#i'm allowed to do things out of spite Twice a year & this is my first offense | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thiswasinevitableid · 4 years ago

Note

Indruck hunt nsfw!!! I'm so excited you're doing fills again, they're always so good!

Thanks so much, and here you go! Duck’s form is based on a Green Wrasse, and Indrid’s is based on a Flamboyant Cuttlefish.

Go along the trenches they said. It’ll be easy they said.

Duck’s been here for two hours, trawling the spot where the sea bed and reef give way to deeper water in search of black moon oysters. It’s courting season in Kepler, and if he can find a few he’s certain at least one of the two mers he has his eyes on will agree to a date. But at this rate, he’ll be bringing some of his model ships as his gifts for his first year of courting, and that’ll be embarrassing. No one wants to date a mer with such a boring hobby.

So here he is, far from where most reef mers would even think to come, searching for a shellfish notorious for it’s shadowy color. At least there aren’t any deep sea mers around to see him repeatedly get hissed at by the same eel because he keeps losing his bearings and checking crevasses he already searched. He’d rather not have an audience.

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

Indrid cannot believe his luck. Weeks of hunting, of hunger, with barely any food to be found, and now a tantalizing, green tail dangles near his hide away. No mer in these parts has such coloration, so it must be a very big fish indeed.

His foresight is half-obliterated, so he must rely on skill to earn his prey. He camouflages as best he can along the rockface, creeping along beneath the ledge where the tail keeps disappearing and reappearing. If he lunges too soon, he’ll miss and scare off dinner.

Almost...almost…

He pushes up in a burst of speed, grabs the tail, and propels back into his lair, his prey putting up a remarkable fight. He doesn’t notice his error until it punches him in the eye.

“OW!!”

“What the fuck?” The merman spins, lashing out again but missing him in the dark.

“I, I am so very sorry, I thought you were a fish!”

“I look like a damn fish?” His unwilling guest gestures angrily at his upper body.

Because his eyes are adapted to dark water, Indrid can clearly see the muscles in his arms, the round belly and charming face. Now he wants to sink his teeth into him in an entirely new way.

Oh, right, he’s waiting for an answer.

“From down here you did. I assumed all reef mers stayed far away, and thus missed the obvious explanation for the size of your tail. I, ah, am not the sharpest when starving.”

The wary, annoyed expression softens, “Ain’t there food down here?”

“Yes, but it’s fast, poisonous, or fought over, and I’d like to keep all my tentacles attached to me.”

The merman points at the cave ceiling, “The reef is just up there. We got plenty to eat.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t, they’d recognize me as a deep water mer and be frightened.”

“I could vouch for you. Assumin you don’t plan on grabbin anyone else.”

“Of course not” He flicks all his tentacle tips, trying to hide how hurt he is by the suggestion.”

“Then you can be my guest. There’s a festival tonight, so the grub oughta be good.”

“You mean it?”

“Yep.” He nods, black hair swirling around his forehead.

“Thank you so very much! I, is there something I can do to repay you?”

“Well…”

He mentally crosses all fingers and tentacles, hoping for an answer along the lines of “kiss me” or “hold my hand on the way there” and he flickers his lower body an appealing yellow to sweeten the deal.

“...you got any clue where to find black moon oysters?”

“Yes” he cocks his head, “why?”

“Wanna give ‘em as a present to some mers tonight.”

“Ohhhh” Indrid nods, understanding and trying to hide his disappointment, “a courtship gift. Of course, right this way…Duck.”

The mer starts, “How’d you-”

“-Know your name? Foresight, though it’s severely diminished right now. He smiles, holds out his hand, “I’m Indrid. Now, let us find you those oysters.”

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

Duck never expected a deep sea mer to be so chatty, but as they weave their way between rocks in search of their quarry, Indrid talks amicably about all manner of things, often swimming backwards so he can ask Duck questions about his life on the reef. Listens intently as Duck tells him about his time studying coral health, demanding details as they float across a deeper trench.

Still, Duck feels like he’s not carrying his conversational weight, and when Indrid peers into another empty crag he asks, “hey Indrid, what kind of fish only comes out at night?”

The other mer blinks his glowing red eyes, “What kind?”

“A starfish.”

A slower blink, and then Indrid snickers, “I didn’t know we were in the pun timeline.”

“Sorry, know it’s silly-”

“Why was the shark worried after eating a clownfish?” Indrid wiggles his tentacles.

Duck smiles, “no idea.”

“Because it tasted funny!”

He giggles, “that was awful.”

“Precisely!” Indrid beams, then pulls Duck flush against the cliff-face. In the darkness beneath them, he can just make out something immense swimming along the trench. Indrid doesn’t release him until it’s out of sight.

“Apologies, but there was a non-zero chance of that being an aggressive shark.”

“Glad you were here watchin my ba--holy fuck!”

Only Indrid’s eyes are the color they were a moment before. The rest of him, even his hair, is the same speckled grey of the rocks.

“Indrid that’s, that’s incredible! I know mers who can color change a little, but nothin like this.”

“It’s mainly for survival purposes, but I am glad you, ah, you like it” Indrid returns to his usual color, save for his tentacles, which flash pink on their way back to silvery-blue.

“Can you control it?”

“To a degree; some of it is subconscious expression of emotion, but much of the time I can manipulate it as I need. See?” He holds one tentacle out in front of Duck’s tail, matching it perfectly.

“That’s so fuckin cool.”

“I, ah, would be happy to show you some more” the pink flashes are back, “but first…” he pulses up to small ledge, slips three tentacles inside, and retracts them with a flourish a moment later, each hold a pitch black oyster, “let’s get you to your party.”

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

In spite of there being no timelines where Duck reneges on his end of the deal, Indrid remains nervous most of the way into town. Then the other mer stops, reaches into a stand of kelp and produces a scallop, “here, you were hungry when we met and you put off eatin to help me, seems only fair to get you a snack before you get there.”

Indrid grins, rips open the shell, and downs the mollusc in what he hopes isn’t a completely horrifying way. It’s been so long since someone shared a catch with him.

“Do you still want to see more camouflage?”

“Hell yeah.”

They pass the rest of the journey to the town square with Indrid changing color, the two of them laughing as Duck comes up with increasingly ridiculous things for him to match. He adds in extra effects, hoping to dazzle Duck, and he’s having so much fun he’s almost sad to arrive at the party.

Then he sees the buffet, and it’s difficult to be that upset. Better still, Duck doesn’t immediately leave him in search of his potential lovers. Instead he guides Indrid to a cluster of other mers his age. Juno, Aubrey, and Dani all welcome him into conversation and help him navigate some of the unfamiliar foods Duck gathers from the large stone tables.

Deep sea mer courtship is very goal focused, but up here the custom seems to be unhurried, as much a chance to catch up with friends as find a mate. There’s even dancing, which he’s drawn into when Aubrey coaxes Duck onto the dance floor and the merman offers Indrid his hand. They spin and flit about each other, Indrid initially taking care not to brush him with his tentacles. When it happens on accident and Duck responds by thwacking Indrid back with the tip of his tail, Indrid takes to touching him whenever the dance allows.

Since none of the reef mers swim screaming away from him, he and Duck even join in on the group dances. Indrid shows off, changing colors to match his partner because he catches Duck smiling whenever he does.

The first of Duck’s crushes arrives, though Duck stays, dancing, with Indrid.

“Are you supposed to wait until a certain time to offer your gift?”

“No. I, uh, I’m just a little nervous. I’ve never done the whole courtin thing before.”

“Understandable. Though if you ask me, I’d say you have a great deal to offer.” He nudges him with a tentacle. Duck takes a deep breath, then swims away after the other mer. Indrid hasn’t even made it to the table when Duck is once again beside him, saying they weren’t interested and would Indrid like to keep dancing?

He would, and they do, trading jokes and stories as they turn in slow circles around each other. They alternate between the dance and recharging with their friends until Duck’s other crush swims into view, having gotten to the party rather late. Duck’s approach is more confident, and Indrid encourages him along with the others. After ten or so minutes, Duck catches his eye and gives a thumbs up. Indrid returns the gesture and watches that stunning tail swim away.

Indrid stays, continues talking and eating with his new friends. He’s even approached for courtship twice, demurring both times. It’s not long before he regrets this choice, because his foresight keeps showing him flashes of what Duck is getting up to with his new partner and getting his hands and mouth on another mer might be a welcome distraction. He finishes the last of his meal, waves goodbye to his friends with a promise to come see them again, and swims home alone.

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

Duck hums as he swims over the edge of the trench, carved coral box in hand. Indrid left Dani directions for how to visit him, so Duck’s no longer concerned about swimming into the wrong cave and getting eaten.

The front of the cave is empty, and the scant light still filtering in doesn’t show him much beyond it, so he floats further and calls, “Indrid? You home?”

Red eyes appear in the dark, followed by flashes of pink and yellow, “Duck?”

“Didn’t see me comin?” He grins, swimming up to greet the other mer.

“There were only a few futures where you visited so soon after the party. Is something wrong? Does your new partner need more oysters?”

“Nope, came ‘cause I wanted to see you. Is, uh, is that okay?” Nerves creep up his tail; maybe Indrid was only interested in their exchange yesterday and not in him.

“Of course. I, ah, my lair is rather messy but if you come this way I have some lights.” He motions for Duck to follow him. As they swim deeper into the cave, bioluminescent kelp and algae flicker to life, revealing walls covered in elegant, detailed carvings. They turn left, coming to a room filled with yet more carvings, a large, comfy looking hammock, and a floor scattered with shells.

“You did all these?” Duck touches a lovingly rendered carving of a ray.

“Yes. They help me capture visions from time to time, or are simply images I enjoy.” That same light pink is coursing up through his tentacles and occasionally racing through his hair.

“Oh, that reminds me, here” Duck holds out the box, “seemed like these were your favorite last night, so figured you’d like some more.”

Indrid studies the crab rolls in their neat lines, “Oooh!” His tentacles wiggle, “thank you. That was very sweet of you.” He swims over to a small table, sets the box atop it, and then begins searching a rock shelf. “But I insist you share some of them with me, assuming you don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Uh-”

“Where are those blasted plates-”

Duck rubs the back of his neck, “Indrid? Is, uh, is that a yes or a no?”

The other mer turns, flashing bright blue, “To...oh, oh my, really?”

“Future just tell you I’m courtin you?”

“Yes. I, but I thought you made your choice last night?”

“That ain’t really how this works. I mean, I had a great time last night, might see her again, but I ain’t made any kind of choice about bein exclusive. Besides uh, I, uh, if I’m bein honest, mer I thought the most about last night and today was you.”

“Oh.” Indrid says much more softly as Duck swims to him and brushes his tail along a tentacle.

“It’s okay if you ain’t interested, I can back off and we can have dinnerAHfuck” he laughs as Indrid uses all available limbs to pull him closer with a delighted chirp.

“The answer is very much yes, Duck Newton.”

“Thank fuck” Duck leans in, kissing him eagerly as two tentacles tease up and down his tail.

Then he can’t see a fucking thing and Indrid curses, “Of all the time for my kelpalabra to die. One moment, let me find something so you can see.” He pulls back, red eyes and kaleidoscopic lower half the only thing in Duck’s vision, achingly alluring even as he mutters around the room.

“We, uh, we can keep it like this.”

“You’re certain? I thought you couldn’t see in these conditions.”

“Can see what matters.” Duck opens his arms and Indrid chuckles, swimming into them.

“I’m amazed you were not swarmed by admirers last night.”

“Flatterer” Duck kisses his cheek.

“I am being entirely truthful. You are so charming, and so very handsome…” Indrid strokes his face as his tentacles glide up his chest and down his tail, “mmmm, I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw you.”

“How, uh, sensitive are these?” Duck lets one tentacle curl around his fingers, brings it to his mouth for a kiss.

“About the same as my hands, but far more flexible.” Two tease just below his hips, his scales beginning to ripple and part at the stimulation. The surrounding darkness heightens each grope and stroke, his body having little to no warning of where the next touch might come from. His world is nothing but Indrid’s hands and tentacles on his body, that little voice and moonlight smile illuminated by the colors of his affection.

“Fuck, ‘Drid, this is so fuckin nice.”

Indrid hums, pulsing a warm yellow as he coaxes Duck open, kissing his neck and nibbling his ears. Duck winds his fingers into his silver hair, gives a testing tug and gets a moan in reply.

“Again.”

He growls, pulls harder as his cock emerges, scrapes his teeth up Indrid’s neck and discovers that makes him practically scream in delight.

“You wanna be in me, or should I fuck you?”

“Ah, beg pardon?”

“Wait, fuck, do you not have-”

“I have this” smaller tendrils emerge from beneath a fold between his front tentacles, “there isn’t really room for anything to go in, and while I can get some shape from it” he demonstrates by twining three into something close to Duck’s dick, “it is unlikely to be the method you’re used to. My kind mate by sort of, hmm, mushing them together? My, that sounds deeply unattractive when I say it that way.”

Duck licks his lips, “They look pretty damn dexterous.”

Indrid’s eyes glow brighter, “The are.”

“Get over here and show me.”

The other mer comes to him so forcefully they’re propelled back into a wall. Duck barely registers the collision, too busy moaning as tendrils curl around his dick, stroking and sucking so elegantly he’s pretty sure he’s never going to be satisfied with a blowjob again.

Okay, except for one form the mouth currently devouring his own with kisses. Indrid moans and squirms in his arms, tentacle and fingertips caressing him from cheek to tail.

“May, may I try something?” Indrid pants in his ear.

“Long as you don’t stop what you’re already doin, ohfuck,” He bucks his hips as more tendrils push into the slit under his dick, Indrid purring as they do.

“Ohhhhhgoodness, you feel wonderful Duck, please, please say we can do this again?”

“Damn, ain’t even made you cum and you’re already beggin for a next time?” Duck teases, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, pleaseplease” tentacles tighten around him, trapping him against Indrid as the other mer frantically fucks him, “I’ll can make you feel so good, I want to, please”

“Mission fuckin accomplished” Duck yanks on his hair and Indrid yelps with joy, cumming inside him and across his dick. The orgasm makes him lose control of both his colors and his tendrils, meaning he shimmers like the inside of an abalone as tugs and twitches along Duck’s dick. The touches draw his own climax from him with a groan, and he buries his face in Indrid’s neck, mouthing kisses along it as he spills into the water.

Slowly, all tentacles and tendrils relax and withdraw, leaving only Indrid’s arms around him.

“You asleep?” It’s only half a joke, as Indrid is going limp.

‘Mmmhmm. A perfectly wonderful mer just robbed me of all my energy in the best possible way.”

“Heh, funny, most stunnin mer in the ocean did the same to me.” He swims them over to the hammock, guiding them down onto their sides as Indrid looks sleepily up at him.

“In that case, would the wonderful mer like to join me for dinner after we nap?”

Duck kisses his nose, nestles closer as Indrid’s tentacles shift to match his tail, “Yeah, he would.”

#Indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #mermay #mermay fills

20 notes · View notes

jjkfire · 6 years ago

Text

yoongi x reader // prince!yoongi // 11.3k words

(don’t read ahead if you hate unfinished fics!)

summary: a mere pawn in a cruel political game, that’s what you are. as a gifted concubine to an exiled prince, you don’t think either of you will last long in this game of thrones. fate however, has other plans.

“Give me time,” Yoongi begs, cradling your face in his palm. “I just need you to trust me Y/N, please.”

Life as a duke's daughter is grandeur, splendid. Unless of course you're the daughter to the duke of a county that's more often forgotten than talked about. Though you think that’s not really the reason for your less than wonderful life. It probably had more so to do with the fact that not only are you 8th in line, but you are merely an illegitimate child, only half a noble. Illegitimate in the sense that your mother was no longer in the service of the duke as punishment for her crimes. It's perhaps why you find yourself sitting in a carriage, being sent somewhere south.

Your father had presented you as a gift to the emperor, an addition to his harem perhaps but you would find out that you weren't even worthy of that. Your father had meant to gain the emperor's favour in exchange for you. Honestly, a small price to pay, in fact not a price at all in his opinion. Sending you away meant he had one less mouth to feed and obviously, that made the choice easy. He got a small upgrade from trading you in, honestly, it’s more than he thought you were worth because the emperor had expanded your family’s territory and now your father’s county is twice the size it previously was. He's long since forgotten about your existence, in fact you're quite sure he forgot about you the moment he put you into the carriage that was bound for the capital.

Your stay in the capital is short. You're only there two weeks or so but just like the coachman had told you while you were on the road, living in the grand palace is a dream. Of course, you only got to stay in one of the smaller palaces within the main grounds, but it was better than being locked up in that room your family had made you stay in. The clothes they gave you were soft and sleek, the baths you got to take were warm, the food you ate was never stale and the bed you slept in was surely an upgrade from the straw mattress you used to own. That dream of a life was short lived however because with no warning, you’re whisked away into a carriage again, sent off to another county. The servant tasked with accompanying you tells you that you're being given away to one of the princes as a concubine. It was like everyone was playing a game of hot potato with you and you wondered how long it would take before the prince would hand you off to perhaps some lowly duke.

On the road, you learn that you would soon be in the service of Prince Yoongi, who like you is an illegitimate child. A child born of an unrecognized concubine, a child who's resented by the queen, thus his exile from the grand palace. You wonder if he would show you pity, the two of you suffer the same plight after all.

"He will not," The servant laughs. "My lady, surely you must know that the act of someone like you being sent to the prince is meant to spite him."

"What? H-how so?"

"You are being sent there by the queen's request. It is a silent way to tell the prince that the grand palace thinks that he is not even worthy of a lady of a... better standing," He mumbles before he licks his lips nervously. "I hope you take no offense to my statement, my lady. You requested for me to be honest."

"No, no. I'm not offended in the slightest," You smile. "At least now I know what I am being thrown into."

You wonder if perhaps you should have tried harder to make a better impression at the grand palace. Maybe then you wouldn't be used as some pawn in a political game you did not wish to play. Still, you think you'd be able to get out of all of this unscathed. After all, you've had much practice in being easy to forget. From what you've heard, the prince's palace was no simple hut, it was a magnificent structure sat overlooking a lake with intimate carvings etched onto its pillars and art painstakingly painted along the beams and columns. With a place so large, with so many servants and lords bustling in and out, you think with time, you surely would slip from the prince's mind.

When you arrived, there was no grand welcome. In fact, the prince didn't even greet you. Apparently, he was away attending to diplomatic matters in some other county. You were in some way thankful for that. Maybe when he gets back, he'll forget you were even sent to him in the first place.

Back in the grand palace, the other concubines and attendants had given you a crash course on the royal family, because when you told them you knew absolutely nothing about the family apart from their names and faces, they all but gasped, horrified at your disinterest in your country’s leader. You meant to tell them that wasn’t the case. Truthfully, it was because you never received political or etiquette lessons like your other sisters did. All that you know about the royal family, you learnt or more so rather, deduced yourself. You merely saw their faces when you were allowed a rare trip to town, the royal family portrait sitting on the walls of almost every establishment.

The concubines had told you that Prince Yoongi was the black sheep of the family, sent away to a southern county when he was just 12. His mother had died only 2 years prior to that. They say she went to sleep and just never woke up, but the word on the street is that she was poisoned. Yoongi is said to be a bitter human being and with his luck, why wouldn't he be? They say if there was one prince they never want to meet, it would be him. You wondered why. Sure he looked... unfriendly in portraits, but so did everyone. Unfriendly? He was more than just unfriendly, they scoffed. They said he had a sinister air to him. He's cruel and unfair, ruthless and evil, earning himself the title of the Dark Prince. You laughed at the generic title, but it's a thing apparently. Giving people nicknames that is. It's a fact you'll come to know soon when you earn your very own one. One that’s much less… kind.

For someone nicknamed the Dark Prince, his palace surely did not reflect it. Sunlight gleamed through the hallways, life was teeming in the gardens and the servants though apprehensive, were friendly enough. Like in the grand palace, you were treated well here. It was odd. With all that you were told, you had expected to be confined to some dungeon-like wing of the palace, but you were given the freedom to roam. They gave you a free tour of the palace and the surrounding town to boot.

Though you had grown up in the North, you must say that you much preferred the weather here in the South. You liked the long flowy robes you were allowed to wear instead of the heavy fur lined outfits that you used to don. You liked the fact that the landscape didn't look barren half the time but most of all, you liked that food was not scarce, harvest simply bountiful with the amount of sunshine the land got.

To be fair, you did not see much of the North. You were confined to your room most of the time, your view only of that of what was within the walls of the estate. Maybe what you liked most about the South was the freedom. Back home, even your own estate was a mystery to you, you only had the chance to walk around in the dark night when you sneaked past the sleeping guards outside your door. Here, you walked through the halls freely, already knowing every corner and room of the palace in just a week. Of course certain places were off limits, but you had no interest in them. You spent most of your time in the palace's gardens anyway, walking through the hedge maze, picking a stray flower or two when you saunter past the flower beds and down to the edge of the lake.

In just two weeks, you had befriended basically everyone. Maids, servants, chefs, gardeners, stablemen, you knew them all. You were a curious soul, asking question after question, otherwise often offering your help to them. In fact you would insist on helping with chores because when you ask, they often tell you it's no job for a lady. Maybe you should've told them that this was your first time you got to do... well, anything at all. You're rather persuasive and so they relent. They let you help with the bread-making, the horse caring and the weed pulling. You're a very odd lady, they tell you but you had a feeling that they were warming up to you regardless.

By week three, you were on first name basis with the store owners in town. You took care to replace your silk robes for cotton garments whenever you left the palace. The servants and guards had pleaded with you to let them escort you to town but... you much prefer doing things on your own. Your weeks of exploring the palace grounds meant you knew when the guards would switch positions, therefore you knew just the right time to scale past wall and into the forest that surrounds the palace. Aside from the magnificent gardens within the palace walls, you loved your short little walks through the forest. You enjoyed the rustling of the leaves, the chirps of the birds, the low hum of the insects. They were all sounds that reminded how far away from home you were, how far away you were from your previous life and how free you are here.

The town always seemed so full of life. There were people on the streets, chatting, eating, drinking. There were all sorts of things for sale. Fruits and vegetables you had never seen before, noodles and meat cooked in ways you never knew existed. Your face would light up every time you took a stroll through the busy market. You could never buy anything, no. You had absolutely nothing to your name, not a single coin. Regardless, you always took the time to make conversation with the locals, learning more about the region with each time. They jest with you, making fun of your Northern accent but they were kind people, always offering you some food before you go.

For a town ruled by someone rumoured to be the most cruel prince, they seemed to be rather happy people. It was something that really bothered you. Was it because he was away? Was this all temporary celebration before his return? It seemed unlikely. Hand-painted portraits or drawings of him were hung in almost every store and it's only by week 4 that you ask the question that's been burning at the back of your mind since your arrival.

"So, Prince Yoongi... he... does he ever come around?"

"Sometimes," Mr. Lee, a merchant hums before he slurps at his noodles.

"That's his favourite spot!" The owner of the noodle store shouts, beaming as he points to a table in the corner.

"Oh," You murmur. "That's... interesting."

"How so?"

"Well, don't nobility... not frequent places like this?"

Mr. Lee simply shrugs, a smile on his lips.

"Our prince is different."

And different he is. Everyone you talked to had something nice to say about him. Some were critical of some of his policies but they never spoke about him with contempt or disgust, both of which are the usual emotions tied to those that belong to nobility, be that the royal family or the dukes and earls. You've seen it multiple times now and it really shouldn't shock you anymore but you're always in awe with how the people didn't cower away in fear whenever they saw the royal guards roaming the streets, instead they would step aside to bow at them. To you, it felt like you were in some sort of dystopia. It looked like the people not only respected the prince and by extension those who work for him. Instead, it looked like they loved him.

Love is not an emotion most people have for the royal family. They are known to be unscrupulous people, stealing from the poor through taxes only to line their own pockets as well as those of the noblemen. They claim it is to pay for better infrastructure, to pay for the warriors to help keep them safe and yet, the roads are the same as they always were and when war comes, the noblemen sit back at camp, comfy in their tents while the people drafted for the war are on the front line, putting their lives on the line for a kingdom that could care less about them.

You remember the way your people would sneer at your family in secret, their eyes full of hatred as you and your family paraded down the streets of your county. It always made you shiver. Yet, here it was different. They seem to light up at the chance to speak about the prince, almost as if they've been brainwashed. They all had on the same warm smile, but they all had different stories about his good deeds, his kindness, his willingness to listen to his people. However, it all seemed too good to be true and perhaps that's why when you're called to the entrance to greet the prince upon his return, you trembled in fear as you lowered your head down to bow. Rise, he ordered, voice sounding rather unamused as he walked by all of you lined up in rows. He barely spared you a glance, not even one look before he disappeared somewhere to his quarters. So this was the beloved prince? You scoffed because you knew it was too good to be true. He seemed more like the dark prince you've been told about.

Despite it being more than a week since his return to the palace, you have yet to see the prince, let alone meet him. You are told that he has many matters to attend to and again, you are if anything glad that you do not have to meet him. If you could keep this up for say, a few more... years, that would be great. While you were at it, how about till your death... or his, whichever came first. If you never had to meet him at all, now that would really be all you could hope for.

In the first few days of his return, you were cautious around the palace, never venturing far from your room but as days to turn to weeks, you slowly returned to your usual antics. The palace staff have long gotten used to your quirky self. The gardeners would barely bat an eye when you quite literally skipped around the garden. You would often stop midway to help them water the plants, so they had no complaints about your presence. Once you were done with that, you would be off to the kitchen, helping yourself to a steamed bun or two... or maybe five as you stopped to chat with the ladies in there. The head chef claims you're a nuisance but you know that's a lie because one of the maids had informed you that he had asked where you had gone off to when you were busy hiding in your room two weeks ago.

With the prince now back in the castle, it meant that the guards were on patrol thrice as frequently as they used to. That meant your beloved pastime of sneaking out was no longer a possibility. You were starting to grow anxious, bored because no matter how many times you watched the guards rotate, you couldn't find a lull long enough for you to be able to scale past the wall undetected. You needed something new to keep you occupied and when you see the resident artist in the palace painting beautiful scenes on long scrolls, you guess you've found a new hobby.

Mr. Han, the resident palace artist is perhaps hovering somewhere around his seventies but his hands are steady as ever, his brush strokes so precise that you can't help but marvel out loud at how good he is. He does not appreciate your company and has made it known after he had caught you staring one too many times. You still admire him and his work but at a much further distance, behind a pillar as per his request. Eventually, he got fed up and called you over to help him add glue to the pigments so he could paint without doing the set-up. You did so diligently, only daring to move when he allowed it.

It turned out that Mr Han is actually quite the talker because he gave you free history lessons as he painted the chronicles of Yoongi's reign so far. Sure he started his stories halfway through Yoongi’s reign instead of giving you his full backstory but you eventually pluck up enough courage to ask him to start from the beginning. He only sighed and glared at you before doing as you ask. You listened with intent as you mixed the glue in with the pigment, watching as Mr. Han drew effortlessly across the paper, starting with the outlines in black before he filled it in with colour. It was like magic to you and sometimes when he was in a good mood, he would let you add a few strokes to his painting. Honestly, it was just him letting you hold the brush while he forcefully guided your hand but nonetheless, you were honoured. After all, by merely holding a brush, you were committing a crime.

Sometimes during the silent lulls, you read the calligraphy accompanying the paintings. Depending on the piece Mr. Han was working on, it could range from beautiful poetry to just explanatory notes. You loved reading them all the same, often trying to commit them to your memory. With each painting, you see why the people of the county love Yoongi so much. There were stories of him opening up the royal food reserves to the people in times of the drought, stories of him placing sandbags along the banks of the river that ran through the town as heavy rain threatened to flood it and even stories of him celebrating the harvest with his subjects. Basically, it was story after story about how he built the county up from a wasteland to the flourishing state that it is today. Yet, you're still skeptical. You wonder if this was somehow just some propaganda to get the people to like him. Perhaps pretty paintings and beautiful calligraphy is how he brainwashes them. God knows you're only another pretty painting away from believing it.

Though you love spending time with Mr. Han, you never forget to stick to your routine. Your days must consist of frolicking in the garden and stealing steamed buns from the kitchen before you sat down with Mr. Han. Though he grumbles about your tardiness, you know he likes it when you bring along a steamed bun for him too. Like any other day, that's what you do. You hand him a steamed bun before you plop yourself down on the chair, ready to mix glue into another pot of pigment. Only this time, Mr. Han places a brush in your hand.

"Bright moonlight before my bed, I suppose there is frost—," Mr. Han pauses as you stare up at him. He simply glares at you before he speaks. "Are you not going to write?" He questions, more so scolds and now the brush trembles in your hand.

"I-I do not know how to write,” You mumble, eyes downcast.

Mr. Han laughs, taking a bite from his steamed bun, chewing slowly before he swallows.

"Bright moonlight before my bed," He repeats, disregarding you. "Write. Now." He demands, as he directs your attention to the paper with only the tilt of his head.

"M-master, I... I cannot write," You murmur, setting down the brush.

"Now that there is actual work to be done, you cannot do it?" He queries, his bun now set aside. "You cannot or will not write? Deliberate your answer carefully."

You swallow, unsure what to say. Was this a test? Surely Mr. Han knows that it is a crime for a lady of your stature to know how to write, read or even paint. Ladies who were not of full nobility were meant to only know how to weave or embroider. Sure, you know how to read and write but that is only through your own effort, through stolen books from your family's library. That too came at an expense because every time you got caught, you earned yourself a few lashes on the back.

You hesitate for a few more seconds before Mr. Han pins you with a stern look, one that demanded an answer.

"I... cannot write?" You answer nervously, as if asking if your answer had been the correct one.

"Then can you read?" Mr. Han asks, as he pulls out a short blade, one that's usually sheathed and tucked to the side of his robe. He's seen you read. Many times. You would mouth the words to yourself, head tilting whenever you saw a character you didn't quite recognize. You eye the blade cautiously as he brings it out into view. He lets it glint in the sunlight, twisting it in his hand. You scoot away further but his other hand pins you in your place.

"Answer the question," He demands, the knife now peculiarly close to your neck.

Yes or no? You didn't know which to say. Which one guaranteed your safety?

"N-no?"

You could feel the cold metal on your skin now.

"Try again."

"Yes?" You offer, this time hopeful.

"Good answer," He smiles but the blade still sits on your skin. "You must know that I hate liars because liars more often than not, turn out to be hiding something. More often than not, they turn out to be the enemy to this region's crown. Is that what you are?"

"No, I... I have no reason to b-be," You stutter as you feel the knife prick at your skin slightly.

"You were sent here under the Queen's orders and you are not the first puppet she's sent here. There is every reason for me to believe that you are."

"I-I have not spoken to the Queen once! I have not even seen her!" You exclaim, pure unadulterated fear on your face. "I'm— I'm not even quite sure why I'm here at all," You mumble, your voice quivering.

"Then why lie?"

"It's a crime to know how to read and write, m-master,” You stutter. “I'm not really a noble lady," You whisper or more so whimper.

Mr. Han snorts, smiling before he laughs, slowly drawing the blade away from you.

"Is that what the barbarians had imposed on you?" He queries. "Such silly rules."

You didn't know what he meant by barbarians. Had he meant the North exclusively or the royal court? It had been the emperor's decree that non-noblewomen should not be allowed to be educated. Considering that you were born of an unrecognized concubine, you were not exactly nobility. Though you were by name, but in terms of technicalities, you were not.

"Are the rules different here?" You manage to ask, peeking a glance at Mr. Han

"My lady, rest assured that you will not be punished for knowing to write when you are with me," He grins, but his smile soon disappears. "You will however, be punished if you delay this any further. I will only repeat myself one more time and there will be no mistakes, understood?"

You only nod, scrambling to grab the brush again before you dip it in ink. Mr. Han dictates fast and though you wish he would slow down, you barely have the courage to yawn let alone speak. So, you write his poem with shaky hands... not once, no. He makes you write it over and over, until your hands are sore, until the 4-line poem rings in your head long after you've put down the brush. He's still not satisfied with your work by the time the sun sets and, in the end, he writes the poem himself. You wonder why he had gone through all that trouble, why he had made you suffer if he was going to do it on his own in the end?

"You've lost your touch," Yoongi remarks, holding up a piece of paper. The characters drawn on it are not in a straight line and the order of the strokes have been completely disregarded.

"Your highness," Mr. Han greets, rising from his seat to bow before he makes himself comfortable again. He eyes the paper in the prince's hand with disgust before he sighs. "That abomination is not mine."

"Then who's might it be?"

"Lady Y/N," He grumbles. "That must've been her 50th try. Can you believe it? I gave her 50 chances and she still produced... that," He shudders, not even wishing to look at the paper again.

Ah, yes... Lady Y/N, the lady his stepmother had gifted to him. You are one of the many ladies that she has sent over the years. She's sent them over with many purposes. To gain intel, to injure, to spread rumours and a host of many other despicable acts. Yoongi wonders how she still has the energy to be so conniving, so cruel.

There had been nothing but silence from the Queen for about a year and Yoongi had thought that she had finally outgrew the silly little mind games that she loved to play but then came a letter informing him of your arrival to his palace and at that he only shook his head. It was meant to be a practical jokes of sorts, a way to make those in the nobility sphere understand just how lowly she thought of him. An illegitimate lady who was 8th in line in her own family... in political talk, it was the equivalent of sending him soggy leftovers.

If anything, Yoongi felt sad for you. You surely hadn't asked to be part of this and yet, you were thrust into all of this against your will. However, Yoongi could be wrong. Your status may be true, but you could still be her little puppet. He wouldn't put it past the Queen to do something like that.

"She's the smartest imbecile I've ever met," Mr. Han hums as if he'd been reading Yoongi's thoughts. "The Queen has surely gotten better at choosing her little rats."

"She hasn't attempted to get my attention though," Yoongi mumbles, noting how he's never actually seen you around at all. If he remembers correctly, the only time he's seen you was when he had returned from his travels. It was rather unusual behaviour for one of the Queen’s puppet to not try to garner his favour.

"Oh because see she's smarter than the other ones that have been sent over before. She has the whole palace staff under her pinky," He sighs, adding the last stroke to his painting. "She's even befriended the townspeople."

"So... you've just let her do all of this while I was away?"

"It's been a little boring around here," He shrugs. "She keeps me on my toes, more so than any of the others have."

"What if she outsmarts you?"

"Oh she won't," He smiles.

"How are you so sure?" Yoongi queries.

"Because I have eyes on her. Always."

"Is that so? So where is she now?"

"Right there," He points to a faraway wall, skirting the ends of the palace grounds and there you are, pumping your fist in the air as you manage to throw a rope over a high sturdy branch. "It took her two weeks while it only took me a day to realize that Namjoon takes longer than most guards to reach his station during the rotation."

"Why doesn't she just ask to be escorted to town?" Yoongi questions as he watches you struggle to climb up the stone wall, feet slipping every so often.

"She doesn't want anyone listening in on her conversations, obviously," He grumbles, shaking his head. How is it that the Prince is so smart yet so dumb?

"She's been asking about you, you know?" Mr. Han continues. "Prodding the townspeople for details about you, asking me about the history of this county. This one has tenacity," He smiles as he watches you from a distance.

"So, this is a game to you, huh?"

"Hasn't it always been?" Mr. Han smirks lazily. "This time, the Queen has finally sent a worthy pawn."

Yoongi waits days, weeks, wondering when it is you'll finally make your move, but if he honestly thought about it, you seem to avoid him like the plague. Mr. Han thinks you're some genius mastermind set out to destroy Yoongi's legacy and if true, you genuinely had some really odd methods in place. Though you've been doing everything in your power to stay hidden from the prince, Yoongi has been getting live updates on your whereabouts for days now. If you're as devious as Mr. Han thinks you to be then why is it that you spend an hour or so of your day doing nothing but talking to the horses in the stable? Why do you tap at the flowers in the garden and skip rocks on the lake instead of scheming and carrying out your master plan? Why do you make steamed buns in the kitchen in your free time with the maids instead of befriending the court people whom he trusts? Things just weren't adding up.

It made Yoongi's head hurt, trying to think of what exactly it was you were planning. Mr. Han tells him it must be an elaborate one, perhaps something like a coup d’état since you were trying to get chummy with everyone that held no social status. It honestly didn't seem that way to the prince. You looked so unassuming, so carefree... almost like it wasn't in your nature to be so sly. Yet, Mr. Han is adamant and so when a royal request comes in asking for Mr. Han to travel to the capital to paint a few royal portraits of the emperor, he's in the carriage before Yoongi could count to ten. He would come back with more details about the Queen's plan, he promises.

With Mr. Han away, the palace seems so quiet. You genuinely miss him even if all he does is grumble about how you could never do anything right. You make yourself comfortable at his desk, looking out the window that had the perfect view of the garden. It was much too hot this time of the day to be out there, so you settle for looking at it from the inside. Your fingers tap at the desk, hand itching to move. You know it's wrong and Mr. Han would probably strangle you with his bare hands if he found you here, smoothing out a piece of paper and yet, you do it anyway. You peek behind you, making sure no one is in sight before you grab the brush, dipping it in ink softly.

You've watched Mr. Han paint numerous times now and much to your disappointment, you find that painting isn't as easy as it looks. His lines were soft and sharp while yours heavy and unsightly. Perhaps you should've picked an easier subject to paint but with the garden right in front of you and the great expanse of water looking back at you, how could you have picked anything else? Your eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, hands moving across the paper in long, calculated strokes. You're so focused you sometimes forget to breathe.

"Interesting."

Your hand stops dead in its tracks when you hear that. Your eyes shift from side to side because you didn't know what to do. If it was a guard, maybe you could talk your way out of it, give him some story about how Mr. Han had requested you to paint this piece while he was away. You turn back with a smile on your face, ready to deliver your spiel but your grin quickly disappears when you see the prince smiling back at you.

You turn back to crush the paper in your hand, quickly rising to your feet to bow. You're trembling, eyes screwed shut as you await some form of punishment.

"Rise," He orders and you hesitate for a second before you do. The prince eyes you from head to toe and you shuffle in your spot, hiding your hands behind your back while you kept your eyes trained on the ground.

"Mr. Han will not be happy to find you in here without his permission," He hums as he steps closer to the table, cleaning up the mess you made when you had hastily attempted to greet him.

You drop to your knees, pressing your forehead to the floor before you sit back on your heels, hands sitting meekly in your lap.

"Your highness, please accept my humblest apologies," You murmur, the crumpled paper still in your hands. "I have committed a grave crime and deserve any punishment you see fit."

Yoongi only stares at you, unsure of what to make of the situation. You are almost in tears, lips quivering in fear. You surely were quite the dramatic one.

"Leave the paper and go."

"S-sorry?"

"The paper in your hand," He points. "Leave it."

"Y-yes, Your Highness," You nod, placing the paper in his hand as you rise to your feet.

You stand there dumbly, blinking as you looked at him.

"You're not leaving?"

"O-oh, yes... I-I will be leaving now," You murmur, before tripping over your own feet as you attempt to exit. God, you're embarrassing. "You are a merciful prince and I am forever at your service," You mumble before you bow one last time and scamper out of the room.

Yoongi stands there, staring at the doorway, eyebrows furrowed in confusion before he sighs, turning away to smoothen out the paper in his hand. He nods to himself, as he admires your painting. It was almost as if he was surprised. Your work is not the best but it's definitely good. He loves how detailed the painting is. He loves how you had painted a variety of small different flowers, how you had added tiny waves to the water in the lake, how you had even painted in the gardeners that tended to the hedges. Each time he looked over the painting, there was a new detail to uncover. It's a shame that some of it is smudged now. His eyes skim across the painting one last time, ensuring he's caught every last detail before it settles on the writing in the top hand corner and he tilts his head, trying to make sense of it.

Your characters are large and clunky, most of them missing a stroke or two. For someone Mr. Han believes to be trained by the masters at the grand palace, your skills were surely not up to par. After a few more reads, Yoongi finally manages to decipher some of the characters that you had managed to butcher.

Hell is far from home

Hell is not where I belong

In hell a paradise I have grown

In hell again I am—

Born. He thinks you were about to write the word born before he had so rudely interrupted you. Now he wishes he had waited just a few seconds longer before making his presence known to you.

Paradise. That's what you had titled the poem. Yoongi reads it over and over, as if reading it numerous times could produce answers to the questions swirling in his mind. He assumes the poem is about the palace, but he wonders why you call it hell. As far as he knows, the palace staff have been nothing but nice to you. But if you thought it to be hell initially, then when did you start thinking of it as paradise and why? He sits there staring out open the garden, hoping that some answer would come to him but the fact of the matter is that he barely knew you. He could sit here guessing all day and would get nowhere.

In hell again I am born.

He wonders if that's because after you accomplish what you set out to do here, you would have your phoenix moment. Is that what the Queen had promised you? That you would rise from the ashes, that you would no longer be nothing but the forgotten daughter of your family? You should know that the Queen is a devious little minx. She would do anything to stay ahead. She would lie, cheat, kill. Her promises are nothing but empty. Yoongi should know. He experienced that first hand.

Since your run in with the prince, you try your best to remain unseen. You spend your days hidden in your newfound spot, the library. There are many scrolls and books to learn from and though you do not understand most of them, you flip through them if only to pass time. As you read, your fingers paint imaginary scenes on the floor as if to help you picture the stories. You think having spent your time with Mr. Han is both a blessing and a curse. Perhaps if you did not know how to draw, your hands wouldn't long to hold a brush so much.

You do a good job of avoiding a prince, though you think that is mostly because he is busy. He reviews documents and consults with his trusted advisers all throughout the week. You on the other hand continue on with your daily routine, hopping between the kitchen, garden and the library. You wonder if this was what life was like for your sisters. You wonder if this is what they did while you spent your days locked in your room.

It's been a whole two weeks since your last trip to town and you light up when you finally see Namjoon on patrol. See Namjoon was lackadaisical and care-free, which made him a great friend and an even better guard. Of course, by a better guard, you mean only for you because he takes much too long to get to his next post when the guards change positions. You sit silently, waiting for the previous guard to move towards his next post. Once he’s out of sight, you dash to the bushes close to the east wall. Quietly, you fit yourself between the bushes and the wall, crouching down as you crawl to your spot, abandoning your silk robes for your cotton outfit that was underneath. You were keeping time in your head as you pulled the rope that you always kept hidden, from under one of the bushes. Standing up, you took one glance at the branch that stood a feet above the wall before you swung the rope, throwing it upwards. You’ve done this numerous times before and it never took you any more than two tries to get it over the branch and this time would be no different except—

"What are you doing?" You hear someone ask, ever so nonchalantly, as if you weren’t committing a crime at this very second.

By now, you recognise his voice and you waste no time in turning around to bow, not even flinching when the heavy rope that you had thrown comes crashing down onto you.

"Rise," Yoongi orders and you lift your head but still make no attempt to meet his gaze.

"What are you doing, Lady Y/N?"

"I-I'm inspecting the walls, Your Highness."

"Yeah? And how do they look?" He asks.

"Sturdy, Your Highness."

Yoongi simply laughs, nodding as he looks up at the wall.

"So what's this? Your inspection outfit?" He gestures towards you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Y-yes, Your Highness."

"Where did you find such clothes in the palace?"

"It belongs to me, Your Highness," You murmur. "These were all I had before I was sent to the grand palace."

Your hands toy with the rope and you stand there, debating what to say as the prince eyes you up and down.

"Get changed," Yoongi hums. "Your belongings have been packed. We will leave when you are ready."

"Y-your Highness?" You look up at him wide-eyed before you jump over the low bush, immediately sinking to your knees as you bowed your head. "This lady has angered the prince and may only offer her apologies. This lady a-asks for his mercy."

This must be about what had happened in the drawing room the other day. You knew you should not have entered the room while Mr. Han was away, let alone attempt to paint anything. The prince was going to send you away now, perhaps even sell you to a brothel. You didn't want that. You couldn’t have that.

“Y-you were looking for me, Your Highness?” Namjoon appears, interrupting the scene, panting heavily before he stands at attention, spear shaking in his hand.

“Yes,” Yoongi huffs, shifting his gaze between Namjoon and then back to you. He chuckles when he sees you with your head still hanging low. “Rise, Lady Y/N.”

You stand up quickly, only lifting your head once to glance over at Namjoon who’s quite visibly trembling.

“The two of you are accompanying me on my visit to the river delta,” Yoongi begins, before he points at you. “You will be documenting what you see on the scrolls, while Namjoon, you will be guarding her. I expect to see the both of you at the entrance in an hour’s time.”

“Noted, Your Highness,” Namjoon bows, before he stands at attention, only daring to move once the prince waves him away. When he finally does, Namjoon scampers off to the guard quarters, racing to pack his belongings for the trip. Meanwhile you stand there, hands tucked behind your back as Yoongi eyes you from head to toe, as if he was trying to discern what exactly it was you were trying to do at this palace.

“I hope that you will change into your regular outfit before we depart. I don’t want my people to think that I’ve been mistreating my—” He hesitates, unsure exactly what you were to him. A gifted concubine, yes, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with saying that out loud. “—my guest,” He finally hums, completing his sentence. He assumes guest is an appropriate term. After all, like the many ladies the Queen has sent before, they never really do last long at his palace, only ever staying as long as a regular guest would. If anything, in your case, he was hoping to fast track the process. If you had any ill intent, he assumed you would take your chance during this trip. Out on the road, he was exposed, less guarded. If you tried anything remotely suspicious, he could easily have your head off in a second. He had no time to waste, and no interest in playing his stepmother’s games. The faster you were out of his life, the better. Of course, he would milk you for all you were worth first. He needed someone to document his trip to the delta and with Mr. Han away at the royal palace for his portrait duties, you were the next best choice.

The carriage you’re riding in is grander than the ones you have previously been in. This one had plush cushions and beautiful carvings etched into the panels. That however, is a sheer reminder of how out of place you felt. This wasn’t normal. Sharing the same carriage as royalty is basically unheard of, but it seems like no one around you seems to share the same thought, none of them batting an eye at the fact that you, someone who is neither essential nor worthy, is a mere hand’s width away from him.

You watch on as Yoongi and his aide, Hoseok, who were both sat across from you, discuss the details of the visit. They plan on visiting the rice farmers and checking on the rice storehouses. They’ve only addressed you once despite being on the road for what must’ve been 3 hours now. All they had told you was that they wanted you to accurately depict the river delta landscape as well as chronicle the scenes from the journey for archival purposes. You had only nodded your head at that.

For most of the trip, you and Namjoon share glances, as if to ask each other why exactly either of you had been chosen to go for this trip. You finally get to ask him the question once the carriages stops for a break to let the horses rest temporarily and drink some water.

“You know, I’m pretty sure we’re here because of you,” Namjoon mumbles as the two of you take refuge from the heat under the shade of a large tree.

“What did I do?” You frown, as you squat down to pluck a few blades of grass.

“I’m pretty sure this is punishment for both you and me. You for always trying to escape the palace to go into town, and me for always letting you do so.”

“Well, maybe you should just be better at your job then. It’s not my fault you’re always late to your post,” You roll your eyes before you throw the grass in your hand towards him.

“I have a small bladder, okay?” He grumbles, dusting out the grass from his hair. “I would be on time if I didn’t have to head to the outhouse every time to do my business, but Gardener Lee will give me a hard time if I decide to pee in his gardens.”

“You heathen,” You gasp. “I can’t believe you would even consider doing your business in the gardens.”

The two of you stay there bickering until Hoseok finally calls for both of you as the coachmen signal that they were ready to keep going. Yoongi watches on as he sees the two of you laugh and grumble at each other until Namjoon notices him staring. At that, the guard elbows your side, causing you to fall silent when you realize just who was watching. Silently, the two of you climb into the carriage, head hung low in embarrassment.

They tell you that the river delta is only another hour’s ride away and at this point, you take the time to glance out the window, watching the river meander through the lands. The rice paddy fields come into view not long after, and you watch as the farmers who are shin-deep in water, take the time to bow as they watch the royal carriage pass by. The sight is still odd to you. Even this far away from the palace, the people revere the prince. He surely is beloved by his people, you think to yourself. You wonder if the hate that the people hold for nobility is simply a concept reserved for those in the North.

By the time you reach the small town that services the needs of the farmers and their families, the sun is beginning to set. You are told that the official visit out to the fields will begin tomorrow and that all of you would be staying at the inn in town for the week, simply taking day trips to visit the fields and storehouses in the outskirts. To your surprise, it seems your room in the inn is a shared space with commoners and your bed is merely a space on the floor just long enough for you to sleep in. Perhaps Namjoon was right. Maybe this trip was a form of punishment.

As it draws closer to night time, you find yourself at the teahouse just across the street. Of course, Namjoon comes along. After all, he has been ordered to be at your side at all times possible. You bring along your scrolls and brushes and the guard doesn’t say much as he watches you paint the scenes from today’s travel. You find it suffocating to paint under his intense gaze, but considering that the aide, Hoseok, had given you a gentle reminder earlier that you were to paint every single scene, you waste no time in painting every single detail you remember. That included the way the farmers had bowed, to the tall weeds that grew by the roadside, you spared no detail. Of course you do not forget to paint in a few pieces of the Prince greeting the townspeople and also tending to the horses shortly after the arrival to the town. That too was something that surprised you. He seemed to be rather independent. Not even one servant was brought along on this trip. Which contrasted the way your father had done official visits. He would often bring along at least three for himself.

After watching you paint for what must be hours, you hear Namjoon speak for the first time since the two of you sat down.

“Let’s take a break,” He hums, hastily placing away all your scrolls and brushes onto the empty table next to you. He doesn’t even let you finish the piece you were currently working on. “It was interesting the first few times you did it, but now it’s getting old,” He grumbles as he wipes at the table with a rag.

“It’s not like I’m doing this for fun,” You chuckle. “In case you forgot, this is what I am supposed to do.”

“I know, I know,” He groans. “But, I’m sure you’ve done more than enough for today.”

“No, you don’t understand. They’re watching,” You whisper, before you point discreetly to a corner on the upper floor of the teahouse. Most of the upper floor is empty except for two people, and they are none other than Hoseok and Prince Yoongi himself.

“Yes, and so if they’re watching, they can clearly see that you’ve done your job for today.” Namjoon laughs, waving away your concern. From a burlap sack, he removes a wooden board along with two wooden containers. “I’m sure they’ll be fine with you taking a break.”

“Go?” You ask, as your hand moves across the wooden board. It’s been quite a while since you’ve played a game of Go. This game was your favourite. You typically played in the dark of the night, the board illuminated with the lantern that your favourite guard would bring along with him. He had introduced you to the game when you were 6, and ever since then, you had loved it.

The game consisted of a wooden board with a 19x19 grid, and black and white wooden pieces that are often called stones. All one had to do in the game was make sure that their stones surrounded more territory than their opponents. If one of your stones was entirely surrounded by an opponent, they get to capture them, further reducing your score. It was simple in theory, but the game required more thinking than one would assume. You’re practically beaming when Namjoon looks up after finally putting away the burlap sack.

“So I take it you’re good at the game?” He asks, as he gestures for you to choose between the black and white stones. Instinctively you move for the white ones. It’s the one you always played with. Odd, Namjoon thinks. Most would go with black since black always starts first. “Noblewomen like you, aren’t all of you masters of the scholarly arts?”

Qínqíshūhuà. The four scholarly arts were what nobility were meant to master.

Qín referred to knowing how to play the guqin, a beautiful string instrument. Being able to play it was something a nobleperson could do with no hesitation. With just 7 strings, one could play tunes that could entertain or in some cases ease another. The movements of one’s fingers had to be graceful and poised, almost like it was effortless.

Qí was another name for the game of Go. Often times, noblemen would play Go together when they would visit each other’s territory. In some ways, a family’s dignity lied in how well they could play Go. After all, it was a reflection of one’s skills in strategical thinking. Thus, being able to play the game well was essential.

Shū, otherwise known as calligraphy, was an art that allowed the complexities of one’s mind to be expressed and understood by others. Both knowing how to read and write, is a measure of one’s intelligence and was indicative of their ability to carry themselves well in their social circle.

Huà, also known as art, has a special place in the upper echelons of society. A painting is worth a thousand words and could be understood across all lands and social classes. History was told by both calligraphy and art. It was universal. A good artist is one that could in a sense, show the power of how a few calculated strokes could tell a story.

You stay silent, and though it may look like it’s because you’re deliberating Namjoon’s first move, truthfully, you’re just trying to think of a response to his previous question. You? A master of the scholarly arts? That was impossible. It seems like unlike the North, not many here in the South understood your circumstances.

Though you are a noble by name, all your life, you had not been treated like one. The four scholarly arts were forbidden to you. Your status as an illegitimate child meant that your family never wanted you to be able to have a claim to their fortune. If you stayed uneducated, it meant that you could never overthrow any of your siblings. It always seemed like your family was just one step away from selling you off as a slave, and you guess what you were doing now was in a way akin to some form of upper-class slavery.

The only thing that forced anyone around you to treat you with respect here in the South, was the fact that you were a daughter of a duke. Sure, he wasn’t the most powerful one around, but his name still carried some weight. To admit that you are nothing but a throwaway child for the family would simply give everyone else the upper hand. It meant that there would be no repercussions to killing you, in fact, they would be doing your family a favour even. After all, they’ve already collected the boon from ‘gifting’ you away.

Perhaps there and then is when you decide to commit to an act you’re not entirely sure you could pull off. You are a noblewoman, and you had to play the part. The question is how? You didn’t entirely know what it entailed, but you guess you would have to figure it out along the way.

“I wouldn’t say I’m a master at the scholarly arts as per se,” You mumble, finally putting your piece on the board. He places a piece in return almost instantaneously. “Perhaps in hindsight, regularly skipping my lessons was not a bright idea… but I guess we live and learn,” You smile, wondering where exactly your brain had found the words that are currently slipping out of your mouth.

“Definitely shouldn’t have skipped out on your Go lessons,” Namjoon laughs, shaking his head as he watches you put a piece in the most ridiculous place. “This game is going to be over before it has even started.”

Namjoon would live to regret the fact that he had said that sentence. His fists slamming down on the table in disappointment after a long drawn 3-hour long game of Go.

“I demand a rematch!” Namjoon whines as the two of you finish up counting. “Come on, I was only 2 points short!”

“A win by a narrow margin is still a win,” You shrug, enjoying how Namjoon looked entirely downtrodden.

“It’s just that move you made in the beginning really threw the game off course,” He grumbles. “Who even does that?”

“Well, me obviously because did I or did I not ultimately win with that move?”

“You did, but that’s just not normal,” He frowns, fingers fiddling with the small Go pieces. He sighs and passes you a silver coin, the price he has to pay for losing. You hadn’t even asked but you were not going to say no to money. You pocket the coin, marveling at the fact that it had been quite a while since you last had anything as valuable in your possession.

“You don’t win by thinking like everyone does,” You laugh.

“Alright, so, rematch?” Namjoon presses on, as he gives the board a quick dust.

“That game took almost 3 hours,” You chuckle. “And, we have to be up early in the morning.”

“I promise I can beat you in under an hour,” He beams, and at that you laugh.

“We have a whole week out here,” You smile, stretching your arms. “So, you can try to do that tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that because I promise you if you’re going to beat me at Go, it’ll take more than an hour.”

“Wow, confident,” He smirks. “That’s surprising from someone who admitted that they often skipped their lessons.”

“What can I say?” You laugh. “Perhaps I’m just a fast learner when it comes to Go.”

As you listen to Namjoon’s whining, you think maybe you should’ve held back. Namjoon seemed to be very proud of his Go skills and he should be. He hails from a noble family, which to be honest is a little surprising. He seemed ditzy, but from the moves he had played, you can tell that he was anything but that. Over the course of the game, the two of you talked. You did more of the asking while he did the answering. You liked it like that. Though you deduce that he was a smart man, he came from a family of well-respected warriors, thus he was meant to follow the same route. He’s been trying to work his way up the ranks, but he tells you it’s a gruelling task and he isn’t quite sure what awaits him back home if his father finds out that he had failed to make it into the elite warrior taskforce yet again.

Yoongi watches from atop as both you and Namjoon continue to bicker. It seems like that was all the two of you really did. Mr. Han did say that both you and Namjoon were close but he hadn’t quite expected this. Typically, noblewomen, especially one that belonged to a ducal family, would not even bother to humour a guard. You however, seemed entirely comfortable with that fact, even choosing to play a game of Go with him. Sure, Yoongi himself was lax with the unwritten rules of interaction between the social classes, but he hadn’t quite reached your level of casualness. One might argue that letting anyone other than his aide to ride in the royal carriage was close to that, but there was something else about you that Yoongi couldn’t quite put his finger on. It seemed like you had absolutely no care in the world for noble etiquette. In fact, he had expected you to come running to Hoseok to complain about the sleeping arrangement in the inn, but his aide says he hadn’t heard so much as a peep from you. He was beginning to think that perhaps Mr. Han’s impression of you isn’t quite right.

You wipe away the sweat that’s dripping down your face but you have resigned to the fact that it is of no use. Fixing the bamboo hat that the villagers had loaned you, you take another long look at the never-ending paddy fields. You watch as those in the field occasionally stop to stare at the prince who’s sat under the shade, deep in conversation with a handful of men. Wading in the shallow waters, you see young children helping their parents with the rice planting. In the distance, there is a buffalo ploughing the fields. You’re stood there, taking it all in for you’ve never seen anything quite like it before. Namjoon laughs at the way that your eyes are filled with child-like wonder.

The children seemed enamoured with the prince, but none of them dare approach him. Instead, they crowd around you and Namjoon. They rarely see such lavish silk robes like the one you’re wearing, and so you let them touch and tug at it. Namjoon for the most part tries to be patient, but you hear him growl a low warning when the children try to touch the sheathed sword that rests at his hip. Instead he let’s them hold onto the shaft of his spear, all of them marvelling at the fact that they were touching a weapon of a guard from the royal palace.

The children pull you towards the paddy fields, imploring you to join them.

“Children, the fields are no place for someone like Lady Y/N,” Namjoon informs, as they continue to lead you. “You all should—”

His sentence dies halfway as he watches you willingly wade through the paddy fields with the children. You’re careful to hold your silk robes up. After all, they were given to you by the palace and you must take care not to soil them. As you follow the children, you feel your feet sink into the muddy ground. You squeal when a fish swims by your ankle and at that the children laugh.

“Lady Y/N!” Namjoon shouts, worried. “Let me help—”

“It’s quite alright,” You chuckle, smiling. “The fishes are friendly, they say.”

The guard is hesitating at the edge of the field, stealing quick glances back to where Hoseok and Yoongi are watching in bewilderment as you continue to walk through the fields, nodding as the children tell you about the rice paddies.

“That’s not why I uhh I—” He stutters as he looks back again at the prince. He merely gives him a simple wave, as if to say he could let you be. At that, Namjoon nods, simply standing by as he watches you warily.

The children lead you further in, showing you how they weed the fields, and take care of the crop. They even let you touch the buffalo that’s busy ploughing the fields. You’ve never felt so free, so intrigued and you—

“My Lady! Forgive the children’s insolence, they don’t know any better,” A man begs, bowing down at you.

“Oh no, please, don’t— I-It’s really quite alright,” You say, using one hand to usher him back to stand upright. You’re stunned, shocked. You aren’t quite sure what he is apologizing for. It is perhaps one of the very few times anyone has ever bowed at you in apology.

“Do forgive the children,” He mumbles. “Truly, I am sorry for the trouble. A-and it’s not much, but I can take you back with that,” He points at the bullock cart not far from where you are. The expression you wear is not one he expects. Instead of distaste, you’re practically beaming.

“Can we really?” You ask, as you walk out of the paddy field, hurrying towards the cart.

“Of course, My Lady,” He chuckles as he notes your excitement.

Honestly, the walk back isn’t quite far but you’ve never been able to ride a bullock cart before. Mostly because they are meant for transporting goods but also partly because you’ve never seen one up close before.

“Can the children come along too?” You question, as you see them with their head hanging low, looking guilty. What for, you’re not quite sure. You should ask Namjoon later on. Perhaps there are some customs you aren’t quite aware of. “After all, I was the one who asked them to show me the fields.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but you deduce that he thinks the children had forced you to wade through the fields with them.

“Of course they can come along,” He nods as he takes off his shirt and places it on the cart and invites you to sit. “It’s— uhh, not much but I didn’t have anything to—”

“Oh, no, please! You don’t have to!” You answer, rushing to pick up his shirt and return it to him.

“No, please! I insist,” He argues, placing the shirt back. “We can’t have you dirtying your robes.”

“Ah, th—thank you,” You smile, bowing slightly at him. It seemed like he wasn’t going to back down so you resign to sitting on his shirt instead.

The children seem rather solemn as they ride the cart with you, but a few questions from you and they are back to their jolly selves, answering every query you have. They’ve never met a noble quite as nice and friendly as you and perhaps they want whatever this is to last a little longer. They cling onto you, reveling in the attention you shower them with. Most nobles that they’ve met want one thing, and one thing only. They were often travelling merchants who were trying to hoodwink them, asking them to sell their rice at low prices. Sometimes, they would resort to violence to get them to agree. Perhaps that was what the elders were discussing about with the prince. Either way, most nobles had no interest in the fields, or their lives. You however, had willingly walked through the shallow water with them, watched on as they showed you how to catch the fishes and even played around with them.

As you get off the cart, the children climb out with you, quickly bowing in apology as their elder demands. You wave it away hurriedly, sternly insisting that the children were only acting based on your demands. If you had known this would cause such a commotion, you would have stayed put. Maybe that’s what Namjoon was trying to save you from when he tried to coax you out of the fields earlier on.

The commotion is pretty much forgotten as you and the royal entourage move to look at the storehouses where the rice is stockpiled. You’re kept busy as the farmers explain how they go from bushels to the final grains that are stored in the storehouses. Namjoon is visibly alert this time around, not willing to let you get into trouble again. After all, his life was on the line too.

As the sun begins to set, the entourage returns to the town centre. As soon as the prince is out of earshot, Namjoon tells you to meet him at the teahouse as soon as possible. Simply by the tone of his voice, it sounded like he was going to give you a stern scolding.

“The fields are meant for peasants,” Namjoon explains, pausing to take a sip out of his cup. “It is no place for someone like you.”

“I-I see. Well, I— umm, I knew that of course,” You murmur, lying. “But how else am I supposed to accurately depict the scene if I do not actually go into the fields?”

“You are still a noblewomen, and you shouldn’t be in such lowly places,” He mumbles. “What will the nobles say if they saw you out in the fields? What would they have said about the prince?”

Oh. You understand now. It wasn’t just your image that was at stake, it was the prince’s too. Now, you’re worried.

“D-do you think he’s angry?” You query, nervous. “I mean, I was just doing it for the job after all,” You mumble, pointing at your current painting. Perhaps you should work extra hard, paint in all the details so he would forgive you.

“The prince isn’t very expressive, so it’s hard to say but... I would warn you to be more cautious,” Namjoon hums. He had seen one too many concubines have their heads cut off, and for actions less preposterous than yours. It would be a shame to see you go.

20 notes · View notes

quokkalatte · 6 years ago

Text

Mixtape pt. 4 [M.YG]

Part 4

Category: One Shot series

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Female!Reader

Summary: Living as an aspiring rap artist in Seoul, all you want to do is work on your music and try to get your name out there. Of course when you have someone as annoying and spiteful as Min Yoongi makes that extremely difficult. Until he decides to help you out.

Warnings: smut, language, some Namjoon action (which ofc is a warning cause oof), angry Yoongi, alcohol consumption, perhaps some angst but not really

Warnings for this chapter: Honestly none except slight mentions of sex

Author's Note:so sorry it took so long to get his out thank you for being patient ♡ this chapter is short. Like really short but I'll try to make the next one longer ~ Autumn

Tags; @notsolovelykarsyn @psychoticshawtyy

Cannot tag: @deesixx2801

[Message me to be added to the tag list so you can be notified for new updates]

× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

It was like clockwork, waking up again and feeling angry and bitter at myself. Making myself something to drink and brooding and contemplating telling Yoongi not to come, tell him I'm sick. Any excuse not to see him again.

I sat on the couch, staring at Yoongi's contact, chewing my lip. I pressed his contact and texted him.

Me: don't come today, I've come down with something

Jerk: OK

I sighed, putting my phone down, going to take a long shower and try and get over the pounding in my skull, drinking was never a good idea. I undressed, stepping into the shower and allowing the steaming water to pour down my body, my eyes closing in content. I lathered myself in soap and wrapped myself in a towel, ruffling my hair with another to dry it faster. A faint knock had me frowning, dropping the towel I was drying my hair with I quickly adjusted the one covering my body, making sure I was appropriately covered, I went to the door, checking the peep hole and nearly yelped in shock.

Yoongi stood outside the door, container in hand and two drinks in another. His blonde hair was tousled and he was peering down the hall at something, scratching at his neck for a moment, pushing the grey goodie he wore for better access. I let out a short gasp. I told him I was sick! What was he still doing here? I backed away, from the door, eyeing it like it was deadly or toxic.

"Open the door Y/n I know you aren't still asleep, you texted me 30 minutes ago" Yoongi's aggregated voice came from the other side of the door. I swallowed and glared

"I told you I was sick Yoongi"

"And? Just let me in please your druggy neighbor keeps peeking at me and it's unnerving" he says, the last part fading into a whisper. I groan, pulling the door open, and Yoongi steps in quickly. He freezes once he sees my attire. Color floods his pale cheeks, and I blush darkly. "Uh, did I interrupt something?"

"N-No I just got done showering. I wasn't expecting you to still come" I mumble, excusing myself to dress, leaving Yoongi in my living room. I quickly pulled on a hoodie and sweatpants. I found him peering around my desk, and I clear my throat, and he turns to me. "Finished?" He asked and I roll my eyes.

"I still don't know why you're here, I told you not to come"

"I was already on my way when I got your text, and it wouldn't be the first time I've been around you when you're ill" he prompts, walking over to my kitchen island and setting the box and drink tray down.

"Have you considered maybe I don't want to see you?"I snap, fed up with him already. Memories of last night kept swimming in a haze, the alcohol making it dim to remember everything, but I understood the jist of watching Yoongi stick his tongue down some girl's throat and going to bed with her.

"Have you worked on a song yet?"

He completely ignored my question, opening the box and the tempting smell of sushi wafted towards me. I folded my arms, and huff

"You didn't answer my question"

"You didn't answer mine" he smirks, plucking a sushi roll and plopping into his mouth. "I brought you some too come eat" he mumbles, his cheeks puffed as he chewed. I growl in frustration and take one. "Well?"

"Yes I've worked on the song" I grumble, remembering the furious drunk scribbling I did last night in anger. Yoongi swallowed, taking a drink from his cup and dusted his hands on his pants.

"Let's see then" he asks, and I walk over to my desk and snatch the papers and handed them to him. He raised his eyebrows at me, before scanning the angry lyrics. I knew what they were, those were the one thing I remember about last night. The lyrics spoke of harsh love, love that wasn't reciprocated and the pain of having to watch him move about and not do anything about it. I suddenly realized the inspiration of the song was reading it, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth formed the words. I grew nervous, wanting to know what was running through his head. He read through them twice before handing them back to me.

"They're very meaningful, full of emotion. I'd tweak the grammar a bit and take out a couple of repitions" he says, but his mouth moved as if he wanted to ask something else. His tone was guarded and he took another sushi roll and chewed it. I nod, returning the paper to the desk. The silence that followed was awkward. Yoongi wanted to ask something, I could see it in his eyes. It did nothing more than agitate my already hostile mood with him. He chewed the sushi in silence, eyeing me as I watched cars come and go out the window above my desk. It got to much.

"Just ask what you want to ask Yoongi" I sigh, turning to look at him. He seemed embarrassed that I had caught him, but as he eyed me, his nervousness quickly snapped and he spoke.

"Is the song about the guy you're with?" He asks, tone cold and judging.

"What guy?" I frown at him, halfly with exasperation

"The Panda Express guy" he said impatiently, like I was an idiot of some sort. My eyes widened and a blush rose on my cheeks.

"I'm not seeing the Panda Express guy Yoongi" I growl.

"Are you sure?" His tone mocking.

"Positive."

"Then what are the looks he gives you every time we go out after a session?"he accuses. I groan, this boy. He acts almost like he's jealous. Which couldn't be true considering the activities he had partaken in merely 12 or so hours ago.

"That's what they are Yoongi. Looks. He kept trying to ask me out but I turned him down. He thinks we have something special after we drunkenly kissed at a friends party over a year ago" I scoff. Yoongi squinted at me, trying to see if I was telling the truth.

"Jimin?" I groan, wanting to strangle him.

"Just a friend"

"You sure?" His tone was sharp "you seemed awful cozy last night"

"Dammit Yoongi I don't like Jimin! I don't like the Panda Express guy! I've never done more than kiss a guy so stop treating me like I'm some common whore" I yell, fists clenching in anger. Yoongi blinked, taken aback my my outburst. He looked guilty for a split second, and he eyed me. I blushed, realizing I had admitted my viginity to a guy who had probably taken many.

"You've never had sex?" He asks after a pause. I turn my eyes to the ground, not meeting his gaze

"No. Never found a guy I liked enough to do things with" I mumble. I didn't like the silence. That all that seemed to be happening were bouts of awkward and tension-filled silence. I just wish he'd speak. Yoongi was always bad with words, except when he was rapping. Then he could spit out words faster than I could comprehend.

"Neither have I" I was caught in my thoughts that I almost missed him saying it. I looked at him, and he looked back. This pissed me off. I balled my fists, walking over to him, and grabbed him by his hoodie. He yelped as I dragged him towards the door. The shock must have allowed me to do so, considering Yoongi was taller than me and more built. I shoved him towards the door.

"Get out" I snap. "I don't want you here again. If all you're going to do is patronize me and slut shame me and tell lies then I don't want you here. Ever" Yoongi sputtered at me

"What are you-"

"No!" I cut him off "you don't get to listen to me announce my intact viginity only for you to reply with you haven't had sex either" I growl, pointing my finger in his face.

"I havent-"

"Liar! You had your tongue down some poor girls throat just last night! I saw you so I dare you to deny it" I hiss. He swallowed cautiously.

"I won't deny it, but I didn't have sex with her" I snort and he glared at me. "it's true. I was going to, but I stopped. I always stop. I can't bring myself to do it" he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. I frown, not fully believing him. He always had girls at parties, every single time. He'd take a girl upstairs, and now he's trying to say he's never slept with them? I was doubtful.

"Why do you stop? They're pretty and eager" I ask

"Because I don't like them. I don't want to have sex with someone I don't care about. It needs to mean something." He says. I study him before replying. He seemed honest and genuine, I didn't see a trace of a lie on his features. My next question I knew would anger him, it was a touchy subject, but I couldn't deny my jealousy that wiggled it's way into my head.

"The girl in the song you wrote for, is she special?" I ask. Yoongi's gaze was intense, and I had to will myself not to look away. I stared into his brown eyes as he spoke.

"More than she could possibly know" he says, his voice low and calm. The air sparked with a new kind of tension, created from his words and gaze. It sent pickles of emotion up my spine and caused a round of goose bumps to grace my arms. The jealousy egged me on, I wanted to know more about this girl that apparently plagued his thoughts enough to have a song written for her. Did she know about the crush Yoongi was harboring so deeply for her? Maybe not, or they'd be together already.

I didn't realize how close Yoongi was to me. His face hovered inches away from mine. I could feel the exhaled breath fan across my face and the heat his skin put off warm the air between us. It chilled me, him being so close and my cheeks spread with warmth as I realized he hadn't broken eye contact. He licked his lips, and leaned forward just slightly, his breath setting me aflame.

The loud sound of a phone ringing caused us to jump. Yoongi stumbled back into the door and I turned to find the offending noise. Yoongi phone was vibrating and ringing nest to the food and drinks. I tried to still my rapid hear beating as Yoongi quickly walked over to it, picking it up and answering it.

"Hello?" His voice was higher pitched and his cheeks were flushed pink. Incomprehensible words came from the other side. Yoongi hummed "okay I'm in my way. Try to get him not to move it" he says and hangs up. He glanced at me "I need to go"

"What happened?" I ask, instantly worried. He wrinkled his nose

"Namjoon's roommate, Seokjin, got his hand caught in the sink. Reached down to grab something and it got stuck. I need to go help get it out while Namjoon panics unnecessarily" he says. I open my mouth to respond, to tell him I wanted to come, but he was already out the door with a quick slam and a rushing sound of clothing, leaving me alone and confused.

28 notes · View notes

muzeez · 5 years ago

Text

Sunday

10th May 2020

Sunday

21:22

Today has been cloudy and windy and guess what?? There's been no sign of Henrietta, Merlin, Persia or Folie. They've kept their behinds indoors all day long. It's not rained and it's not been cold but it's not been good enough for them.

So, a cloudy sky and a slight wind can keep them indoors but the thought of a killer disease that they could inadvertently kill others with can't keep them indoors. Which just proves my point. Most people will only play by their own rules, no matter how dangerous the consequences are to others. Yet, they'll be the very ones what bang on the most about how much they care about the NHS and moan about how lockdown is affecting them so badly. When the sun's been out they've not even tried to stay inside. They've just been doing what they've always done on a sunny day and today they've done what they've always done on a non-sunny day.

I've still had to have my white noise playing all day though because Henrietta has been "facetiming" and talking loudly and obnoxiously. At about 5pm ish,I turned my white noise off because I needed to phone Rasbach about something.

As soon as I turned it off, the first thing I noticed was that Henrietta was totally silent.??! Makes me wonder if she can hear my white noise and because she knows her voice isn't reaching me she gives up. Bitch!! Another thing I've noticed is that when I play my white noise, the window and door banging seems to begin. Henrietta with her windows (it can be like 6 or 7 window shutting slams all consecutive and aggressive. She's only got three windows.) Then there's Persia and Folie with the slamming of the doors. Then there's Merlin with his feet and thuds, like he's dropping a bowling ball on the floor.

It might sound like paranoia on my part when I say this but I believe they're all secretly messaging eachother in spite of and against me.

Maybe I am a little bit paranoid but I'm certainly not stupid. Not entirely anyway. 😂

At seven o'clock I turned it onto BBC1 because Boris Johnson was doing a speech about taking steps to lift the lockdown. Suddenly, Henrietta started talking loud!!

'Bitch!' I thought to myself. Shows you how little of a f**k she gives about what's going on. Her facetiming is more important than the information we're about to receive on coming out of lockdown. Also, I found it odd that she would start smack on seven o'clock.

I turned the tele up so her high pitch, irritating, aggressive, nasal voice wasn't cutting into Boris's words but I could still hear her. I sighed in exasperation and jumped to my feet (without making a thud on the floor... it's possible) and went to my little stereo to put my white noise on. It's only that that seems to drowned her out. Cue the banging and the slamming. The white noise doesn't drown that out.

If I ever confront them. I say 'them' because they're in a click and I know that if I'm confronting one they'll all be jumping in. If I confront them about things, they'll probably turn around and be like, 'oh what about you, the other day, slamming your door and screaming and what about when you play your music and what about that white noise and what about when you're talking.

Door slamming and screaming abuse. There's a big difference between one off episodes of out of control rage and malicious, continuous deliberate banging and slamming and talking loud on a daily basis.

Playing my music and singing. I play my music at a reasonable time during the day at a volume that I'm entitled to play it at that time of day. I've never played my music late at night, which funnily enough Henrietta has, when she's had karaoke parties and Merlin has on a couple of occasions on a Saturday and Friday nights through to daylight. Which, I don't mind, music is a good thing but don't dare have a go at me for playing mine loud during the day.

White Noise. Henrietta, you talk extremely loudly and not just on one off occasions. Ev-er-y single day for 10 whole years. Somedays, I've known you to start your "facetiming" at 8am in the morning and you'll carry on all through the day, through to the evening and you've even carried on till after 12 midnight, shouting and laughing and making childish yobbish jeering noises like you're in the middle of a bustling nightclub. Over the years it's contributed to me drinking, developing ear infections because of using blu-tac as earplugs. These things have played a massive part in me having massive mood swings at work, to me becoming ill and being, I'll be totally honest, Mentally Unstable, you know, over a long stretch of time. Earlier this year, I discovered that white noise is the only thing that has drowned you out and stopped me having to have my tv on so loud. After 10 years of suffering with your shouting Henrietta and your constant heavy footed pacing the floor, you are not going to make out my white noise, which is a neutral noise by the way, is bothering you.

As for me talking. Again, there's a big difference between one off conversations I have on my phone, one off rants that I'll admit I've had, due to the exasperation you guys have put me through and constant agitated shouting, childish jeering, heavy footed pacing, loud SEX, (yes I heard that). Things which are constant and relentless and I feel alot of the time malicious and deliberately inconsiderate. There's a massive difference between my noise and your noise. Mainly because it's your noise that has triggered the majority of my noise and I'm NOT doing mine out of malice.

Also, don't get me started with drunken returns from the pub with Jack the drunk. Screaming abuse effing and blinding, dropping trails of kebab meat allover the foyer, crashing into the walls. Those haven't been one offs either, they've been every single night. Late.

Then there's Persia. Folie's not always been on the scene but having Persia next door has had more than it's fair shares of trouble. Different boyfriend every month, thugs trying to kick her door in then making gun gestures towards MY window shouting 'WATCH! WATCH!" Blatant drug purchases right outside the building.

All that what I've had to put up with from you guys and then you all wanna get into a little exclusive click with eachother, clapping for the NHS but then creating your own rules when it comes to lockdown , so-called "social distance" gatherings right outside my window and outside the main entrance of the building where other people have to pass you all, attracting other individuals from other buildings to approach, chatting, faces uncovered, 2 metre rules gradually turning into 1 metre, drinking alcohol. You welcome Asbo George with open arms who lives God knows where and who once threatened to smash my face in and put my windows through and doesn't even fucking LIVE HERE.

You're all laughing and joking and being boisterous, then I stop by for 5 seconds on my way to get essentials and you're putting on an amicable act but I'm picking up on all the little mannerisms and body language and you allowed that Bastard Asbo George to start having a go at me about stuff at work, which he's totally wrong on and slagging off my friend Rasbach then waving sarcastically at me when I go inside.

All these subtle shady behaviours all because what? Because you've maybe heard some raw hometruths about yourselves in my one off meltdowns. Which you can't prove I was talking about any of you anyway because I don't mention people's real names when I'm ranting or talking on the phone when it comes to complaints. So, if you think you've heard your name you've MISheard but that's what happens when you evesdrop, you can get the wrong end of the stick (apart from when I hear someone telling someone else that I work at ******* and mimicking a banging noise just after I had banged on the floor.) And even IF I had used your proper names, so fucking what? I'm saying nothing that isn't true and what I've suffered, at your hands, this last ten years totally outweighs any anything you can say against me. I'm not saying I'm perfect but I'm pretty damn fucking close. Because I think, I'm a thinker, I take people to heart, I learn people's names, I'm aware of people and who they are as people. I don't have a desire to mess with people's heads, I don't set out to manipulate people or make friends with a person just for the sake of alienating another. I set out to treat everyone with respect and like human beings because I am one.

So, maybe it's about time you as my neighbours started taking a leaf out of my book and stop acting territorial over a building that we are ALL tenants in. You don't own the outside of this building, just you four. There's other people that live here including me and you need to stop being clicky with eachother, so you think you've got the power to behave as you want, sit where you want and ostracize people just because you don't like the look of their face. Everybody here is a tennant and everybody is a human being with equal rights and if I'm forced to confront any of you again about your unreasonable, inconsiderate persecutory behaviour, towards me or any of the other tennants and you try again to argue with me and throw things back at me, I will report you without any hesitation and I won't be as polite as I'm being now.

Maybe you can start behaving right now by getting your arses indoors and abiding PROPERLY to these lockdown regulations.

Don't make me suggest it twice. 😁😁😁😁😁

Oh and Henrietta, if Asbo George turns up, you ignore the door because he's nothing but a user and a bully. I know you've been letting him in your flat and I also know that deep down you are worried about your health and Coronavirus but you feel you can't say no to him and to looking after his dog. If he starts being persistent you call the police. Don't let him push you around. He's an arsehole and if the police are useless or he starts turning nasty and I have to come downstairs and run his ugly arse out the building, I will. Because right now, I'm in the fucking mood cos if he thinks he can be threatening and intimidating, I'll show him threatening and intimidating. In fact, I'll make it so he daren't even show his claaart passed his own front door.

0 notes

kyberled · 8 years ago

Note

sends you this from my main bc i'm lazy garbage BUT consider this: Obi and Braig, "Five Times Survived. (or not.)"

Send “Five Times ______ed” for a Drabble of 5 different times our characters… did that. || Accepting

Five Times Survived (Or Not).

The first time Braig was sure he was about to die was on his Gathering. He would remember those chunks of ice falling away from his feet for years to come. He would remember the dark tunnels, the frost, the struggle to find his way out once he’d found his crystals. He would remember the blizzard lashing his skin and the way the world blurred under the icicles forming on his lashes. But, he would also remember the feelings of triumph and excitement, he would remember what it was like to build his sabers the first time, to spar with his friends with his sabers, to feel like a real Jedi. More than anything, he remembers the look of pride on his future mentor’s face when he congratulated Braig on a job well done. He would disregard the pain he had been through, and count it as one of the best days of his life.

The second time he very nearly died was in the ruins of Geonosis, and he vowed to himself that he would never return there for as long as he lived. … Though, perhaps he wasn’t being entirely fair. Yes, his torment had technically begun in those damnable catacombs, but it had been on the flight back when things had gone so wrong, so fast. Sometimes, he could swear he still hear the creature chittering, screeching its triumph as the most basic of freedoms was stripped from him, as his limbs moved and his mouth spoke without his consent. If he hadn’t been killed by the worm itself, he would have died by a blaster or saber if anyone figured out what he was, or if he managed to tell anyone. And he would have told them, if he could - he just wanted it to be over. And then the cold came. The cold, so chilling it dug into his bones, into his core. Cold enough that he could feel the moisture in his eyes freezing over, felt the air burn with every breath he was forced to draw, and felt the parasite scream its agony and rage and thrash and scratch and grind its sarlacc-esque teeth against the inside of his skull and it hurt so badly he couldn’t tell if it was of his own will or the parasite’s when he clutched his head and fell to his knees, and he was sure that he or it or both had screamed, and then everything was dark.

He had thought he had died, then, and mused to himself that the Netherworld was a lot plainer than what he’d expected it to be. Then he noticed that his neck was stiff, and hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with it for the rest of eternity. A frown flitted across his face, and he rolled his neck to banish the discomfort, and the floodgates of stimuli opened. The dark quickly faded into a painful, near-blinding white, and his chest burned a bit and every single joint in his body felt stiff, and he let out a groan that mingled with a soft, electronic hum that seemed to be coming from somewhere far off, and his face scrunched in confusion before a thought struck him and he froze, eyes stuck on a random spot of the wall. He pauses like that for a moment, breathing unsteady and soft, and voice barely a whisper louder.

“… I can’t hear it moving.”

It takes him another moment to realise that the thought was vocalised.

That he’d been able to say it himself.

His hand raised to his mouth, then pulled away. He slowly curled his hand into a fist, then let his fingers unfurl, and he would have laughed out loud if attempting to hadn’t sent him into a coughing fit. It took him a moment to catch his breath, but by the time he had settled, there was a gentle hand on his back, comforting and supporting, and he looked up into the familiar eyes of his master, and clung to the familiar cream fabric as best he could in his weakened state - but it was his own doing, so he was content.

He had survived.

The third time, it wasn’t him who had survived.

He remembered begging, pleading, screaming to the Force to give him his master, his mentor, his father back, but it hadn’t answered.

Not until now.

He had imagined, on those nights he had allowed himself to dream of a happier reality, when he had been so desperate for a balm that he would accept the increase in agony such thoughts brought with them, what it would be like to have a reunion with his master. He had never had an explanation for how Obi-Wan had been pulled out of the Force, since everyone knew the dead didn’t come back, not really. He didn’t need one, not when it was just an escape. He always imagined it being likely more emotional than either of them would have allowed (Or, more than Obi-Wan would allow, anyway), with tears, spine-crushing hugs, apologies on both of their behalves, Obi-Wan repeating that familiar reassurance of ‘I’ll never leave you’, and everything would be okay again, and he could put this all behind him.

It hadn’t happened like that.

Not in real life.

Instead, he found himself looking up into the eyes of a stranger (a stranger he would have gladly killed, even only moments ago), and being told that it had all been a lie.

Obi-Wan had never been dead. None of it had been real.

The world seemed to spin around him, swaying like an inebriated dancer, and he took a half-step back to steady himself.

None of it was real, but…

But it had felt real. The funeral, the grief, the… The body. The body had felt real, and heavy, and dead in his arms, and that had been real. He had reached out into the Force without thought, had found it empty and unforgiving, and that had been real. He had mourned, and grieved, and tried his best to honour the master he had thought lost, and that had been real…

Except that it hadn’t.

There were no hugs in this reunion, no warm embraces to chase away the chill of loss. The man before him reached to put a hand on Braig’s shoulder, and the padawan pulled away as though he’d just been scalded, muscles tensed and stance guarded.

“Braig, please, I was only doing what was necessary,” the stranger’s voice said, still masked in an assassin’s guise.

“What was necessary?” He’s not shouting, is far too exhausted for that. Instead, his voice is incredulous, dancing on the egg shells he had been treading on so carefully before.

There are no tears in this reunion, much as he’d like to cry, to scream, to yell and lash out; But there are other Jedi, here, and he’s not sure he could handle another lecture, not now. He’s quite sure that the heartbreak, the betrayal, the pain and shock and anger etched itself clearly into his face, despite how he struggled to keep his composure (and it was a struggle, a battle he knew he was losing in spite of his best efforts). Air was a had thing to come by, but he did his best to draw in one strained lungful after another to keep his composure from shattering right there.

“I’m so sorry,” says the stranger who had once been a father, “but, I had to– If there was any other way, trust me, I–”

“I did trust you!” Now Braig was shouting, and the Force around him snarled along in time. He holds that ice-blue stare, more alien than any distant planet, and he’s not sure if he’s shaking or not, but he knows there are eyes on them, and he can’t help but feel ashamed. Brown eyes flick down, then once again look up to meet his master’s gaze, the fire from before had faded, just slightly.

“I did trust you,” he repeated, voice dropping to a more reasonable volume as he exhaled a shaky breath. “But you taught me never to make the same mistake twice.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left.

Braig had survived.

Obi-Wan had survived.

But something had died that night, and Braig wasn’t sure it was ever coming back.

The fourth time, he had still bee nursing his wounds when the Force around him tensed. Kamino had been a makeshift sanctuary for him, taking comfort in the presence of the other half of his makeshift parentage, in the distance between himself and the Order.

The quarters he’d been afforded were spartan, but that was nothing new; In fact, he thought that this room was bigger, and possibly nicer, than the cells the padawans slept in back home. It even had a desk, and that was where he had himself stationed, now - comm placed neatly in the corner, in case he was needed, pens lined up to be parallel with the desk’s edge, notebook open to one of the few blank pages left (he’d have to go shopping, soon, and get some fresh ones added in). He’d been sitting like that, tip of the black-inked disposable pen hovering over the slightly-worn page, for the better part of five minutes; with a frustrated sigh, he dropped the pen into the spine of the book and his head into his hands, propping his elbows on the desk.

It was hard to organise one’s thoughts when one didn’t even know what they were.

He stayed in that defeated position for a moment longer, until the disturbance rippled through the Force around him, and he started, just slightly, looking up and around with a furrowed brow. He waited for a moment, and a similar jolt pinged on the edge of his senses, and he stood - another jolt - and walked quickly to the door, leaving his notebook behind for the time being. Lingering in the open doorway, he glanced around the hall, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. A passing trooper offered a greeting, and he gave a distracted response, staring at the floor with an utterly perplexed expression before retreating back into his room, ignoring the desk and sitting cross-legged on the floor instead, closing his eyes, breathing deeply, and concentrating. … No new disturbances came. A frown painted itself across his features, and he was left only with the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Later that evening, after he’d gone about his duties (he wasn’t staying for free, after all), he’d been getting ready for bed when the disturbances returned with a vengeance. Far from simple tugs and annoyances, there was actual pain associated with these. He wasn’t sure when he’d leaned on the wall for support, or when his senses had left him, but blinking focus back into his eyes saw him surveying his room, one hand braced on his hairline as though warding off a migraine.

He doesn’t wait for the next sensation to start packing. His pack slung haphazardly over his shoulder, he was already striding down the hallway, wondering where he might find Master Shaak, when he nearly walked into her. He couldn’t hide the concern on his face as he looked up to her.

“I have to get back to Coruscant.”

It was a short flight.

Short, tense, and quiet.

Braig thanked the soldier who had served as pilot, but kept his worried expression all the way to the quarters he shared with his master. He didn’t bother to unpack his belongings, simply threw the bag down by his cot and set about pacing, pushing his hands through his hair. He’d made it this far, but, now what? He knew something was wrong, he could sense it likely involved Obi-Wan, but, what could he do? Ask the Council? Yes, because they’d proven themselves to be such beacons of truth in the recent past… How did he even know the disturbances were real? Whose funeral would he be forced to endure, this time–?

The door opened.

The sight of his beaten, bloodied mentor was enough to banish scepticism from his mind, and there was only a heartbeat before he flung himself forwards and wrapped arms around Obi-Wan’s torso. He didn’t say anything; didn’t think he could, not yet. He only held on more tightly, even for the brief moment of shock that seemed to overcome his mentor, before Obi-Wan returned the embrace. It would be a long time before they would be back to where they had been - if they ever could go back - but, they had survived. Somehow. They had survived.

By the fifth time, things still hadn’t gotten better.

… Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

Things were still tense, even between Obi-Wan and Cody, but they had improved, even if a little bit. Of course, upon reflection, Braig had to agree that saving the Chancellor had been top priority, but he still didn’t agree with the methods. Surely, something else could have been done…

He looked up from where he was kneeling with his scopes, down the ridge to where Obi-Wan was standing with one group of the 212th. Cody was on the far side with his own detachment, and then Braig had his own group on the far eastern side. Still within eyesight of each other, but at a decent enough distance to allow them to cover the entire ravine. Braig pressed his mouth into a thin line, then stood and turned as much as he could without losing his balance to gaze out at the village they had been tasked with defending. He could see no life in the streets; the locals must have gone inside to wait out the coming battle. The Separatists were no threat to take lightly, especially under the officer who had been sent to this planet - General Grau Tessk again, Braig reminded himself, remembering the Trandoshan Separatist’s cruel fangs and crueller tactics from the last time he and Obi-Wan had crossed fire with Tessk’s droids. There was no way he could let that cold-blooded filth sink his claws into the innocents here…

“Sir!” The sudden voice broke through his thoughts, and Braig looked up, straightening his posture, to see one of the men saluting. “Artillery is in position, waiting orders, sir!”

“Good,” Braig nodded, clipping his scopes to his belt and folding his hands behind his back. “Thank you, Steppes.” Steppes nodded, and his posture seemed to relax now that his message had been delivered.

“It’s going to be a hard battle,” Braig remarked, letting his eyes sweep over the ravine, to where the cliffs dropped away to divide the dried-up gulch into three sections. “But I think we’ll be able to outlast it.”

“We’ll do our best, Commander.” Steppes replied, taking a few paces forwards to stand a bit closer to the sheer drop of the cliff’s face.

“That’s all I can ask of you.” Braig nodded. “That, and to make sure the medkits are ready. I don’t want any unnecessary casualties, so make sure the bacta is set and easy to find, and everyone knows where it is. … And remember, unless I say otherwise, I want you all up here. It’ll be easier, and safer, for you all to pick the clankers off at a long range. They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Yes, sir.” Steppes saluted again, turned, and jogged over to where the rest of the men were gathered. Braig couldn’t keep the hints of a fond smile off his face as he shook his head, then took his scopes back out and returned to surveying the area. Noting that nothing had changed, he shifted his gaze up, and noticed Cody doing a similar sweep of their surroundings. When it looked like the Commander’s gaze was in his direction, Braig waved, then turned out to the future battlefield again - noticed a dark mass advancing on the horizon.

“Here they come, boys!” He called over his shoulder, before flicking his comm on. “We’ve got company.”

“I see ‘em, too.” Cody’s voice was grim; the model soldier in his element.

“Well, at the very least, they’re punctual,” Obi-Wan commented, his own tone jovial. Braig snorted.

“How kind of them.” He remarked, then clicked his comm off. It joined his scopes on his belt, and his sabers found their way to his hands. The hordes were advancing quickly, for a droid army, so they had a good few minutes to get into their respective positions. Braig measured each breath, counting down from ten.

When he got to three, he crouched, and by two, he was already airborne, descending rapidly as amethyst blades screamed to life. His feet hit the ground in time with the heads of the droids unlucky enough to have been in his path. Blasters fired off - blue and red painting orange sandstone. Fire from the artillery above peppered the ground, thinning out crowds in front of Braig, set to cut down any who might have tried to make it past. Parry. Deflect, duck, impale. Evade, behead, backhand. It was a dance long since memorised, movements learned in time with his first steps, and he found himself feeling more comfortable and at home than he had in so long. Sidestep, slash. Rollers came; a B2 unit made a convenient stand before his sabers buried themselves in its back, and he stepped carefully onto the Roller’s back (mindful of the speed limit on the shield - a blessing, really). The droid reacted nearly instantly (improved programming?) and he jumped, letting its momentum propel him forward to drive plasma blades into a set of B1s just ahead. A shout from above and a flicker of motion alerted him to the droid poppers being hurled down; a sway of his hand had the Force guiding the EMP grenades just into the Rollers’ path with a satisfying boom. Focus had been aimed elsewhere- A shot whizzed by his head, and he cursed, loudly - enjoying the freedom of fighting on his own, yes, but damning himself for having been so careless. His ear stung slightly where the heat of the bolt had burned it, but he reminded himself to be happy he was alive. Dodge, roll, remove legs, stab. Duck. How often had he done this? Too often. Block, stab, deflect, deflect, counter. Another shout from overhead, and a familiar whoosh - vulture droids. No matter; the 212th would be ready.Artillery shifted fire with a mighty roar, and the shining weapons dropped from the skies like stone from all directions (looks like Cody and Gramps were having just as much fun as he was). Jump, stab. Turn, slash, guard, spin, slash. He grit his teeth in frustration when he had to jump back, catching a B2 that had almost gotten past. There was no way any bucket of bolts would hurt that village, as long as he drew breath. Another leap forward saw his knees colliding with a B1, blades on either side making short work of two identical units before he stood, turning to remove the head from the one he had knocked over. A vulture droid flew over head; A rapid series of brilliant blue lights brought it screeching down. It collided with the ravine wall, not far off from where Braig was; He cursed again when rubble fell, having to turn rapidly to avoid being shot in yet another lapse in concentration. The amount of droids flooding into the gap was beginning to get overwhelming; how many of them could have gotten here? He couldn’t afford any more breaks in focus. Stab, block block, deflect, block, slice– He turned to deal with another incoming Destroyer, nearly lost his footing on some of the smaller debris, and yelped when a bolt connected with his arm. A snarl saw the Force throwing the aggressor back, and Braig had to force the pain down, as best he could.

Even with such focus, a damaged arm was a damaged arm, and his technique was slipping accordingly.

“Kriff,” he said plainly, quite glad that Cody wasn’t in earshot. Another set of vulture droids came overhead; as Surefire turned his canon loose on it, Braig’s eyes flicked to the rubble behind him, to his arm - he wouldn’t be able to fight the droids off for much longer, not like this.

But a Jedi’s duty was to protect.

If he must give his life to save another, then that was his fate.

He didn’t give himself time to think as he threw the Force around the now-flaming vulture and hurled it against the other side of the ravine, ad another wave of rubble cascaded down. A B2 was slashed across the front with his sabers before being subjected to a similar fate, and that seemed to be enough to trigger the desired result. With a roar like thousands of thunderclaps, the cliff face gave way, and a wall of rock rushed down, cutting off the droids’ route to the village.

“May the Force be with you all,” he murmured, a quiet prayer that Obi-Wan and Cody’s fight be going better than his. He could hear, over the comm-channel set up with his men, frantic yelling, demands to know what he thought he was doing, but he didn’t respond, only turned to face the droids with the resolve of someone who is sure of his own impending end. He gave up on his damaged arm, let his sabers interlock into a staff to do what he could one-handed. Blaster fire still rained around him. He held his ground only a moment longer before being caught in the leg, then the ribs. With a defiant snarl, he dropped, tried to stand and failed. Closed his eyes.

He wished he could have been with somebody, when this happened, rather than surrounded by lifeless droids.

He wished he could have told someone.

Told Obi-Wan that he was sorry for how he acted, for being so childish, for saying those things he said. To tell him that he was grateful for all the old Master had done for him over the years.

Told the men that this wasn’t their fault, and that he was proud of them.

Told Cody that he was the finest soldier and best brother Braig ever could have asked for - but not to tell Wolffe that. Just in case.

Told Master Shaak thank-you, for being so caring, even when she hadn’t been his master.

He wished he could have seen the look on Grau’s face when Obi-Wan and Cody and the men inevitably drove his forces back.

But, more than anything, he wished–

Another bolt.

Silence.

The fifth time, he had not been so lucky.

The Force accepted its child back without fuss; the battered form in the ravine was empty long before it fell to the dirt.

…

He wished he could say good-bye.

#long post //#death //#child death //#<3 #ectochoir #does this need a read-more??#idk it's late #if you guys want one here lemme know #i will edit tomorrow if i edit at all (i probably wont we die like men)#&& brave new worlds; padawan #&& to make you proud; braig and obi wan #&& far far away; drabbles #&& as best i can; answers

1 note · View note