @wccycc @sunfics @woo-minhee02 @yyxy27 @bigsobforskz @soobin-chois @jaysbestie @ni-kiii @jungwonerz @sunoosbestie @95sjcc @ja4hyvn @ant-ton-ya @stealanity @pshflrts @norifilms @shekllls @eternallyhyucks @yjwfav @luvningkai @youreverydayzebra @mosviqu @w3bqrl @candysofthours @moontines @rielleluvs @lebrookestore

reblogs and feedback are super appreciated y'all !!

“Hello! My name is Jeongseong Park, but you can call me Jay!” she blinked twice, clutching the hems of the older woman’s skirt. The short-statured younger boy leaned to its side, his head tilting curiously. “Is she shy?”

She chuckled, affectionately running her fingers through her daughter’s soft locks of light hair— well, lighter than his, at least. “She really isn’t most of the time, dear. Maybe she just doesn’t feel well right now.”

She held the chubby hands that tighten around the fabric on her waist, crouching down to the little girl’s height. Her frown seemed evident by the way her brows narrow, big and bright eyes hesitant on meeting her mother. “Come on, Heather. Don’t you think that it’s a little rude to not greet the young man?”

“I don’t want to.” She had a higher voice than Jay was used to, but that was only because he had been hanging around older people all the time, excluding the other boys his teacher had introduced him to in his new class last month. He took slight offense to that statement, however cool his outer kiddy demeanor covered it.

Without wasting a single moment, her mother beats him for a response. “You have to make friends, darling. Don’t you think he seems nice?”

The unintentional innocence that radiates off her peer takes Heather off guard. He did seem nice enough with his doe-like eyes focused on the tropical mix capri sun, struggling to poke through the plastic with his thin, orange straw. He seemed like he liked to feed pigeons with his bread even if he himself was hungry.

She liked that— he didn’t look like those older kids who always drew on the walls behind school. Heather hated those third graders with a passion, but Jay seemed nice enough. He didn’t wear those black ripped jeans and shirts and he didn’t sport their messy hair. All of those kids did and they were mean towards even the teachers.

She wondered if their clothes and style were the problem, but maybe that would be a little shallow of her. Daniel always told her not to judge anyone by their face, body or clothes, so she would always trust his judgement and come to the conclusion that it wasn’t the clothes that made them seem rude.

Daniel was always right, he was probably the only person that told her that, though— he was the nicest person Heather knew of in her six years of life. He told her that she needed to be nice and accepting of everyone. He was older than her, almost ten years old. That was, in her mind, ancient enough to be considered as good as an adult like her mother and father.

She took in a deep breath, reluctantly letting the silk between her fingers go and came out into the open. “Fine,” she mutters underneath her breath. Daniel would be very proud of her, “My name’s Heather. I will be seven years old on the twenty-first of March. I hope we can be good friends.”

The young boy takes a look at her extended hand, thinking about how odd of an introduction this whole thing was. But he accepts the very formal shake of hand anyways, his smile lighting up the room within seconds. “I’ll be seven after you will, then! My birthday is in April.”

Nodding, she leaned back to inspect his attire. He had weird hair, she noticed. “You have weird hair.” Her mother gasped, “Little lady, that is not how you speak to people.” Though her mother reprimanded her, to which she took no caution to, she was a tad bit taken aback by the quiet snort that had escaped the odd boy’s lips just now.

“It’s okay, I hate it, too.” He did? “My dad thinks that all boys have to have this hair at least once in their life, so he made our hairdresser cut it this way. I like those hairs that they show on television, though! The ones where they cut it short until here and leave it long on top.”

Did he mean an undercut, Mrs. Brown scratched her head with wonder. She shook her head, accepting defeat and patted Heather’s shoulders. “I have to attend to my work, Heather, so why don’t you go off with Jay here and play with him a little bit until John’s father comes to pick you up for your music class later this afternoon?”

She didn't like John, nor did she like his father.

“But, I told you that I don’t like classical music. Do I still have to go?” She tugs at the hem of her mother’s crisp white blouse, an unhappy look etched onto her childish features. She supposed she didn’t look all that intimidating, but she liked to believe that she was either way, however intimidating her puffy cheeks and pigtails could be.

“Heather Brown, you will attend these classes for as long as we tell you to. You must grow up to be as refined as possible, understood? Don’t you think that it would be nice to be able to play the violin well? Look, even Jay here takes piano lessons! And I heard from his mother that he is an excellent student.” The six year-old gave the poor fellow a side glance, backtracking on her older thoughts for a moment.

Scratch that, maybe she did dislike him just a little bit now.

Resigning to her fate, she pulled away, “Okay, I’ll do it for you.” With a satisfied nod, the older woman took her silent leave and Heather watched as the tall doors click closed, leaving her alone with her new acquaintance in a large hall surrounded by glass windows, the bright twelve p.m. sun peeking through the thin grey sun blockers.

“My mom tells me that it’s always good for you to wear sunscreen,” Jay took notice of the way she seemed stuck on the way the beams of light escaped through the cracks. He pulls his miniature version of a duffel bag out of the large cupboard from the back of the office, navigating his way through the leather seats surrounding the oval oak table to accommodate for large meetings.

“Do you want some? I was told that you have to apply it every two hours.” You stare at the uncapped orange bottle, a tiny bit— pea sized, if she had to give it a relatively accurate description of the amount— of the creamy substance already on the back of his palm.

Why was their first conversation alone about the many effects of under-protection from the harmful rays of the sun, Heather never knew. Though he might have been a little odd, she supposed he wasn’t that bad of a kid. As far as she could see, he was just her mother’s husband’s friend’s son who had a knack for knowing the most random of knowledge that no six year old usually could know of— he also liked dancing, but she wasn’t about to tell him that she liked that small bit of fact.

Heather made her first friend the same age as her at seven years old. She didn’t like his haircut— and neither did he— but he was nice enough to let her draw stars on his cheeks with face paint on the first day he met her.

⟡

For her entire life, all Heather knew of were three things: she hated bullies, she hated music, and she hated the way Jay was having a growth spurt when she was stuck in the same height as before. She was ten years old now— mind you, she was older than him, however much a gap of a single month was worth— and she was now shorter than Jay Park.

“Are you not bored of always staying in this hole?” Heather whispered into his ear, mindful of her volume with all of the overbearing adults in the office. Although, to be fair, this ‘hole’ that she had been talking about was a 25 stories high corporal building made of expensive glass windows and tall ceilings adorned with chandeliers everywhere she looked if she craned her neck just a little— it was the furthest thing from being a mere hole that they had been stuck inside together for the past three years.

Jay nodded, “I asked my dad if we could just stay back at home, but he said no. He thinks that we will be in danger as soon as we are out of their direct sight, even if the staff are there to clean the house.” Being the only children of two business giants did come with its disadvantages, Heather could only cry in silence.

“Surely, they won’t notice if we go out to buy ice cream, right?” she nudged the pondering boy, urging him to respond. The mischief swimming inside those familiar brown eyes was an exciting thing to witness.

He glanced at the busy adults, all gathered to sit around a table for a long discussion. “We can go to the store next block and then run back here, how about that?” Heather muttered in a low tone, almost too quiet for him to pick it up, but he did.

“Fine, but if they notice and get angry, you’re the one who is responsible, okay?” Jay took her little block of rosin from the intricately made coffee table, storing the object away in her violin case, carefully clasping the two sides shut together to pick it up— when he had grown into the habit of carrying the large black container for her, he didn’t know for sure, but she always left the instrument behind, so it was up to him to tuck the bow and violin away securely, lest Mrs. Brown reprimanded her daughter for protesting against her music lesson again.

Slinking out of the adults’ way was easy of a task, you only had to be quiet and tuck yourself away behind the walls and just keep on moving before someone actually decided to check the odd moving shadows behind the long blinds. What was difficult, however, was pulling off a maneuver like escaping through the front entrance where security guards were always planted.

“Are you ready?” Heather wrapped her arms around his shoulders, taking notice of how much wider they seemed to have gotten in the two years she had known him. She had stashed her case away in one of the empty offices on the fourth floor where all of the marketing workers were stationed.

The quiet stalking they had done from the twentieth floor all the way down to the first— all the while still going unnoticed by the hundreds of personnel frantically buzzing through the hallways like bees to their nests— had proven to be the most exhilarating part of this sneaking out ordeal.

She peeked a head through the small gap between the door and its frame, allowing Jay to slide a small head through the same gap as well— they looked like characters from cartoons, comically peering at something they shouldn't with heads stacked above each others’— only to speedily hide back inside the small closet filled with cleaning supplies after seeing her father’s secretary dashing their way with a phone held next to her ear.

Once they heard the click of her low heels fade away into silence, Heather turned the handle of the door to slide it open, gesturing at Jay to follow behind. “Look, Freddy is going away to get a drink now. Let’s make a run for it, quick.” Freddy, the tall and grand security personnel who looked similar to the Five Nights at Freddy’s animatronic bear that had given both of you a good amount of nightmares after deciding to play the game together during one of your many stays here in the company building.

Jay took a hold of her hand, fingers wrapped around her palm with a tight squeeze and they sprinted off towards the automatic sliding doors and bursting into the sunlight. A few onlookers took a brief glance at the two children panting as they rounded the corner of the building, hiding away in the comfort of the crowded sidewalks, the tall structure of the enterprise looming over their small bodies that sped through the roads of Washington D.C.

“That was wicked!” The taller one of the two eased them both into a jog, not noticing the fact that their hands were still intertwined, tightly wrapped around each other— neither did Heather, for that matter, too caught up in the adrenaline rushing through her veins.

The cars honking at the ones in front of them did not bother the children at all, not when they were tasting the first bite of freedom they had ever gained. It was a hot summer day and middle school was about to start in a few weeks— dreadful, they knew.

The sad, sob-worthy trek back towards the building was to be expected not even ten minutes after their grand escapade. They had forgotten to bring money to buy their ice creams.

But everything was okay, though. They might not have gotten their cold treats, but their way back inside had gone by as silently as their adventure outside had been. No one had noticed a single thing, save for the one staff member monitoring the security cameras.

Heather had just finished fourth grade when she broke the rules with her best friend for the first time— it felt good. Jay was taller than her now, sure, but she still could put him in a chokehold if she wanted to and that was all that really mattered.

⟡

“Daniel?” The older boy hummed, looking up from his extremely important job that was meticulously peeling bananas to make them smoothies. She settled herself on the tall leather bar stools to watch as the fifteen year old threw in a handful of frozen strawberries from the large freezer inside the sturdy blender with a splash of milk to add to the silky smooth texture of the cold drink.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” The solemn look on her face forced him to turn the machine off for a moment. He examined the way the edges of her eyes seemed to redden by the second, glazing over to signify the oncoming wave of salty tears.

Yeonjun sighed, making his way to her side to cradle her in his arms, leaning her head against his chest to run his hands through her hair. He didn’t say anything even if he heard the muted sniffles or the thick in her voice.

"You know what 영원한 means?" She shook her head, "Well, flower, it means eternally— forever. I promise you— cross my heart and hope to die— that I will be with you until the end of time, okay?"

Her mother was leaving, but at least Daniel was staying. She wouldn't know what to do if he left, too.

Daniel was funny. He was always the one that had pretended to be an ox to chase her around the empty complex when her father was glued to his chair in his office at the top floor and her mother was occupied by her endless meetings that she never understood what the need was for.

She knew him ever since she could think back in her memories, maybe he was secretly her brother. That would make a lot of sense, wouldn't it? Or better yet, maybe he was her dad— or her mom. He felt like one anyways, he was always the one that took care of her.

Eleven year old Heather knew that he couldn't be her parent, he was extremely young to be so, so maybe he was either her long lost brother— she didn't understand why her parents never told her, though. That is, if he was actually her older sibling hidden away— or an angel disguised as a fifteen year old middle schooler who liked to teach her to be nice to other kids.

Daniel was nice, he got that from his mother who was working as her own family's cook for the past ten years. Mrs. Choi was always smiling and she never scolded her whenever she snuck into the kitchen to steal all of the freshly baked cookies one by one.

In all honesty, ten year old Heather really did think that she was the stealthiest living being while crawling her way towards the kitchen island. The woman had always managed to find her slipping away through the sliding doors with a half munched cookie in her hand, melted chocolate smeared all over her lips.

Why did she never get angry? She always gave her a small plate of them after wiping away at her messy face, she always had the kindest eyes as well. Why?

She supposed that was why Daniel was so patient. He was the nicest person Heather knew and she would forever stand by the fact that Daniel Choi would be the most perfect person in all of mankind.

He was nice.

Her mother was leaving, leaving her to her father— was he even her real father? Heather didn't think that she had a single ounce of similarity to him in herself. He had the yellowest hair she had ever seen. Even the pale kid from her old fourth grade didn't have hair as saturated as his.

Heather had smooth brown hair, she was a brunette, and yet he had the curliest of blond hair ever. Her mom, on the other hand, had the silkiest of rich black hair. How did biology work again? What if she wasn't related to any one of them? She had eyes that looked like her mother's milky coffee, very light brown— Mrs. Choi always said that her mother never knew what actual coffee tasted like, always mixing it with soy milk to the point where it was more of a coffee flavoured milk.

Her dad had blue eyes, they were pretty— not to say that her mother's dark eyes were not, but eleven year old Heather was just saying. What if she was adopted? She really needed to pay attention to her biology classes. The short quiz about how genes work was closing up on both Jay and her, but her best friend didn't have anything to worry about anyway.

He had always been smarter than her, but that was fine. She could always be the brawn of the duo— or the cutest one that got all of the attention of the adults to distract them while he slid out of the room to buy a pack of Mentos candy from the nearest vending machine— it was always ten stories below his father's office, but that was fine. Jay was fast— so that they could try to make a bottle of Coke explode out in the garden.

Her thoughts were muddled up yet again, mind running at incredible speeds, remaining unexhausted from hopping on one train to the other. Where was she again?

Ah, yes, Heather wiped her tears away with the back of her sleeves, noting the way Daniel looked much older than before as he looked down at her with a concerned frown.

She wanted a cat.

“Danny?”

“Yes, flower?”

“Do you think mother is leaving because she doesn’t like dad anymore?”

“I don’t know, flower. Maybe.”

“Will you ever decide to leave if you don’t like me anymore?”

“Never. I will die before that could ever happen.”

“Okay, Danny. I believe you.”

“Good. Now, let’s drink our smoothies before they get warm.”

⟡

“Blue?” Heather whispers, the vast ceilings of her dark room didn’t scare her like it used to— now that she had him, she didn’t think she would ever be afraid of the empty and lifeless room ever again. The baby dolls her mother had bought for her when she was five years old were still lined up on her window sills all across her walls. The moon wasn’t coming out of its hiding place tonight— it was a rarity these past few months, shrouding her room in the darkest of shadows.

She wasn’t afraid of the dark, though. She had Jay, he would hold her hand and tell her funny stories that had happened during the day and he would lead her to sit on the velvet stool with him to play a little song for her on the grand piano that her father had made the staff set up.

Thirteen year old Heather still despised classical music— she wondered why she hadn’t dropped out of her tutoring sessions yet with her mother not around anymore. Perhaps it was a sense of duty towards the older woman, the same way she kept the hideous dolls around. She still lingered around— the ghost of her had never left, she sort of hated it.

She hated a lot of things, Heather had long before accepted the fact that she was just a petty person in general, she hoped that Jay did as well. She abhorred the smell of watermelons, same as the taste of tomatoes and the sound of her violin when she played another piece composed by Sibelius or Paganini— why couldn’t she play whatever she wanted? Where was her freedom?

Strangely enough, though, perched on the cushions of the mahogany stool next to Jay, she didn’t hate the way his fingers softly stroked the keys to lull her to sleep with Berceuse in D flat major, Op. 57— or as they liked to call it, Bercy. For Heather, this was Jay in his core.

Park Jay had a beautiful heart— the sweet tone of the melody sounded different when he was the one playing— she loved listening to him. For an older Heather, one that was not a six year old brat anymore, music sounded nice when it was Jay the one playing for her. She liked music only when it was Jay playing for her.

“Yes, Heather?” There he was, calling her by her name again. Her mother always used to call her little lady, her father only used her korean name, 나봄 Nabeom— the only one to do so, oddly enough. Her teachers didn’t call her by her name either, were they scared of it? What reason would they have to call her dear?

She didn’t have friends, though— she didn’t need them anyway, they were all terrible little liars— Jay was all she needed, all she ever wanted. Jay liked to call her by her name, just like Daniel often did, save for the few endearing terms he used— mostly about flowers, given her name, Heather, but she liked them all. Anything Daniel said to her, she liked them all.

“Heather? Did you want to tell me something?” He played with the thin bracelet wrapped delicately around her wrist, the one he had made for her when he was twelve— admittedly, not that long ago, but enough to wonder about why she hadn’t taken it off yet. The warmth of her hands was like a reminder of her existence to him.

Do angels exist? He didn’t know the answer to this question, not even after the countless visits to the enormous church, but maybe, it was lying right next to him all this time. Maybe angels did exist in the form of a lonely thirteen year old girl who had hugged him tightly after he had won first place in yet another competition— it was memorable for a reason, he had never been hugged for any of his achievements before, big or small.

A clap of thunder stripped her of the bravado she had guised herself behind, she felt her limbs frozen in place, unable to find a good emotional foothold to hide away from the next set of thunder booming behind her glass windows.

Jay did not say anything else. Instead, he opted to let his closest friend find solace in the way they linked their arms together, pulling the covers over their heads akin to a comforting cocoon. This was enough for Heather— just her and him together, hiding from the stormy weather underneath her thick white blanket. This was all it took to calm his best friend down, to be there for her.

Just hold her hand.

⟡

Niccolo Paganini, her worst nemesis following the likes of Bach and Sibelius, was the sole reason for her months spent cooped up in her room, going over each one of his rigorous pieces with great care. Oh, how she would have liked to tear those stark white and black sheets with the most disgusted of scowls smeared on her face— right in front of her mother’s scrutiny, might she add.

The years and years of practice— as far back as her mind would allow her to remember— lead up to this one moment of battle between her and the devious fourth caprice in c minor she could barely fly over, never mind the twenty fourth. It was vomit worthy if you asked Heather herself.

Despise was the only word she had for the pieces given to her by her instructor. Why did she not give this up yet? Eleven years— nine of them by her mothers’ wishes, two more she had decided to continue on her own— she had spent cooped up either in a damn skyscraper or a closed off mansion to run through the counts by herself.

Why didn’t she just stop playing? Everyone knew how much she loathed her time playing her instrument. Was it to remember and keep a piece of her mother with her?Maybe, but she remembered that they didn’t even have the best of a parent-child relationship in the first place. Was it really because of her mother?

Jay.

Maybe the only reason she had not quit yet was her very own Jay. He always did play beautifully, coaxing her to join him if she so desired to. And how could she ever say no to him? Park Jay, she never knew how much of a hold he held on her, not even years later.

Indeed, maybe she didn’t quit yet just to keep an even ground with her childhood friend. Soon, she would leave her violin case behind forever.

⟡

Heather could not keep even grounds with her childhood friend anymore.

“Are you okay, miss?” A worker asked her with concern evident in his eyes. She blinked up at him, his form all but a blur going in and out of focus as she desperately tried to come to herself and shake the ringing out of her ears.

A few strands of her hair slipped out of her neat bun tied on top of her head. She tried to push herself back up on her feet, swaying as her knees buckled under her weight once again. The suited man from her father’s office stabilized her by her shoulders, leading her to one of the leather seats pushed against the crisp white wall.

“I’m okay, thank you.” Heather really was okay. It was probably just the fatigue growing on her after the hours of practice she had endured, or the fact that she had forgotten about her breakfast on the counter and lunchbox near her bag. She had to be okay, so she would continue believing that it was nothing, that everything was just fine.

He nodded, unconvinced but not prying any further, “If you say so. Be careful, okay?”

So she would do just that, but alas, even with great care, fate would continue running at its own pace and it would forever continue to break and build lives. It had done it millions of times before and it would do it again and again.

“I can’t believe you keep tripping over nothing, honestly. Watch your own feet, Heather.” Jay ruffled her hair, effectively destroying her long minutes of hard work at putting her hair together that morning. He always liked to do that, she noticed. Jay liked to systematically mess with her hair and then tuck the strands back behind her ear at least once every single day.

Every day, huh. How many days had it been since they had first met? How old was she even? They had probably spent more years together than without each other being by their side, well over six years she’d say, maybe even eight. Funnily enough, she remembered his long hair as a child as if it was just yesterday.

“Watch your hands, Jay, or else I’ll be the one to keep them in check for you.” she deftly slapped his hands away from cupping her cheeks, puffing out her lips like a fish. He only sniggered at the irritated pout on her lips, “How scary, I’m running for my life.”

“Shut up, I’m older than you.”

“Only by a few months at best. That’s not much. I’m way bigger than you, how about that?” His noticeably taller frame towered over her, if only by a few inches, but he still liked to take every opportunity to bring the difference up to her just to get her riled up time and time again.

It was somehow oddly cute.

“I will break your kneecaps, how about that?” her raised feet, ready to strike at any moment, made him take a cautious step back. “Only if you can catch me, but that’s hard because your legs are way too short to catch up to me, shorty.”

“That is it, Jay. You’re so dead.” Her roar of indignation did the trick to make him burst into a sprint for his life with an excited howl, heart beating in his throat. The sparkling floors make his brand new shoes squeak with every impact on the surface. “Catch me if you can, Heather!”

And without a single glance at the girl chasing him, he darted off into the hallways with various workers scattered throughout, all letting a noise of surprise out when they saw the boy bulldozing his way between them all, “Jay? Be careful!”

Unhearing of the words from the adults’ mouths for the time being, he dashed left into an open meeting office, countless wheeled armchairs set neatly next to each other around a heavy oval table. Heather ran straight inside, fearsome and glowing with determination to tackle him into the next galaxy, “Don’t think you can escape from me, Jay!”

⟡

“Sweet sixteen, Heather.” Jay brings the small cake closer towards her, urging her to make a wish and blow the sixteen individual candles away. He looked older now— he had shoulders that had grown wider by the day and his baby fat was slowly, but surely, melting away to reveal his strong jawline, his roundish features now prominent in their shape without the softness that came with being a child.

He had gotten rid of that god awful haircut as well, giving himself a brand new and welcome look— his undercut dreams had come true and Heather admitted that it suited him extremely well. He always did have that underlying promise of a handsome future, but now it was clearer than ever. Jay had the prettiest smile.

Much to her dismay, she hadn’t gotten around to beat his height, not when he was half a head taller than she already, or was it more than that? She didn’t know and ten years into their friendship, she didn’t really care anymore. The last time she had asked Daniel to measure their height was two years ago— the lines and dates lining up her door frame would gladly serve as proof of that.

Speaking of Daniel— she looked at the much older and much taller twenty year old across the room filled with just the three of them— he was still there.

Daniel liked to sing, he loved it and he loved to stand in front of hundreds and thousands of people to just let his voice out and perform to his heart’s content. He was good at it as well, she was not envious of his gift, though— not in that way. She was never jealous of the amount of praises and compliments he would get from people all around the world that had come to watch his concerts.

Big people with big names that wanted to take him away to bigger places than the good old Washington D.C.

Heather was never jealous of the love he had always received, even as a young middle schooler. No, she was never ever green with envy— in hindsight, she would always tell others that she was probably the one person proudest of him next to Mrs. Choi. Would that— could that— ever change?

No, absolutely not. Heather still was a strong believer of the extent of Daniel Yeonjun Choi’s perfection. If anything, she was just downright petrified that one day, he would break his promise of five years that he would never leave her behind in this cold world. That new friend of his seemed all too eager to do so.

What was his name again? Ah, yes, Beomgyu Choi. He was a pretty guy— now, that she was jealous of. Daniel was pretty, too, wasn’t he? Pretty people deserved other pretty people. Was she willing to let him go just yet, though? Not a chance.

Maybe she would, maybe she could, she thought as she looked at the sixteen flames illuminating Jay’s pretty face. Why was everyone so pretty?

“Come on, Heather. Blow it out or else the wax will drip all over the icing!” There it was, his signature whines that would never cease in her presence— which, technically, meant that he complained all day, all night. That was, if the term in her presence was taken literally.

“Happy birthday, flower. You’ve bloomed beautifully.” Jay let out a snort, a quiet ew right after. “Do you have to be so cheesy all the time?”

The man playfully jumps on the younger one’s back, quick tempered with his siblings— they were not real ones, but the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, right?— pulling Jay in a chokehold.

Heather had learned that move from him years ago, not even Jay had been around at the time. Heather was five years old when Daniel had come up from behind her and put her head between his arm and torso, lightly giving it a squeeze. Enraged, she demanded he teach her how to do it. An hour later, mrs. Choi would enter the room to find her eldest son being choked out by a five year old little girl as he lay limp on the marble floors.

"Stop flailing around, I'm blowing it out now." The two separated themselves from each other, eagerly waiting for the dessert to be cut into slices for them to enjoy. Deliberately, she gave the older male a larger piece, finding joy in the way her two friends started bickering again over the unfairness of it all. She let them fight it out for a while before giving Jay a smaller second slice to even things out.

“You’re an adult, Daniel. I think it’s embarrassing for you to fight me like this.” Jay quipped from Heather’s bed, stuffing his face with the smooth icing. The girl eyed the cream in disgust, nibbling on the sponges cake instead. She’d never understand why bakeries preferred a seven to three ratio of cream to cake.

“I’m not technically an adult yet. I live with my mom.” Daniel retorted from his seated position on the carpet. Heather sat next to him as always, succumbing to the natural gravitational pull whenever the older male was around. She always felt the safest when next to him, then Jay, but she’d never tell him that. Who knows how he would react if he heard it from her own mouth that she liked him just as much as Daniel. He would never let her hear the end of it.

Sixteen year old Heather finally quit music. She cut it out of her life, the motion done as quickly and soundlessly as her mother had a few years ago, leaving her behind forever as she ran back to Korea. Heather wondered where she’d be in life right now if she didn’t have a Jay Park or Daniel Choi with her.

Lost, probably.

It’s March 21st, Heather turned sixteen at last, safe and sound with Daniel right next to her as she smiled at her best friend sitting on her bed in front of her.

⟡

The next morning, she made her way to wash her face, slowly slinking out of her soft bed and trying not to wake up the boy snoring next to her. She’d slid a pillow under his arm to replace her. Planting her feet on the floor, however, did not come to her as easily as before. Almost instantaneously, her knees buckled beneath her, knocking the breath out of her lungs as she groaned in pain after the impact on her palm registered. She’d reached out blindly, using her hand to brace her body.

“Heather?” The ruckus woke up an exhausted Jay, who still looked incomparably better than her even with an early morning puffy face. He smoothly kicked the blanket off of his body to help the newly turned sixteen year old back on the bed.

“Hey,” brushing away the few strands of hair that had escaped the braid Daniel had put it into the night before, he held her arm, concern etched all across his face, “Are you okay?”

“Damn it.” The brunet winced at the few tears that escaped Heather’s eyes, stomach dropping at her sniffles. She covered her face with her palm, the other clutching the fabric of her sweatpants.

“This sucks.”

He tucked her in his chest, running his fingers through her hair and waiting till she calmed down from her abrupt meltdown. Looking at her tightened fist, he gathered her tighter in his arms, putting a warm hand over hers, slowly making her release her clothes. “You’re okay, don’t worry.”

Heather sniffled, trying to regain a steady breathing and pulling in deep breaths to soothe her hiccups. Jay kept smoothing a hand through her soft strands, patiently waiting. “I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry.”

Jay shook his head, pressing a kiss on her temple, “Why apologize?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed, wiping away the last drop of tear that slid down her cheek, “I just couldn’t hold it in. It didn’t even hurt. I guess I just felt disappointed.”

Jay hummed in understanding, bringing the pad of his thumb to swipe away the moisture around her eyes, “It can happen sometimes, I get it. Come, let’s wash up your face. You look prettier when you don’t have snot all over your face.”

The comment made her chuckle, giving his shoulder a friendly punch, “You don’t tell a girl that she’s ugly, especially when she’s crying her soul out. That’s super rude.”

“Am I supposed to lie, then?” Jay retorted, taking Heather gently by her arm and leading her carefully to the bathroom on the other side of the large space. Truthfully, Heather could never be ugly, not in his eyes at least. No matter how much he liked to tease her about the minor flaws in her appearance here and there, nothing ever seemed less than perfect in his eyes when it came to his closest friend.

Close to two years ago, Jay realized that Heather Brown was prettier than the angels his mother told him all about when he’d been younger. The purest beings, breathtaking and beautiful, those were traits Heather held as well.

Even with eyes bloodshot, nose running a river and cheeks flushed from exertion, she was prettier than ever.

“I think we should tell uncle about what happened.” He quipped from behind as Heather patted her face dry. He was leaning against the doorframe, frowning at something she couldn’t see on the floor.

“It’s getting too frequent. You literally fell over while doing nothing yesterday too.”

Heather stayed silent, assessing his words, “It’s getting worse, Heather. I’m just worried about you, your dad too.”

So many words were left unsaid, they both knew that, but with Heather’s insistence on keeping the progression of her disease a secret from her already busy father, Jay swallowed back his thoughts of concern and let her be.

For how long he’d let her live a life of lies, however, he didn’t know. Three years ago, their life had turned upside down with the few words of a man in a crisp white coat and this was the only way he could keep Heather Brown happy.

Just stay quiet, and let her be. He couldn’t possibly shoulder the heavy burden of being the one who insisted she stay locked inside a room surrounded by white walls, unwilling to be the one who ripped her away from her happiness. For now, he’d just let her be and do as she said.

⟡

Winter came quicker than expected that year, heavy clouds creeping over the lifeless buildings of Washington D.C.

Heather never expected her last Christmas break before she graduated high school to be spent cooped up inside a room that made her feel lonelier than her own one did whenever she was left to her own. The only thing accompanying her throughout her days was the large, framed picture of lilacs on the wall to her adjacent, the monotonous monitor to her side, a leather white couch next to the tall windows and the nurses who’d occasionally come and go.

Daniel Choi was busy these days, too. She hadn’t seen the older male in two weeks, quite the record for someone who’d talk to him face to face almost every few days. If not face to face, then at least on the phone where he’d tell her all about his day. He would always complain about something his friends had done, affectionately calling Beomgyu an annoying gum that was relentlessly stuck to him.

She heard that name a lot more often since the first time he’d introduced him to her almost a few years ago. Beomgyu this, Beomgyu that, Beomgyu here, Beomgyu there. It seemed like he lived and breathed by that name, not that Heather was jealous at all.

It was nice seeing Daniel befriend someone closer to his age. What was not nice was the fact that she felt like he was slowly drifting away. He wouldn’t pick up her calls when she missed his comforting voice, only answering hours later at times when even she wasn’t awake.

Daniel felt so far away, more so than he’d ever felt like.

What happened to her Daniel who’d nag her to eat her meals on time, scolding her for not drinking enough water? Where was he, the one who’d drive away all of her worries with a single smile, a lame joke? With a sinking feeling in her gut, Heather realized that Choi Beomgyu was stealing the most perfect human being in this world from her.

The thought brought a certain heaviness in her chest, the walls enclosing in on her. Her hands trembled, heart racing inside her ribs and her lungs felt like they weren’t getting enough air. Fear had her in a merciless clutch as she curled into a fetal position, cupping her hands over her ears, not even taking the presence of the nurse next to her in.

Daniel was leaving her and it was all Choi Beomgyu’s fault.

⟡

Nighttime crept over the sky, for once the moon reflecting light over those on the streets, illuminating the city in a soft glow.

Heather felt better, good enough to wander down the halls of the large hospital in hopes of finding herself some entertainment, having already slept the day away. Energized for the night, she skipped down the empty corridors, careful to avoid any workers who might recognize the dreadful hospital clothing she’d been forced to put on when she first arrived last week.

“Snacks. I need snacks, lots and lots of them in fact.” She muttered at no one in particular, tracing an unending line on the wall as she went, taking a ninety degree turn to the right after confirming that her chances of getting caught were minimal.

The automated machine stood proudly at the other corner of the corridor, as she found out after an unnecessarily lengthy trip around the quiet floor, lost in the maze while trying to follow a random blue line that led her to nowhere in particular, not that she knew of. Snickers or KitKat? She weighed her choices, fishing out a few coins out of her frankly quite shallow pocket.

And then she saw black.

Rubbing her forehead in defeat, she pushed herself up to sit on her knees, half having the mind to let out a string of less than pleasant cuss words as she massaged the area that throbbed. Her momentary blackout had led her to collapse right before the vending machine.

Heather pinched the bridge of her nose, reaching out to wipe away the small droplets of red with her sleeve. She hoped her nose didn’t look too bad for wear, “Great, just great.”

With a grunt, she made an effort to stretch her legs out to stand. That’s odd, wait, giving up on trying to hold a hand over her nose, she put out both arms and flexed, wondering why her legs didn’t seem to be functioning properly. I can’t feel anything, she tried reaching out to grab the handle of the sitting bank just an arm’s length away.

Her fingers strained as she clawed the air, hoping to get a grip on the metal bar. Tears of frustration welled up behind her eyelids while she dragged her limp feet with the help of her upper body, strength quickly dwindling as she had to handle all of her body weight. This cannot be happening, not now, she begged for a semblance of power to return to her muscles.

Please, a stray tear slid down her chin as anger rose within her. “Move already.” She slammed a closed fist over her incapacitated limbs. What a joke, cursed to a life of being a burden to everyone around her. “Just do as I say, why won’t you?”

Cursing, she harshly bit down on her lip, making a grand effort to slide her body and carry herself over to sit on the metal bench. Her heart pounded against her ribs, the adrenaline that had allowed her to will herself up slowly ebbing away. She laughed, a reaction forced out of her as she laughed and laughed.

She didn’t feel the traitorous tears trailing down the side of her face for the nth time that week, she didn’t recognize anyone’s voice as people started approaching her. Heather laughed at the injustice of it all, wondering what she had done wrong to go through and struggle with something most people did on a minutely basis.

She laughed, bitter and tired of everything.

Nurse Willows sat her on a wheelchair, a kind smile ever so present on her face despite the late hour and exhaustion probably wearing her down from the long day of hard work. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.”

She liked Ms. Willows too, something about her giving her the same feeling of comfort that came with Mrs. Choi, Daniel’s mother and her cook. She had traces of age where her smile creased, but she still looked youthful, lively. She was just as kind as Mrs. Choi as well, she’d rejoiced at having someone nice to talk to when she would inevitably grow bored sitting around on her stiff bed. Heather barely saw her around after their first encounter, though.

Tonight was the second time she got to interact with Ms. Willows. Albeit the less than pleasant conditions, Heather fell back asleep on her way to her room as the older woman pushed her forward, pleased that it was Ms. Willows and not anybody else.

Tomorrow would be a better day, she hoped. It was Christmas after all.

⟡

Finding a snoring Jay next to her the next morning was the best thing that she could have ever asked for.

He stirred in his sleep as she watched in awe, taking in his peaceful face like she always did. It had been months since she’d properly gotten to see him this close. She slowly smoothed over his cheek with the back of her fingers, barely hovering over his skin. Despite her best efforts at being subtle, his eyes fluttered awake anyways.

The sunlight was nowhere to be found at ten thirty-four am, right when Jay found himself staring into the eyes of his best friend. The room was dim with the only light coming from the hallway beneath her closed door. With what little brightness came in through the open blinds, shades of blue covering the sky behind the large glass panels, he took in her tired features.

Brown eyes never looked as good on him as they did on Heather Brown. Something about the way she looked at him felt like home, though to be fair, everything she did felt like home to him. There was no one in his life as clearly defined in who they were as Heather. His father, sure, along with his mother, but the person he’d wholeheartedly bellow the name of into the wind when asked who felt like home to him, was his one and only Heather, the girl peering right at him through the curtain of her lashes like he was her everything.

Like he was her everything.

And he was, to a certain extent. Heather thought back on the past ten entire years of her life, recounting the times Jay Park had proven time and time again that he’d always be the one person she could call her everything.

“You’re up.” Jay whispered, tracing small circles on her back with the hand he’d slung over her waist. He rejoiced in the way she fiddled in her position, feeling ticklish by his subtle pokes here and there where he knew she felt the most tickled by. Giggling at his onslaught, she quickly snatched his soft cheeks with her fingers and stretched the skin wide in an awkward grin.

Moving his cheeks around and bringing her hands together to make his lips puff out like a fish, she replied, “Who said you could invade my bed like this? It’s probably against the rules.”

Despite his hammering chest, he pulled her closer to himself, “It’s fine.” He could barely utter the few words through his squished face. “You wanna go out?”

Blinking, she strained her neck to spot the folded up wheelchair next to her small closet. Jay pushed himself to rest on his elbow, “It’s totally okay if you don’t feel like it, I just thought it’d be nice to see the snow.”

“It’s okay, let’s go. Help me up.” She stretched her arms forward, making a give me motion and pointed at the transport device she swallowed her pride and sat on with his help. “Push me as fast as you can.”

“We didn’t even notify the nurse or anything. You wait for like, a second, and I’ll be back in a minute.” After setting her down, he faced his body towards the door, rubbing the sleep quickly out of his eyes. He stopped when a hand pulled him back.

“Wait, why are you here anyways?”

“What do you mean?” The boy feigned innocence, half heartedly pulling his arm away from her loose grip. Heather steeled her expression, “I swear, Jay, if you pulled some funny business, then I’m sending you right back.”

It was at the beginning of year ten of school when Jay had decided he wanted to dance professionally. It was also in tenth grade that he’d finally convinced his father to let him audition, nearly spending the entire year coming up plans with her for the older man to finally cave in and let him quit the orchestra.

Heather had watched him dance for hours and hours on end, audition and then fail twice in a row before getting accepted into a small group. She had watched him pour his blood, sweat and tears throughout the past two years, every moment that would lead up to the big event not even a month away now.

There was no way he’d ditched going to the practice sessions just to take her out for something as mundane as a walk. “I’m actually gonna call uncle, Jay. I know how important the performance is, you shouldn’t be blowing off Sunghoon like that.”

“Chill,” He chuckled, flicking a finger over the bridge of her nose, “The regular meet up was postponed to tomorrow, because it’s a holiday and people have to be at home, exchange gifts and all of that jazz. The studio is closed for the day.”

“It better be.”

⟡

“I don’t have a gift for you.” Heather crossed her arms, looking at the small box resting on her lap. It wasn’t any bigger than the size of her palm, neatly wrapped with a white polka dotted paper, contrasting with the red background and glittering green ribbon tied around it in a typical festive fashion.

“I don’t need one.” He replied, sitting on the comfortable sofa across her as Heather fiddled with the small box. “Go on, open it.”

With great care, she unfolded the colorful wrap. “I’m gonna flip if it’s what I think it is.” She commented offhandedly, trying to cover up the glee seeping out of her voice. The velvet box felt familiar to touch, something she’d held in her hands once before, but never got around to bring it home with her.

“Oh, you bet it is.” Jay hopped off of the couch, flipping on the switch to her room. “I didn’t have the time to do anything special this year, but I know how obsessed you are with this, so yeah, sorry for the last minute surprise.”

“Want me to put it on for you?” Heather nodded at his offer, moving her hair to the side to allow him to clasp the dainty chain around her neck, the small pendant resting pretty on her décolleté.

“There you go,” Jay stepped back to rake his eyes over her appearance, “You look very pretty.”

And indeed she was. Jay, for all of his life, prided himself in the fact that he had never once lied to anyone about anything. He wore his heart on his sleeves and kept his words simple and honest, truthful in everything he said or did. At times, his frank words hurt those who hadn’t heard what they wanted to from him, driving quite a few people away with the bluntness in his words.

Everyone wanted to hear pretty white lies from him, turning their backs once they didn’t receive what they thought they would no matter how not unkind his delivery was. Honesty and sincerity, that’s what Jay prided himself in the most. Jay never lied, Heather knew that better than anyone else.

And so whenever he called her pretty, she felt like the most beautiful being in the world. If the words came from him, she’d take them to the bottom of her heart and encase it in a fragile glass container, cherishing it for a long, long time, because it was Jay’s words and Jay never lied.

For that night, she would truly feel beautiful, because he made her believe so.

⟡

July 21st only a couple of years ago, a summer day she remembered with every detail. Daniel had graduated high school just a little while ago and had decided to stay around, continue to make music on his own with his small group of friends, working small part time jobs in his other free time.

Heather had nothing to do that day with Jay away with his father on a trip and her own dad as busy with his business as always. It was Daniel who’d pulled her out of staying cooped up in her room all day. He’d dragged her out of her lonesome and taken her to a small ice cream shop next to the skatepark where kids mostly around her age usually hung out.

“You should try this mint chocolate one.” He’d begged her to try the minty flavored ice cream, to which she’d adamantly refused, knowing how he was aware that she hated it all the way to the depths of hell. Daniel could be annoying like that from time to time whenever he decided to shed his role of the ever loving, wise older brother.

“Suit yourself.” He’d replied with a sulk, typical Daniel fashion.

The heat rose from the asphalt, visible in the way it distorted the view of the park in front of the shop. She wondered if an egg would cook if she dropped it on the ground. It sure seemed like it was a possibility. Just like everything else however, she threw that thought behind, opting to enjoy the moment and her very delicious, very non-mint-chocolate ice cream.

The older male jumped right into step with her as they wandered out into the street, mindlessly wandering through the crowd of families and friends. He had an arm slung over her shoulder, chattering away about his plans for the next week. “You know what would be nice?” He piped up, nibbling on the cone in his right hand.

Heather didn’t reply, tilting her head to lock eyes with him as though she was questioning him. “What if we go on a little trip to the amusement park with Jay this Saturday? It’s been a while since we all went out together.”

She knew what he meant, the underlying message in between the lines. Still, she decided to ignore the unpleasant feeling, dropping her faux displeasure at him to contemplate on the suggestion. It had been a while since they’d had fun together, all three of them. “I’ll have to ask my father for permission, though.”

In a typical Daniel fashion, his lips curled into a lopsided smile, “If there’s anything I know about Mr. Brown after all these years, it’s that he won’t say no if I’m there to be your babysitter.”

“First of all, I don’t need a babysitter, much less someone like you.” Heather jeered at the older boy. “And secondly, remember that one time you almost let me drop from the fifty-first floor’s window when I was eight? And that one time you almost slipped down the wet stairs and dragged me down with you last year? I’d hardly consider you a capable sitter.”

She didn’t mention the time he’d gently held her while she mourned her mother’s departure, or when he’d patched her knees up when she’d fallen down from a tree branch while she and Jay were playing hide and seek at the park, or when Daniel had built them the biggest blanket fort the two younger ones had ever seen and have a movie night just because they’d both gotten great grades in their exam, or the time when he’d carried her on his shoulders because she couldn’t see the artist’s perform at the local music festival, or the time he’d trimmed her hair for her after she’d very unsuccessfully tried to give herself a new haircut.

She didn’t need to mention any of those instances where he’d been the angel taking care of her because he knew. Through her vulnerability with the boy she considered to be family, her constant little praises she liked to shower him with, her pulled back play-punches when he’d annoy her. Daniel knew that she saw him as the one that could do no real wrong, that he was her ever-loving and caring guardian.

Daniel knew, so when she said he wasn’t capable, he didn’t take the words to heart. He was so much more than just capable. Heather is an easy person for him to see through despite how others claimed the contrary.

Daniel knew that he was her everything, though it would be him in the end that would shatter her world.

#enhypennetwork #enhypen x female reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen jay #enhypen angst #enhypen jay imagines #txt yeonjun #yeonjun imagines #yeonjun scenarios #txt angst #txt fluff #enhypen fluff

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lubdubsworld · 3 years ago

Text

GIFT .

Genre : Brother-in-law Jungkook x OC!

Warnings : Yandere Jungkook! Non Consent. Manipulative behaviour. Explicit Sexual Content, Violence, Murder

Author's Note : I love reading Yandere fics so I just wanted to write one!! Its very different from what I usually write... So proceed with caution.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time I met Jungkook , it was five years into my relationship with Namjoon.

Namjoon had told me all about his baby brother, a final year student in SNU. Jungkook majored in Business , training to take over the company business . Namjoon often mentioned that it was Jungkook's offer to switch majors that had helped him pursue his own dream of being a music producer.

So when he told me that Jungkook was on a break from university and his parents were looking forward to having a proper family dinner with all of us, I was excited to meet the boy , I'd heard so much about. Namjoon was endlessly fond of his little brother and I wanted him to like me just as much.

Namjoon and I had met seven years earlier in the University Library and had become fast friends. We were both quiet, intellectually driven individuals, preferring to spend our time in the library as opposed to partying with our friends. And yet, in a twist , against our family’s wishes, we had chosen not to pursue an academically driven career either. I’d always felt out of place in my own friend group, most of my friend from Journalism being extroverted and fun loving. Namjoon for his part had only two very close friends, Yoongi and Hoseok and preferred spending time by himself as well.

So it was only natural that we fell in with each other with ease. His beautiful dimpled smile tugged on my gut, even as his gentle nature and gorgeous mind made my heart pound. I fell in love with him, between the late night laughter in the library and the soft secrets whispered against my skin, in the privacy of his bed.

“Nervous?” His voice drew me to the present, fingers inking with mine as he lightly knocked his shoulders against mine, staring down at me with a dimpled smile. I shook my head quickly, squeezing his hand gently.

“Of course not. I just want him to like me.” I whispered and Namjoon chuckled.

“Jungkookie isn’t very expressive so don’t worry if he isn’t very vocal in his affections. He’s very shy with new people but I’m sure, he’ll love you.” Namjoon reached out and lightly, brushed the hair off my face before leaning down and giving me a quick kiss.

I gripped his waist, pressing in closer, lips parting instinctively , eager to chase the taste of him. He groaned and gripped my elbow, pulling me around to press up against the tall , lean strength of his body and this was it, this endless need to touch him even after seven whole years of being together. I moaned when he bit down on my lips, my back arching a bit to press into him.

“Hyung?”

We parted, surprised and I felt my face flame, lips slicked wet and no doubt red from where Joon’s teeth had sunk in.

What a first impression.

“Ahh… Jungkook-ah… You came out?” Namjoon looked a little flustered, dimples peeking out in an abashed smile as he laughed embarrassedly I found myself smiling at Jungkook, who looked nothing like I’d imagined.

I’d been expecting someone cute and friendly.

Jungkook was dressed in all black, tall and intimidating. He was also almost surreally beautiful, gaze piercing and steady as he stared at me. I felt an instinctive urge to hide, not missing the way his gaze trailed up and down my body, lips parting gently to reveal a pair of bunny teeth that looked jarringly adorable on a face that was , quite simply put, arrestingly gorgeous.

He hummed, still standing in the doorway, eyes trained on me and I swallowed when he smiled , wide and open. His tongue darted out, lightly licking his lower lip .

“Hi, Hana.” He said softly and I startled.

“Hana? I’m sure you mean noona…..” I laughed nervously and even Namjoon looked surprised and Jungkook merely smiled, shrugging.

“You don’t feel like a noona.” He said casually.

I merely stared at him, not sure what he meant. Namjoon laughed a little as well, moving over to lightly hug his brother.

“Yah! You’ve just met her. Isn’t it too soon to start being a brat?” He ruffled his hair playfully before turning to me.

“Come on, Hana. Come say hi to my parents.” Namjoon walked in and I rushed to follow him, pausing when I reached the doorway. I smiled at Jungkook, holding a hand out slowly.

“I’ve heard so much about you Jungkook, I hope we can be friends…” I said sincerely and he stared at my hand, not taking it. Instead he gave me another soft smile. Before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the back of my hand, making me jump .

“You don’t feel like a friend either.” He said with a shrug , before moving away, leaving me stunned on the doorway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two years later :

“Seven months? Namjoon we’re getting married in seven months! How am I supposed to plan a whole wedding , with you away from the country?” I asked desperately, watching as Namjoon sat with his head in his hands. He looked stricken, regretful and pained and I felt terrible for being unreasonable but it was impossible not to feel hurt.

“I know.. I know hana, I’m so fucking sorry. But this is such a huge opportunity and its not just me : Hoseok and Yoongi depend on me. I can’t screw things up for them too.” He whispered and I exhaled.

Namjoon had been offered a chance to produce for a very high end recording label based out of the US and they wanted him to stay there for a minimum of seven months. The offer had been a complete surprise, out of the blue and the timing couldn’t have been worse. I’d been accepted into an internship at a popular magazine and it would be impossible for me to go with him. And I was so desperate to go.

We’d never been apart for more than a few days, in the entirety of our relationship and the thought of not seeing him for months made me want to throw up.

“I’ve spoken to Jungkook. He’ll help you with all the things that have to be done. And I swear that I’ll be back at least a month before the date, alright? No matter what happens.” Namjoon said firmly. I swallowed, nodding nervously.

It was true that I didn’t like the idea of being away from Namjoon. But the thought of keeping him away from a dream that he had worked so hard for, was almost unfathomable.

Besides, Jungkook was reliable and sweet. The perfect gentleman. Especially now that he’d taken over as his father’s Executive Assistant, Jungkook was incredibly good at organizing and planning things out.

With his help, I could plan out our wedding to perfection.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next five months were spent in a haze of appointments and fittings and bookings. Jungkook had arranged for a shift in my internship hours, so he and I could spend a solid four hours every day, visiting different vendors, picking out the perfect floral arrangements, napkins, brocade and what not. And for once, I found myself completely enthralled by the idea of spending money of frivolously pretty things. Whether it was the florists or the patisserie, the dress fitting or the invitations, I felt my excitement bubbling over , amazed because marrying into Namjoon’s family meant an unlimited budget and for once, I didn’t mind being extravagant.

What was more, I didn’t miss Namjoon nearly as much as I thought I would. Because deep down , I knew that he wouldn’t have enjoyed this all that much. And I would have felt guilty , dragging him everywhere.

And Jungkook was the one to thank for all of it. He picked me up everyday for an early breakfast , followed by hours of combing the streets for ideas and appointments. He was funny and enthusiastic, eager to help me in every way and I was so grateful that I couldn’t thank him enough.

“I owe you so much, Kookie. You’ve been a life saver.” I groaned, collapsing on the couch and dropping my head back against the backrest. Jungkook chuckled, sitting down on one of the Turkish ottomans and lightly grabbing my ankle, pulling my foot onto his lap. I flushed a little, still not used to how touchy he was.

Jungkook liked wrapping his arms around my waist when we were out and about, fingers fluttering up my sides or brushing hair off my face with easy familiarity. I didn’t mind. He reminded me of my little brother back in Ilsan.

Most of the people we met assumed he was the groom and Jungkook told me it would be better to keep up the ruse because wedding planners were more comfortable when couples came together and I’d agreed, albeit a little reluctantly. I missed Namjoon and I wondered if he would mind. But when I mentioned it in passing to him during one of our daily video calls, he’d merely laughed it off.

“You’re so tense, Hana. You should relax. Everything is going to be okay.” Jungkook said softly, soft fingers digging into the curve of heel before brushing the arch of my foot. I smiled when he tugged my foot close, placing it down on the firmness of his thigh.

I gazed down at him, feeling uncomfortably nervous. This whole thing seemed oddly intimate somehow and I felt the first tendrils of guilt begin to curl around my gut. I swallowed, hating myself for tainting something that was no doubt innocent. I ought to be grateful that my future brother in law was this kind to me.

“I know. Thank you. I just miss him sometimes.” I said softly. The fingers stilled on my foot.

“Only sometimes?” He teased, eyes narrowed and tone just a little colder and I hesitated.

“I don’t miss him when you keep me company. You help me forget that I’m doing all of this by myself.” I said honestly. Jungkook inhaled sharply, his gaze flicking to mine, holding mine with an intensity that made me balk a little.

“You mean, that?” He asked quietly and I laughed at how serious he looked.

“Of course I do. I was so sure this whole thing would be me being miserably lonely but you’ve kept me laughing and happy. I’m going to ask Namjoon to buy you something expensive and amazing when he comes back.”

“He already has something amazing. It’s the only thing I really want.” Jungkook said quietly, fingers stroking up, gently massaging my foot all the way up my calf. I groaned at how good it felt.

“Really what is it?” I asked curious.

Jungkook squeezed my knee before carefully placing my foot down , reaching for the other one.

“You’ll know soon, Hana.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

True to his word, Namjoon called me exactly a month before our wedding date.

“Guess who’s leaving the God forsaken place this weekend?”

I felt warmth flood my insides, heart racing with pure joy, tears brimming over because I’d honestly resigned myself to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to make it back on time.

“Monday i, I’ll be there. Can’t wait to kiss you, my love.” He whispered and I nodded, laughing.

Finally, Everything would be okay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Namjoon’s flight was due to arrive late night ,somewhere between twelve and one in the morning. I’d taken a nap in the afternoon, so I could be up to welcome him back. Jungkook arrived at around seven with Takeout and flowers.

He didn’t ring the doorbell, letting himself in with the spare key I’d given him for emergencies. I found myself scrambling for my robe because I’d taken a nice long shower and slipped on a silk negligee, short and ending just over my knees . I could feel his eyes on me as I hastily tied the sash together, flustered. The robe wasn’t long either and I felt absolutely exposed, even worse than when he’d stepped into the dressing room during my fitting, offering to help me with the zipper.

“ Jungkook, what are you doing here?” I asked nervously and he shrugged, eyes still trailing over my legs, the skin bare. I felt his gaze like a caress and some instinct told me I was in danger. I shook my head to clear it. How ridiculous.

This was Jungkook. Sweet, wonderful Jungkookie. My best friend these past few months. There was no one else I could be safer with.

“I knew you’d be excited, what with hyung coming back and all. So, I thought I’d drop by and at least make sure you’re well fed.” He grinned, holding the tae out up. I smiled and nodded, moving to get plates and glasses from the kitchen.

I heard Jungkook moving around in the living room and when I went back in , I found that he had two glasses of wine ready on the table, an expensive bottle of merlot opened nearby. I smiled a bit, shaking my head.

“What are we celebrating?” I asked curiously and he shrugged.

“Namjoon hyung is coming back right? It means I’ll be getting my amazing gift tonight.” He said softly, picking his glass up and taking a sip and I rolled my eyes.

“You’re such a child. You can’t wait for a day to get your gift?”

Jungkook hummed. He looked ethereal in the dim golden light of the apartment. Like something out of a fairytale. All dark ebony hair and porcelain skin. I wondered, again….why he never dated. He was easily one of the most beautiful humans I’d ever seen in my life. And that voice.

The voice of an angel.

“I’ve been waiting for years, Hana. I’m sick and tired of waiting.” He said softly, voice low and eyes somehow dark and I tried to hold my smile.

“Well, I hope you enjoy it.” I grinned and he smiled, all teeth.

“Oh, I intend to. Thoroughly.”

I took my own glass and took a deep sip , before holding it against his.

“To no longer waiting and finally getting what we want.” I said cheerfully, thinking of the long months without Namjoon and the few hours till he would be back in my arms. Jungkook chuckled and clinked his glass against mine.

“To you, Hana.” He said simply and I blushed, surprised and flattered.

We ate the take out but just a few bites in, I felt my eyes getting heavy which was so unfair. It was barely eight. And I’d slept in the afternoon. What was wrong with me? I was supposed to be up till Namjoon came home.

“You alright, love?” Jungkook asked sweetly , getting out of his chair and making his way over when I almost knocked the glass of water over, fingers trembling. I pouted, even as his fingers curled over my shoulders, gripping lightly.

“Why am I so drowsy?” I whined in desperation and he leaned down, lightly resting his chin on my shoulder.

“You need to rest, hana. Come on, let’s get you to bed…. “

Eyes heavy and limbs turning to jelly, I could barely blink as he reached down and scooped me into his arms , carrying me into the bedroom. I felt his fingers tug on the sash of my robe, a protest building up at the action but he shushed me gently.

“I’m just helping you out of this, Hana. Rest now… Namjoon hyung will be here soon and we have a long night ahead of us, you and I.”

I could feel my mind churn at that, confusion warring with apprehension because why was Jungkook inserting himself in tonight? What did he have to do with Namjoon and I ?

Sleep beckoned and I found myself slipping into the darkness before I could fully ponder on his words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke up sweaty and damp , body overheated and my head foggy. I made to move and felt my heart pound when I realized my hands were tied up to the headboard. I blinked, only to be met with darkness because there was something tied around my eye as well.

“Jungkook?!” I called out panicking and there was a low chuckle.

And then a very familiar scent.

Namjoon.

I sagged in relief.

“Joon…it’s you….” I breathed out . “ Come on, do we really have to do this right away? I wanna see you…” I whispered desperately.

Fingers brushed over my ankle and I jumped.

“Namjoon?” I whispered . The bed dipped next to me, and I felt the brush of his shirt against my bare arm. It was soft and silky , familiar because I’d bought it for him for his birthday and he’d sent me a pic of him wearing it, from the airport today.

“Okay… I’ll play.” I laughed softly. “ Just untie me… I wanna touch you..”

“Sshhh…..” A finger pressed against my lip and I startled. Throat dry, I gulped.

But I didn’t say anything, biting my lips nervously as I felt him climb over me, one knee on either side of mine, fingers curling on my thighs, lips pressing against my cheek. I sighed, relishing the soft press of his lips, up and down my neck, the damp wetness of his tongue as he licked the skin right after, teeth nipping gently and then with more force.

I trembled as soft fingers tugged on my negligee tugging the fabric up and away from my body, raising it up till it pooled near my chest. I felt the tug on my panties, yanking the fabric off and then the weight of him went away, a breathy exhale that sounded both calm and somehow desperate, his body moving down to lightly hold my knees, parting my legs.

I bent my knees, spreading my thighs the way he clearly wanted me to, hearing him groan in return. He used his thumbs to gently part the damp folds of my centre and I felt my entire body shudder at the press of his tongues against the most intimate parts of me.

Choking, I could only lay there and take it, his tongue licking the slick folds, over and over again with an almost curious insistence, like he was tasting me for the first time and I could feel his body trembling on the bed as he did. I felt his teeth tug on the hardened nub, bruising hard and yet somehow almost playful and cheeky and I found myself squirming in pleasure, wetness seeping out of me .

The tip of his finger found my slit, running up and done the length of it in a slow, gentle caress, gathering the moisture there and I trembled when he reached my clit, gently rubbing circles on the little bundle before moving back down to trace my entrance. I was so wet, getting wetter by the second and I’d never wanted to be fucked so bad.

“Please…..baby… I want you ….in me…” I choked out and he chuckled, a little mischievous and unlike him.

The finger dipped in, shallow and barely in and I whimpered in desperation.

“More.. Please…. I want more.. Want you… Its been so long…”

I felt him move back at that and then he was there, right between my legs. I felt the clink of metal as he unbuckled himself, the sound of his zipper and the rustle of fabric as he pushed his trousers off. I could feel the hard muscles of his thigh against the back of mine as he scooted closer, felt the brush of his hard length against my center, the head dipping in just lightly.

He pushed forward, driving in with so much force that my entire body shuddered in shock. And in just that second, I knew, with dawning horror…….

This was not Namjoon.

I screamed, so loud my own ears rang and a palm pressed down into my mouth, forceful and unrelenting. And terrifyingly unfamiliar.

“Hana…” Jungkook’s voice near my ear made me choke on my tears, my mind splintering in shock and betrayal, body going rigid in terror as he pulled out , only to slide back in.

“Knew it would be worth it, keeping myself pure for you….” He crooned against my skin and I whimpered, wetness spilling over my eyelashes as I tried to squirm away, my mind body and soul only screaming for the man I loved.

“Don’t worry about anything ….Hyung’s in a better place now. “ Jungkook chuckled deeply and I felt my skin go ice cold at the implication. He moved his hand away and I coughed, choking.

“Jungkook….”

The blind fold came off and he kept pumping into me, hips moving erratically, no rhythm or grace and it was obvious he’d never done this before, obvious in the way he looked : blissed out and feral, eyes unfocused as he stared down at me. I felt him tremble and shake, before going still . I felt warm wetness flood my insides and bile rose, nausea making breathing difficult. He stayed on me and inside me, his body so large and immovable, heavy and suffocating over my own.

“what are you doing Jungkookie?” I sobbed out in disbelief and he glared at me.

“What does it fucking look like I’m doing? I’m taking what I fucking deserve….” He snarled. “ Two fucking years…. He doesn’t deserve you. Spends all his days and nights holed up in that studio of his with his friends….leaves you to fend for yourself. You deserve to be waited on, hand and foot… you deserve the world, hana…and he wouldn’t let you experience any of it. Fucking bastard….

“No… No.. God …no..” I choked out. It was the shirt.

He was wearing Namjoon’s shirt. And his cologne. The shirt I knew my boyfriend had been wearing today. How did he get it??

Jungkook brushed his fingers on my cheeks .

“What’s wrong baby? Are you worried about him? Wondering where he is…” He chuckled. “ I told you..he’s in a better place right now..”

“No… you’re lying..you wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t I? You know me that well , hana?” He teased.

No. No I didn’t I didn’t know him at all.

“How about this? If you marry me…. If you let me have this dream wedding with my dream girl…. “ He smirked,” If you let me love you the way you deserve , maybe I’ll take you to visit him…someday. ”

I closed my eyes.

I couldn’t process what I’d just heard… I didn’t know… if he was bluffing. What if he had actually killed-

I couldn’t believe that. I couldn’t. It would break me.

“Okay… Just…please don’t hurt him…” I whispered.

Jungkook smiled.

“Just relax Hana. Everything’s going to be okay.”

AUTHORS NOTE : THIS IS LITERALLY MY FIRST TIME WRITING SOMETHING LIKE THIS PURELY OUT OF IDLE CURIOSITY

~~~~~~~~~~~

#YANDERE JUNGKOOK #YANDERE BTS #yandere jungkook smut #bts smut

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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years ago

Note

Omg can I please get a hannibal x a shy girl reader ? Like he’s really possessive of her and she doesn’t know how to handle it but she likes him so they date??

Sorry this took so long, anon. I’ve been bouncing ideas around and this one in particular, I believe, fits your request. Y/n feels out of place among Hannibal’s fancy friends and it becomes even more obvious when he abandons her at a party.

Trigger warnings: social anxiety, sexual harassment, overstimulation

You and Hannibal had an agreement about large gatherings. He could only bring you to a party if you had a week's notice and at least three uninterrupted hours of gaming time prior to the event.

For this event, you needed a solid six.

One of the major Maryland universities was awarding a lucrative research grant to a student of clinical psychology, and every influential name in the industry was expected to be there. As a recent college grad with a bachelor's in business you didn't know what to do with, you couldn't imagine a less welcoming environment if you tried. You couldn't fit into their world and more importantly, you didn't want to. But the thought of being noticeably different in any situation was twice as terrifying. So you spent the whole week repeating your mantra; blend in, be quiet and make it through the night.

But Hannibal had different plans for you.

Halfway through the week, just when you'd pushed the party out of your mind, Hannibal presented you with a gift.

"What's the occasion?" You asked. You hoped that if you pretended not to know, it would just magically go away.

"I brought you something to wear on Friday." Hannibal answered, hanging the garment bag up on the bureau. "You know I'll take any excuse to dress you up."

He unzipped the bag and placed a black silk dress into your arms. "Try it on so I have time to get it altered if it needs it."

The material was cool to the touch and outlined your figure so perfectly, you felt even a little naked. Hannibal, of course, loved this. You were his own personal Venus de Milo. His goddess and his muse.

“Yes, that will do nicely.” He observed, looking at you hungrily.

“Seems a little short for a such a sophisticated event, doesn’t it?” You raised an eyebrow. The answer was yes and he knew it. He was very deliberate in everything he did. “I don’t want to come off the wrong way.”

“And what way would that be, darling?” He asked, not taking his eyes off your figure.

“I mean--” You searched for the right words. “It’s a gathering of the Mid-Atlantic’s most esteemed academics, I feel like, in a dress like this, I might be seen as, well, a...”

“A prostitute?” Hannibal finished, choosing a much nicer word than you would have.

You looked down. “Yeah. It just doesn’t seem all that appropriate.”

Hannibal approached you and lifted your chin slightly to look into his eyes. “Many Christian denominations believe that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, yet she was Christ’s right-hand woman. She was first to see him crucified and first to witness his resurrection.”

“Dr. Lecter,” You smirked. “I never would have taken you for a religious man.”

“Goodness, no.” He shook his head. “But any reputable academic is expected to be familiar with biblical literature and its many contradictions and impossibilities.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You are my divine feminine, Miss [L/N].” Hannibal said in a low whisper. “And I want everyone to see it. If they see a common whore, it would only be a reflection of their own jealousy.”

Hannibal's rationalization almost made you forget about your fear of being noticed. Almost. It all came rushing back when you arrived at the event. Not one person your age was in attendance. The women wore long, flowing evening gowns that reached the floor. The length of your skirt alone guaranteed that all eyes were on you. In a simple black silk dress, you looked the very model of high society. Silk was a sign of luxury, and Hannibal wanted everyone to know that you were a woman of means. His woman, to be precise. That was why he brought you to these functions in the first place. To put you in a dress short enough for any wandering eyes so see the smattering of love bites running up your inner thighs. He wanted everyone in his field to know that you were completely and entirely his.

You realized too late that this was all his little exercise in showing you off.

Everyone seemed to know him. He only knew a handful of people by name, and you didn't know anyone.

"And who is this delightful young woman?" A woman with a light southern twang in her voice asked, looking at you as if you were a caged animal on display.

"I wasn't aware you had a daughter, Dr. Lecter." The young man beside her laughed. "Or is she your side piece?"

Your eyes scanned the room for the nearest exit. It would be unbecoming to make a scene, so you plotted a way to slip out quietly.

“Darling, meet Dr. Charlotte Ramset and her TA, David.” Hannibal introduced, notably ignoring the young man. “Dr. Ramset, this is my intended, [F/N] [L/N].”

"I didn't realize she was also a ventriloquist!" The lady, presumably Dr. Ramset, joked. You'd heard that one a million times. She looked at you. "Tell me about yourself, sweetie. What are you studying?"

The lady was old enough to be your grandmother and reeked of too much perfume.

"I graduated last year." You said, quietly. "With a BA in business."

"See, there's a good woman." David added. "Only speaks when spoken to. They don't make ’em like you anymore, baby."

Hannibal tightened his grip on your hand. "On the contrary, David. See, Miss [L/N] is quite a bit like myself. She only dignifies those she deems worthy with a response. There's nothing wrong with being selective."

The lady laughed at David's expense and smiled at you. "Good for you."

You smiled back just a little, not ready to bring your guard down yet. "I've had to deal with more than enough. It's best not to engage."

"Oh, I know, I know." The lady said, shaking her head. "That's how it is for us educated gals. Always having to put up with pigs. See, I went to college in the sixties, so I can tell you some real stories."

This was a new experience. Talking to Hannibal's friends and having them listen to you was something you never considered possible. Now, you were one of the educated gals. You were just about to strike up a conversation with this woman, when the man next to her decided someone desperately needed to play devil’s advocate.

“I find that sexist, actually.” He cut in. “Not all men are pigs.”

The silence following his comment was deafening and you wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Whatever progress Hannibal and Dr. Ramset made breaking down your defenses was completely reversed and you were ready to retreat.

Dr. Ramset took a long sip of wine and adjusted her shawl. “David, none of us said anything about men, you drew that conclusion yourself.”

“I mean, look at you.” David gestured to your dress. You knew exactly where this was going and you wished you could just disappear. “You’re basically asking for it.”

Dr. Ramset glared at him. “David, that’s enough.”

“I’m just stating facts.” David crossed his arms. “If you dress like a slut, what do you expect?”

Dr. Ramset and Hannibal seemed to have an entire conversation through prolonged eye contact before one of them broke the silence.

"Charlotte, I hate to have to excuse myself so soon, but the president of the university is expecting me." Hannibal said, dropping your hand. Your heart hit the floor when you realized that he would be throwing you to the wolves.

"Of course, Dr. Lecter." She nodded. "Duty calls."

"I trust you'll keep an eye on my beloved [F/N] in my absence?" His voice hardened. The severity in his tone frightened you.

Dr. Ramset didn't seem disturbed or even surprised in the slightest by his gently threatening demand. "Of course."

"Thank you. And [F/N]?" He said, pressing his lips to the back of your hand. "I won't be going far. Please, try to have fun."

You tried not to look affronted, but you were going to have a long talk with Hannibal when you got home.

"I'm just saying what everyone is thinking." David continued, his inability to take a hint positively astounding. "Why don't you respect yourself enough to cover up, [F/N]? You have a boyfriend!"

Your eyes scrolled across the room looking for any sign of Hannibal, but he was gone. Dr. Ramset finished her wine and stared at her TA with the resigned disgust of a death row jailer.

"Any other thoughts?" She said, snatching a fresh glass of wine. You looked at her with a clear expression of discomfort.

"Come on, do you see any other woman in the room dressed so provocatively?" David's voice broke mid-sentence. "No. Because they're educated enough to know that real men don't care about their bodies."

The hotel clerk approached the group. "Mr. Hosmer, there's a call for you."

David narrowed his eyes. "Uh, what?"

"Someone is on the phone asking for you." The clerk repeated. "Says it's an emergency."

David shrugged. "Fine."

Just when you thought you would be rid of him, at least for a moment, he planted his hands on your hips in attempt to "get by" you. His touch was like that of an insect crawling across your skin; unexpected, filthy and leaving you squeamish.

"I'm so sorry about that." Dr. Ramset's words echoed in your ears, but you didn't really hear them. You were too focused on grounding yourself to process what she was saying.

“Dr. Ramset?” You said, quietly. “Which one is the president of the university?”

She glanced at a tall woman in a dark blue suit, surrounded by equally important looking businesspeople. You followed her eyes. “That’s Dr. Mary Hosmer.”

Your ounce of righteous fury was squelched in two seconds when the reality of having to talk to someone, especially someone of stature, set in. You looked sheepishly back at Dr. Ramset.

“Could you please ask her where Hannibal went?” You whispered. “I’d really like him to take me home now.”

Her face turned sympathetic. “Of course, [F/N]. Stay right there.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

Dr. Ramset crossed the floor and politely greeted the president. You took a few slow, calculated steps closer, just to get in earshot.

“Pardon me, but, have you seen Dr. Hannibal Lecter?” Dr. Ramset said, casually.

“I wasn’t aware Hannibal had even arrived yet.” The president answered. “I haven’t seen him.”

Your eyes widened. You fought the urge to freeze, but you had to move back before Dr. Ramset knew you’d been eavesdropping. You heard everything you needed and rushed back to where she’d left you.

“Dr. Hosmer said he stepped out.” She told you upon her return. “He should be back soon.”

You tried not to show that you knew she was lying. “...oh.”

“Would you like me to stay with you until he comes back?”

You knew you were completely on your own. You didn’t know what was going on, but you had an inkling that it had to do with the president and David sharing a last name. All you knew for certain was that you couldn’t trust anybody.

“Don’t bother.” You shook your head. You took off for the door, but Dr. Ramset grabbed your wrist.

“I’m sorry, [F/N].” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. She didn’t look mad, but afraid. “But Dr. Lecter told me to stay with you. Please. Don’t make this harder for me.”

You recalled how seriously threatening Hannibal’s request was. She wasn’t answering to the president of the university. She was answering to Hannibal. You didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved.

“Right.” You conceded, stepping back in. “I’m sorry.”

The actual award ceremony was much longer than it needed to be, and it dragged on even longer knowing there was no reason for you to be there. Other than that, you awkwardly followed Dr. Ramset around the party like a lost puppy the whole time. You were back to your original plan: blend in, be quiet and make it through the night.

Just when you thought the party would never end, someone tapped you on the arm. You turned around, hoping with every fiber of your being that it was Hannibal, but it wasn’t. A tall woman in a dark blue suit stared back at you.

“I’m sorry to bother you, miss.” She said, apologetically. “But have you seen my son? I saw him talking to you and Dr. Charlotte earlier, perhaps he told you where he was going?”

You’d pushed that man completely out of your mind. You shook your head. “He left to take a phone call and I haven’t seen him since.”

A hand found your shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Hosmer, but I believe I saw the boy on his phone out in the lobby.”

“Dr. Lecter!” The president’s eyes widened. “How nice of you to finally join us.”

“...Yes, I believe he left right after making unwarranted comments towards my intended here.” Hannibal ran his hand down your arm lovingly.

“Well, boys will be boys.” The president chuckled. “Maybe you should teach your girlfriend not to wear such revealing clothes.”

Hannibal smiled and pulled you in protectively. “Whatever the case, I hope you find him very soon.”

Her phone chimed in her back pocket. “Oh, that’s him right now.”

“Wonderful.” Hannibal said. “[F/N] and I will be taking our leave.”

He hurried you towards the door, his hand tight around yours. A blood-curdling scream came from behind you. You looked back for just a moment and found the president hollering in pain and falling to her knees.

“Let’s go, darling.” Hannibal tugged at your arm. “They don’t deserve your presence.”

“Hannibal, I swear.” You said, once you were in the safety of the car. “If you killed every man who looked at me like a piece of meat, sooner or later, there won’t be any men left.”

Hannibal smirked and reached for his seatbelt. “Wonderful.”

#hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal x you #anon ask #anon request

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