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ashasmonsters · 4 years ago

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The Middle Prince

Male reader x Male Tiefling (Amon)

Citrus rating: Lemon

Content: Detailed wet dreams, alcohol

Words: 8k

Note: Some MLM goodness for Pride Month! This took me longer than I intended, but only because I wrote it way too long and had to break it up into parts! Expect more in this series.

The dreams started assailing you a little over a month ago. During the first week, you couldn't remember anything. You would awake in your bedchamber covered in sweat and panting as if you had just finished a sparring session. These nights, a name danced on the tip of your tongue, escaping just as you attempted to sound it out and make it real. Confused and alone you would promptly go back to sleep after flipping over your pillow. As time passed, the dreams grew both in intensity and clarity. Though still more mysterious than normal dreams, little details here and there coalesced in your waking memory: a soft touch followed by a rough one, the smell of lavender, your fingernails gliding over shallow ridges, the color of aquamarine gemstones. These dreams visited you every night without fail.

The determinations made by the court oneiromancers were limited in scope. After spending the night in the care of one such dream diviner, they found these dreams to be coming from somewhere else. The dreams were not your own, at least not fully. Beyond this, they had no more revelations. Anything more was conjecture; one stated that if magick was involved, it was either massively strong, thus able to conceal its origin, or so fleeting and ephemeral that even the oneiromancers couldn't trace it.

Your father's concern waxed but mostly waned. Perhaps if you were the eldest crown prince instead of the middle one, the answer would have been willed into existence by his command. He simply asked that the oneiromancers track your condition and report any findings to him, but no more than once each week. Though dismayed that little was being done to solve this mystery, you were used to being far from priority. Even years ago when an attempt on your life left one of your legs still and unresponsive, a leg brace allowing you to stand at public appearances was issued and the problem was declared solved. You vividly remembered the look on the assassin's face when he realized he had accidentally struck third in the line of succession rather than first. His reaction was not dissimilar from your father's when you mentioned your dreams: a mildly amused but primarily disappointed visage. The spot where the dagger had pierced your spine no longer ached but your discontent was as raw and fresh as the day the realization struck.

With the oneiromancers essentially told to only report something unquestionably threatening to your life or the family's honor, you shared very little with them. Several times you had dismissed them with little more than a hand wave. None of them ever protested. To their knowledge, no new developments within these dreams came to light. It was just another little curiosity that came with the court.

To their knowledge, anyway. In truth, there had been a quite substantial development that you withheld from them.

The night air was cool and crisp. From your bedchamber's veranda, you let the gentle sound of the garden's fountains below soothe your nerves. This had become your regular nighttime ritual; your last chance to feel relaxed and cool before waking up overheated and frantic. You enjoyed the last of it before sliding under the sheets and waiting for the dream to visit you.

This was the clearest dream to date. The scattered sensations and feelings from prior episodes came into focus: the touches came from smooth, tender hands, the smell of lavender from purple cups of herbal tea. Your fingers played over short, filed horns. That bold aquamarine color like a burning emerald belonged to a pair of eyes, their pupils narrow and catlike. The overall plot of the dream remained unknown to you. What came next, however, was new. Very new.

A pair of hands caressed your body as whatever clothing you had dissolved into the air. Your mind reeled from the realization of what was happening, yet you were relaxed all the same. Though surprised, you didn't wish for it to stop. Even as the tender hands had you at their mercy, one playfully pinching a nipple as the other reached lower in between your legs, you welcomed their touch without knowing why. You just did. It felt right. The hand between your legs started confidently stroking your shaft; making you moan. Their touch was expertly coordinated as if they knew everything about you. Not long after, the building pressure within you was too much to bear, then...

"AMON!" You cried out, the name that had eluded you all those nights finally woven from syllables into a complete utterance. You were no longer dreaming, your own hands reflexively covering your mouth in a futile attempt to take back the exclamation. In the dead of night like this, you most certainly alerted someone.

"My Prince, are you alright?" Your chief courtier, Petra, had burst through your bedchamber door. Guards with polearms at the ready had her back.

"I'm alright," you caught your breath, "it's the dream again. No cause for alarm." As usual, you bore a sheen of sweat and your heart was thundering in your ears.

"You've never called out like that before," Petra noted, not yet dropping her guard.

"I called out?" You lied, wincing as you felt something viscid and slimy on your groin under your dressing gown. Deep embarrassment came to the forefront of your mind, your face helpless to hide it. "Bring me my washbasin, please," you quickly uttered.

"At once, my Prince." Petra left the room as the guards resumed their posts. You peeled back your dressing gown to inspect the damage by moonlight. It was worse than you thought. Undoubtedly this gown would have to be thrown out. You groaned, disappointed in your own body for betraying you like this.

"Your washbasin, Prince." Petra returned and you hurriedly covered yourself up again. The moonlight was too dim, or perhaps she pretended not to see, but she was soon at your bedside without pause, brandishing a sponge and towel.

"I can do this myself," you said, taking the implements from her. She looked at you with intent to interrogate.

"Prince, if there have been changes with your dreams, you must inform the oneiromancers."

"No need," you said, eager to fully clean yourself. "You are dismissed, Petra."

Petra held her tongue. Her eyes told you she only did so because she was eager to return to bed. When she departed your bedchamber and closed the door, you finally discarded the soiled gown and did your best to cleanse yourself of your nocturnal emission. You donned a new gown and welcomed an ordinary slumber.

When morning came, so did Petra and a bevy of assistant courtiers. From the accoutrements they wielded you identified them as the "fashion corps," your nickname for the hairdressers, wardrobers, clothiers, and makeup artists whose arrival portended a formal event you were required to attend. As the squad of aesthetes communicated amongst each other, Petra drew you a bath. While the tub filled, she came to your side and took your shoulder on hers to help you hobble into the bathing chamber.

"What's the occasion, Petra?" You unfolded a privacy screen, dividing your bathing chamber in half. As you stripped and entered the balmy water, you heard Petra pull up a chair on the other side of the screen.

"The biannual alliance gala, Prince."

"The alliance gala?" You asked. Your appearance had not been required at one for quite some time. "Why me?"

"Your father has requested that the entire court attend. From what I've heard, there is quite the number of fiefdoms and baronies joining the kingdom at this one."

"Grand." You sighed and resigned yourself into the water until it met your chin. You imagined the great hall of the palace, teeming with strangers from far-off lands all speaking in such meaningless platitudes that they needed alcohol in hand to tolerate it.

"If it makes you feel any better, Prince, most of the night depends on your elder brother and your father. You have the freedom to do whatever you like once your father's opening speech is concluded," Petra said with a mild tone.

It didn't make you feel better. Your father built a kingdom that, apparently, smaller domains were scrambling to join. Your elder brother was the crown prince with hordes of suitors seeking his heart. Even your elder sister, with no direct claim to the crown, was quite sought after. Then there was you, with permission to get as drunk as you like at the gala. You seriously considered exercising that privilege.

Your ruminations were interrupted by the clatter of hammered metal and leather straps from beyond the screen.

"I've got your brace ready, Prince. Let me know when you're dry," Petra said. You reluctantly finished scrubbing and soaping yourself before heaving your body onto the lip of the bath and toweling off. Sat there, damp with dripping hair and a towel round your waist, you permitted Petra to attach the brace to you. She respectfully averted her eyes as she affixed the contraption to your immobilized leg. With it attached, you traded comfort for the ability to limp and stand unassisted.

Next came the gauntlet of clothing, hair styling, and makeup that the fashion corps employed. Even for today, which was merely a rehearsal for the true event tomorrow, they gave no mercy. They encircled you and passed you around as they worked like a knight being suited by his squires. The process was grueling. Your hair was tugged and the breeches squeezed your brace into your leg. With the freedom to choose your own clothes removed from you, there was no choice but to deal with the feeling of metal biting at your skin.

Bound in the tight, ceremonial clothing, Petra took your arm for the long walk to the great hall. It was full of palace staff and buzzing like a beehive. The ceiling, high as a cathedral's, let in beams of sunlight through its many massive windows. Tables were being arranged with the intent to give each attending guest a view of the stage: the stage where your father and elder brother would be giving their opening speeches tomorrow. The two of them were behind a podium, your brother reading a piece of parchment over your father's shoulder. Behind them towards the back of the stage was a row of ornate seats; not quite thrones but just as uncomfortable. Your elder sister met your gaze as she sat on one. She beckoned you over.

"That will be your seat for the rehearsal, Prince," Petra said.

"Rehearsal for sitting?" You quipped, walking towards your seat anyway. Resistance was futile no matter how silly this all was.

"I'll undo your hair and get you into more comfortable clothes as soon as I can, Prince," Petra said apologetically. "Bear with it. I must attend to the other staff now."

With that, Petra disappeared into the crowd of scrambling staff arranging the great hall into order. You limped to your seat, your brace clicking all the while.

"You look excellent, little brother," your sister said. She was attempting to alleviate your sour mood, but she still hadn't figured out how. Neither had you.

"I look like an idiot. And my leg is killing me," you snapped.

Your sister merely sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her hair, in a high bun, bumped the bejeweled headrest and made her curse.

"You used to love these events when you were smaller. You had perfected waving to the crowd before you learned to talk," she said.

"That was a long time ago. Things were different; I was naive, none of us had official duties, the assassination attempt hadn't happened, I wasn't bedeviled by these dreams... mother was alive." You cast your gaze downward, examining your buckled leather shoes. You heard her sigh.

"Not all change has to be bad. And to be fair, you still don't have any official duties to worry about." She placed a hand on your shoulder.

"That's a polite way of saying I'm useless." You looked up at your father and elder brother. They were discussing something about their speeches, annotating and marking the parchment before them. A small audience of pages stood in front of the stage, listening to them run through portions of their speeches. They hadn't yet paid you any heed.

"It's a blunt way of saying you're free," your sister said firmly. "Every week I'm fielding suitors from all over the world, and not one of them has proven to be anything but repulsive. I'm terrified that one day strategy and diplomacy will land me with someone like them."

Your eyes widened at her open disdain for the matters of the court.

"I'm sorry," you said, reconstructing your vision of who your sister truly was. "I had no idea you felt that way... I thought—"

"You thought I was traipsing about with handsome men from far-off lands every day?" She smirked.

"...yes." You blushed.

"Hah! I wish!" Your sister flinched at her own exclamation, then relaxed when she realized the monarch and the crown prince hadn't noticed. "But you don't have to wish for that. You're free to traipse with whomever you please."

You blushed harder. Turning away from your sister, you saw your brother and father finishing up their speech revisions. On cue, Petra emerged from the throng of staff to conclude this "rehearsal."

"Looks like Petra's coming to get you," your sister noted. "I know you'll be free to retire to your bedchambers as soon as the speeches are over, but I want you to try and enjoy yourself tomorrow night. It's what I would do if I could." She gave you one final smile before getting up from her seat.

"I will," you said, finally cracking a tiny smile in return. Petra had your arm soon after.

"Your presence is no longer required, Prince." Petra helped you up. "Shall I take you back to your chambers?"

"Yes, please," you said, giving your sister a thankful glance. She returned a similar expression as Petra whisked you away.

When you had finally returned to your chambers and changed into less constrictive clothing, you asked Petra to stay awhile to converse. Your sister's advice had forced you to re-evaluate your approach to the gala. Your priorities had shifted just as much as your notions of her personality had.

"You mentioned there were many newcomers to the kingdom? Quite a few tables were being set up in the great hall," you quizzed Petra.

"Yes, from what I've gathered, it's expected to be the largest event we've hosted all year. We're expecting guests from as far as Ankara and Nubia," she answered matter-of-factly. Perhaps she was a little proud, too.

"Are there any specific guests I should know about?" You asked with the grace of a war elephant. Courtship had crossed your mind for the first time mere minutes ago. "Anyone of high repute?"

Petra picked up on your clumsy intent immediately. She knew you too well.

"Prince, it would be quicker to list the attendees not worth approaching than those with stellar accolades. If it were me..." she drew in air through her teeth as if expecting to be reprimanded, "I would consider tomorrow's gala an excellent time to court someone."

"I'll try to take that advice to heart, Petra," you said.

"I'm pleased, Prince. Your matters are your own, but if I may speak unequivocally..."

"Speak your mind." You gave her permission. She hesitated, then sighed.

"You strike me as lonely, Prince. Ever since the Queen passed, your social life has suffered." Petra paused again, considering her words carefully. "You deserve love of that measure once more, whether from a partner or a good friend."

"Thank you," you sighed as if she had given you permission to use your heart. "I appreciate the advice, Petra."

"Of course, Prince." She glanced out the window towards the setting sun. "I recommend you retire early tonight to be invigorated tomorrow, lest the dreams strike again."

You nodded.

"They will." You avoided her eyes as you remembered what happened last time. "Have a washbasin ready. For the, erm, sweat."

"Of course, Prince," Petra said, her face remaining unmoved. You didn't bother trying to discern whether she was oblivious to last night's gown-soiling or if she merely extended you the courtesy of pretending. "I'll leave you be. Get some rest."

You watched her exit your chambers without another word, finally exhaling the breath you held. The idea of having to clean yourself up again was hardly appealing. Standing on the veranda and enjoying the cool night air was only prolonging the inevitable.

The aforementioned inevitable reared its troublesome head as soon as you surrendered to sleep. Your consciousness materialized somewhere, a location unidentifiable but still more detailed than you had ever encountered before. You glimpsed kaleidoscopic carpets, hammered brass, and vines growing freely about the place.

"Welcome back." A man's voice like sweet honey floated through the warm air.

"I missed you." The words left your mouth without you knowing them. You were merely an observer to your own actions. "Amon."

"My sweet prince." Lips on your knuckles. The smell of lavender tea. "Tea?"

"No thanks. We must keep this quick," you uttered again, breathless and surrendering to a desire that was both yours and unknown to you.

"Tut, tut. What's gotten into you, my prince? I've never seen you so impatient," the voice teased. Your head spun.

"I need my energy," you gasped, something warm and wet lapping at your member. "For tomorrow." The ministrations paused.

"Of course. Tomorrow will be very special indeed." The tongue on your shaft resumed, making you squirm. You reached out into the nothingness, your fingers grasping at frayed carpet tassels. Your other hand reached in between your legs and found a head of hair. You grasped a smooth horn that curved neatly behind an ear. It bobbed up and down at a tantalizing pace.

"Amon, I... I shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" Another pause in the pleasure. You caught your breath. Those eyes again, burning into yours with the hue of warm ocean waters. "Say no to me, my prince. I implore you to try."

Caught in the stare you were helpless. You quivered with need, your manhood twitching and drooling. Only a high whine left your lips.

"Thought so."

You shot up in bed, crying out and spasming. Once more you had spilled yourself into your gown, your entire body slick with sweat. As a small victory, your cries remained nondescript rather than referential to this "Amon." In the dream, you had felt a sweet warmth in your breast each time you spoke to him and even warmer when he responded. In your waking memory, this name was empty. There was no connection and no feeling of belonging. If you hadn't heard your own voice leave your mouth in the dream, you would have had no way of knowing those experiences were your own. Your dreaming memory and conscious recollection were severed, at odds with one another. What did he mean when he said tomorrow would be special? Did he know about the gala? You didn't know how much you knew.

"The washbasin, Prince," Petra uttered as she carried it into your chambers. She stowed it at your bedside. "Shall I leave you like before?"

"Yes, please... but would it trouble you to return afterward?"

"Not at all, Prince. I'll return at your word." She slipped out of the room. You took the opportunity to cleanse yourself of the evidence before permitting Petra to return.

“Petra, would it be possible to acquire a guest list for the gala?” You asked.

“Possible, yes. However, it will be quite long without any qualifiers. As I mentioned previously, this is one of the largest events of the year.”

You considered simply asking her if the name Amon was among the attendees, but Petra would likely alert the oneiromancers and in turn, your father. You doubted anything would happen at all if she did, but this was a matter you wanted to confront on your own. Like all other decisions made for you at your father’s behest, your own interests would unquestionably be cast aside if he decided to involve himself.

“I’d like to know the first names of all the male guests scheduled to attend,” you said. Petra raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t narrow it down much, Prince,” Petra answered. The sweet, honeyed voice from your dream remained in your mind. It was the voice of a young man, one likely of your age.

“Only the male guests around my age, then,” you specified. Petra raised her other eyebrow, making her expression one of surprise rather than skepticism.

“Ah. That kind of list. I see...” Your cheeks burned; though you didn’t know where this inquiry would take you, you also felt the conclusion Petra came to was not wholly inaccurate. “Shall I make, erm, other arrangements as well?”

“Arrangements?” you asked. It was Petra’s turn to blush.

“The standard things... extra pillows, oils, skins—”

“Yes, of course, Petra,” you cut her off, not wishing for her to extend the list of amenities any further. Searching for a suitor was a favorable charade. If nothing else, if this search for the mysterious Amon proved fruitless, then you would at least have the means, motive, and opportunity to bed somebody... if you had the audacity. The look on Petra's face said she didn't think so.

"I’ll have the list and the... goods brought in before sun-up,” Petra said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Petra, that will suffice.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Morning arrived and so did Petra's promises; the chief courtier herself was nowhere to be found, but a neatly transcribed list of names and a box tied with a bow sat atop a chaise lounge when you awoke. You already knew what waited inside the box, so you went for the list. Though only containing the names of guests that fit your qualifiers, the parchment was both long and double-sided. Your eyes began to tire just as they fell across what you were looking for:

Amon II - Eparch of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia

You were puzzled. Makuria and Elodia were names you hadn't heard since you were tutored. Even your father's kingdom with its diplomats venturing far and wide rarely mentioned them. You only knew they were small kingdoms far away from this one. There was not one but two oceans between here and there, they spoke a language no tutor in the palace taught, and both titles of "Nobatian" and "Eparch" were unknown to you.

Then the fashion corps arrived. You dropped the parchment and pondered the new information as they manhandled you into the appearance they had crafted for you yesterday. Perhaps due to more practiced hands or being lost in your thoughts, the process seemed to go much faster than previously. You almost didn't believe it when they told you they were finished, but the shifted sun and your appearance in the mirror confirmed that the gala would soon begin. Your hair was fashioned into an unnatural shape, your face was dusted with powder, and your clothes were so form-fitting that you appeared sewn into them. The bulge of the leg brace through your breeches peeked out at the ankle; the leggings were so tight that your overcoat preserved more of your modesty than they did.

With Petra absent and likely scrambling to put last-minute touches on the gala, you walked to the great hall with the assistance of the fashion corps, who likewise made hasty repairs to your appearance as your gait jostled things out of place. When you arrived, the great hall was even busier than at the rehearsal. It seemed there was a member of palace staff for each seat at every table, all of them fastidiously arranging cutlery, plates, decorative vases, placemats, and myriad other things you didn't know the names for.

“Little brother!” You turned your head and spotted your elder sister within a parade of her own fashion corps regiment. She waved at you from one of the great hall’s entrances.

“Sister,” you responded with a nod, your own cavalcade parting to allow her approach.

“Have you given tonight any consideration?” She asked.

“Yes, actually...”

“You’re not going to retreat to your chambers?”

“...not immediately,” you said, noncommittal.

“I’m glad.” She smiled gently. “I’ll likely be busy most of the night, though if you’d like me to send anyone your way, let me know. Who’s on your list?”

“My list?” you sputtered. “Petra told you?”

“Petra? Goodness, no,” she chuckled. “I just figured you’d have one. It’s standard practice for these sorts of things; I’ve a list as well. So... who’s on yours?”

You lowered your head and examined your shoes.

“Well... it’s quite long.”

“How scandalous!” she gasped exaggeratedly.

“I’m just casting a wide net is all! I don’t intend to bed every single male my age!” Your cheeks burned again. You considered dropping the charade if it meant this level of humiliation.

“I expected my mild little brother to have a rebellious phase eventually, but this...” she said, ignoring your cries.

"Sister, please," you pleaded. The tone of your voice convinced her to return to normal. She extended a hand to ruffle your hair but stopped herself when your fashion corps hairstylist glared at her.

"Apologies, little brother. I had to jest a little," she smiled at you, this time without intent to tease. "They're going to start letting in the guests soon. We should take our seats."

You nodded and followed her to the stage. The fashion corps fell away from you and went to help elsewhere. You sat in your uncomfortable pseudo-throne and waited, eventually joined by your other siblings save for your eldest brother. They greeted you as they took position at your side, but there was very little to talk about. This was the first time you had seen them in a while.

Then came the guests: the table-setters had cleared out some minutes before the floodgates burst and more staff escorted groups of people to their tables. The cathedral-like great hall was full in mere moments. Sorted by table, there was a sea of people in colorful finery all conversing amongst themselves and giving you and your siblings the occasional glance. You tried to pick out Amon from the crowd but quickly realized half-remembered fragments from your dreams wouldn't be enough to pick him from a sea of hundreds. Even finding his name on the list took a considerable amount of time.

Then the hall fell silent, or something close to it. A lively conversation between hundreds of people dropped to hushed whispers. Your father and brother had entered the hall and begun their walk to the podium, silencing the crowd with nothing but their appearance. When your father reached the podium, he extended both arms palms up and the previously subdued crowd erupted into cheers. If not for the applause, he would have heard you groan. Your sister said nothing, only giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

When the speeches started you practically willed your ears shut. Perhaps you would have built a tolerance to them if you had appeared at more of these events, but you couldn't bear to listen to your father and elder brother boast of their achievements to a sea of complacent, nodding heads. It was like a reminder that within the kingdom your father built, you served your purpose by distracting that assassin some years ago and now outlived your usefulness. At this gala, you were decoration only a few ranks higher than a potted plant.

You thanked any and all higher powers when the speeches were over. Father and his crown prince had left the stage to begin their targeted commingling with VIPs, prompting you and your siblings to stand from your seats. They all dispersed before you could look to them to follow their lead. When you stumbled off the stage and distanced yourself from it by leaning against the wall as you walked, hardly any attention came your way. Thankfully, the attention you did receive was from Petra.

"Prince, are you alright? You look troubled," she said, sidling up to you.

"What do I do, Petra?" you asked, intimidated by the sheer size of the room and the attendees within it. Each table was like its own little kingdom with strangers you didn't know and faux-pas to stumble over.

"See how each table has an empty chair or two?" She pointed to the tables nearest you, one full of scaly Sāmm-abraṣ emissaries and another with human diplomats bearing the flag of Bavaria. You nodded. "All the guests are expected to stay seated while dinner is served. They won't get up to dance and drink until the meal is concluded. Right now, only people from the host kingdom— like you, me, your siblings, and other members of the court— will be walking around."

"So I just sit at whichever table and introduce myself?"

"If you even need to. The fact you're walking will show them you're hosting. They'll pay you proper respect without you saying anything at all."

"Hm," you mused. That sounded like a lot of work, especially since you weren't aiming to meander. Finding Amon would be immeasurably more difficult once the crowd was disorganized and inebriated, though, so now was your best chance.

"I've a copy of your list, Prince. Shall I help you navigate it?" Petra asked, holding up parchment.

"Yes, let's," you said. The lengthy document threatened to touch the floor. "Let's begin alphabetically."

"Alphabetically, Prince?"

"By first name."

"Of course, Prince. That means we should visit Aariyeh, Sardar of Anatolia, followed by Abdul II, Knez of Smederevo—"

"Any Eparchs on that list?" You winced at your own forwardness. The charade was wearing dangerously thin.

"...Eparchs?"

"I'm in an Eparch mood at the moment," you explained weakly. Petra looked at you as if checking for signs of illness.

"I see. There's one: Amon II of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia."

"He sounds splendid. Take me to him."

Petra, either from exasperation, deference, or both, folded up the list and took your arm without another word. She led you through the clusters of gala attendees. You could feel every one of their eyes watching you as you caught their attention. Just as the scrutiny was starting to become too much, your eyes found a target of their own. A warm shiver ran through your spine, a sensation the French would call déjà rêvé: a dream made real.

His verdigris eyes locked onto yours. They peered at you from behind short, white curls of shiny hair. His skin reminded you of the bluebells in the gardens, and his pert, curled horns were a shade darker. He flashed something between a grin and a smirk at you, revealing pearlescent teeth with canines that could be mistaken for fangs.

Amon was breathtaking and he knew it.

If your arm wasn't in Petra's grasp already, you never would have made it to the chair. She struggled a bit as she plopped you into it, your leg brace protesting with clicks and creaks. The other tieflings at the table, all varying shades of azure, stopped what they were doing to acknowledge your arrival. You gave them a weak nod while you regained your composure.

"Greetings, delegation from Lower Makuria and Elodia. I'd like to introduce you to our Middle Prince," Petra said from over your shoulder, upon which she planted a firm hand. She squeezed hard.

"I'm pleased to meet you all," you managed to get out. Your audience of tieflings nodded and muttered.

"As am I, Middle Prince." Amon set his cutlery down and rested his chin on interlaced fingers. His voice was high and carried a boyish, scheming air; you envisioned him stealing lumps of sugar from a pantry. "I didn't think my kingdom warranted such a visit. What brings you to my little exclave of Nobatia?"

"A whim."

"How quaint," he said, still smirking. His gaze shifted as he eyed his all-tiefling entourage. The intent was to communicate something, though you didn't know what.

"I am the middle prince, after all. I've few obligations. None, actually," you said.

"Hm," Amon said, looking decidedly amused. "We may have more in common than we thought." His retinue nodded along with his observation.

"Surely you are a busy man? You are Eparch of not one, but two territories."

"Do you know what the title 'Eparch' entails, Middle Prince?" Amon said, more as a targeted quip than an actual question.

"I... am not familiar, I admit," you ceded.

"An Eparch is a figurehead. Makuria and Alodia have long been ruled by invaders and rebels, respectively. I'm kept in a symbolic position to preserve what's left of Nobatian culture," Amon sighed. "In fact, I was sent here in place of the true rulers since they thought it so unlikely that you would have anything important to say to us. Anything other than absorbing us into your hegemony, of course."

You averted your gaze. He clearly was not happy with his status, and while his discontent wasn't targeted at you, it hovered about him like a cloud. He picked at the remainder of his meal while the cloud dissipated and you plucked a topic from the clearing air.

"How was your journey here? You've come a long way," you said.

"It was pleasant enough. Your trains and... horseless carriages are quite impressive," Amon said, pausing. "What's your name for them again?"

"Automobiles," you answered.

"Yes, automobiles." He rolled the word in his mouth as if tasting wine. "Though you have such a fine river and only use it for cargo. A felucca would have made my journey quite enjoyable."

"A felucca?"

"Ah, it's my turn to inform you." Amon smiled. "A felucca is a sailboat we use on the Nile. It's built for comfort, with carpets instead of hardwood decks. Some even come with a kitchen, and it's unheard of to sail without finishing a pot of tea."

"It sounds lovely," you said. "Lavender tea, I hope."

Amon raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, my favorite," he looked amused. "How did you know?"

"A whim," you answered. "The same one that brought me over to your table."

"I see." His eyes locked with yours for a lengthy pause. His retinue shifted in their seats at the uncomfortable silence. He was thinking hard about something, but the subject of his thoughts remained unknown to you. If he truly shared the dreams with you, surely you must have gotten the point across by now?

"It was lovely chatting with you, Middle Prince." He broke the silence and straightened his posture. "But I would hate to keep you when you have other guests to see."

"I really don't—"

"Nonsense, my prince," he interrupted, "go on and mingle. Perhaps, if we're lucky, our paths will cross when the festivities begin in earnest."

You couldn't believe your eyes. Did he wink at you?

"Of course..." you said, slowly realizing he was scheming. "Enjoy the gala." He locked eyes with you again.

"Oh, we will."

You had resumed hovering with Petra on the edges of the great hall. More staff had filed in to take away dirty dishes and the remains of the guests' meals. The dance floor had been opened, the musicians were in position, and staff bearing silver trays readied drinks for the merry and hors d'oeuvres for the peckish.

"How was your visit with the Eparch?" Petra asked.

"Enlightening," you answered cryptically. The need for secrecy hadn't passed, but now you were unsure of what charade to uphold. You only knew Amon was in on it as well.

"I trust that means it went well?"

"Yes, I think so." You scanned the crowd of attendees, which had now gotten up from their seats and begun to mix and intermingle. Amon disappeared like an ace into a shuffled deck. Petra flashed you an impatient expression.

"Prince, do you want me to help you get with him or not?" She said with folded arms.

"Petra!" You gasped. "You're rather forward."

"It's quite literally my job to make sure you end up with him if you wish it, Prince," she assumed a stern tone as if you refused your vegetables. "Give me a yes or no."

You stewed under her gaze. It seemed the pressure and time-sensitive nature of the gala had started to affect her as well, though for different reasons to you.

"Yes." You muttered. She didn't ask for confirmation, instead slipping away into the crowd with nothing more than a nod. Was this part of the charade, still? You had no idea what Amon even wanted, or frankly, what you wanted from tonight.

The musicians started and the small groups that had formed on the edge of the dance floor produced couplets of dancers. They were eager to begin the waltz, a somewhat contentious dance that had only recently come into popularity. You hadn't been practiced in it, instead learning of court dances like the cotillion. As you watched it take place, the dancers seemed awfully close. They were practically pressed against one another!

While you tried to discern the intricacies of this new style of dance before you, that familiar azure face peeked at you from the crowd. Amon smiled and raised his drink in your direction. It was a small gesture but you were helpless to do anything other than join him. Before you knew it, you were at his side in the sea of people and some sort of libation had been thrust into your hand.

"You know, I'm starting to grow partial to this stuff," Amon said, sipping on a duplicate of the drink you held.

"I was under the impression your faith disallowed the consumption of alcohol," you said, watching him finish the glass.

"An easy mistake to make." He handed off the glass to a roving staff member. "Modern Makurians and Alodians don't drink. Nobatians like me do. It's one of the holdovers of my dead culture."

You looked at the glass in hand; it was a clear, cold drink with a slice of lime. As you expected, the taste was bitter and unwelcoming.

"You like gin?" You asked, one taste enough to identify it.

"As I said, it's starting to grow on me," Amon chuckled. "It's not good enough to stop me from missing home, but it'll get me through the night."

"Speaking of home..." you started, looking around. You were unable to spot any other blue-skinned tieflings in the crowd. "where has your retinue gone?"

"I told them to enjoy themselves. As my courtiers, that means they're likely hovering by the exit, waiting to escort me out of here when I leave."

"They seem like a serious bunch."

"They're overprotective," Amon hissed. "As I said, my culture is long dead. They see it as dying. They think they can save it by putting me in a glass case for future generations to study."

"You've given up on Nobatia?"

"Pah! Of course I have!" He deftly procured another drink from a passing waiter. "Nothing will bring the old country back. Nobatia is a minuscule region; I can say with certainty I'm the youngest one left. When I'm old and infirm, Makuria and Alodia will reject the idea of a royal family entirely and I'll finally be allowed to be forgotten."

"That's quite a bleak outlook, Eparch," you gently chided. "Perhaps in war, things would be on a fixed course, but matters of diplomacy are more malleable."

"Perhaps," Amon said, sipping his gin. "But that's enough about me. I'd like to know more about you."

His eyes looked into yours as if he would magick the information he wanted straight out of you. No incantations were uttered, though, and you took a pragmatic sip of gin to fill the pause.

"What would you like to know?" You said.

"I'd like to know about this 'whimsy' you have," Amon probed. "To be frank, my prince, I expected to be out the door by now. Instead, I'm here, conversing with you. It doesn't make sense."

You finished your gin. This was as good a time as any to explain yourself.

"What do you know of oneiromancy?" The question left your lips and slapped Amon across the face. He chuckled.

"The school of magick so vague and unmeasurable it's not even officially recognized?"

"It seems you know the same as most," you said. "Oneiromancy is real. At least, real enough to give me the same dream night after night."

"I see..." Amon was mulling something over.

"In each one of these dreams, though my waking memory is hazy, I remember one thing they all had in common." You took a deep breath. "You."

"We should discuss this in private," Amon interjected, gently brushing your hand against his. You had been so caught up with telling Amon that you forgot you were in the middle of a crowded gala. Concern crept into the corners of his face. "Do you have a place we can go?"

You nodded and grasped his hand in earnest. The spot you took him to was one of the many balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun had set fully at this point, and waltz music lazily floated out of the great hall. A few revelers who had over-indulged caught the fresh air in the hedges below. You and Amon rested on the cool marble balustrade, momentarily admiring the mingling of crickets, music, distant conversation, and the night air.

"I've been having the dreams as well. All of them involving you in some... capacity. I wasn't sure it was you at first. The dreams were so vague..." Amon kept his gaze fixed on the gardens below.

"Were the dreams... um, did you wake up... well..." you stammered. He looked at you knowingly.

"Yes, a few times," Amon answered. He didn't seem nearly as embarrassed as you. "You suspect oneiromancy is at play?"

"The court oneiromancers determined the dreams are being intentionally created. They're not a coincidence."

"Court oneiromancers?" Amon nearly spat out his drink. "My, you do have everything in this kingdom."

"Yes, we have court oneiromancers, but your surprise is beside the point." You had finally found the mysterious Amon, and you didn't want to waste any time on tangents. "Surely you're just as curious as I? Do you know anything about these dreams?" Amon drained the remainder of his gin in response.

"When I was a child..." He paused and shook his head. "When I was a child, my mother told me folk tales. The standard stuff: damsels in distress, slaying horrific beasts, that sort of thing. But she also told me tales of lovers who met in dreams. She said that was how she and father met."

"Something tells me you don't believe in that."

"When I grew too old for fairy tales, I saw it as her way of helping me keep hope that the one would be out there. With Nobatia falling and no suitors left..." he trailed off, setting his empty glass on the balustrade.

"So what if she's right?"

"That's a rather large 'if,' my prince. She was the only one that believed in that stuff... Aside from an uncle who would tell more dreamers-to-lovers tales, but only after drinking too much boukha, and always with a sarcastic tongue. They're just that: tales."

You felt Amon's cloud of discontent precipitate once more. His words were scathing, but not towards you; they spoke to a painful past and familiarity with disappointment. He saw something hopeful, happy, and promising, then cast it down in order to never feel the pain of losing it. You rarely had such clear insights about people, but with Amon it was different. It was as if you had known him for a long time and learned the language spoken by his brow, posture, and eyes. You knew what you had to do.

"Amon," you sighed, placing a hand on his, "even fairy tales originate from some truth, even if only a little. Don't be afraid to entertain the notion that your mother might be right."

You tried to look him in the eyes, but he cast his gaze down to the gardens below. His quick tongue failed him and silence ensued. His hand had reluctantly surrendered itself to your grasp, resting warm and limp.

"Look at me," You commanded with a firmer tone than expected. Reluctantly, he swiveled towards you and his aquamarine eyes found their way to yours. "Think about what you truly want. Don't be afraid to take it."

He swallowed. After a pause of a few heartbeats, his free hand grasped the back of your head, entwined his fingers in your hair, and pressed your lips to his. Your hand that held his grasped even tighter. The two of you were entwined in your own scandalous waltz. You could feel his hunger just as clearly as you felt his discontent when he parted your lips with his tongue. You reciprocated, catching fleeting impressions of his sharp teeth. He tasted like gin and figs. Short, passionate gasps and moans escaped the two of you and joined the chorus of crickets. You pulled away only to catch your breath.

"Amon," you gasped, his name sweet on your tongue. He looked at you with a bewildered expression and flushed navy cheeks. Neither of you could believe what just happened, yet surprise gave way to familiarity. Kissing Amon made your heart race but your shoulders relax. Being breathless and panting in his embrace was as recognizable to you as Petra's morning wake-up calls, or the smell of the gardens, or the feeling of your bedchamber floor on your bare feet. Déjà rêvé.

"I..." Amon sighed, "I shouldn't. I've had too much gin. I've been foolish." He released you from his arms and took several steps backward. Your jaw hung agape as he jogged inside and disappeared from view. Too shocked to try to catch him, you remained outside and alone on the balcony with only the sound of crickets and distant strings to keep you company. Just as silently and perceptively as a cat, Petra crept from the doorway a short while later.

"I saw Amon run away and came to check on you." She looked at your expression and reciprocated with a downtrodden look of her own. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Probably not." You sighed and buried your face in your elbows until all you could see was the balustrade. You sensed Petra take a few steps towards you.

"What happened?" She asked delicately.

"We kissed, passionately. Then he said he was foolish and ran away," you mumbled into your self-embracing arms. Petra rested a hand on your shoulder.

"Some people just can't handle the fast pace and the pressure at galas like this. I'm sure it wasn't personal."

"I know..." you sighed. To Petra, your attempts at flirting simply failed to land. She didn't see the dreams. She didn't see the look in his eyes. She didn't hear the fear of hope in his voice. There were not enough hours in the night to explain to her the true extent of your sorrows.

"There's always tomorrow, Prince."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tonight is only for the Gala," Petra explained, her tender tone turning slightly optimistic, "anyone attending will be staying at least until tomorrow night for the treaty signing."

"So Amon is still here, then?" you asked, finally pulling your forehead from its resting place on your folded arms.

"He was likely running to the guest wing of the palace, where all the other dignitaries will be. If you truly wish to meet with him again, breakfast tomorrow morning would be an excellent opportunity."

You considered things for a moment. If Amon were to stay one more night, then that was one more dream to share. Tonight, you and Amon would spring awake in bed at the same time after another shared dream, but he would be only a few corridors away.

"Petra, get me an oneiromancer." You commanded.

"An oneiromancer? At this time of night? They're probably attending the gala with the rest of the court."

"Petra, this is important," you said. "I haven't exactly been forthcoming about everything in these recent days, and I'm sorry for that... but I need an oneiromancer before I sleep tonight. If you can do this for me, I promise to explain everything soon."

Petra looked at you silently, deciding whether or not to press you for details now rather than later contingent on your promise. She chose the former, nodding and silently fast-walking inside.

Alone once more on the balcony, you leaned on the balustrade and studied the stars. The moon's halo of illuminated night sky was the same color as Amon's lips. With any luck, you'd be seeing them again soon in tonight's dream.

#exophilia #monster x reader #monster x human #romance #male reader #tiefling #male tiefling x male reader #monster love #mlm #monster romance #monster fic #mlm romance

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thinkyoureholy · 4 years ago

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Oceandust [9]

[A/N: ayooo! I know its been awhile but I’ve finally finished a new chapter of this story...I promise I haven’t forgotten nor have I abandoned this story. I’m just having a bit of a slump I guess you can say. School is taking a lot of my time and I’m already having to narrow down my options for job applications once I get my degree so a lot is going on in my head and I haven’t had much time to visit this universe and add to it as I would like. But I promise this story will have an ending and I won’t discontinue it!]

Pairing : Kim Hongjoon x [fem] Reader

Genre : Angst, Violence, Language, Fluff, Future Smut, Pirate!AU

Words : 3.7k

Previous Chapter. - Next Chapter.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

-Y/N’s P. O. V-

I stood at the entrance of the kitchen, leaning against the wall as I looked over at the table. Mingi, Seonghwa, and Alix were sitting at the table while Hongjoong stood at the end of it, his back to me. From where I stood I could see a map laid out across the table, the four of them going over something in hushed voices. It didn’t take long for one of them to notice I was there, Alix giving me a small smile before nudging Mingi who was sitting next to him. When he raised his head to look at me Seonghwa did the same, Hongjoong was unaware of this as he stared at the map intently, still talking. He only stopped when the others got up in unison, the three of them leaving the kitchen. Only then did Hongjoong notice me there. I pushed myself off the wall and walked over to him silently. Hongjoong opened his mouth to say something but before he could get anything out I fell into his arms, wrapping my own arms tightly around his waist. He tensed under my touch for a split second before he relaxed, gently placing his arms around my shoulders, one of his hands resting against the back of my head.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, concern laced in his voice.

I tightened my hold on him, burying my face in the crook of his neck, “Nothing,” I mumbled but refused to let go.

I lied through my teeth because I didn’t want to worry him but I knew my silence just worried him more, even so I refused to tell him the truth. I refused to tell him that I was afraid, that I was terrified. I was scared of something happening to him, afraid that he’d be taken away from me too. I couldn’t stand that thought of being all alone again, not again.

-Yuri’s P.O.V-

I sat on the windowsill, staring out the window, absentmindedly staring up at the sky. What was I going to do? How was he even able to tell it was me? It’s been four years and I’ve obviously changed. Maybe there’s a possibility that he doesn’t actually--no, he definitely recognized me. If my face didn’t give me away then the sword he had gifted me as a farewell present was more than enough for him to figure out who I was. But what is he doing here in the first place? I’ve scouted the village several times over the years and not once did I see him. Did he just recently come back? What if he told Y/N that I’m alive? Would she even believe him?

Despite all the worries in my head I let out a sigh of relief, “At least she’s not alone anymore…”I muttered under my breath, a small smile playing on my lips at the thought.

“What are you smiling about?”

I tensed when I heard his voice, my blood running cold as I wiped the smile from my face. I refused to look him in the eye as I stood up from the windowsill, keeping my head down, “Nothing…”

He stood in front of me a moment longer before he left, his footsteps echoing until he was gone. When he was gone I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding, my knees trembling for a second before I plopped back down onto the windowsill. It had been four years and he still instilled a fear in me I had never known before. My heart raced and my lungs felt like they were on fire every time he directed his words to me. If it wasn’t for Jongho I don’t know how I would’ve survived these last few years.

“Hey...hey breath...you’re okay…” Jongho whispered, sitting beside me as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, his fingers finding their way into my hair.

It didn’t take long after that to finally get my breathing back in order. I let out one last shaky breath, running my hands over my face, “How much longer do I have to-” I cut myself off, tensing once more.

Even after all Jongho has done for me he was part of Jora’s crew. If he heard what I was about to say...I don’t even want to think about what would happen. Jongho let out a heavy sigh, tightening his hold on my shoulder for a second before he removed his arm, standing up to leave me alone on the windowsill, “Just be more careful next time, Yuri. You’ve been doing good for the last few years, just keep it up for a little longer...I’ll get you out of here soon.”

I sucked in a sharp breath at his words, reaching out to clutch tightly at his arm with both my hands, my fingers digging into his skin. I looked up at him, quickly shaking my head before letting it fall back, my eyes burning with tears, “No, no please. I--I’ll be fine. You don’t have to do that. Please, I’m begging you don’t even think about it. I don’t know if--if I’ll be able to go through that again. Please…” I begged, the tears that had built up finally falling.

Jongho said nothing, standing still as I cried, my tears falling to the floor. He exhaled slowly as he combed his fingers through my hair, “I’ll make sure not to get caught this time. Seeing you so miserable...I don’t know how much more I can take…”

I tightened my hold on him, looking up, “Jongho, promise me. He won’t stop at a simple beating this time. He--He’ll kill you.”

He clenched his jaw as he stared into my teary eyes but he quickly looked away, a frown on his face. I saw him chewing on his bottom lip, a habit he did when he was thinking. Even if he wasn’t looking at me I could still see the look he had in his eyes, it was one I knew well, one that had undoubtedly caused him trouble over the years.

“Jongho, please…” I muttered desperately my hold on him like a vice now.

“Yuri-”

“Promise me you won’t do anything.” I implored him.

He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, his brows furrowed, “I...I don’t think I c-”

“Jongho please!” I sobbed out, my heart crawling its way up my throat, “Promise me.”

He finally looked down, his eyes staring into my own. I could see the conflict going on in them until he closed his eyes again, placing his hand on the back of my head and pulled me towards him. As much as I wanted to go back to my sister I didn’t want to do it at the risk of his life. In these past four years Jongho’s the only one that’s made them bearable for me. The last time he tried to help me escape he was beaten half to death by Jora as they had me watch the whole time. It’s been about a year since then and I had convinced myself that I should just resign myself to living this life but after going back to the village I grew up in and seeing Hongjoong there I guess I had a longing to go back again, that longing not escaping Jongho. But even if I went back now what would I tell Y/N? She obviously thinks I’m dead somewhere...I’m sure the shock of knowing I’m alive would be too much for her right now. And I was the one that decided to go with Jora all on my own...what right do I even have to go back there now?

-Hongjoong’s P.O.V-

I leaned against the doorframe as I watched her sleep peacefully. She had refused to let me go a few hours ago in the kitchen so I suggested going to her room. The moment we got there I laid the both of us down, wrapping her tightly in my arms. Even without her telling me something was wrong I knew, I just didn’t know what the problem was. Even so just one look in her eyes told me just how sleep deprived she was so that’s why I had suggested we move to her room. The moment she laid her head on the pillow she was out like a light.

“Captain we-” I cut Alix off with a glare as soon as he started.

I glanced back at Y/N to see that she was still sleeping soundlessly, shutting the door as I turned back to Alix, “What is it?”

“We’ve secured outposts around the village, taking extra care to not scare the locals as you’ve ordered. Though...they’re much more scared of those bandits than they are of us...especially after we were the ones that got rid of them.” He quickly explained, his eyes going back and forth from the door to me then back.

I nodded along to his words, thinking over the plan we had discussed in the morning before Y/N walked into the kitchen. I had them create a perimeter around the village, only leaving the port open since it’d be easier to see anyone coming into the port than anywhere else. With the number of people I had I was able to assign at least three people to each outpost. It should be enough to fight off those bastards if they returned while still having enough to alert the rest of us. Every member of my crew was skilled in what they do so I had no doubts about their abilities but should I really be putting their lives at risk like this?

I sighed heavily, running my fingers through my hair, “Is everyone here?” I asked, turning to walk down the hall, silently telling him to follow.

“Yes. We were all about to go back to our posts after informing you.”

I nodded, seeing Seonghwa in the living room, a pensive look in his eyes, “Seonghwa, gather everyone outside, I have an announcement to make.”

He said nothing as he only stood up and walked out the front door. I guess he’s still angry about last time. I don’t really blame him either, I would be furious too if anyone threatened Y/N the way I threatened Eunwoo. But that was the only way I could guarantee Seonghwa to keep his mouth shut, at least until I managed to bring Yuri back to Y/N safe and sound.

“Alright everyone, before we go any further with this I want to ask if you’re willing to help me with protecting this village.” I announced, looking over at them, “I know some of you have family not far from here and I can’t guarantee that you’ll all still be alive when this is over. So I’m asking if anyone wants to back out and I’ll more than gladly drop you off at your chosen destinations, so long as it's not more than a few days' journey from here.”

They all stared at me dumbfounded by my words. Last time I ordered them to fight I ordered them to die as well, so many of my people were lost. This time I wanted to give them at least a choice, a chance to stay alive without having to risk anything. They murmured amongst each other before silently turning to Seonghwa. Without even sparing them a glance he heaved out a sigh, crossing his arm over his chest as he stepped forward.

“We joined your crew for a better life and for some adventure...and for the most part you’ve given it to us. We knew the risks that came with it and we’re prepared to deal with it. We’ll follow your orders, no matter what you decide and whether we agree with it or not.” He stated matter of factly, “But if you chose to leave this place you might’ve been met with some resistance from me and a few others but in the end your orders are absolute.”

I was shocked to hear those words coming from Seonghwa, especially after the tension that had been surrounding the two of us for the past few days since our argument. Not only that but the last time I gave an order to fight he lost his brother, someone neither I nor anyone else could replace. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he didn’t want to partake in something as uncertain as this but I guess I may have been underestimating him. A smirk finally made its way onto my face, my crew members mirroring it.

“Then, let's get to work shall we?” I asked, the smirk morphing into a grin when they all let out cheers of agreement.

They all dispersed, heading to their respective posts but I stopped Seonghwa before he could leave. I waited until we were alone to speak, “Seonghwa listen I-”

“Don’t apologize.” He cut me off curtly, running his fingers roughly through his hair, “I get why you had to resort to threatening Eunwoo but even if you apologize I won’t accept it. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Just...don’t say I didn’t warn you but this secret is too big to be held from her. If anything...be prepared to lose her over keeping this from her.”

“She won’t leave me over it.” I said quickly, mostly trying to convince myself that I’m not making a huge mistake.

He gave me a look but said nothing, turning on his heel and heading towards the village. I heaved out a sigh as I ran my finger through my hair, looking out over the rest of my crew. The one I was looking for stood out, his height making it easy to spot him.

“Mingi! C’mere for a second,” I called out to him, waving him over.

He quickly made his way over to me, waiting for me to speak, “Since you know Jora best, you're in charge of any decisions that need to be made in town, run them by Seonghwa before you do anything. Have Lea or Marshall report back to me if there's any change in the situation in town.”

“You’re not going into town?” He asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

I shook my head, “I’m staying here in case they try and attack from here like they did four years ago.”

He frowned, concerned, “But if it’s just you here you won’t stand a chance against so many of them.”

“I haven’t survived this long because of my great looks,” I said with a smirk, his frown only deepening, “I’ll be fine by myself. Besides, the nearest outpost is a little over a mile away from here, I’m sure I can manage until they get here. That is if Jora decides to revisit that tactic of his from years ago.”

“But sir-”

“That’s enough of that. Get going, let Seonghwa know of what I decided.” I cut him off, turning on my heel as soon as I finished, not giving him a chance to say anything else.

The moment I reached the door of Y/N’s home I went inside and shut it behind me, surprised to see her sitting on the couch. A small smile made its way onto my face at the sight of her but it vanished the moment I noticed the bottle in her hands. I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach as I watched her stare at the bottle, as if contemplating if she should have a drink. She had been doing fairly well to keep her drinking down to a minimum, only having a glass or two at the pub when we went. Before my mind could wander back to a night that seemed so long ago I took hurried steps over to her, snatching the bottle out of her hands.

“You promised me you wouldn’t drink like this again,” I spat through gritted teeth, grabbing onto the bottle so tightly I thought it’d break in my hands if I squeezed any tighter, “After last time I thought you had learned but obviously I was mistaken. Will I have to babysit you again to make sure you don’t revert back to your old ways?! Now isn’t the time to be losing it Y/N! Not when Jora and his crew are out there! I can’t be protecting you from yourself and from that bastard! I can only-”

“I didn’t drink any…” She mumbled, her voice barely reaching my ears.

“What?” I asked, my voice having dropped down to a whisper.

“It's not even open.”

I looked down at the bottle in my hand to see that it was in fact sealed. I let out a relieved sigh, plopped down on the coffee table in front of her. I set the bottle down before burying my face in my hands.

“I wasn’t going to drink any…”

“If you weren’t going to drink any why would you take it out in the first place!” I shouted, losing my composure, “Do you have any idea what went through my head when I saw this bottle in your hands?! That time I found you on the ground on the verge of death because of this damn alcohol still haunts me! You promised me you would never drink like that ever again so please...please keep that promise.”

My voice broke towards the end of my sentence, a lump forming in my throat, the memory resurfacing. It was about a week after I had come back. I had left her alone for less than an hour, nothing should’ve happened in that short amount of time. But when I came back I found her in the middle of the hallway, laying face down on the floor, not moving. I thought she was dead with how unresponsive she was. My world came crashing down around me at just the thought. It felt like this unbearable weight had fallen on my heart and I knew I was never going to be the same, that is until she groaned low in her throat, moving the slightest bit.

I sucked in a shaky breath through my teeth, running my fingers through my hair as I willed the tears not to fall, “I’ve lost way too many people in my life,” I began, speaking to fill the silence to try and keep my emotions in check but it seemed to have the opposite effect, “I’ve had to say goodbye to so many people way too early but the thought of having to say goodbye to you, permanently, it’d be way to much for me to handle. You’re the one person, the only one I never want to have to say goodbye to. So just the idea...of never hearing your voice, seeing your smile, hearing your laugh that I love so much, never being able to hear or see you again for the rest of my life is something I know I won’t be able to go through,” I continued, my voice breaking but at this point I didn’t care, the tears I had fought back free falling as I stared at the floor, “So please, I’m begging you, please keep the promise you made me. Don’t make me have to say goodbye to you too…”

I bit down harshly on my bottom lip, fiercely wiping the tears from my face as they continued to fall. I heard her sigh softly before she spoke, “I really wasn’t going to drink any. I...I dreamt of that night when those bastards first came and I grabbed the bottle out of habit. I did go to open it at first but then I remembered the look on your face after I woke up that one night,” She paused, averting her gaze before she continued, “I...I was just so scared. I know you and the rest of your crew know how to fight and how to win but I just—I just can’t help but be afraid that this would be the one battle you lost. And I hate to say this, I really do because it just shows how much of a terrible and selfish person I am, but what scares me most, even more than the thought of losing you is the thought of being alone again. Everyone I’ve ever loved has left, died in one way or another, leaving me behind. It’s the reason why I tried so hard to push you away, I didn’t get attached only to be left behind again.”

I set my jaw at her words, my heart twisting in my chest at the silent tears that fell from her eyes, “Even if Jora gets the better of me, even if we’re outnumbered 100 to 1 I won’t die. I will do everything in my power to fight and live on so I can come back to you. I can’t promise that I’ll be back safe and sound or that I’d be in one piece but I can and promise that I will come back to you alive. I’m never going to leave you, do you understand me? That is never going to happen,” I said in a firm voice, getting up from where I was and pulling her into a tight hug.

The two of us shared the same fear, the fear of being alone. Sure I had my crew and I cared about all of them deeply but there had always been this emptiness I carried with me for as long as I could remember, long before I had ever met Y/N. But as I grew to know her better and my feelings for her grew so big I didn’t know what to do with them. I hadn’t realized it at first but that emptiness I had always walked around was gone whenever I was with her but the moment I put two and two together I swore to myself I’d do anything to stay by her side. Not even death could stop me from being with her and a mere man like this Jora is no match for me.

General tags : @mirror-juliet

Series Tags : @myjiminmychimchim @atinyarmyx1 @shaniquacynthia @utopiakys @deepjoongie

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concussed-to-pieces · 6 years ago

Text

Throw Your Love Away

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure

Pairing: Robert E. O. Speedwagon/OFC

Rating: Holy shit M

AN: I don't know what even happened here. This AU (or maybe just a prelude to his run-in with Jonathan Joestar?) burst into life yesterday morning and now, dare I say, it's finished. I don't know whether I've ever written that much that quickly, and it's all for the Speedwagon. Also! If anyone feels the urge to look at the most beautiful Speedwagon that I've ever seen, I will invite you to take a gander at suzannart's Tumblr. Because holy moly. Holy Moly. Enjoy!

[!WARNING!: For my abysmal attempt at writing a Cockney accent and 'historical' things in general. I'm so, so sorry.]

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: For brief attempted sexual assault and canon-typical violence. Stay safe!]

Speedwagon couldn't have told a soul why he lingered where he did on that particular evening. He still couldn't quite parse it out to himself, so he had precious little hope explaining it to anyone else.

Ogre Street was relatively quiet that night. Things tended to get pinched and shallow during the winter, folks conserving their energy by huddling up to the nearest heat source and biding their time until Lady Spring graced them with her presence once again. But Speedwagon had never paid much mind to the cold, just flipping the lapels of his coat up against the chill wind while he made his rounds.

He had stopped for shelter in a small alcove midway through his jaunt, the wind threatening to sweep the hat clean off his head. Speedwagon heard some muffled grunting in the pitch black of the alley to his left, but he paid it no mind. Probably some drunk fumbling around in the dark.

“Please don't touch me-!”

Speedwagon's shoulders shot up around his ears. That was a woman's voice, high and cracking like she wanted to scream but couldn't draw the breath. The women of Ogre Street were just as ornery as the men, if not more so, so she couldn't be a resident.

“C'mon sweeting, let me see what's under that fancy party dress of yours…” came the slurring reply. “It’ll only hurt a little, I promise.”

“Get away from me!”

Speedwagon had heard more than enough, his jaw set in a grim line as he stormed further into the sheltered alcove. “Oi! What're you playing at there lad?” He shouted, probably louder than he needed to.

As his eyes adjusted to the significantly dimmer light, he could barely make out a lighter-colored mass on the ground. Something brushed past his arm and on instinct he grabbed, snatching a handful of homespun wool. The man squealed in surprise at being caught, twisting wildly this way and that to try and get out of Speedwagon's grip. “Mercy, Speedwagon! I-I didn't know she was yours! I wouldn't have-”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have your guts for garters right here an’ now.” Speedwagon snarled, his face inches away from the other man's.

“Ah, I might have...er, my hand slipped a bit…” The man hemmed and hawed, holding up his hands and a bloodied knife as if to appease Speedwagon. “Honest, it were an accident!”

“Get out of my sight.” Speedwagon tossed the man a good three feet, not turning until he had bolted back out into the street. “Oi, girl! You alright then?” He asked sharply, getting no reply.

She was lying limp on the ground in the snow, blood slowly pooling at her side. Speedwagon swore a blue streak and clapped a hand over her hip, feeling the frayed material of her flimsy party dress beneath his fingers and the slick heat of injured flesh.

“Easy now love, Speedwagon's got you.” He muttered mainly for his own benefit, taking the worn scarf off his neck and folding it to press onto the wound. “Easy, easy.”

She seemed to have lost consciousness and Speedwagon thanked his stars for that. Hopefully she wouldn't feel him jostling her as he picked her up.

“You are a proper lady. Wonder how you ended up here.” Speedwagon mused once he got a good look at her in the guttering light of the street lamps, perplexed. “No matter, ol’ Rob will have you right as rain in no time.”

She still hadn't roused herself after Robert had bound her wounds and wrapped her in the meager blankets he could scrounge up. He sat beside the pallet on the floor and took her hand. He wasn't sure why, but he'd seen doctors do it a few times so it invited imitating. Speedwagon realized after a minute that he could feel her pulse under his thumb, and he started absently counting the beats in time with his breathing. It was fast, almost made him lightheaded. That can't be good. Speedwagon frowned, brushing the hair off her forehead. He was no doctor, was Speedwagon, and they were hard to come by without the coin.

So he sighed and resigned himself to a sleepless night of watching her like a hawk.

…

He awoke to screaming and, still half asleep, Robert had his gun drawn and cocked before he realized what was happening. She was cowering on the pallet, blankets still wrapped around her as she flailed her leg out at--

A mouse, questing curiously up the worn bedding with little regard for her. Speedwagon didn't mean to chuckle, holstering his pistol and carefully shooing the vermin off the bed. “Go on lad, go on.” He murmured.

“Where am I?” She demanded after a momentary stunned silence.

“My sleeping quarters.”

“I mean where! I can see that I'm in some flea-ridden excuse for a bed!” She snapped at his glibness, clutching the blankets even tighter.

“Lord, you're lively compared to the gel that was all aswoon last night.” Speedwagon couldn't resist teasing a bit. “I'm glad that your side's not painin’ you overmuch, love.”

“My side? My…” She trailed off, her eyes half-lidding. “What happened?”

“One of the guttersnipes was tryin’ to...get to know ya’ a bit better. I warned him off, but not before he made to see the color of your insides.” Speedwagon winced inwardly, knowing that his language was rough.

She paled immediately, one hand vanishing beneath the blanket. “What am I wearing?”

“One of my shirts. I had to...you were bleeding.” Robert didn't know why he was fumbling. “Why weren't you wearing a corset? Whalebone or metal ribs might have stopped that blade before it did harm.”

“It's none of your business what undergarments I do or do not wear.” She replied primly.

“Fair enough and true that may be. Would you at least tell me what you were doing down in my slums then? I doubt you were here on purpose, out and about dressed like that.” Speedwagon tipped his hat back on his head, tugging thoughtfully at his forelock. “Though you rich folks seem awful poor when it comes to common sense.”

“I was...at a party.”

Speedwagon waited a moment, expecting more and huffing, “Well? That's it then?” when it didn't come.

“Why would I tell you more? I don't even know who you are!”

“Look here love, I'm of a right mind to stove in a head or two. If someone dropped you down here for a laugh, I'll march to his doorstep and give him a good drubbing. If someone made you leave your home in the dead of night dressed like that, I'll thrash him. I'm in no mood for japes that put young ladies in harm's way.” Speedwagon announced firmly, “The name's Robert E. O. Speedwagon, my lady.”

“Well. That was a lot of information.” She said weakly. “I'm afraid you'll have to drub me though, since I'm the one who put myself in that alley. I-I'm not familiar with this city. I came out to visit my fiance, you see, and…” She paused and Speedwagon spotted the sheen of tears before she blinked them away. “Pardon, I suppose I should not refer to him as such anymore.”

“Did he die then?” Speedwagon wished he could take the words back as soon as they left his mouth, cringing.

“Oh it's a terrible thing to say, Mr. Speedwagon, but I almost wish he had!” She cried. “That wretch has been stringing me along, stringing along my whole family! All his heartfelt platitudes and lovely poetic letters, just a means to an end! I caught him in such a compromising position with another woman and I couldn't bear to be in his presence one more second, I simply ran out of the house.”

“No doubt the side lover that a good married woman wouldn't know about.” Robert said darkly. “Well my lady, you're wrong on one account. Sounds like this betrothed of yours is the one what needs a straightening out.”

“He didn't force me to leave, Mr. Speedwagon. I was a coward and fled.” She wrung her hands in obvious distress. “A stronger woman would have confronted him.”

“Aye, and withstood the hellfire that was sure to come. I mean no disrespect love, but your frame doesn't strike much fear.” Speedwagon got to his feet, donning his coat and tossing her flimsy dress to her. He gestured at the battered washstand in the corner. “Scrub yourself in the basin, loving. Then, old Speedwagon will be your bloodhound.”

Her face hardened and she wiped away her tears, nodding jerkily.

Speedwagon leaned against the wall outside the door, doing his best to give her the privacy of a good cry and wash. Though she may be full up on weeping, judging from her resolved expression. He sighed and tugged at his lapels. A fine mess you're getting into, Speedwagon. You know these rich folks love to have pissing matches with one another.

…

She clung to his arm, shivering even under the extra layers of his shirt and jacket over her dress. “M-M-M-Mr. Speedwagon, are you not chilled?” She stuttered through her chattering teeth.

“When you been sleepin’ rough as long as me, loving, you tend to get used to the cold.” Speedwagon tossed her a grin. “Besides, if your description an’ memory is correct, we’re almost there! How's the side?”

“It stings a bit, but I'll manage. It was barely a graze.” She replied bravely. “Still, I'm glad you found me. In such a state, I don't know how long I would have lasted.”

“Think nothing of it, my lady. I come across helpless damsels in the gutter all the time. A regular Prince Charming am I, you might say!” Speedwagon said cockily, chuckling when she elbowed him in the ribs.

“You say such silly things, Mr. Speedwagon.”

“Darling?”

Speedwagon felt her jerk at the sound of the male voice, her grip on his arm threatening to bruise. And he was no small man! “Mr. Speedwagon, I'd like to introduce you to my former fiance, Lambert Coverdale.” Her tone was as cold as the weather and Speedwagon glared down at the well-dressed man who had called her ‘darling��.

“Darling, your family has been worried sick! You ran out so quickly last night, you didn't even give me the chance to explain!” The man was dressed like he was headed for a ride, tall boots on and riding crop at his side. “I was about to go and search for you again!”

“As you can see, darling, I'm quite fine. A little chilled, but none the worse for the wear. Don't let me stop you from going a-calling.”

“And who is this...er…” Speedwagon got an insane surge of glee from watching the Coverdale heir try and come up with a non-offensive term to use when addressing him, a man so clearly below his caste that he may as well be subterranean.

“Speedwagon.” Robert intoned, not offering his hand in a plain show of disdain. The man snapped the riding crop down into his palm, obviously agitated by Speedwagon's rudeness. “I've come to bring this gel safely back to her parents. Lead the way, love.” Robert made certain to keep his body between her and her former fiance as they brushed past him, his shoulder bumping the other man's a bit harder than necessary. “I'd advise you and your lot to leave as soon as things are sorted. That man is not to be trusted.” He whispered to her once they were safely out of earshot. “I'll wager he means to lay claim to you since he's gone this far. He may have even spent the night weaving a story for your parents.”

She had gone pale again. “You think he would try to force himself on me?”

“I can't tell for certain, love. All I know is that animals are dangerous when cornered, and that man's as slippery as a viper.” Speedwagon growled.

The door to the large townhouse burst open before they could reach the steps, and an older gentleman came storming down to greet them. Speedwagon was reaching for the brim of his hat before he could think about it, hastily turning it into a doffing gesture. That was close.

“Emma! You've returned to us!” The older man (Speedwagon could only assume her father) said gladly, entirely ignoring Robert and catching his daughter up in his arms like she was a wee child. She had started sniffling at the sight of him and simply nodded against his shoulder, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging tight. “When Lambert told us about your quarrel, we had feared the worst. Thank heavens you're safe.”

“Our quarrel?” Emma asked in confusion, raising her face.

“Oh yes my dear, he said you two had a terrible argument and that you left in tears! You were so distraught you even ignored his pleas to stay.”

“He said all that, did he.” Emma's eyes had gone hard again. “Papa, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Robert Speedwagon. He is a true gentleman and he saved my life last night.”

Speedwagon went bright red at the praise, stammering awkwardly and adjusting the collar of his shirt. Emma's father grabbed Robert's hand and pumped it vigorously. “I don't know whether we can ever repay you. Won't you come inside, Mr. Speedwagon?”

He hadn't actually stopped shaking his hand. Robert was afraid his shoulder would drop off at this rate. Damn these rich folk and their gratitude! He thought ruefully. “Oh no, uh, I wouldn't want to impose on your hospitality.” Next to the older man's cultured tones, his rough Cockney accent seemed all the thicker.

“Emma's mother was just getting ready to have tea. Please Mr. Speedwagon, I insist!”

And so Robert E. O. Speedwagon found himself seated on a filigree chair that he fairly dwarfed, fumbling his way through the niceties of tea. Emma kept shooting him grateful looks and he wasn't entirely sure if it made up for the trouble he had been put through, but it was a start.

“Listen.” The blond man said finally, his saucer clattering too loudly on the slender side table for the umpteenth time. Christ, if he ever lost his temper surrounded by furniture like this it would be reduced to naught but matchsticks! “I don't care much for beatin’ round the bush. Lo-er, Lady Emma, you ought to explain the situation.”

“Situation?” Emma's mother appeared to be a little more grounded than her father, the older woman sipping her tea and giving Robert an inquisitive look over the cup.

“I did not leave last night because of a quarrel.” Emma had been put into a different dress, still free of corset, Robert noted. It would be difficult for her to wear one with the wound on her side, he theorized, and he had to admit he hardly minded the view her lack of corset provided. She dug into the ruffles of her skirt, her fingers picking at unseen seams. “It would seem that I am not Lambert’s first choice.”

“Not his first…” Her father trailed off, stunned. Her mother just looked pained. Clearly the other woman had suspected as much. “Emma, have you any proof?”

“I found him in his study last night, wrapped around another woman. I...I'm afraid I lost my senses.”

Aye, and more besides I'll wager! Speedwagon thought wryly.

“I demanded an explanation and when none was forthcoming, I simply...walked out the door. I don't recall much, I ran for what seemed an eternity. I didn't feel the cold at all.” Emma tilted her chin towards Robert, indicating that it was his time to butt in.

“My residence is Ogre Street, sir. I make my rounds as usual on cold nights or warm. I had stopped for a moment in a small alley to wait out the wind, wherein I stumbled across Lady Emma and another miscreant. I regret to say I am a bit on the slower side, I didn't manage to keep him from slittin’ her. You'll want a doctor to have a look at the wound, I'd imagine.” He had gotten to his feet, beginning to pace. “I wrapped it as best as I could, she slept through the night. On waking and hearing the sad tale of her exodus, I decided that someone so churlish as that man's shown himself to be ought to get his jaw knocked.” Robert realized he'd gone on a bit of a tirade and he grimaced, tugging at his forelock. “Ah, I mean no disrespect, of course. And if it's all a misunderstanding, I'll be on my way without so much as a sneeze in the cur's direction.”

“Mr. Speedwagon, please sit back down.” Emma's mother said firmly. “There'll be no jaw knocking until we have a proper idea of the situation.”

“What exactly did you see Lambert doing, Emma?” Her father asked gently.

Emma flinched. “Father, I…” She trailed off, flushing. Robert felt a weird protective squeeze in his chest and he cleared his throat. “It's not something that I would care to repeat in polite company.” She said faintly.

“Lucky for you, Lady Emma, I weren't exactly raised a choir boy.” Speedwagon joked, trying to give her the courage to continue.

“True enough, Mr. Speedwagon. Father, Mother, Lambert was in his study very busily ravishing another woman who I know lives nearby.” Emma said all in a rush, her face wholly crimson. “I was so shocked, I couldn't even move for a moment. I stood there in the doorway and so complete was his focus on her, he didn't even notice me until I was beside him.”

Emma's father sputtered wildly. In a moment of fancy Speedwagon would have sworn the older man's mustache bristled with rage.

“I asked him to explain himself. He said he didn't have to, that this was the way things were.” Emma twisted her fingers. “I didn't understand, I was just so startled and hurt that I...I simply left.” She looked up at her father and oddly enough, at Speedwagon as well. “Am I wrong to be upset? Is this how things are?” She asked, her voice tremulous. “Am I simply naive, thinking that I would be enough?”

“Lady Emma…” Robert was at a loss for words, the blatant pain in her eyes catching him off-guard.

“Emma, my dear sweet Emma.” Her father held open his arms again and Emma all but collapsed into them, crying softly while he stroked her hair. “You are worth so much more love than that man's fickle heart could have ever given you.”

“Mr. Speedwagon, might I speak with you privately for a moment?” Emma's mother asked. Despite it being phrased as a question, Robert knew there was no refusing.

“‘Course, my lady.” He was relatively certain he was about to get his ears boxed by this prim and proper old woman, following her out of the sitting room and into the hallway.

“I will need your assistance in this matter, Mr. Speedwagon.” Robert blinked down at her. “Don’t look at me like you're some sort of buffoon! You brought our daughter home safe and from what I can gather unmolested, but I must ask more of you.”

“Me? But what could I possibly do for y'ladyship?” Speedwagon queried, more than a little startled. “I'm just a thug from Ogre Street.”

“True. Yet you obviously hold yourself to a higher standard than the ruffians you're surrounded by. Clearly higher than the scoundrel we promised our only daughter to. My husband, God bless him, is not getting any younger. If Lambert sees fit to lash out, I doubt the authorities would arrive in time to stop a tragic incident from occurring.” She raised an eyebrow at Speedwagon. “We are on Coverdale familial grounds and can do very little while we are here. I would be much obliged if you could maintain a presence here for a few more hours. If you would be so kind.”

“I...ma'am, what you're askin’ of me is a bit of a strange tint, make no mistake. I am...I will, then. Until you lot are safe back on your way, consider Mr. Speedwagon part of your merry band!” She seemed amused by the way he extended a hand to shake, humoring him by doing so.

“We need to get everything packed back up. This was to be the first trip of many, and these things take time. If you would just settle back in the drawing room, I'm certain we can be on our way in a few hours.”

Six hours later, Speedwagon was so bored he was considering trying to filch the entire tea set, tray and all. The fancy gold scrollwork on the ceramic would fetch a fair price, he was certain of that, and the spoons and tray could be melted down to a silversmith’s liking. As he pondered, he was vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps coming ever closer.

The far door to the sitting room flew open and in strode Lambert, looking like he had just fucked the handsiest whore in London. His clothes were askew, his hair was thoroughly mussed, and overall he radiated a smug air that made Speedwagon want to drag him back outside by his collar and introduce his face to the cobblestones. It seemed Lambert didn't notice him in the now dim room, as the man took a moment to preen at himself in the looking glass by the door before turning on his heel and heading across the room.

“Got anything stronger than tea for your courage, Coverdale?” Speedwagon drawled, making Lambert squeak. “I'm about full up of this weak pekoe brew.”

The other man whirled, eyes narrowing when they landed on Speedwagon. Robert simply looked up at him, deliberately keeping his face neutral. “You're still here then?” Lambert finally asked rudely.

“Why, where else would I have gone? What with my betrothed on her way back to me, all's well in the world.” Lambert visibly stiffened and Robert prayed he hadn't played his hand too early.

“Your betrothed? Certainly, there must be a misunderstanding.”

“Oh aye, she came tumbling into the rough streets late last night, sobbing her eyes out over some chap that done her wrong. I couldn't let that go on, so I told her I'd marry her instead of that jackanapes.” The large blond offered Lambert an infuriating grin. “She's enthusiastically accepted my gracious offer, so you're free to do as you wish with your other woman. I'd say I've done you quite the favor by taking the gel off your hands.”

“You...you cannot be serious.”

“On the contrary, lordship, I'm very serious.” Robert's grin didn't waver. He took sadistic delight in calling the gentry by the wrong titles, whether too high or too low was anyone's guess.

“Stop this ridiculous farce at once!” Lambert yelled, the butt of his riding crop nervously slapping at his thigh. “I'll have you brought before the assizes, you miserable wretch!”

“Why, whatever for?” Speedwagon rose to his full height, straightening his threadbare waistcoat. “And here I thought you'd be thrilled! Rich folk are so odd, you've got everything you could ever want and yet you bluster at me like a spring storm! I've half a mind to drub you anyway, no man ought to be breaking his vows ‘fore they're even spoken!” Robert growled.

He was a full head and shoulders taller than Lambert and he made that abundantly clear, glaring down at the fop until Lambert looked away with a huff of, “Where is Emma, you brute?”

“Ah, none of that. You can guess well enough where she is, but I won't be letting someone like you get anywhere near Lady Emma.”

Lambert scoffed loudly. “Lady Emma, she's a common-”

“I'll offer you the courtesy of shutting your mouth for you if I don't care for the words that come out it, Lam my lad.” Robert snarled. “I don't give a toss what comes of you after Lady Emma departs this house, but I expect you to behave as the gentleman you pretended to be during your courtship while she's still here. If you can't muster up that level of propriety, I'm not afraid to get into a dustup with the likes of you.”

“You will not threaten me in my own house!”

“I threaten you no more than the average schoolmarm, sirrah.” Speedwagon knew it was probably mean of him to take joy in this, but he recalled the fact that an innocent girl, barely a woman, could have very well died due to this man's indiscretion and his guilt withered away. “You seem as though someone ought to have given you stricter teaching. Not much one for catechism then?”

“You're one to talk, street trash!” Lambert seemed to be on the verge of losing his temper and Robert dropped a heavy arm around his shoulders.

“I meant no disrespect, y'lordship. I merely say as I see fit. You must understand, I'm just a thug from Ogre Street.” Speedwagon sighed mournfully. “Hopefully with this marriage, my fortunes will improve a bit.”

Coverdale appeared to have been struck dumb by Speedwagon's bold assumption, the young man sputtering while Robert gently steered him towards a chair. “You overreach your place, gutter vermin.” Lambert finally seethed once he was seated.

Robert shrugged, digging in his ear and then uncouthly flicking his findings onto the no-doubt costly rug. “I've not much an issue with that, sirrah. When your place has always been under the heel of someone else's boot, you get to longin’ for the sunlight.” He folded his arms across his chest and leveled the man in the chair with a stern look. It had quelled the rowdiest of his compatriots and it appeared to work quite well on the Coverdale heir. “I'll not lay a hand on you with ill intent if you behave agreeable toward the gel and her family. You and I will sit right here and wait until they're all packed, you'll see them off and that'll be the end of it.”

“I will not be ordered around by some-”

“I've been awful lenient with you, lordship. I'd hate to damage that winning smile you use to tup the ladies.” Speedwagon clenched his fists. “I would ask what your plan was with Lady Emma, but I'll wager a guess it had something to do with family land or money.” He fought the urge to spit on the rug.

“Oh very good, I'm incredibly impressed by your display of logic.” Lambert replied sarcastically.

Speedwagon leaned forward and was gratified when Coverdale shrank back from him. “If you would just stay in that bloody chair and keep your trap shut, I'd be much obliged.”

“Unbelievable.” Lambert sneered, folding his arms and hoisting his nose into the air. “Very well, you churl.”

“You honor me, your grace.”

Robert didn't take his eyes off the man sulking across from him for the next half hour, toying absently with the brim of his hat. A sudden bang! from the stairwell and a loud series of thuds heralded the approach of Emma and her parents, each one dragging a trunk. Speedwagon rushed forward, easily hefting the one Emma's mother had been saddled with.

“Are they all this light, my lady?” He jibed, making the older woman hide a smile behind her hand. “If you just leave those two on the landing, ol’ Speedwagon can take care of the rest. Strapping fella’ that I am!”

“Uncultured oaf.” Lambert muttered from his chair.

“You offerin’ to help, Coverdale?” Speedwagon asked, his smile wide with false cheer.

“I am not some manservant.” Lambert snorted.

“Well that's plain enough to see.” Speedwagon snarked back, strolling down the ridiculously wide staircase without so much as a glance backwards. Rich folk are impossible! He thought with a huff after he settled the first trunk onto Emma's family carriage. The second and third followed suit with little incident, Emma's father ensuring they were safely lashed to the rack of the carriage.

As Robert strode back into the townhouse for what he hoped was the final time, he heard a ruckus from upstairs. He sighed heavily and started up the stairs, rolling his sleeves to the elbow as he did.

Throwing open the drawing room door, he found himself faced with a sight he didn't care for in the slightest.

Lambert had Emma by the arm, his face purpling magnificently as he raised his riding crop with a self-righteous, “I'll teach you respect!”

“You spoilt, pampered ponce!” Speedwagon shouted, “Harm that woman and I'll separate the hand from your body with nothin’ but a tip of the hat!” He gestured to his chapeaux and the color left Coverdale's cheeks when he caught the glint of steel in the brim. “I didn't survive as long as I have on Ogre Street without pickin’ up a few tricks.” Speedwagon continued, easing forward to help Emma off the floor and usher the shocked young woman into her mother's waiting arms. “I'll be down to see you off in a minute, Lady Emma. Just as soon as I finish my conversation with this fine gentleman.”

Again, Robert felt a twinge of guilt at the way he was enjoying himself. And again, his mind reminded him of the abuse that surely would have taken place had he not been present.

Lambert brandished the riding crop at him, holding it like a fencer's rapier. “Do your worst, you baseborn scum!” He hissed.

Speedwagon simply knocked the crop aside with his free hand and then stepped into reach, his right fist lashing out for a furious blow to the chin that landed Lambert prone. “You couldn't handle my worst, sirrah, and that's an ironclad truth it is. You'd best keep your nose clean. If I hear of you sniffing about from any of my lads, I'll have to show off my parlor tricks. And I assure you, it'll be far less enjoyable than that love tap I gave you a moment ago.” Robert straightened his waistcoat, turned on his heel and left Lambert in a pile on the landing.

…

Emma wrote to him after spring had come, inviting him to call at their estate in the country. How she had gotten hold of his address, Speedwagon would never know. He debated on writing back. Ink and parchment were a bit more precious than he would care for, so Robert ended up returning her missive via the back of some receipts picked up at the local butcher. His handwriting was untidy at best, but he tried to even out his scrawl to the point of vague legibility.

Course I'll visit. Have to find a work crew headed your way though. Travel by train is murder on the pocket.

Speedwagon expected that to be the end of it, so when the damn woman herself showed up at his door he was a tad perplexed. He actually ended up rubbing his eyes a few times, not believing that she was standing on the worn stairs next to his humble abode. “Lady Emma! Is that you? My stars, a better sight for sore eyes I haven't seen!” He greeted her in his usual enthusiastic fashion, a little startled to find that the words were entirely true. “You're just as lovely as the first time I laid eyes on you!” She had grown worryingly pale, if memory served him proper.

“Ah yes, bleeding in an alley as I recall.” She quipped, smiling up at him.

Robert coughed awkwardly, toying with his forelock. “Well, er, perhaps a bit more lovely than that. I meant no disrespect, my lady.”

“Not at all! Are you ready?”

“Ready?” Speedwagon asked in confusion.

“I'm here to fetch you, Mr. Speedwagon.” She actually pulled at his arm like he was a small boy. “Hurry and get your things, otherwise we'll be late for the train!”

“Train?! Stars, you shouldn't tease a man so!” He scolded her, bewildered when she frowned fiercely. “You...surely you haven't.”

“Hurry!” Emma repeated.

Robert grabbed his hat and jacket, wet his thick hair down and hurriedly rinsed the dried blood off his wounded knuckles (he had been taking care of business directly before receiving word that a young lady was on his stoop). He dashed back out of his lodgings, twirling his hat before placing it on his head at a jaunty angle. Speedwagon then offered Emma his arm and a rakish grin, feeling like a mischievous boy once more. “How am I to repay you and yours for such a luxury, Lady Emma?” He bemoaned as they walked. “I'm none too influential, but I've a few favors I can call in.”

“Nonsense! Your company is more than sufficient.” Emma waved off his offer, going so far as to rest her free hand on top of his elbow.

Speedwagon flushed and found himself a bit teary at her offhanded admission of affection. Damn rich folk, their glibness will be the death of me for certain!

…

The Halford estate was modest in size by estate standards (so enormous by Speedwagon's standards), set on sprawling lands and bordered by thick copses of silver birch.

It was like a dream, being surrounded by greenery in its natural and uncultivated state. Robert took a deep breath in of the bracing air, dawdling as Emma pointed out the vinca that grew in the underbrush alongside the road. She bent down and picked one of the purple blossoms, then reached up to put it in the band of his hat.

Speedwagon blushed and obligingly removed his hat so she could place the bloom, laughing self-consciously when she worriedly pointed out how red his cheeks were. “It's just the fresh air turnin’ me ruddy, Lady Emma! No need for concern.” She could never be happy with the likes of you, and you're a damn fool for entertaining the notion. Speedwagon scolded himself.

“What's got you so pensive, Mr. Speedwagon? Surely you can't be worried about seeing my parents again? After all your heroics last time!” Emma chided him, misinterpreting his gloomy expression.

“Heroics?! Now love, I don't know what you recall me doing,” Robert began to protest, “Ol’ Speedwagon was simply doing the gentlemanly thing is all, nothing heroic about it, and you can't say the lad didn't have it coming what with his infidelity and brazen behavior, I was-”

“Mama will surely call a doctor for your hands.” Emma interrupted his ramble, frowning down at the scabbing skin on his knuckles. “Maybe I can say you had a tussle with the rose bush.”

“Unless your rose bush is over six foot tall and answers to the name Eurich, I'm not sure if your story will hold water.” Speedwagon smiled once more, a bit on the rueful side. He was caught off guard by her laughter and he relished the happy sound (coupled with the way her hold on his arm tightened). “You've got a lovely laugh, Lady Emma!” He complimented her, “Ought to do it more often.”

“I am certain I sound like a gaggle of hungry geese, but it's very kind of you to preserve my vanity.”

Speedwagon's reply was an over-loud honk! and that set her off again, the two of them laughing their way up the front steps of the Halford estate.

…

Speedwagon bedded down for the night in a guest room that was three times the size of his lodgings on Ogre Street. The bed felt gargantuan and too soft, like it was fit to swallow him whole. He stared up at the ceiling, raising a bandaged hand and wriggling his fingers.

“What are you playing at, Speedwagon?” He sighed. “These folk have no business harboring a gutter rat like you at their country estate. Especially with their lovely daughter around! Rich folk and their gratitude will be the death of me, sure as the sunrise.” Robert muttered. A knock on the door startled him and Speedwagon hurriedly fumbled to right himself in the too-giving bed, awkwardly asking who it was.

“It's just Emma, Mr. Speedwagon.”

“Ah.” Panic flooded him, certainly this was some sort of breach in propriety?! She couldn't possibly be this dense. Unsure of what to actually do, he did the only thing he could think of. “Uh, c-come in!”

She was wearing a simple nightgown that buttoned at the throat (Speedwagon was struck with the sudden urge to run his fingers over the smooth column of her neck), and she wasted no time clambering up onto the huge bed like that was where she belonged. Robert clutched the coverlet to his bare chest, feeling oddly exposed.

She had a thick book with her, he noticed dimly, the spine of it emblazoned with some incomprehensible gibberish of branded letters. “Look here, Mr. Speedwagon! Tomorrow, if it's alright with you, I'd love to show you some of my favorite flora on our estate!”

Speedwagon blinked at her owlishly. He had thought for certain that when she crawled into his bed…

Relief and disappointment settled over him in equal measure while she flipped through the pages of sketched plant life and pointed out the ones they would be seeing on the morrow. She really was just this sweet, this lovely. What an angel! Emotion tugged at his heart and Robert found himself leaning closer, blond hair falling into his eyes as he listened intently without hearing a damn word.

A gentle rap on the ajar door interrupted her excited tangent and Robert looked up guiltily, seeing her mother in the doorway. “Emma love, it's time for bed.”

“But Mama, I was…” Emma trailed off and sighed, almost pouting.

“Mr. Speedwagon will be here for you to bend his ear in the morning, I'm fairly certain. Come along now.” Her mother's tone was full of fond steel. Clearly she knew her daughter well, and loved her despite it all.

Robert fidgeted with the covers, flushing scarlet when Emma hugged him and then bounded off the bed with her book in tow. “I-I look forward to the stroll tomorrow, Lady Emma!” He said belatedly, tugging at his forelock in that nervous gesture.

Emma's mother lingered in the doorway after the younger woman had left, her expression thoughtful. “Mr. Speedwagon, Robert, if I may be frank with you for a moment?” She asked finally.

Robert's heart sank and he nodded mutely, certain that this was where he would be given a stern warning against familiarity with the gentry.

“My daughter is...she's a bit simple, Robert.” The older woman sighed. “She doesn't understand what suitors are actually interested in hearing about. All she cares for is her plants. And ever since what happened with Lambert, it's as though she's given up entirely on even feigning interest in polite conversation.”

“I'm not certain I grasp what y’ mean, my lady.”

The confusion must have been plain on his face because the older woman’s expression softened a bit. “Robert, my daughter has displayed an enthusiasm around you that I haven't seen from her in months. I had feared she would fall into poor health and entirely withdraw from society. But with you here, it's almost as if she's come back to life again, so to speak. I...thank you, Robert. Be delicate with her.”

Speedwagon barely slept that night. Be delicate with her. Was the mother giving her approval?! Surely not. That couldn't be it. Maybe she just assumed that their friendship might be beneficial in keeping her daughter's spirits up. That must be it. The rich folk certainly did seem to love having a token lower class in their midst, if only for the rough accent or entertaining idioms. The court jester to their kings and queens.

Robert groaned and buried his face in the pillow. That was all he was, so he may as well get used to it.

…

He didn't count on falling in love with his Lady Emma. Rather, he hadn't intended on it. But as spring turned to summer and summer to fall, he found himself a semi-frequent caller at the Halford estate. Emma was always delighted to meet him at the train station and he knew people must gossip about them. They made quite the pair after all, the rough-talking plug ugly from Ogre Street and the jilted Halford daughter who had nearly faded away like her beloved flowers at the first frost.

“What could she possibly see in him?”

“I bet this is some kind of gamble to trick her into signing the estate over to him! He's a con man through and through!”

“They just don't understand. And they don't care to.” Emma replied simply after Robert had voiced his concerns about the terrible things people said. It was less for his own comfort and more for hers, of course, he didn't give a damn what anyone called him. “You, Mr. Speedwagon, are my dear friend. If they cannot accept that, then I cannot accept them.”

With the chill of fall in the air, Ogre Street grew more frenzied. Winter was around the corner and Speedwagon found himself in the middle of more brouhahas than he would like as tempers thinned.

He stopped replying to Emma's letters, his focus wholly on survival, so it should come as no surprise to him that she popped up on his doorstep once again.

Speedwagon had been involved in a thunderous row with another upstart gang on Ogre Street and he could feel regret in his bones as he slowly dragged himself up the stairs to his lodgings shortly after sunrise. When he raised his eyes and spotted a lacy hemline, he stopped where he was. His brain sluggishly reminded him that it was rude to stare at a woman's ankles and so he tilted his head back. “Ah.” He rasped.

“Robert E. O. Speedwagon, what on earth has happened to you?!” Emma sounded distressed and Robert cursed himself roundly for concerning her. “You haven't replied to any of my letters, I feared the absolute worst!”

“I apologize for that, Lady Emma, I've been a bit...preoccupied.” Robert tried for a smile. “Had a run-in with a few boys from across the way. Am I to come a-callin’ to the Halford estate then?”

She stomped down the steps and threw her arms around him, startling him into silence. “You stupid man.” She muttered against his waistcoat, her voice thick. The feeling of her body against his sent shudders down his spine and Speedwagon was ashamed to admit that his greed got the better of him for a few moments. His arm wrapped around her and he cradled her head to his chest, murmuring nonsense into those thick raven curls. “Absolutely stupid.” She repeated shakily. “I have been worried sick, Mr. Speedwagon.”

“You were afeared for me, Lady Emma? Your kindness knows no bounds.” Speedwagon attempted to joke, his poor heart taking more of a beating than his body had. She had no business saying things like that to him, no business at all. “It's been a hard time of it here, I'm about ready to be whisked away to the country I'd say.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we, my dear Lady Emma?”

She stared up at him for a moment and Robert was instantly self conscious, mind running from the scar on the left side of his face to the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his somewhat-crooked nose. Truly he had a wide variety of unflattering features to peruse!

“What?” He asked finally.

“There's…” Emma fumbled with her sleeve for a moment, retrieving her handkerchief and daubing gingerly at his mouth. “You've got a little...something.” She said faintly. Robert licked the corner of his mouth on instinct and she flinched the tiniest bit, as if the sight of his tongue had startled her, before returning to her task of patting over his bottom lip.

“Easy Lady Emma, you'll take it clean off!” Speedwagon teased, trying to hide the tremor in his voice from the tender attentions she was paying to his split lip. His heart was being crushed to powder in his chest, ash that scattered to the wind every time he sternly reminded himself of their differences. “Much as I would like to sit here and have you doctor me, love, I'm certain we'll miss your train if we linger.”

…

Speedwagon cursed his infernal bad luck for the tenth time that morning, a violent sneeze rattling his whole body. It would seem that getting into tussles in the brisk fall weather had landed him in bed with a fever. He couldn't even recall the last time he had been ill! What damnable timing it was, to be bedridden while at the Halford's!

Though…

He cast his gaze upon the young woman who had firmly declared she was his nurse, watching the way her lips curved around words as she read aloud to him from yet another one of her favorite books. Perhaps it wasn't such a terrible thing to be nursed back to health by his dear Lady Emma, he admitted to himself. Though it pained his heart, at least for this pitifully short time he could play at being the one she gave her affections to.

And such affections! She alternated between fond exasperation and gut-wrenching tenderness, the combination often enough to have Robert pressing his reddened face to the pillow after she would depart. At least that he could blame on the ague, thank his stars for small favors.

It was havoc on his body, so starved for gentleness that he found himself helplessly coloring at every careful touch on his forehead. It didn't make matters easier that he was already so fair, a flush rising at the slightest change in his temperature.

The way his bones ached from the fever had him curled up in a miserable ball, still shivering under the heavy blankets. “Thank you, Lady Emma.” He managed to say when she brought him some water. “Afraid I'm none too formidable at the moment. Imagine what your town folk would say if they saw me lyin’ here, the meddlesome and dangerous thug from Ogre Street.” He grinned weakly and she gave him a light bop on the head.

“You're so much more than that, Mr. Speedwagon.” Emma huffed. “Don't forget, you fought for the honor of a woman you barely knew.”

“And I'd do it again in a flash! Let that bastard come!” Speedwagon boasted, his heart speeding up a bit when she fixed him with an unimpressed look. “Er, once I'm well, of course. But with your doctoring I'm sure I'll be back to the old Speedwagon in no time!”

“Mm, more’s the pity. I've rather enjoyed having you at my mercy.” Emma actually perched on the edge of the bed and leaned in, as if to kiss him. Robert was frozen stiff in disbelief, unsure if he should push her away or simply pull back or--

She brushed her nose against the tip of his own with a childish giggle and Robert couldn't help his startled laughter, a little overwhelmed by the panic that had flooded his body. “You shouldn't tease your poor Speedwagon, Lady Emma!” He protested after a moment, probably sounding just a touch hysterical. “A gel like you with a man such as myself, it’s unthinkable!”

“Is it though?” Emma asked flippantly before she flounced from the room.

Is it though?

Speedwagon's heart plummeted to the floorboards. “It absolutely is.” He muttered, clenching and unclenching his fists in his lap.

…

“I haven't got anything to give her, Master Halford. I can't offer her safety or wealth or anything but a hard life. This is what I'm...this is why I'm leaving. I don't intend to hurt the gel like that other cur and as such, it's for the best that I leave immediately.” Robert focused on the mantle, the young man unable to meet the eyes of Emma's father.

“You think that leaving without saying a word won't harm her, Robert?” The older man asked quietly.

“I know it will and damn my eyes for it, I just don't know what else to do!” Speedwagon cried, covering his face with his hands. The idea of leaving her filled his stomach with lead, but what other choice did he have? He could provide so little! She would probably say it didn't matter. It did matter though!

“You're avoiding another possibility, Robert. Stop wallowing in self-loathing and listen to me.” Speedwagon looked up through a haze of tears and found that Mr. Halford had moved to stand beside him, the mustachioed man's expression thoughtful. “My daughter cares deeply for you. I daresay, far more than she cared for Lambert. The union of Coverdale and Halford was one of convenience for both families, but my wife and I had also believed Lambert's intentions much more honorable than they were. Maybe we were blinded by pedigree.” He sighed. “You are...a strange exception, Robert.”

“Saints preserve me Master Halford, my heart is all a-pieces from her.” Speedwagon admitted. “Leaving her would be like tearing off my arm, but I've got no choice in the matter. She's a finely-bred lady and deserves a man that can improve her status, not one what makes the neighbors count their silverware after every time he comes callin’.” He continued with a dejected air, raking the hair back from his face in a fierce bid to regain his composure.

“Robert, do you really think that matters to her?” The elder Halford gave him a rueful smile. “All she seems to care for in life is her flowers and a certain rapscallion from Ogre Street.”

“Master Halford, I-”

Speedwagon's reply was cut short by the door of the study flying open and hitting the wall. Emma stood there, her skirts gathered up in one hand while she caught her breath. Robert was struck dumb by the magnificent picture she painted, all flushed from whatever mad dash she'd taken to arrive at that spot. “You cannot leave.” She ordered sharply. “Not until I have said my piece.”

“Lady Emma,” Robert began to protest, nervously glancing at her father.

“Just! Let me talk, Mr. Speedwagon.” Emma strode into the study, stalking back and forth in front of the two men like a caged tiger. “Mr. Speedwagon, did you not save my life in that alley?” Robert sputtered in confusion. “I could have very well died that evening and yet you stepped in and prevented such a tragedy from occurring.”

“Lady Emma, that's not-”

“You also handled young Coverdale for me, a feat that would not have been nearly so simple for anyone else in my family.” She talked over him, waving a finger. “You have been gracious and kind to me at every turn. You suffer from the admirable and woefully stupid condition of not reaching beyond your so-called place, convincing yourself that we should be nothing more than dear friends.” Emma placed her hands on her hips and glared up at the speechless blond. “I will have you know that I've been courting you for months, Mr. Speedwagon, and I refuse to let all the time we've spent strolling in my gardens go to waste!” She announced with authority. “That is why you cannot leave!”

“L…” The words died in his throat. She had been courting...so she wanted…? “Are you absolutely certain of this, Lady Emma?” He questioned her finally. “I am no fine gentleman. I won't be able to shower you with gifts for a good while. You would take me, even as low as I am now?”

“How can you say such things about yourself, Robert?” His name from her mouth had his body aflame. He had waited so long to hear her say it. “I would rather someone honest and kind than someone who can throw trinkets at me. I've had more than my fill of empty words and pointless flirtations. I want you, Robert.”

“Oh Lady Emma, you...stars, I could just about burst with joy right now!” Speedwagon sniffled, doing his best to dash the tears away. “This must be a dream. I've still got that damn ague, no doubt.” She hugged him tight enough to steal his breath and Speedwagon covered the crown of her head in kisses, too overwhelmed to think of doing anything else. “The best dream I've ever had.”

…

Their wedding was in the spring, to Robert's panic-stricken delight. And certainly, members of nearby estates could mewl and huff over the impropriety of it all, but Speedwagon tossed his care to the wind. His Lady Emma had chosen him, found him worthy instead of wanting. The sensation was so unfamiliar he could scarcely fathom it and he took every chance he got to display the affection he held for her.

She was no Ogre Street woman for all her ferocity and many were the times that Speedwagon reined himself in for her, terrified of accidentally going too far or making her uncomfortable.

Indeed, he was more of a blushing bride than she was on their wedding night, covering his red face with his hands while she straddled his hips. “Stars, I love you so much.” He sighed as she undid his suspenders and fought with the buttons on his placket. “You're an angel, you know that?”

His hands found their way to her hair after she settled into an age-old rhythm, carefully removing every pin that he could find. Robert stroked his fingers through her tangled tresses, luxuriating in the exquisite greed of being able to touch his wife, his wife. To think a man like him had a wife!

“I'm a husband now.” He murmured to her after they had finished and she had collapsed in his arms.

“That you are, Robert. My husband.” She mumbled against his chest.

“And you are my precious wife, Lady Emma.”

“You don't have to call me Lady-”

“Hush, I want to and I will.” Robert clenched his fist over his heart. “My dearest Lady Emma, I pledged myself to you before the clergy and all our guests earlier, swore that I would be the best husband a gel could ask for. But now...I swear to you, Lady Emma, you alone, that I will work as hard as I must and then some to become a husband you can be proud of! If...if it makes it easier for the time being, you can continue to be a Halford! I understand that the Speedwagon name is not exactly brag worthy and I-!” A messy kiss silenced his post-coitus rambling and Robert tensed.

“I am happy to be Mrs. Speedwagon, Robert.” She whispered when they parted, her eyes searching his own. “Truthfully, nothing would make me happier.” Robert’s eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away, smiling at him. “The news can't be that repulsive, can it?”

“No! ‘Course not, Lady Emma! I am quite...I am just a bit...er, flummoxed is all!” He floundered, cradling her to his chest once more and stroking her hair. “You're such an angel to me, my love.” He breathed when he was certain she was asleep, fondness making his voice catch. “An honest-to-stars angel.”

Live every moment, love every day, because if you don't, you might just throw your love away...

#robert e o speedwagon #jojo's bizarre adventure #pre-jojo #Because I am trash #robert e.o. speedwagon/ofc #alternative route #how does the jojo fandom even tag #godspeed speedwagon #canon-typical violence #gosh i love him #my stars #title taken from a speedwagon song of course #hey if you're reading the tags thanks for being here my broski I appreciate you #speedwagon is eternally done with rich folk #aside from jonathan of course #last names taken from band members #alternate universe #enjoy!

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margarethelstone · 6 years ago

Text

That Hopelessness of Mine

She was weary, she was sick, she was completely unable to focus. She, the Astrid Hofferson, the most hard-working student the University of Berk had ever taught, suddenly appeared to be perfectly indifferent to what was happening around her. Her life was an utter mess – and a ridiculously handsome, green-eyed stranger was the last person she needed to meet.” Hiccstrid modern AU.

fanfiction.net / AO3

Chapter 4

“No, no, no… No!” she cried out in desperation a moment after her discovery, rummaging through her bag, frantically searching for the item she hadn’t even thought about half a minute earlier. "It has to be here! I put it inside this morning, and I had it with me at the University, it couldn’t just disappear. It must be here, somewhere!”

But it wasn’t.

Feeling herself on the verge of tears – again – Astrid grabbed her purse in both of her hands and turned it upside down, letting her belongings fall on the soft surface of the sofa, still fooling herself that it would allow her to find the wallet that was otherwise escaping her notice. She threw the empty bag on the floor right after and focused on going through its contents once more, and every next second just made her more convinced that it was indeed just another hopeless business.

“Alright, Hofferson, calm down,” she ordered herself eventually, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, hoping to at least get her own nerves under control. She wouldn’t resolve anything in a state of such panic anyway. “Did I really put it in my bag in the morning? Wasn’t that yesterday? I don’t use the bus and I didn’t visit the library today, so I really might have missed the fact that I didn’t have the wallet with me. Oh, and I haven’t eaten anything for the entire day, either -”

You did down that huge coffee in the afternoon, though, and it certainly wasn’t Ruff who paid for it.

“Oh, shut up,” she answered her own mind that apparently decided that she didn’t deserve that last resort of hope she was clinging to so fiercely, as she plopped down on a chair and slouched, hiding her face behind her trembling fingers.

She knew she was naive to think of it in this way, but it was just too much. Why did it have to happen to her? Now, when she had finally found some peace, when she had allowed herself to relax a little, this had to happen, shattering all of the prospects of spending at least a few idle hours without stressing over how pathetic she was. Now, however? No chance she would get any of that.

Her money, her tickets, her ID cards – they were gone, all because she couldn’t have crossed half kilometre long distance without losing her balance and falling on the ground like the miserable idiot she was.

She jerked up her head, eyes wide in astonishment.

Certainly, she must have left it there! Just a few hundreds metres away, where her bag strap had fallen off. Maybe she was being childish and naive again, but if she hadn’t noticed the wallet lying anywhere close to where she’d stood, it was more than possible that no one else had. It must have landed between the rotting scrubs that she knew grew next to the footpath in that particular place, and, apparently, neither she or her saviour was perceptive enough to have noticed it earlier.

Of course, her own silly agitation at the time didn’t help with that.

In a sudden rush of energy, Astrid jumped from the chair and hurried to the door, barely remembering to put on her shoes and coat before she left. Her hair was still wet and tangled, and she still didn’t have a hat to put on her head, but it didn’t matter. Right now all she cared for was her phone, her keys and this little bit of luck she needed so much.

Still, her wallet wasn’t there.

Not on the pavement, not in the bushes, not anywhere close to either of them. Like with her bag earlier this evening, she searched and searched, checking every inch of the ground twice, praying that she would at least find her ID cards if nothing else.

Screw the money she thought, pretending like she didn’t care, screw the tickets, the photos, the slim, flat flash drive I never used anyway.

Screw the green-eyed, handsome jerks that made her lose her common sense.

“What is wrong with me?” she groaned as the realisation dawned on her, making her despise herself more than ever before, clenching her fists and kicking the kerb, indifferent to the pain that spread over her foot in result. “He took it. Of course he took it. He played his role of a decent guy, gave me back all of the worthless notes and pens and kept the only thing worth keeping. And to think I was grateful to have met him today!”

Oh, she wasn’t pathetic. She was just plain, plain stupid.

“Did I really blush and stutter for this?”

Or maybe she simply was both.

She groaned for what felt like a millionth time that day and returned to massaging her temple, desperate to at least soften the pounding headache that was only growing with the passage of time. She no longer tried to fight her anger, knowing that it was the last thing that still kept her from giving up to the final frustration – frustration that meant nothing but tears and resignation, not to mention even worse physical condition. So she kicked, and she hissed, and she kept cursing the previous encounter that had undoubtedly lead to her current state.

It had taken good few minutes and a couple of snorts before Astrid calmed down enough to make any sort of decision. She looked around in the last impulse of hope. Nothing was there – and she painfully realised that it would remain in that way, no matter how much she wanted it to change.

Her sigh was almost theatrical this time.

“I really should stop that,” she muttered under her breath, tucking her lose hair behind her ear, brushing away her fringe that was getting in her eyes. She was surprised it hadn’t frozen by this time but then again, not much made sense on this sad winter evening.

Some December that was.

Refraining from scanning the area again, the girl turned around and, slouched under the heavy blasts of the howling wind, she took the first of the many steps towards her apartment.

Alright, she thought as she walked past a group of students who must have just finished the last of their classes. Alright. If that’s how it must end, then so be it. The best I can do is to get back inside and call the bank, the police, or whatever institution that could take any interest in me losing my documents. And then it’s bed, and it’s for real this time, and I am not letting anything else get in my way again -

Goodness gracious, she almost sounded as if she’d had anything to say about this.

“I do,” she drawled through her gritted teeth, gaining herself a startled look from a very surprised passer-by. She ignored him completely. “I might be talking to myself, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost my mind, and until that happens, I’m the one deciding what and how to do about my life. And since I can’t do more than those calls, I won’t worry about it, not for a second longer. Good Lord, I really need some sleep.”

She reached to the pocket of her jeans in search of her phone, curious to see how much time this unplanned escapade had taken her, only to feel it buzz in her hand before she’d had a chance to have a good look at the screen. She frowned at the sight of her mother’s photo.

Ingrid Hofferson never called without a good reason.

"Mum? What's wrong?" she asked in lieu of a greeting, already sensing the familiar knot in her stomach that appeared every time she got nervous. Normally, a call from her mother would result in nothing but her surprise but feeling the way she did that day...

...she had already come up with the most terrifying scenarios.

"What happened?" she repeated before the woman on the other side managed to answer.

She heard her mother sigh in response. "Really, Astrid, can't a mother call her daughter without a reason?"

"You never do," was Astrid's quiet answer. She tried to sound calm but at the same time she was almost perfectly sure Ingrid already knew she was not. "We both know we're better off texting and you're always busy at this time of day. So, what's the matter?"

"Don't you be so sure, young Lady, or I'll make sure to call you every two days just to stir that confidence of yours. I may be getting old, Astrid, but it doesn't mean I don't know how to surprise my family. You should ask Dad."

"Mum," Astrid interrupted, the corners of her lips twitching. Her mother was way too cheerful - and naturally so – to be herald of any bad news and the girl felt herself relax at last.

"Fine," her mother muttered in a mock-offended voice. "There might be a reason this time. But I could still call you if there wasn't and there would be nothing special about it."

"Of course not," Astrid mumbled with a smile. "So, mum, are you going to tell me what that reason is or are you going to keep me in the dark until I burst with curiosity and beg you for details myself?"

She almost heard her mother grin. "That would not be an unwelcome change, you know. But as much as I'd love to hear you plead for anything, I don't have as much time as I wish, so I'll get straight to the point – do you or do you not recall meeting any tall, dark-haired, ridiculously handsome young man today?"

Astrid stopped in her tracks, astonished, unable to utter a word of response. Her mind was blank, except for one thought that kept ringing in it.

You've got to be kidding me.

"I – I don't" she stammered, somehow managing not to stop in her tracks as she did; again, the teasing expression that undoubtedly appeared on her mother's countenance was almost audible. "I mean, yes. What?"

"Well, well, looks like after twenty years of trying I've finally succeeded in rendering my daughter speechless," came Ingrid's merciless comment. "Even though I suppose it's mostly the man's in question doing."

"Why would you even ask me that, mum?" Astrid tried to regain some of her lost dignity. "This question itself is ridiculous, not to mention, awfully specific. So, why?"

"Because he's sitting in the other room as we speak. He came in about five minutes ago, claiming that he'd found your wallet on the pavement."

Now was the time for Astrid to halt.

"What?" was another educated exclamation of hers. "How?"

"He would not share any details except that he there when your bag fell on the ground and that even though you managed to gather most of it, you somehow missed the wallet – and that you'd left the spot before he noticed it himself. Now, I won't pester about how it's possible you didn't check for the wallet in the first place, because I know that things like that happen sometimes. What I want to know, however, is: how the heck could you run away from a man like this?"

Against herself, Astrid burst into laugh. "Mum, I swear, you're worse than Ruff sometimes."

"I suppose she already shared her thoughts on the subject?"

"Yes, and she was very straightforward about it, too."

"I knew there was a reason why I loved that girl."

Astrid chuckled again, and sighed. "Alright, your comments apart – why is he there? It doesn't make sense."

"I suppose he followed the only clue he had, which is the address on your ID. And as it happens, it's still your home address."

"Of course. But -" Astrid hesitated, feeling the sudden pang of guilt as she remembered all the accusations she had already made towards the guy who truly had done nothing but helped her. "You want to tell me he drove all that way to the suburbs just because of this?"

"Seems like it."

"Oh, brother."

She pressed her hand to her forehead. She felt so happy, and surprised, and a little lost for words, not to mention, more and more ashamed of how easily she had judged the chivalrous young man. And she still needed to decide what to do with the fact that said man was comfortably seated in her mother's living room.

"Okay mum, listen," she said eventually. "This is all wonderful news but if we don't make some decisions now, I will collapse on the ground from exhaustion in moments and nothing good will come for it anyway. I am too tired to come home today – so would you please just ask the guy to leave it with you for now and I'll come and pick it up tomorrow after classes? I'm sure he's dying to get rid of it, too."

"See, that's the problem," her mother opposed. "He seems determined to only give it back to you, personally."

Astrid felt her good mood die again. She did not feel like spending two more hours in a bus today. "Mum, it doesn't make any sense. Even if I wasn't tired, it would still take me way too much time for him to wait. I'd have to go back to the flat, get some money – I am sure he has better things to do."

"He doesn't want you to come, but to bring the wallet back to you."

"To me? Wait, you didn't actually give him my address, did you?"

"Of course not," Ingrid as well as snorted. "But he says there is no point in your coming here, since he needs to get to the centre anyway; he's pretty stubborn, you know. So... Maybe just name a place and I'll tell him to meet you there? Although honestly, he seems like the kind of guy that you could safely meet in your own flat. I wouldn't mind you seeing him like this, anyway."

"Mum!"

She heard her mother laugh openly then and only shook her head at her wonderful parent's antics. She resumed her stroll towards her block. "Okay mum, I'll tell you what: today has been horrible, and I feel like garbage, and I'm definitely not going anywhere right now – so if you could just send the guy to my flat, that would be great. And if he turns out to be a serial rapist and killer... Well, at least you'll know exactly how to describe him to the police."

#hiccstird #fanfiction #modern au #hiccup haddock #astrid hofferson #httyd

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lifeofanursedreamer · 6 years ago

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Start of a new journey

I'm always making a blog whenever a significant event/s happen in my life. Mostly life changing, whether its great or bad. 5 years ago I started the other blog about my journey in healing and finding myself again after a hurtful breakup. Reading that again made me realized how stronger I am now than during those times. I was dependent and don't have a concrete plan about my future. But I'm always thankful for those times and people that made me for the woman that I am now. Without the struggles, I won't strive to live better and have a happier and meaningful life. I wouldn't know the real meaning of hardship, know who will really stay and who really matters. And I know, I matter. My family also matter. Whatever happens.

I started living my life differently, and that's when the fire within me started to burn again. You see, I was very ambitious. But I forgot all of that when I started being blind sided and dependent. When other people became my priority. I changed my plans with their plans, not that I wasn't happy, of course I was. But what happens when that person leaves? And that's what happened to me. The true struggle of breakups doesn't just rely on losing the person but with the reality that will hit you that you needed to start living on your own and change your plans to move forward. I remember one time my ex told me that he wanted to be happy and he wanted to find himself, I was angry and confused. I kept on thinking what he really meant by that. Little did I know that I needed the same thing. We were drowning with our own little bubbles that we tend to forget what we really want for ourselves. The dreams I want for myself and my family, the places I want to visit, and the things I wanted to have. And for that I will always be grateful. If that didn't happen, I wouldn't know if I'll still be in the same place I am right now. If wasn't for that, would I know that I wanted to migrate and live in another country permanently? That at this age I wasn't ready to have my own family? That I still have a lot of things I want to do on my own. That I am happy and contented in where my life is taking me. Do know that I wasn't mad, I do understand everything now. And I'm sincerely praying for all our happiness. We all deserve that.

So back to the original reason why I started this blog, last year I was still working in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I made a big decision and I standed really firm to make it happen. I resigned and have decided that my next job should be in a place where I can migrate and stay longer. Just 3 days after I came back here in the Philippines, I went to POEA to submit my application (note that I checked their website first and completed all the requirements needed before personally going to their office) and waited for the notifications if I was listed for the interview. When I passed my documents for application, there were a lot of people in POEA because Japan, Germany, Korea, and Taiwan are accepting aspiring filipino workers who wants to work abroad. I applied in Germany because it fits my plan, the place where I can migrate. I love Japan, my families are there but they only allow foreign workers for up to 5 years to work there, and like I said I wanted to work or even migrate if possible if I'll work in another country again.

And this is the fun part. On the 3rd week of August, I received an SMS about my interview which was supposed to take place on the 1st week of September. Unfortunately for me I'd been through an accident in Siargao on last week of August while I'm on vacation that caused me not to walk and move freely on my own. I was worried because how am I supposed to attend the interview if I still can't walk normally and wear pants (I have a big wound on my left knee so you can imagine why I can't wear pants or even slacks). On the 1st day of September I checked POEA's website and on my dismay I found out that my name wasn't listed for the interview, even though I received an SMS from Triple Win Ph. So after a month of recovering, I decided to apply to other companies. I applied to Germany again with other private agencies. Some of the agencies were asking payments for the half of the language training. In POEA all the cost of studies were shouldered by the German government, no placement fee and etc. You only need to pay for your own medical examinations, translations of documents and OEC. I even applied again in Saudi Arabia, I got accepted in a government hospital but didn't sign the contract and told the agency that I'd think about it first. That night I was thinking why I passed the opportunity but before I went to sleep I received an SMS about the schedule of my interview in TWP ( Triple Win Project is a project agreement between German and Philippine government to hire nursing professionals to work in different parts of Germany. It focuses on the interest of German companies, nursing professionals, and the Philippines. Win-win-win. Triple win.) When I received the SMS I cried out of happiness because I knew it's a divine intervention. When I can already go out, do whatever I want and of course attend the interview that's when I received the message. God really moves in mysterious ways. And so I attended the interview.

On the project interview part, I was really surprised to experienced 1 interviewer asking questions for 2 applicants at the same time. Yeah, you read it right. Two applicants and one interviewer inside a room discussing about the experiences of both applicants in working as a nurse. I wasn't prepared for that. I was really caught off guard. But don't be discouraged even if the other party can hear your answer. Just answer the question given. Mostly you'll only be asked about simple questions of your experiences in the hospital, or if you worked as a PDN (Private Duty Nurse), in clinics or any facilities you worked as a nurse. Just answer it truthfully, and it will be easy I promise. My experienced was like I was story telling about my life as a nurse. From how and when I started and up to the currently I had. How it molded me as a person, and how it will help me in working in Germany. And after that I received the message that I passed after a few days. My next entry is about my employer's interview. Yes, after passing the project interview you still need to go through with an employers interview. I'll talk about that in more details with my next post. Tchüss

#twp #nurse #triple win project #germany #dreamer

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hellyeahgeorgeorwell · 8 years ago

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How the Poor Die (1946)

In the year 1929 I spent several weeks in the Hôpital X, in the fifteenth arrondissement of Paris. The clerks put me through the usual third-degree at the reception desk, and indeed I was kept answering questions for some twenty minutes before they would let me in. If you have ever had to fill up forms in a Latin country you will know the kind of questions I mean. For some days past I had been unequal to translating Réaumur into Fahrenheit, but I know that my temperature was round about 103, and by the end of the interview I had some difficulty in standing on my feet. At my back a resigned little knot of patients, carrying bundles done up in coloured handkerchiefs, waiting their turn to be questioned.

After the questioning came the bath — a compulsory routine for all newcomers, apparently, just as in prison or the workhouse. My clothes were taken away from me, and after I had sat shivering for some minutes in five inches of warm water I was given a linen nightshirt and a short blue flannel dressing-gown — no slippers, they had none big enough for me, they said — and led out into the open air. This was a night in February and I was suffering from pneumonia. The ward we were going to was 200 yards away and it seemed that to get to it you had to cross the hospital grounds. Someone stumbled in front of me with a lantern. The gravel path was frosty underfoot, and the wind whipped the nightshirt round my bare calves. When we got into the ward I was aware of a strange feeling of familiarity whose origin I did not succeed in pinning down till later in the night. It was a long, rather low, ill-lit room, full of murmuring voices and with three rows of beds surprisingly close together. There was a foul smell, faecal and yet sweetish. As I lay down I saw on a bed nearly opposite me a small, round-shouldered, sandy-haired man sitting half naked while a doctor and a student performed some strange operation on him. First the doctor produced from his black bag a dozen small glasses like wine glasses, then the student burned a match inside each glass to exhaust the air, then the glass was popped on to the man’s back or chest and the vacuum drew up a huge yellow blister. Only after some moments did I realize what they were doing to him. It was something called cupping, a treatment which you can read about in old medical text-books but which till then I had vaguely thought of as one of those things they do to horses.

The cold air outside had probably lowered my temperature, and I watched this barbarous remedy with detachment and even a certain amount of amusement. The next moment, however, the doctor and the student came across to my bed, hoisted me upright and without a word began applying the same set of glasses, which had not been sterilized in any way. A few feeble protests that I uttered got no more response than if I had been an animal. I was very much impressed by the impersonal way in which the two men started on me. I had never been in the public ward of a hospital before, and it was my first experience of doctors who handle you without speaking to you, or, in a human sense, taking any notice of you. They only put on six glasses in my case, but after doing so they scarified the blisters and applied the glasses again. Each glass now drew about a dessert-spoonful of dark-coloured blood. As I lay down again, humiliated, disgusted and frightened by the thing that had been done to me, I reflected that now at least they would leave me alone. But no, not a bit of it. There was another treatment coming, the mustard poultice, seemingly a matter of routine like the hot bath. Two slatternly nurses had already got the poultice ready, and they lashed it round my chest as tight as a strait jacket while some men who were wandering about the ward in shirt and trousers began to collect round my bed with half-sympathetic grins. I learned later that watching a patient have a mustard poultice was a favourite pastime in the ward. These things are normally applied for a quarter of an hour and certainly they are funny enough if you don’t happen to be the person inside. For the first five minutes the pain is severe, but you believe you can bear it. During the second five minutes this belief evaporates, but the poultice is buckled at the back and you can’t get it off. This is the period the onlookers most enjoy. During the last five minutes, I noted a sort of numbness supervenes. After the poultice had been removed a waterproof pillow packed with ice was thrust beneath my head and I was left alone. I did not sleep and to the best of my knowledge this was the only night of my life — I mean the only night spent in bed — in which I have not slept at all, not even a minute.

During my first hour in the Hôpital X, I had had a whole series of different and contradictory treatments, but this was misleading, for in general you got very little treatment at all, either good or bad, unless you were ill in some interesting and instructive way. At five in the morning the nurses came round, woke the patients and took their temperatures, but did not wash them. If you were well enough you washed yourself, otherwise you depended on the kindness of some walking patient. It was generally patients, too, who carried the bed-bottles and the grim bed-pan, nicknamed la casserole. At eight breakfast arrived, called army fashion la soupe. It was soup, too, a thin vegetable soup with slimy hunks of bread floating about in it. Later in the day the tall, solemn, black-bearded doctor made his rounds, with an interne and a troop of students following at his heels, but there were about sixty of us in the ward and it was evident that he had other wards to attend to as well. There were many beds past which he walked day after day, sometimes followed by imploring cries. On the other hand if you had some disease with which the students wanted to familiarize themselves you got plenty of attention of a kind. I myself, with an exceptionally fine specimen of a bronchial rattle, sometimes had as many as a dozen students queuing up to listen to my chest. It was a queer feeling — queer, I mean, because of their intense interest in learning their job, together with a seeming lack of any perception that the patients were human beings. It is strange to relate, but sometimes as some young student stepped forward to take his turn at manipulating you he would be actually tremulous with excitement, like a boy who has at last got his hands on some expensive piece of machinery. And then ear after ear — ears of young men, of girls, of Negroes — pressed against your back, relays of fingers solemnly but clumsily tapping, and not from any one of them did you get a word of conversation or a look direct in your face. As a non-paying patient, in the uniform nightshirt, you were primarily a specimen, a thing I did not resent but could never quite get used to.

After some days I grew well enough to sit up and study the surrounding patients. The stuffy room, with its narrow beds so close together that you could easily touch your neighbour’s hand, had every sort of disease in it except, I suppose, acutely infectious cases. My right-hand neighbour was a little red-haired cobbler with one leg shorter than the other, who used to announce the death of any other patient (this happened a number of times, and my neighbour was always the first to hear of it) by whistling to me, exclaiming ‘Numéro 43!’ (or whatever it was) and flinging his arms above his head. This man had not much wrong with him, but in most of the other beds within my angle of vision some squalid tragedy or some plain horror was being enacted. In the bed that was foot to foot with mine there lay, until he died (I didn’t see him die — they moved him to another bed), a little weazened man who was suffering from I do not know what disease, but something that made his whole body so intensely sensitive that any movement from side to side, sometimes even the weight of the bed-clothes, would make him shout out with pain. His worst suffering was when he urinated, which he did with the greatest difficulty. A nurse would bring him the bed-bottle and then for a long time stand beside his bed, whistling, as grooms are said to do with horses, until at last with an agonized shriek of ‘Je pisse!’ he would get started. In the bed next to him the sandy-haired man whom I had seen being cupped used to cough up blood-streaked mucus at all hours. My left-hand neighbour was a tall, flaccid-looking young man who used periodically to have a tube inserted into his back and astonishing quantities of frothy liquid drawn off from some part of his body. In the bed beyond that a veteran of the war of 1870 was dying, a handsome old man with a white imperial, round whose bed, at all hours when visiting was allowed, four elderly female relatives dressed all in black sat exactly like crows, obviously scheming for some pitiful legacy. In the bed opposite me in the further row was an old bald-headed man with drooping moustaches and greatly swollen face and body, who was suffering from some disease that made him urinate almost incessantly. A huge glass receptacle stood always beside his bed. One day his wife and daughter came to visit him. At sight of them the old man’s bloated face lit up with a smile of surprising sweetness, and as his daughter, a pretty girl of about twenty, approached the bed I saw that his hand was slowly working its way from under the bed-clothes. I seemed to see in advance the gesture that was coming — the girl kneeling beside the bed, the old man’s hand laid on her head in his dying blessing. But no, he merely handed her the bed-bottle, which she promptly took from him and emptied into the receptacle.

About a dozen beds away from me was numéro 57 — I think that was his number — a cirrhosis-of-the-liver case. Everyone in the ward knew him by sight because he was sometimes the subject of a medical lecture. On two afternoons a week the tall, grave doctor would lecture in the ward to a party of students, and on more than one occasion old numéro 57 was wheeled in on a sort of trolley into the middle of the ward, where the doctor would roll back his nightshirt, dilate with his fingers a huge flabby protuberance on the man’s belly — the diseased liver, I suppose — and explain solemnly that this was a disease attributable to alcoholism, commoner in the wine-drinking countries. As usual he neither spoke to his patient nor gave him a smile, a nod or any kind of recognition. While he talked, very grave and upright, he would hold the wasted body beneath his two hands, sometimes giving it a gentle roll to and fro, in just the attitude of a woman handling a rolling-pin. Not that numéro 57 minded this kind of thing. Obviously he was an old hospital inmate, a regular exhibit at lectures, his liver long since marked down for a bottle in some pathological museum. Utterly uninterested in what was said about him, he would lie with his colourless eyes gazing at nothing, while the doctor showed him off like a piece of antique china. He was a man of about sixty, astonishingly shrunken. His face, pale as vellum, had shrunken away till it seemed no bigger than a doll’s.

One morning my cobbler neighbour woke me up plucking at my pillow before the nurses arrived. ‘Numéro 57!’ — he flung his arms above his head. There was a light in the ward, enough to see by. I could see old numéro 57 lying crumpled up on his side, his face sticking out over the side of the bed, and towards me. He had died some time during the night, nobody knew when. When the nurses came they received the news of his death indifferently and went about their work. After a long time, an hour or more, two other nurses marched in abreast like soldiers, with a great clumping of sabots, and knotted the corpse up in the sheets, but it was not removed till some time later. Meanwhile, in the better light, I had had time for a good look at numéro 57. Indeed I lay on my side to look at him. Curiously enough he was the first dead European I had seen. I had seen dead men before, but always Asiatics and usually people who had died violent deaths. Numéro 57′s eyes were still open, his mouth also open, his small face contorted into an expression of agony. What most impressed me however, was the whiteness of his face. It had been pale before, but now it was little darker than the sheets. As I gazed at the tiny, screwed-up face it struck me that this disgusting piece of refuse, waiting to be carted away and dumped on a slab in the dissecting room, was an example of ‘natural’ death, one of the things you pray for in the Litany. There you are, then, I thought, that’s what is waiting for you, twenty, thirty, forty years hence: that is how the lucky ones die, the ones who live to be old. One wants to live, of course, indeed one only stays alive by virtue of the fear of death, but I think now, as I thought then, that it’s better to die violently and not too old. People talk about the horrors of war, but what weapon has man invented that even approaches in cruelty some of the commoner diseases? ‘Natural’ death, almost by definition, means something slow, smelly and painful. Even at that, it makes a difference if you can achieve it in your own home and not in a public institution. This poor old wretch who had just flickered out like a candle-end was not even important enough to have anyone watching by his deathbed. He was merely a number, then a ‘subject’ for the students’ scalpels. And the sordid publicity of dying in such a place! In the Hôpital X the beds were very close together and there were no screens. Fancy, for instance, dying like the little man whose bed was for a while foot to foot with mine, the one who cried out when the bed-clothes touched him! I dare say Je pisse! were his last recorded words. Perhaps the dying don’t bother about such things — that at least would be the standard answer: nevertheless dying people are often more or less normal in their minds till within a day or so of the end.

In the public wards of a hospital you see horrors that you don’t seem to meet with among people who manage to die in their own homes, as though certain diseases only attacked people at the lower income levels. But it is a fact that you would not in any English hospitals see some of the things I saw in the Hôpital X. This business of people just dying like animals, for instance, with nobody standing by, nobody interested, the death not even noticed till the morning — this happened more than once. You certainly would not see that in England, and still less would you see a corpse left exposed to the view of the other patients. I remember that once in a cottage hospital in England a man died while we were at tea, and though there were only six of us in the ward the nurses managed things so adroitly that the man was dead and his body removed without our even hearing about it till tea was over. A thing we perhaps underrate in England is the advantage we enjoy in having large numbers of well-trained and rigidly-disciplined nurses. No doubt English nurses are dumb enough, they may tell fortunes with tea-leaves, wear Union Jack badges and keep photographs of the Queen on their mantelpieces, but at least they don’t let you lie unwashed and constipated on an unmade bed, out of sheer laziness. The nurses at the Hôpital X still had a tinge of Mrs Gamp about them, and later, in the military hospitals of Republican Spain, I was to see nurses almost too ignorant to take a temperature. You wouldn’t, either, see in England such dirt as existed in the Hôpital X. Later on, when I was well enough to wash myself in the bathroom, I found that there was kept there a huge packing-case into which the scraps of food and dirty dressings from the ward were flung, and the wainscottings were infested by crickets.

When I had got back my clothes and grown strong on my legs I fled from the Hôpital X, before my time was up and without waiting for a medical discharge. It was not the only hospital I have fled from, but its gloom and bareness, its sickly smell and, above all, something in its mental atmosphere stand out in my memory as exceptional. I had been taken there because it was the hospital belonging to my arrondissement, and I did not learn till after I was in it that it bore a bad reputation. A year or two later the celebrated swindler, Madame Hanaud, who was ill while on remand, was taken to the Hôpital X, and after a few days of it she managed to elude her guards, took a taxi and drove back to the prison, explaining that she was more comfortable there. I have no doubt that the Hôpital X was quite untypical of French hospitals even at that date. But the patients, nearly all of them working men, were surprisingly resigned. Some of them seemed to find the conditions almost comfortable, for at least two were destitute malingerers who found this a good way of getting through the winter. The nurses connived because the malingerers made themselves useful by doing odd jobs. But the attitude of the majority was: of course this is a lousy place, but what else do you expect? It did not seem strange to them that you should be woken at five and then wait three hours before starting the day on watery soup, or that people should die with no one at their bedside, or even that your chance of getting medical attention should depend on catching the doctor’s eye as he went past. According to their traditions that was what hospitals were like. If you are seriously ill and if you are too poor to be treated in your own home, then you must go into hospital, and once there you must put up with harshness and discomfort, just as you would in the army. But on top of this I was interested to find a lingering belief in the old stories that have now almost faded from memory in England — stories, for instance, about doctors cutting you open out of sheer curiosity or thinking it funny to start operating before you were properly ‘under’. There were dark tales about a little operating room said to be situated just beyond the bathroom. Dreadful screams were said to issue from this room. I saw nothing to confirm these stories and no doubt they were all nonsense, though I did see two students kill a sixteen-year-old boy, or nearly kill him (he appeared to be dying when I left the hospital, but he may have recovered later) by a mischievous experiment which they probably could not have tried on a paying patient. Well within living memory it used to be believed in London that in some of the big hospitals patients were killed off to get dissection subjects. I didn’t hear this tale repeated at the Hôpital X, but I should think some of the men there would have found it credible. For it was a hospital in which not the methods, perhaps, but something of the atmosphere of the nineteenth century had managed to survive, and therein lay its peculiar interest.

During the past fifty years or so there has been a great change in the relationship between doctor and patient. If you look at almost any literature before the later part of the nineteenth century, you find that a hospital is popularly regarded as much the same thing as a prison, and an old-fashioned, dungeon-like prison at that. A hospital is a place of filth, torture and death, a sort of antechamber to the tomb. No one who was not more or less destitute would have thought of going into such a place for treatment. And especially in the early part of the last century, when medical science had grown bolder than before without being any more successful, the whole business of doctoring was looked on with horror and dread by ordinary people. Surgery, in particular, was believed to be no more than a peculiarly gruesome form of sadism, and dissection, possible only with the aid of body-snatchers, was even confused with necromancy. From the nineteenth century you could collect a large horror-literature connected with doctors and hospitals. Think of poor old George III, in his dotage, shrieking for mercy as he sees his surgeons approaching to ‘bleed him till he faints’! Think of the conversations of Bob Sawyer and Benjamin Allen, which no doubt are hardly parodies, or the field hospitals in La Débâcle and War and Peace, or that shocking description of an amputation in Melville’s Whitejacket! Even the names given to doctors in nineteenth-century English fiction, Slasher, Carver, Sawyer, Fillgrave and so on, and the generic nickname ‘sawbones’, are about as grim as they are comic. The anti-surgery tradition is perhaps best expressed in Tennyson’s poem, ‘The Children’s Hospital’, which is essentially a pre-chloroform document though it seems to have been written as late as 1880. Moreover, the outlook which Tennyson records in this poem had a lot to be said for it. When you consider what an operation without anaesthetics must have been like, what it notoriously was like, it is difficult not to suspect the motives of people who would undertake such things. For these bloody horrors which the students so eagerly looked forward to (‘A magnificent sight if Slasher does it!’) were admittedly more or less useless: the patient who did not die of shock usually died of gangrene, a result which was taken for granted. Even now doctors can be found whose motives are questionable. Anyone who has had much illness, or who has listened to medical students talking, will know what I mean. But anaesthetics were a turning-point, and disinfectants were another. Nowhere in the world, probably, would you now see the kind of scene described by Axel Munthe in The Story of San Michele, when the sinister surgeon in top-hat and frock-coat, his starched shirtfront spattered with blood and pus, carves up patient after patient with the same knife and flings the severed limbs into a pile beside the table. Moreover, national health insurance has partly done away with the idea that a working-class patient is a pauper who deserves little consideration. Well into this century it was usual for ‘free’ patients at the big hospitals to have their teeth extracted with no anaesthetic. They didn’t pay, so why should they have an anaesthetic — that was the attitude. That too has changed.

And yet every institution will always bear upon it some lingering memory of its past. A barrack-room is still haunted by the ghost of Kipling, and it is difficult to enter a workhouse without being reminded of Oliver Twist. Hospitals began as a kind of casual ward for lepers and the like to die in, and they continued as places where medical students learned their art on the bodies of the poor. You can still catch a faint suggestion of their history in their characteristically gloomy architecture. I would be far from complaining about the treatment I have received in any English hospital, but I do know that it is a sound instinct that warns people to keep out of hospitals if possible, and especially out of the public wards. Whatever the legal position may be, it is unquestionable that you have far less control over your own treatment, far less certainty that frivolous experiments will not be tried on you, when it is a case of ‘accept the discipline or get out’. And it is a great thing to die in your own bed, though it is better still to die in your boots. However great the kindness and the efficiency, in every hospital death there will be some cruel, squalid detail, something perhaps too small to be told but leaving terribly painful memories behind, arising out of the haste, the crowding, the impersonality of a place where every day people are dying among strangers.

The dread of hospitals probably still survives among the very poor and in all of us it has only recently disappeared. It is a dark patch not far beneath the surface of our minds. I have said earlier that, when I entered the ward at the Hôpital X, I was conscious of a strange feeling of familiarity. What the scene reminded me of, of course, was the reeking, pain-filled hospitals of the nineteenth century, which I had never seen but of which I had a traditional knowledge. And something, perhaps the black-clad doctor with his frowsy black bag, or perhaps only the sickly smell, played the queer trick of unearthing from my memory that poem of Tennyson’s, ‘The Children’s Hospital’, which I had not thought of for twenty years. It happened that as a child I had had it read aloud to me by a sick-nurse whose own working life might have stretched back to the time when Tennyson wrote the poem. The horrors and sufferings of the old-style hospitals were a vivid memory to her. We had shuddered over the poem together, and then seemingly I had forgotten it. Even its name would probably have recalled nothing to me. But the first glimpse of the ill-lit, murmurous room, with the beds so close together, suddenly roused the train of thought to which it belonged, and in the night that followed I found myself remembering the whole story and atmosphere of the poem, with many of its lines complete.

Now, No. 6, November 1946

#george orwell #orwell essay #how the poor die

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