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roonotrue · 8 months ago

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Cult of the Lamb: Redemption Chapter #3

TW: Graphic depictions of injuries and wounds.

Patience - Lamb

Words hurt.

The Lamb knew this. They've seen the way words cut.

The way they stun people, leave them speechless, and then send the world crashing down on them in one swift, and lethal blow.

But they've never felt it themselves until now.

They never wanted things to turn out like this. They never asked for this... They just wanted to live. To be happy. To be free.

But now?

They have the weight of everything they've built on their shoulders. They want to keep their cult safe. Their followers, and friends- dare they say, family.

They want to keep them happy, and well.

So when The One Who- Narinder... When he demanded they...

After everything they've been through, with the scar on their neck proof of their first execution, he demanded that they go through it again? And Lamb so foolishly...

Perhaps they were naive from the start to have trusted him. To have thought that in comparison to the other gods of the land that had ordered the genocide of his kind... He was... Better.

Naive to think that Narinder was different. A good god, locked away by the evil ones, and that they were some kind of shining lamb knight, meant to free him, and restore peace... It was such a childish idea.

Narinder had been no better than the Bishops. Just desperate for power, no matter how much blood was spilled to get it.

They had thought that maybe in the end, if they had spared him, he would...

They feel so stupid.

Standing outside of Narinder's shelter, back against the wall, and hand over their slammed-shut eyes, trying to stop the tears.

The former god of death would never change. He is still just so angry.

~~~

"Be patient, Lamb. He's spent so long festering in his rage, and it is going to take a long time for him to learn how to live a life without it." Ratau pat their shoulder after a long game of knucklebones that they ultimately lost.

They have spent more than half of it complaining about the feline ex-god and the hell he had given them over simply eating.

"I'm trying, but it's me! He hates me! He's never going to understand why I did what I did or that I... That I actually do care about..." Him.

That they care about him.

He had been their savior. Giving them a second chance, and a third, and fourth, and fifth. Every time they died during a crusade, he was there. To greet them, and bring them back.

Sometimes they would talk. Narinder would listen to them, give advice, laugh at their jokes...

They thought he cared... They had certainly cared. They cared so, so much.

The One Who Waits was one of the only beings who truly understood what they were going through. He had been kind to them...

~~~

It was all a facade though. They see that now. Or, hell, perhaps they had just been delusional. Perhaps it was always just a one-sided illusion, them thinking the world of someone who truly hadn't cared at all.

Perhaps they shouldn't have spared him.

Saved them both the agony they're in now...

"I hate you. I will always hate you. No matter how desperately you try to prove yourself to me, I have nothing left in my heart but resentment, and anger when I see you. You, from this moment on, will be nothing but the bane of my fucking immortal existence."

Narinder's words repeat in their head like a mantra.

Hate. He hates them.

~~~

"Empathize with him." Noon remarked, turning the page of his lavender leather-covered book that Lamb had found in Silk Cradle for them.

"What?" Their head jolted to him, staring like the white rabbit had grown a second head.

"Empathize, Lamb. I know he's being difficult, Theyra and Una were talking earlier about how you snapped at him through the door, but he's... Adjusting. Just try thinking about things from his point of view. He's lost everything, and now you have it. I can't imagine that would be easy for anyone, no matter what kind of person they are, good or evil." He looks up at them, and they turn their gaze to the ground, mulling over the words.

"I can do that easily enough... How do I get him to see things my way though? How do I get him to..."

Forgive me...

"Patience. I know it's not your strong suit, but I have faith in you. I'd be a pretty shitty follower if I didn't."

~~~

Empathize. Just. Empathize.

He's angry. So be patient. He's in pain, and from what they can tell from his physical wounds, a lot of it, so emotionally? They can only guess.

Not to mention he still hasn't eaten in a while, so he's probably hangry too.

They take deep, steadying breaths, and let a cool breeze dry their eyes as they do. They still wipe their face as they walk back inside, and see Narinder sunken in on himself in the bed.

He looks so... Small like this. His former white and red robes were abandoned near the bottom of the bed on the floor. Dirty and unpleasant smelling, he had probably thrown them off when he first went to bed.

His wounds aren't bleeding. They can only guess that they had partially healed when he had been spared, and they had indoctrinated them, hence why they weren't obvious when he first arrived.

Then again, they were still too hazy and flooded with adrenaline and mixed emotions to even want to look at Narinder when they were showing him to his shelter.

A part of them wants to leave this whole ordeal for tomorrow after all the feline had dealt with it for this long...

But with how gruesome the injuries look, even with the way he's protectively hunched over trying to hide them, Lamb knows they have to treat them today. No matter how painfully Narinder's words had lashed him.

They're sure the cat has much harsher ones in store for the future, so they need to start growing thick skin now. Those ones had just...

"I have nothing left in my heart but resentment..."

Taken them by surprise.

Narinder is staring down at his wrists, and though his ears flick towards their footsteps, they don't look at them.

"That food was awful." He growls instead, but his voice has lost its venom.

And from the way his head falls back as Lamb sits, and moves to take his arm, it's apparent that the fight is gone from him for now. Now he just looks tired, and bitter.

As if the toxin on his tongue from earlier left a bad taste in even his own mouth.

Or perhaps he was just coming to terms with this whole situation. Whatever the case, they don't feel like speculating what's going on in their head right now. They just want to throw the bandages on and call it a day.

"I figured you didn't care for it. I'll see about finding something else for you once this is taken care of." They reply numbly.

They cradle his arm in their hand, looking over the damage. They'll start with his arms, and then worry about asking to fix up his chest and neck. They doubt he'll let them anywhere near his throat though.

"Something with less flavor. I haven't eaten in a long time, never needed to, and now everything tastes insultingly overwhelming." He adds as they grab a dry rag and lean down to dip it into the water.

"Well, I won't add any seasoning, just cook it, and we'll see if that'll help..." They dab the cloth on the worst of the wounds, his wrist.

They're slow and careful in their movements, rubbing away the dryer blood around the scabbed wound, trying not to agitate it.

But when they see traces of dirt within the scabs and deeper parts of the injury...

"This might hurt a bit, just hold still, okay?" They carefully soak the rag, wring out some of the water in the injury, trying to flush out the dirt first.

Anything that doesn't get out, they cringe as they have to dig deeper with the rag to clear it. They can feel Narinder's arm shaking in their hold, and try to tune out the small hisses as they work.

"What food do you prefer? Or well, what kind did you like before you were chained up?" They try to continue the conversation to distract him.

After a moment of silence, they're not sure that he's going to answer...

"Fish. I don't mind most meat, but fish was always my first choice." He sighs, right as they pull away, finished with his wrist.

They move up his arm, following the pattern left there by the chains. Their arms flinch and jerk every so often as they do. Still, as careful as they are, some of the harder-to-clean, deeper areas start bleeding again.

"I should have guessed, you are a cat, god or not. Many cat followers prefer meat, and love it when I return from a fishing trip with enough fish for a whole feast." That was the wrong thing to say.

"Do not compare me to one of your peasant followers." They feel that correcting him and reminding him that technically he is a follower now would just be petty.

...

"Technically-"

"Don't." As if sensing it from a mile away, the former death god shuts it down, and Lamb can't help but crack a smile.

They continue to wash, now having to go back every so often to wipe away the fresh blood as well.

"I'm almost done with your lower arm, can I move closer for your upper arm?" They're already slowly shuffling forward, but pause to await his approval.

Looking up at him, they notice he's closed his eyes, his head resting back against the wall behind him. They make a mental note to get him a proper headboard.

Maybe something wooden, with a nice carving on it.

His brows are still furrowed, and even though he looks far more relaxed than earlier, there is still anger... Like it's embedded itself in his face deeper than his wounds.

"Narinder?" Their voice is a whisper, and he peeks open his left eye, humming a soft acknowledgment.

"Can I move closer?" They repeat, suddenly frozen by his gaze.

As if he was still towering over them.

"Do what you must, just hurry up already. I'm still hungry." He closes his eyes again, and the lamb quickly shuffles closer and sets back to work.

The rest of the next fifteen or so minutes is spent in silence. Lamb finishes with their left arm and moves to grab one of the jars of salve.

"What is that?" Narinder perks up, ears and eyes darting to the sound of them unscrewing the jar.

"This? Just some medicinal salve, made from camellias and some other herbs that Miki says help stop any infection and speed up the healing process." It's a smooth, transparent green salve with flecks of red.

"Will it hurt?" His ears flatten as he leans forward, sniffing the air.

The lamb breathes in the scent as well, it smells like camellias and mint. Not unpleasant, but something about the mint part gives them the distinct feeling that it will either feel cooling and nice or sting like a bitch.

"I'm not sure... Maybe? I do know that infection will hurt a lot worse so, we're using it." If they were careful before, they're holding fragile glass now as they rub the salve on Narinder's wrist.

They relax to hear the relieved sigh he lets out and feel the way he slumps in their hold.

"Doesn't hurt?" They chuckle as they look up and see him with the smallest of smiles on his face.

It is hardly noticeable if it weren't for the fact that Lamb has spent far too much time staring at that face to miss it.

"No. It's fine..." In grumpy death cat language that translates to 'it's delightful'.

Or at least that's how they choose to hear it. They use it as an encouragement to be a bit firmer, making sure to get the salve in every part of the wounds. It doesn't take half as long to apply as it did to clean, and in no time, they're wrapping the arm with a large roll of bandages.

The next arm goes just as smoothly, and both are wrapped fully by the time Lamb decides to take a break.

"Right, well, I'll go grab you some food so you can eat, and freshwater before we move onto your chest?" They hesitate, looking at Narinder expectantly, waiting for the cat to lash out again.

"Just hurry up..." He mumbles, not even opening his eyes when they stand to leave.

It's so dim in the shelter, they nearly forgot that it is still late noon, bleeding into early evening. They flinch when they step out, the water basin in their arms, and they take a moment to let their eyes adjust before walking toward the kitchen.

It's a sunny spring day, with a cool breeze that helps them finally ease the tension in their shoulders they didn't even realize was there. The flowers growing along the pathway sway in the breeze, and they take a moment to watch them. Simple wildflowers.

Yellow, red, blue, pink, white...

They remember counting them on their way to Narinders shelter hours ago before all this started. They had been so afraid when they heard him coughing and barged in to see the state he was in...

They had frozen.

For the past few years as a leader, they've done nothing but make quick decisions in times of crisis, and plan for the worse. Yet right then, they froze.

They had to stop and do what they do best at this point, and dissociate. Run to get him water, pull away when he started to run short on air, and then-

"Please..." He looks at them, eyes watering to the point of tears, and a plea so desperately leaving his throat...

They had never seen him like that before, and Lamb knew that he had to be completely out of it from the pain.

With a deep sigh, they continue away from the shelter, their hooves clicking against the cobblestone path as they walk.

"Lamb. How is he?" Miki is the first of their flock that they run into, as she's walking out of the Healing Bay, one of the closest buildings to Narinders Shelter- which they wisely placed on the opposite side of the camp, away from the other shelters.

It was near their own home, and when asked by Ratau why they placed their former master that just tried to kill them, so near... They simply said they didn't realize it.

To be honest, they aren't sure why they did it, just that they wanted him near them.

For safety purposes. To keep an eye on him. Yeah. That's why.

A small desert sand-colored fennec fox with pale green eyes stands in front of them now, head tilted in curiosity. They know for a fact that they're short-statured, with most of their flock being at least an inch or so taller than him, but Miki?

She's a few inches smaller, but she packs a punch and is one hell of a medic.

"Oh! He's better than he was, I finished with his arms, I think I wrapped them pretty well, not too tight like you showed me. I'm not sure how to go about wrapping his chest and stuff though..." They continue walking, and Miki joins them.

They pass more buildings, the lumber yard, the stone mine, and the refinery. A few followers milled about, too busy chopping logs and breaking down larger stones to notice their leader passing by.

"I see. I can come and instruct you if you think he's amendable to me being in his shelter. If not, I'm sure I can find a willing volunteer to show you how." She folds her arms behind her, keeping her gaze straight ahead as her eyes glaze over in thought.

"Finding a volunteer and giving me a tutorial will be easier, I think. He's calmed down since earlier, but introducing a stranger might send him over the edge again." They chuckle nervously, thankful that Miki doesn't mention it.

"Of course. I'll ask around, I'll meet you back at the Healing Bay when you're ready." And she's rushing off, leaving Lamb standing there blinking at her quick departure.

They chose to shrug it off for now given how helpful she's been lately. They do duly note that they should maybe start commanding a bit more respect from some of the flock that don't fully seem to comprehend them as their leader.

By the time they make it to the kitchen, they're on autopilot. Dumping the dirty water into the empty sink and filling it up with fresh, clean water from the tap. Quickly they cook a simple fish bowl with no seasoning.

It takes a moment for them to balance the basin between their arm and side, with the food in their other arm before they start walking back to the Healing Bay.

When they get to the Bay they set the bowls aside and try hard to focus on everything that Miki tells them...

Still, nagging thoughts about Narinder continue to plague their mind. They've been thinking a lot about how he feels about everything.

Empathizing. Like Noon suggested.

Being patient. Like Ratau said.

But what about them? There's a whirlwind going on in their head that they don't think even the power of the Red Crown can slow down or stop.

They're angry at him. They know they are. During the fight, a part of them wanted so badly to just end him, and erase him from existence forever. Erase him from their mind. Their heart. Everything. As if he had never even existed in the first place.

But they knew they couldn't. Even if he helped them shove a dagger into his heart, they would tear their fleece to stop the bleeding and save him.

Weakness. A horrible crippling weakness it is. This swirling longing in their chest makes them sick to their stomach, and weak in the knees.

They're angry at themselves. For worrying about him so much. For seeing his wounds and wanting to cry, and go back in time and just fucking kneel, so that he could have kept his godhood and never have to suffer like he is now.

They're angry that they still care so much. They're angry that he cared so little. They're angry that he hates them so much, but they can't seem to hate him in return.

They want to hate him. But all they feel when they look at him is worry, concern, and this terrible lump in their throat that they can't seem to choke down without crying.

They want to hit him and yell at him, and kick him out of camp into Darkwood or Anura so they never have to see him again.

They also want to hug him, apologize, and continue to treat his wounds with all the care and patience they can muster, and spend every day talking to him like they used to do every time they died.

But they can never have what they want.

"Do you think you can do it by yourself?" Miki asks, looking back at them, blissfully unaware of her leader's internal struggle.

"Yeah. I think I can handle it. Thanks, Miki for showing me- and Jovi, for being such a great patient!" They plaster on a smile, bandstand from the chair they'd been sitting in while watching the Fennec fox work.

The grey stag just smiles and gives a thumbs up as they start to unravel himself from the temporary bandages Miki had tangled him in.

They take a moment longer of standing there, looking around the clean, well-organized entrance area of the Healing Bay, multiple beds in the background with curtain dividers, and cabinets of medicine, mostly camellia-based.

Though Miki likes to use other herbs, claiming they're just as medicinally valuable. Lamb doesn't argue, because, so long as they don't make anyone worse, what's the harm in letting her have control over this aspect of the camp?

They wave goodbye to the two, grabbing the still-warm food and water and retracing their steps back to Narinder's shelter.

There aren't a lot of people who could understand the position they're in or the things they feel right now, not even Ratau. But keeping it all inside...

Patience.

Just be patient. Maybe Narinder will be more amendable to talk about everything that's happened when they finally get him some food?

With a deep sigh, they find themselves pushing back the curtains to the ex-god's home with a slightly less foggy head. Hopefully, Narinder is still tired enough to accept their help less aggressively than usual.

"Didn't I say to hurry up? What did you get sidetracked cleaning up your follower's shit while I'm in here crippled and starving?" ...

Well, at least he's feeling better enough to be at his usual level of anger again...

"For your information, I was talking with Miki about how to wrap your chest best, because in case you haven't noticed I've never had to do this before. The Red Crown always takes care of my injuries, and Miki fixes up anyone in the flock who gets hurt." They explain, and Narinder just raises a brow as they move to set the water down and place the food in his lap.

"Am I supposed to know who the hell 'Miki' is?" He sighs and they return to their earlier spot next to him with a small laugh.

"No, I guess not. Then again, you probably won't know who anyone in the flock is, given that you haven't met them. Maybe when you're better I'll dedicate a proper sermon to introducing you!" They don't mean that, knowing full well that they'd have better luck dragging him into a river, but they can't resist the urge to tease.

And the cringe that distorts his face is very much worth it.

"I'd sooner drown myself in a lake." Damn. They were nearly spot on.

It makes them burst into laughter, leaning back as they realize just how horribly well they predicted the cat's response.

"Then I guess I'll leave introductions up to you. So, do your arms feel better enough to eat? Or do you need help with that too?" They notice him trying to lift his arms as they speak, but they are shaking still, and his face contorts in pain with every jerky, forceful movement he tries to get out of them.

In the end, he gives a defeated sigh, turning his frustrated glare to them.

"I'll take that as a yes. I just grilled the fish, with no seasoning or anything, so it should be pretty bland. Here." They lift a piece to him, far enough for him to lean forward and take it on his terms.

He does so rather aggressively, snapping forwards and snatching it out of their hand, making them jump back a bit in surprise as they growl while eating.

"Ooookay..." They chuckle, trying to ease the sudden spike of adrenaline now setting his nerves alight.

They let him eat and are relieved to see he doesn't choke this time, though he still sticks his tongue out in mock disgust.

"It's still powerful, but better than before." He comments before taking the next bit they offer.

They repeat the motion until the bowl is empty, and they set it aside, wiping their hands with one of the rags they haven't used. Thankful now that they had brought extra. Probably too many, but better safe than sorry.

"So, I'm thinking I'll have you sit on the side of the bed so I can get your back and chest, sound good? And how are your legs? Were they chained too?" They ask, moving some of the supplies off the bed, and onto the side table, which was starting to get cluttered.

They'll clean it later.

"Just my ankles." He shifts on the bed, already looking to be in a much better mood.

So they start there, with the smallest, most hesitant nod of approval from Narinder they move to the bottom of the bed. Lifting the blanket just past his ankles, they see that yes, much like his wrist there are similar embedded chain link-shaped wounds.

It takes less time to clean, rub salve, and wrap them than it did with his arms now that they've gotten the hang of it. Narinder seems to have gotten used to it too, hissing half as much with each dab of the cloth over the blunt lacerations.

"Can you-"

"No. Just help me." He snaps, clearly having his fair share of Lamb's questions for today.

So they just continue on in silence, wrapping their arm around his already-wrapped shoulders, and pulling him forward, using their other arm to move his legs over the side of the bed, toward the window.

They make mental note of how his fur sticks up wildly from where he is lying, and his stomach drops to see the sheets below him damp with splatters of blood, and the wall he had been leaning against for the last few hours looking no better. Some of the blood is already dried on the wall, but fresher drips are bleeding down.

It wasn't a lot, not enough to be worried about blood loss, but enough to let them know that the wounds have been bleeding for a while now- and looking at his back, the cans see why.

The chain marks along his shoulder blades were not just embedded but torn and layered as if from...

Struggling...

"Are you just going to stare? Or actually do something?" From his tone of voice, they know that he knows exactly what they are seeing.

Years of suffering. Struggling. Fighting against his binds.

There is water in their eyes as they follow the tangle of matted, bloody fur, much of it torn and un-growing around the worst of it... Around his waist, there is a violent mess of lacerations from the layers of chains that had been wrapped around there. Many of the deeper ones are still bleeding, some freshly opened and bloody again just from having moved him.

"Um, yeah, yeah, just give me a moment to... Assess..." Their voice shakes, and they have to turn away from the horrific sight to collect their thoughts.

They are no stranger to gore. To the gruesome tearing of flesh by a blade, or the brutal decapitation brought by a razor-sharp axe...

But chains are not sharp. They are blunt but strong. Unyielding. How tight must they have been to dig into flesh as easily as a dagger stabs into fruit? How hard does one have to pull against them for them to slice through skin and muscle like a knife through butter?

Looking back at the injuries now, it still renders them speechless.

How many bones did he break in his thrashing and pulling against them? How many days did he spend exhausted from the fight, his body healing itself over and over again each time? He's not a god anymore though, and simply laying here waiting for these injures to stitch themselves back together isn't going to work anymore.

"These... A lot of these are going to need stitches, Narinder, and I can't do that on my own... I can clean them, but I'm going to need to bring Miki in here to do the rest..." They try to be gentle about it, as they shake themselves out of their stunned silence.

"Stitches are going to hurt, aren't they?" He growls, but there is no real resistance in it, just a frustrated acceptance of the idea.

"Like a bitch, yeah. But it's probably the only way half of these will heal properly..." They force themselves back into motion, grabbing a fresh rag and repeating the actions that they've memorized at this point.

Clean the wounds, rub the salve, and wrap them. It's a little harder when they have to move around the bed and face Narinder directly though.

They're close. Way too close.

They can feel him staring at their every move as they kneel in front of him, wiping along his stomach, which is just as bad as his back. They're more sparse on his chest, but just as deep, crisscrossing along his fur.

Looking up at him now, they can't help but have flashbacks to standing feet below him, gazing up at his sharp-toothed grin as it shines maliciously even through the darkness of his veil.

Hearing his thunderous chuckle as they tell him of their crusades, feel his breath as he leans down to speak to them at eye level...

Meeting his gaze now, there is no fondness, looking down at them like a favored pet...

Just... Well, contemplation. As if he's debating something to say. They wait, pausing their movements, and he grabs their hand. They flinch at the sudden contact and take a sharp intake of breath.

He's still shaking, they note, and his grip is weak. They could easily pull away if they wanted to.

Do they want to?

"I... It's different. Not being as tall. You don't fit in my hand anymore." He speaks softly, his brows furrowed.

Even as he says it, confusion clouds his eyes, as if wondering what the hell he was even thinking, saying such a thought out loud. They don't know how to respond to that.

But they understand what he means. They liked when the first response to them dying and arriving before Narinder, was for him to lower his and for them to hop into it. To raise them to his eye level.

They always liked being at eye level with the giant god, and Narinder at the time seemed to prefer it too. They remember once having been drawn so close to him that they made the bold move of ducking underneath his veil and seeing those blood-red eyes directly.

Any sane mortal would be terrified of the black-slitted pupils looking down at them like a predator debating how to massacre its prey. But them? They were enchanted by the genuine surprise in them. The way he chuckled and purred at their actions, a rumble of rolling thunder in the white void of the in-between sounded like music to their ears.

"Yeah... I didn't mind it, being at eye level with you made me feel... Equal. Instead of just some-" Pawn.

They choke on the sentence as they realize where it is going. This feels like an opening to talk more about the elephant that's made itself comfortable in the room for the last several hours.

Narinder's ears flatten as they seem to put together the missing word in his own mind, turning their head away in anger maybe, shame? They don't know.

They bit their lip, mulling over their next words carefully.

So, about the whole usurping thing? - Haha, oops, didn't want it to go like that, but also, it was kind of your fault? - Nope.

I know things are tense right now, but I still have deeply conflicting emotions toward you that might be mildly romantic, which isn't relevant, but hey! While we're on the topic, did you care about me at all? - Absolutely not.

How do they just... Start a fucking conversation like this?

"Narinder, I... We should talk but I don't know... I don't know where to start." They sound so ridiculous they have to laugh.

To ease their nerves, to try and bid time, and because something about this whole situation is downright hilarious. Why are they so nervous around him? Like he still has the power to crush them with his thumb alone...

They beat him. They won that fight and claimed the Red Crown for themselves. Yet here they are, still kneeling before him, their eyes begging for him to respond. To offer them some sort of clarity...

"What is there to talk about, Lamb? How you turned heretic and betrayed me? Or how about how in the end you couldn't at least finish the job? Yes, let's talk about that. That's what I'm most curious about. Why did you spare me, Lamb? Why keep me alive? Just to suffer this pathetic mortal body, and the humiliation of needing to rely on you of all people!" He bursts, turning back to them, teeth bared and a fresh growl leaving his throat.

They flinch and lean back to offer Narinder immediate space to cool down.

"No! No, I didn't- I didn't even know that this would happen to you when you became mortal! I just- I didn't want you to die! I didn't want to kill you!" They try to find the words.

Stumbling haplessly through their thoughts trying to find something they can tell him that will make him see that they're sincere.

"Why not!? You've had no problem striking down all others who stood against you!" He leans forward, chasing after them as they lean away, trying to escape the very conversation they sparked.

They know the answer to that, they know it and they would rather lie and declare that the only reason they spared him was to mock him. Hold their victory over his head for centuries, force him to be a mere follower, and worship the ground they walked on.

But how? Looking into his furious, and confused glare, red eyes burning into them like hot coals, what option is there but the truth? They have no doubt that he'll be able to see past all else.

"Because I..." They can't turn away from him. They want to, to look away, but it's like he's got them pinned, and it's then that they realize that he's...

He's still holding their hand. Close to his chest, the rag having dropped to the floor, and despite the anger still radiating off of him, he is gentle. His grip is soft, cradling their fingers, and the logical part of their brain reminds them that it's just because he's weak, and in pain.

But their heart is screaming so loud in their chest that they think they're going to go deaf. And their stomach has started swirling so violently that they think they're going to be sick.

"Because I care..." And the words fall from their lips in a whispered plea, begging him to just... Know what they mean.

About you. I care about you, so fucking much and I don't want to. I want to hate you, I want to hate you for who you are and what you did, why can't I hate you? You tried to kill me, all for power. You were as hateful, and power-hungry as your siblings, and you tricked me, and I fell for it, like a love-struck idiot I fell for it because I thought you cared too, and you didn't.

You didn't care at all.

"And I wanted you to care so much, but you didn't." They stand, there are tears in their eyes and they realize, that as much as they were pushing to have this conversation with him...

Maybe they are the one that isn't ready for it.

But Narinder still has their hand, and looking at him, he looks like he's been slapped across the face. His grip on their hand tightens for the slightest moment, and it feels like he's squeezing their heart, and it hurts.

It hurts so damn bad.

And then he let's go.

"I-... How, Lamb?... How am I supposed to respond to that? How do you want me to respond to emotions I didn't know were there?" He's asking.

Looking up at them in a pure mix of confusion and what was formerly anger, now overridden by doubt... He looks so different. Nothing like the God of Death that they have come to know...

Lamb prides themselves on being able to read others, and Narinder is an open book if they've ever seen one. They could look in his mind. Read his thoughts.

But no. They know what they'll see. They know that it will just drive the knife even deeper.

"I don't know, Narinder. I don't know."

~~~

Sooo, I posted late on Ao3, so I'm posting early here to make up for it. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy this angsty chapter, and I have a little question...

How slow-burn should I make this? I'm not great at super long slow-burns, and honestly, I didn't really plan to make this one. Still, there are a lot of complicated emotions between Narinder and Lamb, so... It might take a while for them to be on better terms, but I'm just worried about going too fast and making it less realistic or too cliche. I'm also super impatient though, and I want romance, fluff, and happy bullcrap because it's been a tough week, and writing all this angst is gonna push me over the edge homies. Listening to ppcocaine can only do so much to prevent me from crying, my guys.

What do any of you think? Should I speed it up more in this next chapter or continue with my current game plan of at least two, three, or maybe four more chapters before forgiveness and touchy-feely stuff?

#cotl #cotl fanfic #cotl narinder #cult of the lamb #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #cotl lamb #cotl the one who waits #fanfic #fanfic writing #ao3 writer #ao3 #archive of our own #ao3 stuff #cult of the lamb fanart #cult of the lamb narinder #cotl narilamb #cotl the lamb

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cheeselackstoes · 8 days ago

Text

[WP] In the aftermath of the war, the king had no choice but to surrender unconditionally. at the peace summit, the victors handed the king a shovel. "You started this war. You will bury those who died in it."

Voice: Second Person – butler who betrayed the king

* The king was wrong, but not truly evil

“For all my life, I held to a certainty. That war must be the singularly most malevolent act of which we are capable.

Most vile of all, the hate that slowly boils between two groups is too often orchestrated by those who already have much and want more. Never is it those who will go on to spill gallons of blood and have theirs, their brothers’, and their fathers’ soak the very same earth that their lords and ladies hope to claim. In my long life at the sides of powerful men and women, I have never identified a meaningful difference between those who go on to cut each other down. Does what side of a river you are born, or what god you follow truly matter enough to inspire the sheer scale of violence that has been visited on my home like the many other hundreds of millions afflicted with the plague of war? Of course not! We have every right to anger for those who command us to die for their greed!

I.. I now cannot help and ignore the proof put before me that I was wrong, that I was thinking about it all wrong. Hate itself is the villian. No matter from who or on whom it is exacted hate festers all that it touches. While the hate of many boiling over into warriors. who take it out upon one another with steel is awful beyond imagination. It is not nearly so awful as the hate of the many directed as an unstopping torrent onto one. It is like trying to force the endless pouring liters from a perpetual waterfall through a humble chef’s funnel. The hate of so many cannot possibly be satisfied by the finite existence of one, and by virtue of being impossible we grow insatiable and cruel.

For my crime of helping The King escape his torturous fate I have been sentenced to death. I was once heralded hero for my actions which deposed that very same King, Tepesh the Cutthroat, and so I have been given a consideration... I am allowed to speak in this rare chance which I will seize in earnest, to explain myself. I beg of you, to hear my voice one last time despite your steeled hearts and already decided minds. That is, please let my voice find purchase in compassionate ears once more before my head and by extension my voice are departed from me, forever.

My service began when I arrived in the sprawling mid-country garden manor of Vycount Julius with my bundled daughter in hand, my newlywed in tow. Vycount Julius was my father’s lord. I threw myself at the mercy of my estranged father. As a boy, I had resented the rigid training and grueling hours spent serving noble lords at my father’s side. For my laziness and errant tongue my father had cast my out and all but disowned me. I know now that this was self-preservation, and that my disruptions would have led to us both being discarded without second thought for something as minor as the grating tone of my displeased attitude on their refined ears. My father, rather than mock me as I had expected and despite his age, lifted me to my feet and sized me for the proper attire.

I spent 15 long years under Vycount Julius, a disgusting pustueous boil more than man. His boarish figure was far more tasteful than his hedonistic habits. Those long years, I refined my skills and became well-respected for my hard work and attentiveness. I awoke each day at sunrise to attend the busy-work. My hands busy and my mind meticulously planning for my lord-masters day. I would spend the entire day at his side, flitting around and anticipating each need and prided myself for often seeing it met before it was even asked of me.

My greatest fear was rarely realized, that is to be given the same instruction or correction more than once. By night, I taught my daughter and held my wife close for the meager minutes I could spare. Sleep was the lesser of my priorities. My body thinned and my hair greyed before its time, but I gave my small family comfort during hard times and for this I am most proud of all my accomplishments. No matter my fate today and my legacy hereforth, forever can I smile knowing my sacrifice made the last few sick and dying years of my wife peaceful and dignified.

The Vycount could be kind to us in his brief moments where he was as close to satiated that such a man can be. He was once called general. In reality he did little more than dress for the role each day. Even that with my significant assistance in the dressing. His part.. if you could call it that, in the Consecration Wars and his lending of the Julius family’s private armies to protect noble interests had brought him enormous wealth. With this impressive treasury he brought to life boyish dreams. Though they were the dreams of a depraved and very hungry boy. It was, of course, my duty to make his each request reality.

I had once arranged the conversion of the ballroom to a great tub. I laboriously ensured that each doorframe and window allowed no crack and sealed the generations-old hardwood beneath layers of canvas soaked in linseed and beeswax. I arranged for the import of cart-loads of sugar, eggs and cream so much so that we had plundered the three neighboring villages of their entire stock. It was all so that my lord could drown the room with english pudding and enjoy a great ‘carnival of flesh’ within. For months when I would clean custard away from another undiscovered crevice, I would shudder as though I was cleaning a hidden corner of my own mind that was haunted with the memories of those long licentious hours.

I grew adept at hiding my disgust behind the layers of professionalism, as though it were armor protecting my true inner self. Vycount Julius passed the eve of his sixty-second birthday -- from the inevitable coronary failure which had been his destiny for many years and grease-soaked meals ago. I then went into the service of his unimportant and undetermined daughter. He willed me away to his favorite child as though I were some pet without my knowledge and despite my overqualifications as a butler trained to accompany the head of a household.

What was I to do? I needed the position and so I served. Her brother was quick to encourage, and finally strongarm, a marriage with a duke in the royal Jadeite Palace which would forever onwards become my home. The daughter seemed to ignore my existence the moment after I unpacked her things into her dazzling new quarters. She had never needed the service of a dedicated butler such as me. She preferred the veritable ant colony of servants in the palace, which she could treat as faceless and nameless.

I was at risk of losing everything, of losing the life I had built for my daughter who was so excited to be living with me in the palace she did not appear to notice our cramped quarters or dire straits. I did not give up. I applied everything of myself. Organizing the staff of my liege lady and working in the shadows when she made it clear she did not enjoy my presence. Once calling me an unwanted stalker as I tried to attend her side as I had her father. I took to making myself integral and improving her already opulently idyllic lifestyle. I also arranged for her climbing of the social ladder. Contrived by my hand were the opportunities for her to socialize with nobles above her station and rub elbows with those I rightly predicted would become her lifelong friends. Throughout she was very cruel to me when she noticed my interference. Name calling and insulting anything that she could discern about me from her limited sightings of me. She knew her accomplishments were not her own and so despised the thought of others discovering my contribution. I worked harder to stay unnoticed. I became something like her gaurdian angel though I was made to feel more like a bothersome poltergeist. While over 10 years she slowly forgot my name, I had apparently been noticed by another.

One especially cold November’s day I was in a sleep deprived state. I felt as though I was walking underwater and seeing through warping fog as attended my chores careful to stay on the far sides of doors from my lady in a carefully rehearsed dance. For weeks I had been fighting to keep liege lady in the favor of her husband duke. I had been up the previous night hiding her most blatant habit of infidelity and arranging a romantic evening to fan the dying matrimonial spark. Against the door with eyes closed I counted her paces to ensure she was far enough into her closet to not notice my skirting into the room. My hands filled with her favorite tea and biscuits served with the daily letters. I then heard my name called from down the hall. A guard captain summoned me and demanded I follow behind immediately.

So tired I was unable to recall the walk itself I felt as though I suddenly awoke in the throne room, before the king in his famous Verdant Hall. Tall shining-white pillars etched with gold and jade striping held the staggeringly distant ceiling and scattered the light of colored windows making a kaleidoscope of marble floor beneath my feet. Behind the king slumped on his bright green throne in a comfortable posture was a wall for which the Verdant Hall and the Jadeite Palace was named. The exterior wall carved entirely of the mineral of the same name, a precious stone as hard diamonds and nearly as expensive. An immense green sculpting on an irregular pentagon with a shape like a church steeple so thick that only the outline of rising sun itself forced light to pass through areas carved thin. Therein were etched the visages of all the kings who preceded Tepesh. Painstakingly carved by talented craftsmen which took generations by necessity to impress marks into such stubborn stone. A symbol of wealth and absolute command so colossal it could be seen for miles and appeared as a crown jewel of the castle itself.

Tepesh spoke to me in an even but demanding tone requesting my service to him, effective immediately. To be honest, I so was awed and in my sleepless state I internally probed the possibility that this was all a dream. That I had been noticed and that he spoke my name which I thought discarded by the nobility. His posture was proud in a way I had never seen before, like he was somehow taller and grander than all others I had seen. He was bedecked in layers of robes and finery. His lofted and remarkable crown was modeled for his castle, a jadeite slab above his brow matching the shape of the wall behind him. To answer his offer, I played as though I was loyal to my lady and could not accept, but within hoped desperately that he would insist. He did.

My lady did not seem to much care that I was departing, in fact ending the conversation with me with a flat-handed wave as though she was a giant broom brushing me out of the room. It didn’t matter, I was thrilled. Finally, I would be serving someone who wasn’t like the Julius family someone truly royal in every sense of the word, not self-absorbed or cruel.

I soon learned I was mistaken. As king, he was not above cruelty or self-absorption, his responsibility was simply such a scale that he did not need to make true blunders -- even inaction incurred destruction. I stayed with King Tepesh for 8 years, the shortest of my employments. I watched him make the mistakes that would lead to my home being changed forever. His disregard pushed away allies, insulted enemies and shirked duties fell to others unable to fulfill them. He would choose too often to take days of leisure, abandoning our kingdom of its leadership in dire times of need.

With great difficulty I endorsed greater responsibility from him, but he would do all he could to shrug it off. He vacationed and drank with his cousin in Vitello while The Retching killed 1 in 12 and hired tutors and spent days learning new forms of ballroom dancing to impress guest while a great fire raged for almost a week displacing thousands. He had so often approved the first military strategy proposed that his war council always would begin with the tactic they desired most. So many died in the name of his personal enjoyment.

He let his nation backslide into weakness, blaming me all the while. This is when I discovered why I had been sought out by him. He didn’t want a butler but someone capable of reigning in the king who himself reigned over all. I wish that it were possible for me to have done so. He was always insisting I needed to do more, clear the path for him so that all he needed to do was walk it. He blamed me for allowing his vacations and indulgences, but I was powerless against his word as king and my skills alone insignificant against a king’s schedule in defaulting on a deficit from years of sloth. I would tell the king that he should attend a responsibility, that all was taken care of and he need merely make the motions. He would roar his displeasure, tell me that I could not order the king about and then later piteously whine in my direction that his butler failed to keep him on track of his duties.

To our hardships, King Tepesh resolved to solve them with violence and took to warring with neighboring fiefs to plunger all their worth. To make up for his weakness he ordered the march of thousands of doomed souls to pave his new path with their own bodies. Decidedly the only path he now saw to live up to his predecessors’ glory. As our numbers of fighting men dwindled in endless battles, a rippling movement started to refuse the call to arms and turn their backs on the King. Soon the ripple was a wave of tidal proportion, and refusal became violent opposition. This is when King Tepesh earned his title as Cutthroat, slaying his own civilians for rebelling. Now wave was tsunami in the form of true, organized resistance.

I watched him order the wholesale death of our people by the score from his padded throne as his predecessors looked on from the gleaming jadeite wall with carved smiles. I grew to hate that jadeite wall and all it represented, the kings before him were all the same and the wealth hoarded in that monument made to be eternal could itself be means to resolve our kingdoms troubles. Tepesh had chosen death of great magnitude instead.

Wars with foreign nations continued despite the outrage, only increasing the need for soldiers, soldiers to kill our own who spoke out. It wasn’t long before the capital city was filled at night with deafening booms of explosions and steel on steel. Rebels appearing for only for short bursts of extreme violence against those loyal to the nobility before fading into the sea of the general populace each day. Nowhere was safe in such pandemonium, and I feared for my daughter.

My daughter, now a woman, was becoming very active in the capital city resistance. You all know her as Elzabeth the Kingbreaker, and I look upon her now prouder than she will ever know, even as she stares me down and passes my final judgement. You see, she had grown up in the palace watching what I do and became better at it than I ever was. She contrived opportunities to meet the right people and organized so many resistance movements effortlessly. Though, I knew none of this at the time.

One day, she came to me with a plan. If I could place several satchels of Dragon’s Marrow on the floors above and below the throne room, where the guards were only stationed 8 hours a day I could end the bloodshed in a single night. In so doing when timed correctly the explosive power of so much Dragon Marrow would blow the support away from the great jadeite monument to the many kings and bring it crashing to earth. It was explained to me that it was dense and hard enough crumble stone. That it was carefully planned to fall like a drawbridge - smashing the outer Palace walls and allowing the rebels direct access with little more than ladders. They argued that this could save our nation and stop the slaughterous hell in a single night.

I took the lumpy rucksack filled with the Dragon’s Marrow as my daughter forced it into my hands, but I remained unconvinced. Elzabeth told me that her and her people would be waiting just outside the palace, that we could do the plan whenever I was ready and able, but I wasn’t sure I ever would be. I had my doubts that such a maneuver was even possible, and its success would mean a bloody coup to top off an even bloodier decade. My own actions would kill those I had sworn to serve. I thought it best to wait the whole situation out, persevere through difficult times by remaining steadfast and immovable.

It wasn’t even a week before Elzabeth and her gang of rebels were noticed so close to the palace. They were dragged to the Verdant Hall to be made examples. Nobels of all stripes gathered to see these heroes of the resistance be killed, like ritual sacrifices made to pagan gods who demanded blood to preserve their superiority.

With the excitement and clamor of the recently nervous royals there was a lax in security, all guards protecting the main palace portals and throne room in great number leaving me to move freely. I placed the Dragon Marrow along the floor as I was once instructed. Lit the long curling fuse of the higher floor and ran knowing I had only 5 minutes to place and light the next satchels below. As I descended the stairs and rounded the corner to the quarters below, I was so fixed on my task I failed to notice the others there with me.

Two guards had been sharing a bottle of something expensive between them, deciding to steal a moment themselves amid the royal’s distraction. They must have been stupefied to the point of completely soundless still to see the loyal butler of the king press explosive charges up into the ceiling and unspool fuse towards the next location. Perhaps I was just too fixed on my task to notice anything else at all. I froze when I spotted them. Less than a minute left now.

Excuses began pouring from my mouth, but it was clear they knew them as lies. One grabbed my shoulder and smashed a gauntleted fist across my face. Still holding me upright to deliver further blows as a slumped with black distortion crowding the corners of my eyes and threatening to drown my vision. Out of options, the truth ran from my mouth before I could hold it back. I said what I was doing could stop our hardship, put a stop to our Cutthroat King. I implored them as brothers in trade, servants to the king, and that they surely hated him as much as I and all those beyond the palace. Another blow came, this time to my stomach summoning great strands bloody spit that ran from my mouth. As I tried to focus my sight onto my own hands that held me from the blood-stained marble beneath, a blur of movement happened there. A shape collapsed into my narrow perspect. A mans face with a dot, a slit stamped upon his forehead oozing blood which slid down his eyes and cheeks like tears.

A strong hand lifted me to my feet, in my punch-drunk state I thought it was my now-dead father ready to size me for my uniform once more but this time for the dark green robes, beret, and red arm band of a rebel. I managed to lift my head and see the second guard wipe blood from his blade and sheath it away. I understood now that he had agreed with what I was doing enough to kill his friend and drinking partner. He searched my pockets and found the remaining satchels and tinderbox, asked me what to do again and again but response was beyond me in that moment. He shook me until I was alert. I did my best with simple words barely slurred and drunken gestures to relay the precise position and to do it as fast as he could. That we may already be too late for this tactical demolition to act as was planned. Satchel placed, he lit the fuse higher on its length than planned, hoping to compensate for the lost time. He was strong enough to throw me to his shoulder and carry me quickly from the room like a bag of sugar destined to become the floor pudding in a festival of flesh.

Explosions trembled and cracked the stone around us mere moments after we had crossed the threshold of thick stone staircase. A grinding and shuddering noise unlike anything reverberated and a deafening slam punctuated like a crescendo, shaking my chest and setting my teeth on edge. The immense sound of rumbling and squealing carried for much longer than I imagined possible. In one delirious moment I forgot the explosive charges and worried some unimaginable giant beast was laying siege. The sound was alien, and it felt as though it literally filled my ears as liquid more than noise and once inside it shook my skull and threatened to turn my greymatter to jelly. I now attribute this sound the grind squeals and collapsing stones of the Jadeite slab as it collapsed away from the palace, crumbled its protectorate walls and slide into the resting place in which it remains below me today.

Fighting broke out soon after, my savior guard ran to fight alongside rebels, and I am told he died in the aftermath. When I had finally laboriously forced myself back up the stairs to Verdant Hall it could no longer claim such a name. The far wall was open air, bordered with fine cracks like old cobweb hiding the polished finish of the stone and marble. Beneath the many chipped and shattered pillars: bodies littered the floor. I could see a sizeable remnants of jadeite along the floor and many broken off pieces where the slab had pivoted like an unfolding bridge allowing the flood of killers to cross within. Few royals remained alive, among them King Tepesh the Cutthroat at the end of my daughter’s knife.

I saw now that not only rebels had stormed the throne room, peasants and merchants stood in a crowded half-circle. They clutched cleavers and knives, metal fire pokers and shovels. The tools of daily life now brought to bare on their oppressors. I saw with some horror that many of these instruments were bloodied. The people of the city stood in great number, overflowing onto the jadeite slab and crying out in exaltation or chanting songs. More could be seen pouring from their homes and scrambling towards the revelry now that it was clear the day was won. Children were joining the crowd and mothers carrying babies as the last of the resisting guards and nobles were dispatched.

In that moment I swelled with the joy and relief of freedom for my daughter. Also for the freedom of myself in such a way that I had not experienced since my youth. I tried to join in the rebels’ triumphant roar, but my lungs retreated from the intake of breath like weary injured soldiers all their own. My joy was tempered by the dead nobility sprawled like abandoned toys upon the floor. Emotion blurring my eyes with tears walked weakly towards my daughter. Each step taking me past men and women in glorious finery and colorful silks all stained with dark circles of red and posed unnaturally. Their bodies like vibrant birds that had been broken and bloodied from a crash to earth. I remembered each in turn as I looked them over. I saw my old mistress Lady Julius collapsed in the arms of a man who had tried to shield her, not her husband duke but the latest of the adulterers. Some of these nobility had shown me kindness, but I forced myself out of these my sad contemplations. Breaking the daydream with by summoning countless memories to protect my sanity of their selfishness and ire.

As I drew near my daughter she spared me a glance and smile before focusing her attentions on the kneeling king. His eyes were glassy and his face in shadow from his head tilted towards the floor. I, who knew him well, swore I detected the same trace of relief I would see when he, in the evenings would hide away in his chambers from the day’s responsibility. He looked tired in a way I had never seen him, and for a man not yet 40 he appeared to me then as so time worn that crumbling to dust would be a mercy. As my daughter tensed, Tepesh’s eyes snapped shut and as he did I swore he leant towards the dagger held on his throat.

Hate still filled me for this man who I had watched flounder and fail before resorting to the cruelty to resolve the problems his leadership could not. But, for a fleeting moment I saw him as the man who had once been a boy. A boy who, from birth, was told he was to rule over everything but never seemed find within himself the capacity. Who fled again and again to the sickeningly sweet pleasure of indulgence as a means to forget the guilt of his failure. A vicious cycle that tore him apart to the degree that he found a promising butler to all but beg for structure. The man was powerless to the command of his vice, and all others he had beseeched for help were powerless to the command of their self-indulgent king. All in the brief moment where his flesh stretched to its limit before being split by steel I imagined the infinite possibilities in which I could have done something differently and maybe stopped the future that was the nightmare of our current circumstance.

I was to blame as well. Was I not the same as him? When I failed in my prescribed duty of righting the king’s course I too was forced to violence. The same violence which resulted in the destruction that now lay around, in some unnamed humble guard who had been forced to kill his friend and then die himself. In the death of those I swore to serve. It didn’t matter that they were at times repulsive, a pang of guilt so devastating coursed through me so harsh I felt my intestine clench, invert, and try to climb through my open mouth to stop my breathing. Running to the open ledge beyond and throwing myself down would have been preferable to letting even one more die as a result of my actions.

“Stop..”, I had whispered the word before I even knew what I was doing. “Let him pay for his crimes some other way.”

Stunned stares were all that met me. Wide eyes of my daughter burned my throat raw with the betrayal I saw in them. My mind raced, I needed a good reason, an excellent reason, for the words that had been born from nothing more than my own selfish guilt. I stared out towards the city for a moment to break contact with Elzabeth’s gaze. My view was that of the sky bordered by crumbling white stone like the baby chicks first sight of the world through broken eggshell. There, I saw the hints of green stone, I saw the ruin of the once monumental symbol of the king. A symbol which sparked within me a desperate idea.

“Let him live as a symbol to his failure! Tepesh’s single death does not satisfy the thousands that died. Force him to live a life of humiliation! Let the people see his fall for themselves as you walk him down the streets.”

“Not bad.” Replied my daughter after a long time. standing straighter her knife leaving the throat of the Cutthroat himself. “But I am sure we all agree that is not nearly enough.”

She punctuated her sentence by kicking him to the floor, the crown bouncing away and then rolling into a pool of some poor rebel’s blood. Tepesh’s expression barely changed throughout, to where he now lay on his side. His grande velvet and purple robe fell slowly and enveloped him leaving only his face revealed like a baby in a swaddle.

The crowd of citizens erupted with outcries. Each voice carrying a demand for punishment of The King. Many familiar punishments that they or those they knew had experienced under Tepesh, public humiliation or disfiguration. Some so depraved they made me queasy. The rebels had to push the crowd back at threat of sword as they surged forward to take action into their own hands. My daughter silenced everyone with a command that carried. She walked to the crowd and intently gazed at those gathered. Walking up and down the line. I thought this intimidation but she was searching amid the crowd. Finally she found it. She reached into the crowd and wrenched a old rusted spade out of a displeased peasants hand.

“Our throne room..” my daughter said with an invitational gesture implying that it now belonged to all gathered. “.. is a mess! I mean look around at all this filth staining the floor.” With accusation she pointed at the dead nobility and swiped a finger through the blood of a fallen young man no older than 20. This was met with laughter more profound than any jester’s routine I had seen.

“We have need of someone to clean it! Do it we not?!” Agreement was given in the forms of cheerful whoops and nodding heads.

“Who will clean this mess? Us? Who have toiled all our lives?!” Displeasure flowed through the crowd in grumbles that ebbed away and down into the city below. Some were relaying the message my daughter spoke and in turns the crowd anticipated what was next and grew in excitement. They were already beginning to yell in the affirmative before my daughter spoke next, patiently waiting between each of her statements.

“Or, should the man responsible do it!?” She practically screamed it over the clamor of the raving mob.

“That greedy wretch, responsible for all this death and destruction! Not just this but the thousands of us who died! All of us who had to fight for him! All of us, forced to stand against him!” Each statement was punctuated with a roar of agreement so loud it rivaled the earlier explosion.

“.. And!” She began, looking back towards me. The rusty shovel raised above her head now. “To the singular one responsible for all of us who still live today, forced to live on our knees and cater to this hemorroid of a man.. King Tepesh most notable coward, infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker and king of no good quality. Yes ol’ cutthroat is bloody but as a king he’s plain shitty! Let’s make him do something for change!” A cry replied, ringing out louder than ever. “Let’s make him clean up his own mess!”

Clearly, much of this last point was for my benefit. My daughter had been raised seeing her father serve cruel masters without compliant. To her, I was the one who had lived my life on my knees and now, my master would be forced to clean up his own mess for the first time in his life.

The shovel was forced into The King’s hand, and he was raised to his feet. Pushed away, he took a few reeling steps nearly tripping on his robe. The crowd roared with laughter. With some rough ‘encouragement’ Tepesh took to his task. Emotionlessly he dragged the body of the same young man my daughter had used as an of filth example in her speech to the open air through the broken away opening. He brought the first body, of Prince Luca, his first son to the edge. With some effort, he rolled the body onto the monument-made-ramp of priceless Jadeite. The crowd parted, making a path for him to travel. He continued down dragging with with both hands holding an ankle each and the shovel precariously balanced.

After grueling minutes he reached the bottom. He rolled shattered stones away to reveal earth and dug a shallow grave. He was small to me down below but I could see his body heave with sobs while the crowd laughed and threw stones. He lost his balance a few times, fell more than once unaccustomed to the chore of moving earth. His long robes soaked in blood now held clumps of earth. In a shallow grave he just barely hid all signs of his son. His face was the last to be covered in slow, steady shovelfuls of wet soil. He knelt to pray before his sons poorly crafted grave, only to be kicked over and punched. They yelled and pointed back up the fallen green slab. Over the remaining sunlight, he would complete and restart the task of burying his family and dear friends. Each individual took more than hour. The task of opening enough earth to bury a body surprised me in its length and ardor.

Such was the beginning of the spectacle of the King. As night fell, the crowd of people slowly filtered away. The white floor of the throne room was now painted with a bloody tree, where bodies had left their mark before being sent down the long path below. Staining the faces of kings carved on precious stone meant to be an eternal symbol of the royal family. More than a few bodies rolled down the slab. Bouncing and making great splotched stains wherever they ricocheted on their tumbling path. My daughter and I stayed all the while. My daughter organizing her forces to utilize the palace and set up their headquarters, and me standing near the ledge fixedly watching the King’s morbid funeral procession.

He never looked at me. He never looked at anyone. His face was down to the earth, down to his task. As the sun rose he collapsed for the first time. A rebel kicked him a few times before he slowly rose to continue. Eventually, as the air filled with the smell of cooking breakfasts as people empty their stores to celebrate their first days of freedom, The King collapsed and could not be woken. He was allowed to sleep for a few hours there, exactly where he fell on the dirt amid stones he was trying to roll away.

I left to sleep and to see a doctor. Knowing the king I had betrayed would be awoken to continue. I dared not leave my room for weeks, claiming my injuries need more time but I simply found myself incapable of facing the world. I could not be clapped on my back and congratulated for my actions. My daughter visited me often, regaled me with stories on the differences ‘we’ had made together. Families reunited, the hungry fed and the sick receiving treatment. She had organized a republic from rebels nearly so quickly as she had banded the rebels together before.

I left my room for the first time to the sights and sounds of revelry that had gone on for the entirety of my isolation. Sounds that had been muffled through dusty curtains and the bright colors of waving flags as had shone on my floor through narrows shafts of light cast between slits of closed curtains. A security detail of my daughter’s loyalist accompanied me as I walked through what had once been isolated palace courtyard and now appeared to me as festival that had ran for weeks on end.

The beautiful hidden courtyard, with winding stream, intricate gazebos and long branched willows was still beautiful and now filled with life. A stark contrast to the stale gatherings of nobles I had attended to their previously. Stalls sold food and drink. Drunken revelers walked with arms thrown across backs in embraces that were equally brotherly and to support their stumbling steps. A group of children cut off my path, coated in the humble grim of common folk. My stride cut short I protected the top of my drink as its contents heaved and threatened to spill. A true smile of joy crossed my lips, born of emotion and not to mask my inner despair. They ran towards crowded stalls where many played games. Some laughing with heads thrown back without care.

My smile dropped when my eyes focused on the games therein. One was a game to raise a heavy green drawbridge and knock away an arrangement of bricks. Just as the Jadeite Monolith had done weeks before. In another, fair goers paid to excavate a mound of soft soil. Buried within were dolls, some with rings on stuffed arms or necklaces wrapped around torso. Most were clearly fake trinkets, but the game promised there to be real treasures lying within. Many more games lay beyond, all with creative use of the same common theme.

At the back of that game stalls a man sold rotten vegetables and even stones in simple baskets. A long line was there, and shortly after each purchase the buyer would walk off towards the palace. I didn’t understand why then, people were paying good money for rotten goods and common stones. I followed a mother and daughter. Mother with basket overfilling with moldly potatoes in one hand and bouncing daughter excitedly singing in another.

I followed them through what was once the servant portcullis. A few others, most with baskets walked ahead of and behind us. A few workers pointed the way to a spiral staircase in the now empty storehouse wing. As we climbed, dust and rubble coated the higher stairs, which could not have been from the recent destruction.

As we approached the top an opening was there that was new to me. Carved out roughly from the stone. It opened to simple ramparts newly constructed on scaffolding. Only the side facing the front of the palace had wood paneling as covers. This was an area that had once been roof to the Verdant Hall. Now it was torn away causing more of the hall to be open to the sky. A uniformed woman stopped the woman and child for a moment, spied the basket and let them pass. She stopped me as well beginning to say there was a fee for admission, then saw my guards, paused and recognized me after a moment. She let me know that I was free to enter whenever I pleased.

Still beguiled, I nodded and tried to make no indication of my rising concern. My stomach churned, anticipating something very wrong up ahead. I stepped out from the aperture into the open air. This rampart ran along the far wall of the royal hall. Ahead, a walkway ran atop a few of the pillars. Following the path with my eyes, switchback stairs ran down to what had once been outer walls to the palace. Now it was partially repaired from where it had been crushed by the jadeite monument that still lied there. A new section ran around its tip and acted to seal the walls’ opening. To my surprise, the switchback stair acted to further seal off the jadeite slab and a wall with yet another walkway had been erected on the far side to close it in entirely. If it were to protect the huge piece of jade from thieves that was incongruent with dozens of people I saw dotting the walkway.

I thought to myself that perhaps what I stood on was a new skywalk. The view of the city was beautiful, and people could come see the fallen monument for themselves. I breathed a bit easier at the thought. In so doing a putrid smell reached me and it reminded me of the baskets of rotted veg and stones that did not align with my idea of what was happening here before me. I continued my even pace as all my internal deduction struggled to make sense of what I refused to understand. Preoccupied I turned the first corner bringing into focus what had smelled so terrible and what I had been walking far above moments ago.

Bodies upon bodies laid piled down below on what was once the throne room but now was more like an enclosure. Eyes shriveled with time and skin turned ruddy green with rot and exposure. Obvious human forms sheltered beath them the uncountable bodies who were evidenced only by the limbs which stuck out at every angle like thorns. They wore only rags if anything at all, but even stripped of the armor and uniforms I recognized a majority to be soldiers. Mostly young men, the few exceptions must have been civilian casualties.

The realization that had been forming in my mind crystalized all at once and it felt as though another explosion equal to that which had blown away the jade I now walked alongside had gone off between my temples. This was no peaceful skywalk to see where a glorious revolution had taken place, this was pit like the ones I had seen at other fairgrounds holding exotic animals. The towering walls of stone and recently built scaffolding were a cage, and the roof had been peeled back further so that the creature within could not hide.

In horror, I watched a stumbling figure making the challenging journey up the jadeite which acted like a drawbridge to his throneroom. A section ran down the stone like a trickling stream of tears. Repeated footfalls on a strict path had polished those footholds clean. The general path to a lesser extent polished by the bodies dragged across like a mop. One reason I had worked up the courage to face the world that day, that I thought this grim task would be done long ago was proven false. I had guessed some new cruelty was being exacted but somehow the same course of action seemed worse than all I had imagined. Noble bodies must have ran out ages ago, but there King Tepesh remained.

His long robes tattered just above the ground. On this hot day he still wore layers of finery that was now dirty and tattered to the point they were unrecognizable. The mink-fur pauldrons of his surcoat which I had steamed to gleaming white each morning not long ago had turned copper-brown and its ornate pattern was lost beneath layers of grim. The many layers I had once painstakingly adorned him within was so soaked in filth that it clung to him like a matted dog. He wore his crown once again now. It appeared to be held in place with straps around his chin and crusted blood along its rim suggested that its interior had been made sharp somehow to deliver inescapable pain. The only thing that gleamed was in his hand. A new shovel to bury the countless dead that were once his responsibility in slaying and now his responsibility to put to rest. It’s handle was the royal scepter and it head was a portion of Jadeite carved to a spade’s head.

I shuddered at the thought they would bring him bodies of fallen warriors all the way from the front line, just to prolong his hell on earth. He must have already buried the nobles and the fallen rebels of civil conflicts. I was helpless to stop my inner computation. Hundreds of dead, I estimated more than 2000 so far. 26 days I had not left my room since the coop. More than 90 corpses per day had the king dragged from the same place before his throne all requests were made of him, brought down the slab and buried beneath it. Space must have run out ages ago. I did not want to walk towards what must now be a mass grave of heartbreaking dimensions, but behind me other onlookers marched forward and so I moved in turn. They excited pointed and laughed at Tepesh’s revolting form, eagerly walking faster.

A short while later, I had failed to notice mother and daughter had paused ahead of me. Those behind me had stopped too. Everyone with baskets now placed them down where they would not be blown away from the gusts at this height. Hands became full with produce and rubble. Most waited patiently. Some tried to surge forward so their opportunity would be sooner. A few lobbed their makeshift projectiles far too soon and missed widely. Streaks of tomato appearing on the floor around the King and stones skipping away in unpredictable bounces.

The first one landed true only after the King was in the Hall proper. A zucchini hit his chest. Rotten core exploding. My stomach turned to see the King who had once dined exclusively on the works of great chefs pick up a half and devour it with both hands pressing it into his lips. Shovel discarded for a moment. It was apparently the signal the people around me had been waiting for. Like the volleys of archers, the same that had stilled many of hearts that lay in a festering pile nearby, rotten goods and stones arched through the air, and hung for a moment before torrenting down onto the crouched King.

He seemed barely phased by the blows to his body, wincing only when a stone struck his crown with a resounding ring digging the torturers design into his scalp. A smack of flesh could be heard to my left as 2 men high-fived and one was congratulated for his sharp aim. I stared at the king as he gathered up some of what had just been thrown and gnaw at what had not been completely splattered on impact or was moldy beyond recognition. On his face was the same expression I had seen 26 days before. Completely placid acceptance, slack facial muscles made him look dull and without thought.

A whip crack marked the end of the King’s lunch. A rebel had come in to deliver it across Tepesh’s back. Shovel back in hand, the stumbling gait resumed towards the pile of the dead. Some of the people who had just excitedly thrown their expensively acquired trash exchanged remarks and moved on, but me and the mother with her daughter stayed there, leaning on the railing some feet apart. One of my guards was still laughing about the blow to the king’s crown and slapped the man responsible on the back as he passed. The young daughter looked so much like my own child at that age. Down to how her fists clenched to little balls, the thumbs buried against the palm. The same as Elzabeth had done whenever she was angry.

The younging had saved a few potatoes in her basket. During the earlier volley the mother had thrown, missed, thrown again and struck the king on his cheek, and was satisfied to leave the rest to her daughter. The small girl who must have been no older than 6 had missed throw after throw. Now she waited for her quarry to draw closer. As he approached the godforsaken pile she threw and undershot. Her mother coached her to aim higher and throw harder. A diligent student, the next potato just barely overshot the king and was a little to his right. Frustrated the girl gripped her last potato and shouted,

“Hey! You! Old and Gross! Stand still so I can hit you.” Her high-pitch cut through the wind but the king shambled forward. “Hey!”, she repeated, “Hey! My dad listened to you, and it got him dead! So now you just have to listen to me!”

This time, King Tepesh 17th of his line and first of his name stopped his approach towards the pile. He turned towards us and actually moved closer. The girl seemed shocked her tactic had worked and didn’t throw until he was almost directly beneath and had fallen to his knees. He lifted his head and raised his arms wide to accept the blow. The potato collided with his forehead and became a mush that ran down his face. He wiped his face and moved to return to his work, pausing his motion to stand only for a moment when our eyes met. As he grabbed a body and began to drag it towards the opening and the slab which led below, a voice, much quieter this time spoke up.

“Do you think that gross man has touched daddy yet?” Her mother wiped her eyes of tears and didn’t speak.

“Do you think he’s sleeping all scrunched up with the others? I hate that daddy will have to sleep like that forever.” The mother patted her child’s head, which still pointed towards the king and opened her mouth a few times but either struggled to find the words to speak or her throat was too rough with pain to obey.

“Do you think we can still stop it from happening to daddy mommy? Maybe they’d let me go down and look? Then we can take him back home like he should be.”

More questions flowed, a perverse reflection of the same endless curiosity my daughter had displayed at that age. I did not stay to hear them. I pushed my way back along the walkway the way I had came rather than baring to walk its whole length. Upset voices clamored before being shut by mean looks from my guards. I walked as brisk as I could, feeling in my heart like I was running but never abandoning my measured even strides. Never fully showing my emotion, the same way I had always done.

From that day I tried many things. I tried to forget, what was happening in the palace, my part in it, everything. I tried to weather the storm, wait until the King’s punishment changed or he died from the cruel task. I drowned myself with pleasures but it merely reminded of how Tepesh had done the very same to escape his own responsibility. Resolution steeled my heart and a certainly filled me that something must be done and no one could do it but I.

I won’t reveal who helped me, but know that others among you felt the same as I. That this punishment did more harm than good. Other nations hate and fear marked us as barbarians. Our people grow more cruel and mean. The same wealth horded by our oppressors in symbols like scepter, crown and monument are now symbols to our hate when they could be used to give to our needy who still exist despite all that has happened. Our valiant dead do not receive the proper respect and lie in an unmarked pit like discarded trash!

On an especially cold November’s night I went to the throne room and entered through the main doors. I had dressed in my butlers coattails and white gloves. Another held the door as I entered with a silver tray and cloche. On the throne, the king lay slumped and sleeping, the place that had become his de facto bed. He was but a crowned silhouette on the throne, the moon hanging directly behind him in the sky. For a moment I could convince myself that his punishment had never happened. That he was the same king. At least until my eyes adjusted to the dark. His beard was long now and untidy, only strips of his once glorious robes still hung on his shoulders. His skin was a tapestry of sunburn and bruises. One eye so swollen I was sure it wouldn’t open. I walked around the pile of dead and did my best not to gag. Those on the bottom had liquified marking a oozing puddle around which I had step carefully. Tepesh has been unable to reach them before more dead were piled atop over the long months that he had been set to this impossible task.

I approached the throne and clicked my heels together in an attentive pose.

“Good morning my liege”, I began, “I have brought you something to celebrate.”

His one good eye opened slowly. He sat up as though in slow motion and bade no reply. I cleared my throat and spoke again.

“It is a good day today My King. I have been able to clear your schedule and free you from all burdens of your position.”

When still no reply came. I walked closer, growing desperate, I spoke more plainly.

“I have come to free you, Tepesh. As you once asked me, I have cleared your path, and you need do nothing else but walk it.”

All I received was the same blankness I had seen from him in all the long time since his colossal fall from grace.

“I suppose you must be hungry, perhaps thirsty as well. Too much so to even speak and rejoice. Fear not, all is well. I brought you something, your favorites. It will give you all the strength you need.”

I brought the tray and revealed roast beef and fine mead. The King finally spoke then,

“Do you bring me freedom, or is this poison in fine dress?”

For a long time I considered my response in silence and replied,

“It is both.. my liege.”

He then gave me what might have been a smile beneath his gnarled appearance. He took my offering and placed it down reverently on his lap. Picked up the folded handkerchier and placed it atop the arm of his filthy throne. He ate with a gentle desperation, moving quickly and enjoying each bite but his etiquette was carefully measured and that of a king.

As he finished he wiped his face, leaving black dirty streaks upon his kerchief. He moved the dish aside and drank deep the final slash remaining from his steady sips to wash down occasional bites. I watched trying not to let my sobs become audible to let the hungry man enjoy his meal. The man that had once been a child beset with a responsibility he had not the aptitude to fulfill. He sat with his hands folded and his eyes still gazing at empty space on the floor below him.

His back now carried a hunch, his body twisted from endless days of labor. I could see now that I was at his side his skin was spotted from the sun and raw. His eyes were still most haunting. Gazing at nothing, a spot on the floor. Far from me, far from the sky. I had only seen him raise his head that one time to that little girl after I opened the door to his torturers and my daughter. I was unable to look away from the dreadly wraith of the king I had once know.

I waited for him to die, for signs of the poisons effects. He seemed to do the same. He spasmed suddenly and gripped his stomach. Leaning forward he knocked the goblet from the arm of his throne. As I knelt to grab it up I heard above me:

“Pass along that I am sorry.” His voice was like the creaking and snapping of dry wood, the words almost unrecognizable. I looked up and breathed in a half-gasp as I saw that he now looked deep into my eyes. I saw tears stream down along well-carved passages on an otherwise filthy visage.

“My legacy, it is pain. It sears in my gut now, as is only right, after many day of exquisite pain I failed to keep count of long ago. Just tell them all that I was sorry, that I didn’t want what I wrought either. I didn’t have the greatness that was needed of me. I choose to indulge my weakness. I ignored the cost. I fought with those.. I was meant to rule. I couldn’t live up.. to what.. I.. … was meant..”

That morning was when I was found, covered in filth. Dropping down my final spades of soil, hiding the sad corpse of the once cut-throat king."

#wp #writing prompt #writing #fantasy #creative writing #reddit #sad stories #fiction #my fic #writers on tumblr #fic prompt #drafts #short story

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chaliceni · 1 year ago

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Cissamione - When a Man Loves a Woman

~800 words

There was no love lost between Narcissa and Lucius, not now. Maybe not ever. It's always hard to analyse what you felt at the time after the fact, without letting circumstances and experiences cloud whatever reality meant back then.

Even so, she firmly believed that she had not experienced this love, and its all-consuming warmth in all her years. Surely she would have remembered such a feeling and not let it slip away. Especially since nowadays it took an army to pry open the iron vice the sensation had clamped around her heart.

For too many years her mind provided the only sanctuary she had; and she worked tirelessly to keep the walls of her safe haven fortified against anything that posed a threat. Only, living as she did, that could have been almost anything at all.

Emotions were a weakness, didn't you know? Because Narcissa certainly did. A lesson for all pureblood brides-to-be, any kind of pleasant sensitivity was just another imperfection on an unblemished shield of resolve. The moment you allowed anyone to dig into that imperfection, it burrowed into your facade, festering away until your defences crumbled. No longer unblemished, but completely ruined.

A tarnished reputation was treated as a fate worse than death when she was growing up. The version of herself that stood thirty years later, catering to the Dark Lord could have laughed in the faces of Cygnus and Druella Black. She wished that was the most dreadful thing she had to fear. Oh, how times changed. For better or worse.

During the war, it was certainly the latter. What she should have known was that as cliché as it sounded, there was still time to make a change. That change might have come a lot sooner after the end of the war if she hadn't been the stubborn witch she always personified. Although she never claimed to be perfect, whatever her girlfriend might say as she stared at her all doe-eyed.

The resentment reserved for her past mistakes were only negated by the annoyingly sound logic said girlfriend imparted. If she re-entered society before she was ready, they likely wouldn't have found each other. It helped more than you can imagine. A life without her little persistent brunette isn't a thought she wanted to give the time of day.

The whole ordeal softened her to an embarrassing degree. At this point she emerged at the other side of her metamorphosis as a brand new woman, her wings no longer held back under the immovable thumb of a man.

Problem being that now Narcissa had no clue how to use her wings, heavy and stiff from disuse. In all actuality, they had never seen much use at all. Obedient and subservient since the very beginning. Her sisters both tasted freedom in a way she only dreamt of. Not courageous or outright crazy enough to brave the skies. Until now.

A young Narcissa Black was fed all manner of tall tales about handsome men that would have no trouble in providing her with anything she could ever want for. In return, she would bear him with perfect heirs, preferably sons of course. A princess story where she'd get the prince. She was fortunate, privileged even, to be in such a position. A scion to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, truly the closest thing to fairytale level royalty that Wizarding Britain had anymore. It should have been an honour. It was anything but.

Draco kept her grounded, kept her sane. Many times had she risked it all for him and she would do so again in a heartbeat if she needed to. Except, six years changed a woman. Her new life meant that she would never have to. Hermione made it so and she believed her.

Princes, handsome, rich men and their like failed to live up to their promises, didn't fulfill the fallacies of grandure and contentment.

The furthest thing from those tales did though. Her sweet muggleborn girlfriend, the sole woman to ever thaw out the Ice Queen. Who forwent showering her in diamonds in favour of massaging her aching shoulders after a strenuous day. A home-cooked dinner instead of a hollow house filled with meaningless luxuries. Someone who really listened, saw the woman behind the walls, who climbed higher than any other to scale their imposing height. They didn't frighten her off as they should and oh, she was so glad they didn't. The woman who should have been a peasant beneath her feet, according to all she'd ever known, had actually found her in disguise. Underneath it hid her princess. No knight in shining armour, just a young witch with a heart of gold.

And that held far more value than falsehoods that came along with any story that began with "when a man loves a woman".

#narcissa malfoy #narcissa black #cissamione #narcissa x hermione #my fics #ficlet

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my-reference-notes · 8 months ago

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Assertiveness is an Act of Kindness

Assertiveness is an act of kindness.

This is an idea I keep coming back to, again and again. It’s something I say at least once a week during a therapy session, and almost every time I do a speaking engagement, regardless of the topic.

In this article that I wrote several years ago, I talk about the different styles of communication: aggression, passivity, and assertiveness. To summarize, aggressive communication is when you devalue the needs of others in order to get your own needs met. Passive communication is when you devalue your own needs in order to meet the needs of others. Assertive communication is a healthy balance, in which you acknowledge that the needs of others are important, while also recognizing that you deserve to have your own needs met. Here’s a fun Venn diagram that demonstrates this:

Assertiveness is All About How You Deal with Anger.

Anger, like all emotions, serves a function. It says, “hey, my rights are being violated and I need to protect myself.” Anger comes to the rescue when something squishier and more vulnerable is on the line. Let’s use a metaphor to explore this:

If you imagine an archetypal princess being rescued from a dragon by an archetypal knight, the knight serves an important role. If the knight doesn’t step up and put his sword through the dragon, the princess will get eaten alive.

Think of the princess (regardless of your gender) as everything inside you that’s vulnerable: fear, sadness, hurt, and shame, to name a few. And think of the knight as everything that serves the function of protecting you from injury: anger and jealousy, among other things. No one would argue that the knight is bad. In fact, without him, the princess wouldn’t survive. But sometimes he gets a little bit overenthusiastic and mansplainy and the princess doesn’t get to express herself.

The knight is important. But the princess is important, too.

Anger is a secondary emotion. This means that it’s an emotional response to another emotion. Usually, if you peek underneath anger, you’ll find one of the quieter, more vulnerable feelings is at its core: sadness, hurt, fear, or shame. (Sound familiar?) When anger is expressed in a way that isn’t healthy, one of two things happens:

You yell. It alienates people. All you’re trying to do is get your needs met, but instead you burn bridges. The person you’re seeking understanding from responds either with their own anger, causing them to engage in a contentious battle, or with a softer primary emotion (such as fear), leading them to withdraw from you entirely.

You shy away from having a difficulty conversation. Your anger gets quietly buried, and your needs never get met.

Why is Assertiveness an Act of Kindness?

It is much, much easier to be aggressive or passive than it is to be assertive. If you look again at the Venn Diagram at the beginning of this article, you’ll notice that when you’re either aggressive or passive, all you need to consider is one side of the story:

“What are my needs?”

“What are your needs?”

It takes thoughtfulness to be assertive. It takes creative thinking, wordsmithing, emotional self-regulation, and several deep breaths. And because of this, when you’re assertive, here’s what you’re saying:

I value you. I value our relationship.

I value you so much that in addressing what just happened, even though I feel hurt, I want you to feel respected and safe.

I value our relationship so much that I want to make sure my needs are met so that underlying anger doesn’t fester into resentment.

I value you so much that even though this is a difficult conversation to have, I want to sit and talk with you until we’ve reached a resolution – or at very least an understanding – that we can both live with.

I value our relationship enough that it’s worth the time and energy to work through this thing.

I value our relationship enough that I don’t want to tell myself stories that will make me angrier and angrier. I don’t want to grow this antipathy towards you as those stories snowball bigger and bigger in my head. I want to clarify your intentions, and my own, and I want us to try to understand each other.

I know that if I just lean into anger, my secondary emotion, I’ll explode and yell and you’ll feel betrayed, violated, confused. I’ll do serious, lasting damage to our relationship, and all the apologies in the world can’t undo what I’ve said in a moment of untempered rage. So instead I want to talk to you about my primary emotion.

I know that if I ignore my anger because I’m only valuing your needs, I’ll be scared of my own capacity for exploding, so instead, I’ll simply stop returning your calls or asking you on social outings. I’ll minimize contact, and in a few years, you’ll be nothing more than somebody that I used to know.

It’s a lot of work for me to be assertive, and that’s not always work I choose to do. Sometimes I simply minimize the amount of involvement I have with a person who has offended me. Sometimes I rip into someone.

But I value you too much for that.

#Assertiveness

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quinntheebrain · 4 years ago

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Hi there! I was wondering if you could do a jealous bokuto x f!reader (preferably if not then gn! is fine). Like he gets jealous of his bby and kuroo getting along really well... a little too well lmao. Anyways, I hope your day/night is going great ya wonderful person <3

Pairing: Jealous!Bokuto Kōtarō x fem!reader

Warnings: implied alcohol use, a temporarily sad Bokuto, Ummm I curse????

A/N: *deep heavy sigh* I looked over this 1000x lmfao. I’m used to writing fics and not hcs, so they’re probably not the best (I gotta stop doubting myself). I’m always so nervous to share my writings, but this a learning process! Thanks for being my first request. It’s been a while since I wrote anything seriously and shared it. I really hope you enjoy it :) Also, somebody else (who I can’t think of rn) hc that Bokuto doesn’t drink, I just agree wholeheartedly.

Oh, my precious baby Bokuto. He’s so cute it hurts🥺.

He gets jealous easily.

He’s so lively that people naturally gravitate toward him. So, he’s used to being the center of attention.

Even though the only person’s attention he really cares about is yours.

Bokuto loves the way you look at him when he makes you smile. He loves the feeling of just being in your presence.

So, when he sees you and Kuroo smiling and laughing from across the bar he’s irritated.

And when the two of you get a little too close for comfort, he’s fuming

...but for some reason, I feel like he wouldn’t say anything

Now, Bokuto would normally shut that shit down instantly.

But it’s Kuroo, his closest friend. He doesn’t want any kind of confrontation. He doesn’t want to cause a scene (I believe Bokuto could beat Kuroo’s ass)

So, he says nothing and instead spends the night alternating between super soft/affectionate and super distant.

He’ll bring it up in private though. Half-jokingly asking if you’d prefer Kuroo to him.

And when the conversation turns serious

Don’t invalidate his feelings, don’t make him feel crazy. (he’ll curl up in a ball and it will be a long time before he opens up to you again)

RE-AS-SUR-ANCE!!!!!!!! He needs it; he will die without it. Please just tell this boy how much you love him.

And please believe he doesn’t blame you alone. He talks to Kuroo after he talks to you.

Because next time, Bokuto won’t be so nice :)

This is the third time Kuroo has put his arm around you; Bokuto is counting. He watches you from across the room as he holds a conversation with Akaashi; though, at this point, his friend’s words are nothing more than background noise.

You are supposed to be with them, but once Kuroo challenges you to a drinking contest, Bokuto knows it’s a lost cause. You promise to join him shortly and though he doesn’t believe you, he nods as if he does. Unlike you, and most of his friends, Bokuto doesn’t drink; he just doesn’t like the taste, but he wants you to have a good time. So, he goes to sit with Akaashi by himself but not before leaning down and pulling you into a soft kiss. Bokuto’s large palm caresses your cheek as his mouth moves delicately against your own; It’s quick and gentle, but it’s effective. His lips linger on yours just long enough to leave you wanting more; it’s a reminder that he’ll be waiting for you.

But, 15 minutes have passed and you’re still glued to Kuroo’s side.

Now, you’re a giggling mess, teasing one of your boyfriend’s closest friends, who seems to be enjoying the attention a little too much. The rest of their volleyball buddies watch and laugh, most of them far too inebriated to find anything wrong with the way the two of you are interacting. Bokuto, on the other hand, finds everything wrong with it. He watches you with narrow eyes and tightly clenched fists, trying his hardest to keep his composure.

“Your jealousy is showing,” Akaashi smirks at his best friend; Bokuto hasn’t been listening to a word he says. He wants to tease him about it but now doesn’t seem like the time. “Why don’t you just tell them it’s bothering you?”

“They’re not doing it on purpose,” Bokuto sighs as he unclenches his fists, wiggling his fingers to crack his knuckles. “Besides, there was a time she couldn’t even be in the same room as Kuroo. I’m glad they’re friends now and if I say something I might ruin it.” he looks away from you and instead focuses on the ground.

“Forget about Kuroo,” Akaashi says, slightly irritated. “What about you? If you don’t talk to her, you might ruin your relationship. You don’t want to harbor resentment toward the one you love,” Akaashi glances at Bokuto, who is unable to reply. They stand in silence for a short time. Akaashi doesn’t want to bombard Bokuto with advice; he knows that sometimes, a few thoughtful words are enough. “Look, it’ll be okay. I have to go.” Akaashi pats Bokuto’s shoulder, leaving him alone to think about the situation.

Bokuto is truly happy that you and Kuroo have finally learned to get along but deep down, a part of him wishes the two of you never stopped the incessant bickering; part of him wishes that you still disliked Kuroo and he disliked you. Maybe, the petty arguments were nothing but an attempt to mask the attraction you felt toward each other but honestly, that’s what Bokuto would prefer. Because what’s happening now — you and Kuroo openly fawning over each other — is driving him crazy.

I’m just imagining things, he thinks to himself. Maybe, there is no real meaning to the way the two of you are carrying on; but, watching as Kuroo embraces you in a hug that lingers a little longer than it should doesn’t ease his mind. Your face buried into Kuroo’s chest, his hands pressed firmly against your lower back as he rocks you side to side, it’s a bit more than Bokuto can handle. The thought of you in someone else’s arms so intimately bothers him, and pulling out your phone to take Kuroo’s contact info is the icing on the cake.

Still, you’d never know how much it affects Bokuto because he approaches you like there’s nothing wrong, and though he tugs you away from Kuroo rather possessively, he does it with the brightest smile. “Alright, ready babe?” He looks down to you with those golden eyes, glimmering with adoration as he places a kiss on your forehead. You nod ‘yes’ quickly. “See you later, bro.” you both wave at his friends once more before the two of you exit the bar.

A weight lifts from Bokuto’s shoulders as the door shuts behind him; the absence of his best friend shouldn’t put him at ease, but it does. Still, Bokuto has another problem.

You don’t want to harbor resentment toward the one you love. Akaashi’s words play in his head like a broken record. If he doesn’t settle this now, he never will. His insecurities will continue to fester until he can no longer look at you the same.

“You and Kuroo were pretty cozy tonight,” he fakes a chuckle as he peers at you from the corner of his eye. “I’m glad you two are so close now.”

“Cozy?” you scrunch up your face. You could count the number of times Kuroo touched you on one hand (which was still too many for Bokuto). You will admit that you spent an unusual amount of time with Kuroo, but he’s more entertaining when he’s drunk; it’s actually your favorite time to be around him. “Hardly. If anything,” you pause, “Wait a minute. Ko, are you jealous?” you manage to suppress your smile, but there's a hint of amusement in your tone.

He doesn’t answer your question; it’s embarrassing enough to even be feeling this way and for you to call him out so quickly only makes it worse. He takes a deep breath, “Y/N,” Bokuto’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Do you ever think you’d be better off with Kuroo? I mean the two of you actually have a lot in common, and I just think-” the words sound crazy now that he’s finally saying them out loud.

“No,” you say sternly and confidently, cutting off your boyfriend before he has the chance to ramble on. It’s reassuring how quick you are to shut the notion down. “Besides, we really only have one thing in common,” you pause in your tracks, forcing Bokuto to stop and look at you.

“What’s that?”

“We both love you so much,” you can’t help but smile as you speak. Bokuto has such amazing people in his life and that warms your heart. “We would never try to hurt you; I would never try to hurt you. I’m so sorry for even making you feel like that.” the apology is sincere. Your glossy eyes are a giveaway. “If I haven’t made this clear, you are the only one for me. It’s you and me, together forever,” he wipes away a single tear; you hadn’t even realized you were crying. You never wanted to make him feel this way; he’s never sounded so defeated. Was he going to just hand you over to his best friend? Did he think you would accept that? “But really, Kuroo?” you pretend to vomit to lighten the mood. It makes you both laugh, something you desperately needed.

“I love you,” Bokuto sighs in relief.

“I love you too.” flinging your arms around his neck, you kiss him.

There’s something almost enchanting about the way he immediately takes the lead. He doesn’t care about the taste of liquor that lingers in your mouth or the fact that you still smell like Kuroo’s cologne; at this moment, Bokuto only cares about you. His lips glide over yours passionately, yet ever so gently; your tongue sporadically teases his bottom lip, his teeth occasionally nibble on yours. It’s a steady rhythm that makes you weak in the knees. His hands find their way to your waist, then to your back, sliding down until they’re secure in your back pockets.

Bokuto pulls away, pressing his forehead against yours. “Let’s get home, yeah?” he squeezes your ass before he removes his hands from your pocket; intertwining his fingers with yours, Bokuto starts to walk again.

“Yeah,” you repeat with a smile on your face, nodding eagerly as he pulls you down the sidewalk.

#bokuto x fem!reader #jealous!bokuto #bokuto imagines #bokuto kotaro x fem!reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #v nervous #bokuto x reader

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vminity21 · 4 years ago

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hoax | jjk

Pairing: friend!Jeongguk x female!reader, friendship to lovers!au

Word Count: 2,854

Genre: fluff/smut/angst

Warning(s): angst involving unrequited love, foul language use, smut, oral (m receiving), grinding, smutty kissing, unprotected sex, may or may not have happened in a restaurant, slight fem!dom Rated: 18+

Summary: the hoax was that you assumed it was unrequited love, but being approached by Jeongguk’s potential love interest proved otherwise, and the determination of confessing your feelings had never been so strong.

Credit to: @suhdays for the cover! I’m obsessed with it!

It’s crazy to think that just a certain way someone looks at you can spark a desire to dream about every and any scenario you can fester to make reality seem promising. Especially when it comes to a potential future with a suitor who’s gentle eyes meet yours now and again definitely trailing strings of hope in its wake. You imagine the way he would touch you in a dim, candlelit room where nervous breaths echo and wide eyes venture; you imagine the way he would tease you with silly banter if you could only muster enough bravery to sit next to him; you would envision moments of laughter even in the hours of the early morning before heading to work; you even ponder about how he would kiss you the very second you confess your love for him.

You wonder, you wonder, you wonder.

Palm clutching the metal doorknob from inside the bathroom, nerves tingle along your stomach when a fresh wave of nausea erupts. He is out there somewhere in the dining hall with his family as well as yours, and everyone assumes you are working late. Desperate to reveal what you have kept underneath for too long, your boss gave you the evening off, and here you are fully clothed in a glimmering dress, hair curled, and makeup dazzling your face. Mind drifting to all the events leading up to this moment has been what fueled your impulse of a decision.

When a friend of the past, LenLen, reached out to you last spring, you immediately took it considering it had been years since you had seen her including her four siblings: Maeve, Taehyung, Jimin, and Jeongguk. Unfortunately, your siblings, Monnie and Hoseok, happened to be busy that evening but you still went anyway, driving to what happens to be your favorite Italian restaurant. Seeing LenLen for the first time in four years was exciting, and you were happy to discover she had a boyfriend by the name of Kim Namjoon. His tall frame nearly overtowered LenLen and you were very appreciative of how social he was, and you found it quite adorable that they happened to meet on a popular dating app where many knew it to be for casual hookups.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the crew to show up, but you were amazed at how much everyone had grown- four years can make a world of difference, but you will never forget when your eyes landed on Jeongguk- your heart nearly leaped from your chest. Dark strands parted to showcase glimmering brown eyes and a thin lipped smile remained on his face nearly the entire evening. The attraction you felt was evident to you especially when everyone decided to continue the evening with mini golf. Anytime he was around you, it was like the feelings budded into a hope you weren’t sure how to control.

LenLen and Namjoon who you had carpooled with after dropping your car off at the apartment, decided to head home and LenLen’s siblings offered to drive you back to where you live. Jeongguk wouldn’t even drop you off where you claimed you would walk, parking in a handicap spot close enough to where the walk was easier to get to your door. He hadn’t gone with you but you were thankful he was kind enough to dismiss your original request. After a few days, you received a dm of a meme that he said made him think of you which ignited the excitement that he may be interested in you after all, but it was the most short lived four messages you had ever seen.

Moving on, nearly a year and a half passed when your roommate and best friend, Min Yoongi, decided to move into a new apartment ten minutes down the road, and your sister Monnie was preparing to move in to take Yoongi’s place. Maeve happens to be very fond of Monnie, and a month prior to the move, LenLen and Maeve invited you and Monnie to hangout at a Brewery not far down the road from your apartment. LenLen and Namjoon mentioned a guy named Seokjin who they were going to try setting you up with even though you already had a person in mind. When Monnie messaged you about the plans, you jokingly asked if Jeongguk was going to be there and at first he wasn’t, but when the day came, and he showed up at the table-

your hands went completely numb.

His presence was so overwhelming that you felt the need to consume enough alcohol to tipsy away the anxiety revolving around how shocked you were to see Jeongguk in all his glory sitting across from you. Taehyung took the seat to your left; Monnie had the biggest crush on Taehyung until Seokjin arrived and although the broad shoulders nearly caved you in, you knew Seokjin was your sister’s type and before you knew it, you caught Seokjin sneaking glimpses of Monnie every chance he got. And, after a few weeks, Seokjin and Monnie became the next couple aside from LenLen and Namjoon, cuddling at every bonfire.

As much as you hoped for Jeongguk’s attention, the most you scored was a teasing side eye while he planted his car keys into your hand where his fingers lingered a bit longer than you expected; also, the quick witted flirt of when you dropped your phone he offered to call it resulting in a deep blush flushing across your chest. Even admitting to him how he most definitely had muscles despite his insecurity of wanting his body to become more buff, and you may have spilled that he was attractive, because he is. The funny part is this all happened in front of Cadence- a girl Jeongguk had feelings for and the same girl who upset you enough that you are now hiding in the bathroom, trying to suppress the fuming anger boiling in your chest.

‘You think for one second he meant anything he said to you? I’m the one he wants and you know it.’

She was the first to see your arrival, and she immediately approached you with intense determination and resentment etched in her red lipped frown. She made it clear that she was aware of you and Jeongguk sharing a serious moment where you almost fully confessed, and he claimed how lucky any guy would be to have you. Your heart shattered for you knew he was stuck between a woman who couldn’t make up her mind and a woman that could. It was like he knew what the true answer was but he battled on not wanting to hurt anyone. When Cadence said what she said, you literally muttered, “What are we, in high school?” Offending the girl enough that you were able to stomp away, tears brimmed, yet you knew you couldn’t give up on Jeongguk just yet.

Bursting through the restroom door, the front of your gown clutched within both hands as you dash past the waiters and waitresses concentrating on balancing trays of food while the air reverberates with clinking glasses and scraping forks. The waft of savory meat and loaves of bread floods your nostrils, yet your eyes search the crowded tables for only one person. Frantically, you find his brother, Taehyung, fitted in a suit, chowing down on his dinner, “Hey, have you seen Guk?” You lean toward his ear trying to maintain your cool.

“Yeah, he’s over there,” Taehyung points toward his right where a few chairs away sat Jeongguk merrily conversing with his siblings though a sadness clouds his umber eyes. When you left earlier, he appeared visibly hurt that you couldn’t make it tonight, but here you are, rushing to him as if this would be the last time you would ever see him again.

“Guk!” You breathe, his wide eyes immediately turning to see you halting before him.

“Y/N? I thought-” He scoots his chair back to stand to his feet, overtowering you as his hair falls into his eyes. The sounds of the restaurant are loud enough to not make the scene unfolding as noticeable, but even if there was to be silence, you could care less.

“I worked it out with my boss, and I’m here now, and I don’t give two fucks what Cadence says-” you’re panting now as well as burning up with unwanted blushes.

“Cadence? She’s here?”

“Of course she is, when is she not with you?” Wetting his lips, his eyebrows furrow when he swallows slowly.

“I didn’t invite her.”

Shock is evident in your expression as the words died on your tongue, “You didn’t?”

“No, because it wasn’t her that I wanted to see tonight.”

When relief floods your limbs, you are hardly in a position to think straight for the man you’ve been hoping for all this time is finally seeing the light that has been shining this entire time: you. “Guk, I love you,” gasping, his lips collide with yours without any hesitation as his palms move to grip your waist. The tips of your thumbs find the corners of his lips while he kisses you slowly, taking in every moment that he never wants to lose any further for you are the missing puzzle piece that he has needed. He wants to show how sorry he is for letting you down prior to this moment; how blind he was to ever think he could let you walk away, and as stunning as you are, his heart pounds significantly.

“Awwww,” you hear Monnie coo as you giggle against his kiss. Jeongguk’s lips hardly leave yours before the pair of you find yourselves in a walkway where swinging doors meet at each end of the hall. Empty food carts are sporadic within the space and it’s so dim, your mind races with the feelings growing in all the right places. Moaning into his kiss when tongues meet, his arms latch underneath your ass before lifting you up to where your back hits the wall. Kisses growing so aggressive yet so passionate, you feel like you can’t catch a good breath and the last thing you ever want is to stop. Fingers tangling with the dark strands of his hair, your legs wrap tightly around his frame while you slide your teeth over his bottom lip, him hissing in response as he continues to bruise your mouth with the same hunger.

You are hoping not one individual happens to walk through here, and yet you don’t seem to mind this scandalous desperation of finally becoming one with the love of your life who happens to love you in return though it took a long time coming. Your dress has slid up to your thighs exposing your skin where you feel the material of his tuxedo and when the click of your heels meet the ground after a few more minutes of paradise, you feel his erection against your abdomen which arouses you to oblivion, and the sheet of your dress returns to sway against your shins.

Lost in the continuous motion of his kiss, you realize he plops into a chair that the back of his calves happened to discover. Breathless, you realize his attire has been disheveled while his hazy eyes sweep your figure, and with a lustful gaze you party a knowing smirk. Seductively you step forward to slowly swing each leg over his frame, set in a perfect straddle where your core grazes along his length. He hums pleasurably while you move your hips back and forth in a tease before pressing your lips to the corner of his jaw. Jeongguk struggles where to place his hands, sliding them along your back until he squeezes your thighs, letting you glide as much as you want while you pepper kisses on any visible skin you see.

Heat clenching, you can hardly take it anymore when you scramble to unbuckle his belt, unzipping his slacks, parting the slit in his underwear to reveal his being prompting your mouth to water at the sight. Jeongguk inhales sharply, you wanting to get down to business, sliding backward off his lap until your ajar mouth tickles along his shaft to build anticipation. “You don’t have to-”

“Shut up,” you take charge, fingers accepting his length carefully while the tip of your tongue dances from the base of his being to the tip in an agonizing pace. He places his hands within the curls of your hair, tightening his grip as he groans in ecstasy. Swirling your tongue along his tip, spreading his precum on his surface, you dip, sucking up and down- the feeling so satisfying, he can’t take his eyes off you. “Fuck,” his raspy voice sounds, “you feel so good.”

His words ignite the motivation to keep going, sashaying your tongue along his girth while you continue the bliss, but you didn’t want him to finish too soon. Releasing, you stand to bundle your dress up to expose a coral thong, shedding it down your legs prompting Guk to raise his hands in surrender. “Are you gonna at least let me pleasure-” Leaning forward with the sexiest menacing look you can muster, you fold your palm over the chair, inching as close to his face as you can to where your mouth barely brushes his panting lips. His words stop, eyes enlarging at the way you take the lead so effortlessly.

“I said shut. Up.” Deep down, you are willing to admit that you are truly showing Jeongguk what he will be missing if he ever decides to change his mind, and with the truth appearing at bay, there is nothing that you could ever do that will ever scare him away. He wants to make you feel good too. He wants to be with you. Reaching for his length, you position it beneath your core, letting the sloppy sound of your wetness cover his tip before taking him all in.

“Ooooh my-“ He grits his teeth trying to control himself and when you nod your permission, he begins his thrusting, your hands tangled in his hair while you moan against his ear. The way he moves sends you over the edge in the most erotic way, and with each stroke, he hits your g-spot, the strong feeling growing so intensely, you can feel the brink of a climax. “Keep going!” You gasp, “Keep going, Jeongguk, keep- ah!” Your toes curl against your heels as your thighs tighten, your high coming to its completion, as an orgasm overtakes your senses. Jeongguk spills within in you, arms wrapping around you tightly while he presses his mouth into your shoulder. Hugging him back, you have forgotten the existence of time, and how long you two hold each other, you are unsure.

“I’m so sorry that I-”

“Don’t.” You stop his whisper, eyes closed while you bury your face into the crook of his neck, taking in the crisp scent of his cologne. “I’m just glad you’re with me now.”

He tips his head enough to where you turn to face him, a seriousness overcomes his expression, his stare flitting to make contact with your own, “I love you, too.” Hearing the words become so real to the point that you almost want to cry tears of joy, but that doesn’t get to happen.

“Uh-” A male voice echoes, scrambling to your feet in pure terror, while the scrape of a turning chair holds Jeongguk fumbling to return his area back into his pants. Jimin stands frozen in place while you struggle to form any phrase.

“It’s not- it’s not what you think!” You squeak, your skin burning from embarrassment. As soon as the words left your mouth, Jimin’s ajar lips and wide eyes, look down at your crumpled thong that still rests proudly upon the floor. Shit, you shudder, and Jimin’s stiffened frame, shifts to exit the hallway, Jeongguk stifling laughter while you twirl to face him. Unbeknownst to you, Guk had reached to retrieve the damp garment, shaking his head. “You’re laughing? Your brother just caught us having sex in a restaurant!”

“An isolated part of a restaurant. And, I promise you he didn’t see too much of anything, I think he will be fine,” Guk chuckles, standing to his feet while you stare at him in calm disbelief.

“If this gets back to Monnie, I will never hear the end of it.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all,” you reply, relaxing into his embrace.

“Good. Because I plan to be around every time she brings it up.” Tilting your chin, he kisses you once again. “And,” he pulls away swiftly, raising your thong to your peripheral vision, “I want plenty reasons to have to return these to where they rightfully belong.”

And just like that, your dreams come true, staring up at his wide smile that scrunches his nose, and the way he looks at you returning the same joy- the hoax of unrequited love almost made you give up, and Jeongguk is determined to never let you slip away ever again.

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baoshan-sanren · 4 years ago

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So thanks to your metas I've finally read SV in like 3 days and now I'm back with a question. Let's say if hypothetically SJ and YQY talked things out and by some miracle SJ wouldn't abuse LBH, do you think that LBH would fall in love with SJ as well given that he'd always thought his Shizun was beautiful, elegant and untouchable. Do you think his feelings would grow into something more with time? I'm living for your takes on blnovels. Thanks in advance

Idk if you can start with SJ not abusing LBH, I think you would have to start with Qiu Jianluo not abusing SJ, or maybe even earlier than that, before he was sold into the Qiu household by human traffickers. To me, there’s no conceivable way where the same SJ who walks away from the carnage at Qiu's Mansion with Wu Yanzi, and later enters the Cang Qiong Mountain, would turn out to be some type of kind and benevolent shizun on par with SY. We don’t get a lot of detailed descriptions of his time with Wu Yanzi, but there is no indication that he enters Cang Qiong Mountain with any intention to give up his festering resentments, regardless of whether YQY can give him a reasonable explanation for never returning or not.

Look, SJ found himself in the shitty situation in Qiu household because he had been trying to protect YQY. That, on its own, shows he was not yet the heartless villain that the later events would forge him into. But this particular rant of his is also very telling:

“Of course it’s all your fault! I blame you. We weren’t close with those newcomers, so what if we were stepped on a little? Why did you have to play hero! Are you afraid that people like us with such lowly lives can’t bear it?! If you hadn’t played hero, why would I have helped you? If I hadn’t helped you, how would I have provoked him, and how would that Qiu guy have ended up buying me?! If he hadn’t bought me, how would I have become like this?! Every two days I get beat up a little bit and every three days I get beat up a lot━he plays me like I’m a dog!”

SJ is very young here, but the difference between him and YQY is starkly obvious. MXTX makes use of this dynamic, this clash of personalities, in both SVSSS, MDZS, and TGCF. “Why did you have to play the hero” should be familiar line to readers of MDZS too, and despite some fan opinions, it’s just not... what the so called “good guy” in the narrative would think, let alone say out loud. (Btw, TGCF is the only one of MXTX’s novels in which we see this type of character actually grow and change with time). Right off the bat, we see this very young SJ as someone who only values (and is willing to protect) those of immediate importance to himself, while YQY, as the typical “hero” of the narrative, tries to protect everyone and ends up harming the person he cares about in the process. You will find these two personality types thrust in these types of situations in 90% of danmei (and wuxia/xianxia) stories for a reason. You are supposed to know that YQY will end the tortured hero and SJ will end the blackened villain, the only differences being other related plot lines and their eventual downfall/redemption. (Or in MDZS’s case, absolute stagnation, which flies in the face of typical development for someone like SJ and apparently, confuses a lot of readers as well).

The second part I think is important to mention about that little rant up there is that SJ is already a person who takes no responsibility for his actions. YQY had “acted the hero” so SJ was forced to act as well, therefore his action is YQY’s fault. He is very young at this point, so no one expects him to be a paradigm of magnanimity, but at the same time, he never grows and matures out of this way of thinking. So SJ who enters Cang Qiong Mountain is already proficient at holding resentments and shifting all the blame for his misfortunes to others. At that point, even if YQY had explained how his haste to cultivate quickly had resulted in a qi deviation and the subsequent confinement, there is no indication that SJ would have found him any less guilty for failing to return in a timely manner. (Don't forget that one of the last admonishments SJ gives to YQY before they part is to stop being so brash. YQY doesn’t listen, which results in qi deviation, which results in SJ being stuck in Qiu household for years. It’s unlikely that SJ would find YQY blameless).

However, if you go back further than all the misery and abuse SJ suffered at the hands of Qiu Jianluo and change things (perhaps the human traffickers sell him into a different, better household, etc) then his path would probably diverge too drastically to continue onto the trajectory towards the Cang Qiong Mountain.

Basically, I see two paths where SJ does not end up the exact heartless scum villain he is in PIDW:

SJ escapes with YQY and they enter Cang Qiong Mountain together. From their earlier relationship, we can infer that SJ is prone to guilt-tripping YQY for his decisions, and seeing himself as the wronged party whenever the situation doesn’t go his way. Would YQY still end up the Sect Leader with SJ by his side? If YQY had never qi deviated and SJ had never started his cultivation so late, would there be a noticeable difference in their skills and strengths? If SJ was more powerful, would YQY not willingly cede the Sect Leader position? And if he didn’t do so, would SJ hold resentment for it? Would the same level of resentment between SJ and LQG still exist?

YQY manages to go back for SJ before the slaughter at the Qiu Mansion. At that point, SJ had been suffering abuse by Qiu Jianluo for years. Would he blame YQY for not coming for him sooner? For the fact that YQY’s tardiness meant he started cultivating late and may never catch up? If SJ’s resentment is the same and YQY’s guilt is the same, would their relationship be any better? People seem to think that SJ would have held so much gratitude for YQY’s (attempted or otherwise) return that he would wipe the slate clean between them, but this is the same person who had blamed YQY’s heroics for his own situation in the first place. Does that seem like the kind of person who would just... feel so much gratitude to let everything else go?

And since only that SJ, the one who had lived with Qiu Jianluo’s abuse, who had slaughtered all of Qiu Manor and was further twisted and warped by Wu Yanzi, since that SJ took LBH on as a disciple out of jealousy and resentment and spite, wouldn’t it make more sense that a less villainous SJ would not give LBH a second glance? Rather than being a better shizun, is it not more fitting that he would have allowed LBH to go where he is likely to have gone without SJ’s interference, which is Bai Zhan Peak?

To me, any possible scenario where SJ (at the moment he is watching potential disciples digging holes) happens to be a better person, is a scenario in which LBH does not become his disciple.

So no, I don’t see any possible scenario in which LBH falls in love with SJ. I believe that SJ was meant to be seen as flawed from the very beginning, from the moment he had blamed YQY for “playing the hero,” and I can’t imagine any twist of circumstances that would make him similar to the type of person (SY) that LBH would fall in love with.

#svsss #meta #Anonymous #ask for ts #basically #if you give me a canon divergence where SJ is not a villain #to me it's a canon divergence where LBH falls in love with LQG instead

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nol-an · 4 years ago

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it was good until it wasn’t || n. patrick

inspired by the prompt, “please don’t make me choose.”

2k worth of A N G S T!! um yea haven’t written in over two years and this is my first hockey fic so bear with me. feedback is always appreciated! (this is not proofread and im sure there are probs some plot holes- oops)

__________

For so long, everything had felt too good to be true. Nolan finally accomplished his dream of playing in the NHL, and you had gotten into your dream school in Philadelphia. To you, there was nothing more important than pursuing a career in the medical field and being able to do that with Nolan on your side.

At times, the long study nights, missed plans, and occasional stressed-induced breakdowns made you question if you were ever going to meet your end goals. That feeling was definitely not foreign to you, but it didn’t necessarily make coping with the thought any easier. It was a weird feeling — four years of undergraduate school almost felt like too much yet not enough time. There was so much you wanted to accomplish, and you sometimes wished you weren’t so ambitious because the days where you felt incapable of being successful were the days that you wanted nothing more than to wallow in your fears alone.

Luckily for you, Nolan was incredibly understanding of your fears. While he knew his life as an athlete was drastically different from your life as a student, he tried his best to understand your thoughts and always told you how much he admired your drive to reach your goals. No matter how often you tried to internalize your emotions, Nolan knew better and never hesitated to be your rock. Be it in the form of verbal or physical reassurance, his presence radiated a sense of comfort that always brought you out of any illusion of doubt you may have conjured.

He doesn’t tell you enough, but you have a similar effect on him. Your gentle touches, cute pre-game texts, and warm hugs never fail to bring a smile to his face. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not quite sure what he would do without you. It’s not really a thought he has to worry about, though, because for what felt like a blissful eternity, the stars aligned for you two. There were undoubtedly times when Nolan and you would run into disagreements, but the desire to make things work seemingly mended any issues in the relationship.

That was, however, until everything seem to come to a head. With your MCAT exam date approaching very soon and Nolan’s season with the Flyers starting just as quickly, it was hard for the two of you to bask in each other’s presence like usual. It wasn’t something either of you really noticed, as you both understood how important the other’s career was. You knew how important this comeback season for Nolan would be, and you tried your best to let him know that you would support him no matter what. He didn’t have to say it, but you knew a lot of doubts were rushing through your boyfriend’s head and you almost mistook his increasingly reserved demeanor as nerves.

In fact, you didn’t really give it much thought until Nolan came home from his fourth game of the season. As badly as you wished you could have attended, the remaining hours you had to prepare for the MCAT were previous and you reassured Nolan that you would be his number one cheerleader again as soon as you got the dreaded test out of the way.

Your nose was stuffed into a psychology textbook until your trance was broken with the slam of the front door to you and Nolan’s shared apartment.

“Hi, baby,” you greeted as you got out of your seat to hug your freshly-showered boyfriend. If the sound of the front door was any indication, you had a feeling that the game didn’t go as desired, and you didn’t want to push any touchy subjects. On more than one occasion, Nolan had told you how much he liked how he could escape from hockey in your presence. He loved that he could escape from that part of his life, loved how you made him feel like a normal guy. You thought this would be one of those nights where even the word “hockey” wouldn’t be uttered, but you were wrong. So wrong.

“You’re not gonna ask how the game went?” Your boyfriend pressed, his tone bitter. Pulling away from your hug, he turned his back to you all too soon and he walked towards the kitchen.

“I-I mean, you know I’m always here to listen about your games, but I just thought you wouldn’t want to talk about it?” you meekly replied, unsure of where he was going with the conversation.

You weren’t entirely sure what the outcome of the game was, but you were definitely confused. Nolan usually didn’t like talking about the Flyers’ losses, but you were so sure something went wrong based on his dramatic entrance into your shared home.

Prompted by his silence, you continued, “Um, so was it a win?” you uttered, regretting your words as soon as they slipped off your tongue.

Slamming his water bottle on the countertop, Nolan’s actions caused your words to dissipate. Silence filled the room, the tension almost palpable.

“Well you would know if you were there, wouldn’t you?” he replied, clearly annoyed by your seemingly stupid question.

Alright, so definitely not a win.

“Nols,” you tried to reason, “You know I wanted to be there so badly, but I couldn’t. The MCAT is almo-” you were abruptly cut off.

“I know. The MCAT is only two weeks away and it’s super important for you. It’s been the same thing for weeks now, you don’t have to remind me,” Nolan finished your sentence, his monotonous and resentful tone making it clear that he had already heard the same words from you numerous times before.

Had it not been for this same tone, you would have brushed off his comment. You would have instead attributed his harshness to tonight’s loss, which would have been the third one in a row. However, his response felt condescending — like he was downplaying how important the MCAT actually was to you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you quipped. It felt like you just recited the most cliche line in the book, but your brain and heart had already started functioning at two different rates. If you attempted to say any more, your stress from the upcoming exam mixed with the rising argument you sensed would have surely sent you into a pool of tears.

“It’s just exhausting you, know?” Nolan started, “I know you’re busy with your own things, but it sucks seeing all of the other guys getting to hug their girlfriends and wives at the tunnel at the end of games while I know I can’t have the same with you. I mean, is it so much to ask of you to just be there for me? How am I supposed to believe that you want the best for me when you aren’t even acting like it?” he argued.

“‘So was it a win?’” he bitterly recited your earlier question, scoffing at it. “You could have at least Googled the score and pretended like you were keeping up.”

You didn’t know what to say. Your confusion immediately turned into anger and shock — you thought Nolan, out of all people, would have understood your situation. Not being able to wrap your head around his current state of irrationality, it felt like hours passed before you willed yourself to reply.

“I've attend almost every game of yours. I’m sorry I haven’t been so good at that recently, but you know how much I want to do well on this exam,” you seethed.

You were trying to stay level-headed, but anger consumed any possibility of making the discourse calm. “My life does not revolve solely around your career, and I’m sure as hell not going to always be able to put my life on hold to make sure I know what the scoreboard of every game is.” You couldn’t help but let every one of your words become coated in frustration. You thought everything you were saying was so obvious, and you couldn’t help but become more upset with the fact that you even had to reiterate these points to Nolan.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m not even dating someone,” Nolan dryly responded. “Feels like all you do nowadays is drone on and on about this test. Is this what the rest of our relationship it gonna be like? I mean, I can’t imagine what things are gonna be like once you’re in med school,” he hastily commented, pacing around the kitchen.

Every one of his words felt like a punch to your gut. His words hurt more than your face let on, every instinct in your body asking —no, begging— you to flee your current predicament.

“I don’t know what to say,” you truthfully replied.

“Is there even room for me in your life anymore?” he questioned, adding fuel to the fire. “It feels like I’m always second to your fantasy life as a doctor.”

This was your last straw. Sure, you could have tried to see the validity in his initial argument if you gave yourself time to cool down. But now, it felt like he was mocking you. The same person that made your goals feel attainable was starting to break down your confidence. The confidence that he helped you construct was now crumbling, brick by brick.

“Nolan, you mean so much more to me than that. Please, I would never want you to feel this way, and I know we can work this out we just need to tal-” you were cut off once more.

“I don't know if I can do this anymore,” he cryptically stated, letting your worst fears fester around the kitchen that felt way too cramped now.

“Nol, please,” you pleaded. Your anger immediately shifted to dread.

“I want you to achieve your dreams more than anything, but I don’t know if I see myself in these future plans if this is what the rest of your career is supposed to be like. Do I even have a place in your future plans?” Nolan sighed.

Your stomach dropped. Even though he didn’t explicitly state it, you knew what he was hinting at. It was your career or him, and he was making it clear that having both in your life wouldn’t be feasible. As if he pulled out the last brick, you finally let all of your walls down. Tears freely flowed down your face, as you tried to convince yourself that you were hearing wrong. You wanted to scream it at the top of your lungs. Of course you saw Nolan as part of your future. Hell, he was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. However, his seeming disregard for your career aspirations was off-putting and made you reconsider everything.

Your eyesight, blurry from your tears, tried to focus on the hockey player. Your dejected state urged you to reason with him, but you were unsure of what to do.

“Please, Nolan. Please don’t make me choose,” you pleaded. In comparison to your vulnerable state, Nolan was composed. It was as if he rehearsed this, his blank stare void of emotion. You tried to come closer to him, but his body language told you that your touch wasn’t welcome.

“I don’t have to,” Nolan pushed himself off the counter, “The fact that you don’t already know your answer already tells me what I need to know,” he stated. Grabbing his keys off the kitchen counter, he headed to the front door before you could gather your emotions and form words.

Your anger, confusion, and hurt seemed to weigh you down, gluing your feet to the ground. As much as you wanted to stop his exit from the apartment, your body kept you in place. With a second slam of the front door, the gust of wind from the heavy door whiffled through your long-forgotten textbook, the sound of the pages ruffling mocking you. The silence following Nolan’s exit was deafening. You never thought Nolan would make you choose between your relationship with him and your career. You thought you knew a lot of things about life, really, but this was certainly something you were not prepared for.

Your world was spinning, orbiting into a field of anguish and heartbreak. As if your brain hadn’t quite registered the turn of events, you almost thought about calling for Nolan until you were cruelly reminded that reaching for him was no longer an option. Your rock was gone, and you were lost.

#nolan patrick fic #nolan patrick imagine #nolan patrick #nhl imagine #nhl fic #my writing

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tarithenurse · 4 years ago

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Stolen - 37

Fandom: MCU Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!gifted!reader Content: A bit of angst and resentment. Probably spelling/grammar/etc errors. A/N: I love my job – thank goodness, I quit my old one and got this instead <3 Ask or re-blog for tag.

37. Tainted Love

... Loki ...

Questions, blame, even hatred has been festering deep inside Loki since he first learned of his heritage. It has brought him to an understanding of why Odin, the man he had presumed was truly his father, had favoured the older son. The only son. But the pain caused by the negligence of a simultaneously doting mother has cut...maybe not deeper, but inflicted a wound that has festered slowly.

“Why?” Loki interrupts the queen in the middle of bringing him up to speed on her actions to ensure [Y/N]’s safety. “Why did you never -...you knew.” There’s sadness in her eyes and yet he finds he can’t stop. “Did you never question his decisions or did you truly approve of the meaningless game he was playing? For what purpose, mother?” The last word is a mockery at the relationship he misses so dearly.

“There’s always a purpose to everything your father does.” She repeats the past but this time follows up with a sigh, “but even the best intentions can crumble to the weight of reality. Time passed and he didn’t see the same as I when looking at you.”

“A monste-”

Perhaps due to his natural coldness, Frigga’s glare seems filled with fire. “No, not a monster. To me, you were kin in heart and soul. Contemplative. But Odin was influenced by your appearance and in his eyes your colours of black and green were tied to a memory of cunning, blood thirst, and insatiable power.”

He can feel it, like an undercurrent in the sea something seems to pull Loki’s attention to what isn’t said. “What are you hiding?”

“More than is relevant at present,” the queen attempts to skirt his query, “it was never a lie, when we raised you as a prince. You truly were meant to sit upon a throne and, the All-Father hoped, become the one to bring peace to Jotunheim and bridge the divide between our realms.”

Loki can see it now, how the rightful heir of Laufey could be the one to turn the minds of the jötun from the desire to wage war. Kept alive in the Asgardian court, he had been both a hostage and an investment to guarantee a truce (or at least a cease-fire) until a deeper cooperation could be established through diplomacy. Silvertongue. It would have taken more than rhetoric to repair the damage wrought over centuries. Instead, Loki had been the one to deal the final blow to a realm already brought to the brink of extermination.

“I always tried to please him.”

Frigga nods sadly. “The doubt and fear growing within your father was not of your doing.”

“Still...I managed to prove it right to him,” the former prince groans. There is more to this, but for now he has to settle for less than he wants. “Either way...the past cannot be undone.”

... Reader ...

Between spending your time worrying about your situation, you try to create magic on purpose.

That is to say, other than healing, every snippet of song that has helped you before have simply plopped into your head at the moment you needed it and slipped out between your lips without alerting you of the effects it would have. The fog you conjured when you first escaped your prison onboard the spaceship? Pure luck.

Maybe...maybe you’re getting close to something as a staccato melody with schwung fills the room together with the dancing light of a flickering candle – the flame growing and jumping along with the song, it seems. The words don’t all make sense yet but the ones that do are deliberate choices you’ve made along the theme of fire and light, dancing and moving.

On the other hand, when you’re interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock, the illumination still moves erratically.

As unlikely as it would be, you hope for Loki to be the one passing through the door to your confines and you can’t disguise the disappointment when it’s his brother instead. Adoptive brother. How could you ever have thought they were related?

The man entering and sitting down on the only available chair is blond like his parents; his features rough, and build muscular, but most of all powered by something bright and warm that can’t be seen with the naked eye. Summer, you muse at the heat of his persona. You can only imagine the kind of summer storm he’d resemble in battle: towering, boisterous, scorching.

Loki, on the other hand...

“The All-Father is in an uproar,” Thor begins without any pleasantries first, “the idea of you and Loki working together...a lesser man would have had you executed on the spot.”

In other words: Odin has considered it. “I suppose, I should be grateful that he wants evidence before passing judgment.”

You don’t dare to consider the consequences if you’re found out. Since Loki entered your life, the threat of death has lingered like a shadow – at times closer than your own – haunting your steps as one danger was replaced by another greater one.

The God of Thunder shakes his head with a sigh. “Your sarcasm will not save you, little mortal.” He ponders your face momentarily. “However, the repeated references to Thanos does help your case -” he stops your question before a sound escapes your lips -”yes...even your would-be accuser speaks of the Titan.”

Arox has never been talkative, so what you know of him and his background is limited. “He...his home...”

“Aye, Thanos attacked and laid waste to the planet. The desire to get revenge is what drove Arox to side with my brother...or so he claims.”

“Why should he lie?”

Darkness rests on Thor’s face as he looks away briefly. “Silvertongue...God of Chaos, of Mischief...of Lies...”

“He was raised under false pretenses and yet you people call him a liar?!” Too late, your hands slap over your mouth as if to force back the words and anger. I should not have said that.

But the blond man just nods, his gaze falling to his hands as the fingers twist awkwardly. “That did come as a...as a shock.”

Of course, Loki would not have been the only one living with the wrong understanding, but you can’t find it in yourself to feel sorry for Thor who clearly suffers under the absence of his brother, probably longing for things to return to how they were before everything went wrong.

“What did you want, anyways?”

Your question seems to startle him back to reality. “How did you come to be here? On Asgard, I mean.”

Uuuuuhm...shit. It hardly seems like a good idea to explain how Loki threw his spaceship low across a desert of blackish sand and stone one second and then suddenly appearing inside a cave with a view of the golden city by the rainbow bridge.

“I don’t...it doesn’t make sense,” you try to buy time, fidgeting with the sleeve as if attempting to understand, “one moment it was one place and then it’s like the air squeezed me and then poof it was somewhere else completely!” Technically, you’re not lying.

Maybe the crown prince is aware that you are trying to answer; it’s hard to tell, but he doesn’t push the subject further, merely nods before telling you that he will continue what he can to uncover the truth about Thanos. Then he leaves.

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tribus-mantodea · 4 years ago

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[ Lingering attachments. ]

Right! I’m sure there’s an AU about this somewhere already that I haven’t found but you know what, I’ll have my take on it regardless.

This post is just some considerations on the AU where the Traitor Lord lives once more through lifeblood shenanigans. (Awkwardly dubbed as “Lastlifeborn AU” because... it’s the Lastborn’s last life. Yeah, I know.)

I also have no idea how to interpret lifeblood so I’ll put that matter aside.

It would be a bit fun to entertain the idea of the dream-ghosts of Cloth and Traitor “speaking” after their due battle just before she finished savoring the moment. While he does hold some implacable resentment (embrace the infection to become stronger and yet for what? being unable to better protect his kin like he had intended? what was it that put these silly-meaningless thoughts in his head, his heart?), he does hold respect for Cloth and the Ghost first and foremost for beating him in an impromptu duel.

“I’m glad to have fought a mighty warrior like you.” “...” (But he wasn’t one. Unlike the other Lords, he had cheated and lost his way.) “For one outside of my tribe, you battled well.” There’s a lot of awkward pauses and general recollection, the Traitor trying to sort out what had just occurred and what had happened before all this.

Maybe the Ghost comes back in time to not both of them, but at least the Traitor staring at both his victor’s and his own’s bodies. It would seem to remember something—pulling out the Mark of Pride charm and showing it to him. See conflict cross his features, how he nodded as if he then understood something it didn’t.

And the Ghost is quite the mender of a bug itself. It’s compelled to try and resolve something that seems rather unresolvable; it breaks cocoons and cradles all these wiggling lifeseeds in arms and forcibly attempts to get the Traitor’s husk moving again. Said dream-ghost Traitor at first regarding the situation dismissively before growing into a strained panic and worry of “Cease your actions! What compels you to desecrate my corpse—?...” “Just how many did you manage to bring with your small stature...?” (It would’ve been more deserved if his body were to be broken into segments much like the others. His mind feels hazier as if overcome with fatigued the longer it tries, and...)

What. Why is this little bug back in his view and why does he feel so. Tired. Oh. The Traitor... does not deserve this, no, unless this was his punishment to burden the weight of his own sins, but it’s ultimately uncomfortable—he died twice already in removing his title and in true battle. (His body felt wrong before for different reasons, but it felt even worse now that he’s reminded of the air and his other senses.)

And the Ghost does its best to try and point him in a direction it wants him to go. Incessantly tries. But he shook his head, clicked, said aloud that he’d resolved to return to the village and accept the sentence that should have been given when he was deposed. (Imprisonment. Death.) It’s only then does the Ghost no longer tries to point him in a direction (and how strange; was this the same way it pointed its nail?) and accompanies him the... the entire way...

It’s not that long of a trek, no, though his mind is clouded with all sorts of thoughts and regrets. He’d seen his Daughter’s grave for the last time. (The little warrior seemed to insist on giving him a flower, but even when he did finally accept if only to appease it, he’d merely set it back by the grave.) He’d seen his reflection in the pools of acid, the glow of an unnatural cerulean he does not remember seeing unlike the festerous cloud of orange. And... the occasional husks of what had been the split of his tribe.

The village is far quieter than his memories. It is a complicated feeling to see the mantids that watch with both confusion and hissing resentment, those that knew of him formerly and those that did not. Perhaps it must look like a show? To observe how the honored outsider escorts the depose Lord, a beast thought mindless returning in its newly sickening form with not the sweet-sickly orange, but a dim blue glow of what they vaguely remember other bugs considering as taboo (how funny of them to worship and pray to begin with). His thoughts grew louder; he wondered if he could ever make amends. He figures it all in vain. That’s fine, really.

...One thing led to another. The summary is that he does not die, and is “punished” to live with his decisions after it is thoroughly seen he is remorseful (to an extent). It does take a long while for this family to sort out their issues properly though.

Bonus side-note is that the Ghost can be treated as part of said family (but not really, but also hey look its horns are notched twice just like the Traitor’s and—)

Bonus reactions to said return:

The First just wants to know why it happened, so she can reflect and see where the both of them (mostly herself) had went wrong. Her own regrets she’d shouldered still smolder long after all the initial anger and confusion. Considering there’s only so many of them left, she just wants to hear him out (and oh, how strange-wrong it is to hear the difference in his voice now, to see him taller but with the lack of pride from before). In the end, she’s... relieved, almost, to see him the way he is now considering how she longed to revisit old things. Not that they could still return to them. But, well, new interactions to unfold, lots of baggage to pack.

The Second’s the one who’s most expressively upset. Frustrated that she cannot take her pains out on him as when she’d forced his claws to a duel, it was more than clear that his heart wasn’t in it (how disrespectful; how dare he seem so inclined to let the end of her nail-lance sink deep and through). She’d always known him to be a great fighter, so the reasoning behind him embracing the infection was more than just insulting as a betrayal. She despises the more passive behavior (this wasn’t the brother she remembered, what had happened to the hint of deserving arrogance he once bore?) and most of all, resents herself for not having done something more given the more responsibility their eldest took on.

The Third is uncharacteristically quiet, unsure and sorting out her emotions just like before (but managing to unintentionally, somehow, be the coldest towards him). She’s always been aware that while he did seek counsel, most often asking the eldest, he also disliked relying on anyone else and she never minded that, no. She felt as if she knew why he’d left. But in knowing what happened to her niece and the other, closer followers that had looked up to him, it was difficult for her to figure out how to respond to him in knowing the losses sustained. It’s... she eventually decides, though, to accept with resignation. He’s dealt with their other sisters and the disdain of the village and would continue to do so (probably). She’s just happy to have him back even despite the changes. She can at least... try, to not make the transition jarring by having even herself different in behavior. Sort of.

Redacted consideration was that he’d lose most if not all of the memories during his time of being infected because while it’d be fun for him to think that nothing more than him waking up in a random location happened and then seeing the husks of his tribe(?) along with “Whose grave is this?” and returning to the village almost as if nothing happened, the sisters would have a Horrendous Time alongside the Traitor if he by chance was then told of what happened.

anyways my AUs are to be self-indulgent, not to combust spontaneously :D I probably amplified the inferiority issue a bit too much here but Welp

alright bonus-bonusnonsense below:

little ghost does crimes. shoves lifeseeds into husk (in which some lifeseeds happily run away into said husk to get away from the chance of dying by tiny bug)

bug tries to slap mark of pride charm onto the former traitor lord

aand this:

It watches as he idles a moment longer, bowing his head towards the marked grave of his late Child. Quietly it comes closer, hesitantly, and reaches out—rests its hand onto his side and gently curls its fingers into his cloak. He does not move. So the vessel tilts its head, sits. Decides to wait for him—and rest. (aka it’d be quite nice, you know, to imagine the trek back where the Ghost doesn’t forcibly try to understand the dude, but is a sort of comfort... or maybe... just... a reaper, escorting him to his death. but then jokes on you big man it’s a friend!!)

#;;atone unto the final breath #;;lastborn #;;a heart forged into nail #\\

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forgeandgredimagines · 5 years ago

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Foolish 『 Percy Jackson x Spy! Reader 』

Request: I was wondering if I could request a Percy Jackson x reader imagine? Taking place during the pjo books and the reader is the spy for Luke instead of Selina. Percy falls for her, and at first she started dating him just to use him for information, but eventually, she falls for him too and has a change of heart. But before she can tell him he finds out some other way and feels really betrayed/upset. You don’t have to though, I just love your imagines and wanted to see you bring this idea to life! A/N: woot woot, this has been gathering dust in my drafts for so long. I really liked the concept but it took me a while to write something I was happy with because I’ve never really written angst much hehe but I tried my best!! I hope you enjoy Warnings: Swearing :> Word count: 2.8k

Masterlist!!

You still remember when you first joined the Titan Army. You were so undeniably naive and filled to the brim with unprecedented hate and resentment towards the gods. Towards your father, whoever he was. Towards the entirety of Olympus. Joining Kronos’ forces would mean that you could actually make a change, that you could actually amount to something. However, in a few short months, you would come to realize that that person was a fool. A dumb, dumb, fool.

You were eating breakfast when a satyr ran into the mess hall announcing the arrival of new demigods, two girls who were from the same school, but they didn’t seem to be siblings. Arriving at camp is a feat in it of itself but two demigods arriving at the same time was rare, to say the least. That wasn’t what was important, what was important was that the young halfbloods and their assigned satyr made it to camp safely.

You were there to greet them when they arrived, along with a handful of other campers and Chiron. They were bruised and bit shaken up but ultimately unharmed. Lucky, extremely lucky. They were healed and patched up and being the only camper in the Hermes cabin around, you were the one to lead them towards their temporary lodging.

You decided to tour them around camp a few hours after their arrival. You always enjoyed watching the easily impressed campers’ faces as you first show them the pegasi stables, the lava spewing climbing wall and all the other wonders the camp had to offer. You recall to when you still thought of camp to be paradise, a secret haven you never wanted to leave. But lately, it started to feel like a prison. Like you were a bird stuck in a cramped cage.

Later that evening, as the campers were gathering around the amphitheater, one of the girls from earlier was claimed by her godly parent. She was a child of Apollo. Her companion, later claimed that same week, a child of Hephaestus.

You were glad for the campers but every time someone was claimed, you couldn’t help the rage and envy bubbling inside you. Why? After all your years at camp, why doesn’t your father bother to claim you. Over the years, this feeling of hate just kept on festering and growing, until it completely engulfed your being.

It was no surprise for neither you nor Luke that you accepted his offer to join his side so wholeheartedly. It was your long awaited chance to get justice for you and the world, justice from the wretched gods.

What was a surprise however was that Luke didn’t want you to leave camp with him and his army. In fact, he wanted you to stay put.

This didn’t bode well for you. You were itching to leave, itching to go do something worthwhile, not to just rot at camp like you always have. But Luke was the boss, his word is law. You couldn’t do anything but comply with his instructions to be a spy for the Titan Army.

You stared contemplatively at the Big House as you sharpened your sword, your ears falling deaf of your cabinmates’ gossip about how Silena and Charles were caught making out in the strawberry fields.

You had been a spy for months now, gathering information and plans, and sending them off to Luke. But now, it wasn’t enough. You realized that every single detail of plans and courses of action weren’t disclosed to the average camper. The people that were entrusted with this information were the cabin counsellors, other important campers and staff members.

You pondered becoming the counsellor of the Hermes cabin before realizing that you couldn’t do that in a span of a few days. You grumbled and return your focus on sharpening your sword before your attention was once again drawn towards the big house.

A meeting had just ended. A dozen or so campers and staff members leave the big house, whispering amongst themselves, a serious look in their eyes. It’s evident that they were talking about something important. You were positively dying to know what it was.

The last people to leave was Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase, who were discussing something with Chiron. Those two were undeniably the campers Chiron trusted the most. He’d never admit it, like how a parent would say they don’t have a favorite but secretly they really do.

The realization of what you have to do in order to get the information you needed hits you in a flash. You needed them. More specifically, you needed Percy Jackson.

The plan itself was simple and straightforward. It was inconspicuous and foolproof. You realized that you had to gain the trust of an important camper. Slowly, bit by bit, lowering their guard until you have them wrapped around your finger without them knowing it. They’d unconsciously tell you about their plans, their thoughts, and whatever info they could spill about the camp and Olympus, and you’d send this off to Luke and the army.

It was absolutely perfect.

Ideally, Annabeth would be this person. She was arguably the smartest camper and is the one who knows the most things regarding battle plans and strategies. But with that in mind, she might catch on to you and blow your cover. You decide that she may not be the best option, thus leading you to the next best one: Percy.

You know that Percy wasn’t an idiot, but he was certainly more softhearted than Annabeth. More extroverted and easier to befriend. He was an easier nut to crack. Asides from that, Percy was extremely loyal, once he trusts you, it takes a lot for him to take that trust away. You knew how much he tried to see the good in people, even when there really wasn’t.

You ignored the small pang of guilt you felt in your chest as you thought through your plan and force yourself to go to sleep.

“Hey! Jackson!” You call out, waving your hands out to him. “Can you lend me a hand?”

Percy jogs towards you and greets you goodnaturedly. You were surprised that he knew your name. He took in your drenched, cold state but didn’t say anything. “What’s up?”

You chuckle sheepishly and gesture towards the canoe a few feet into the lake. The water was still shallow, only reaching your knees. The canoe you were using earlier had tipped and water gathered into the it, making it start to sink. You tried to row back to the land as fast as you could but it kept on sinking until it got stuck on the sand. Well, that’s what it looks like anyways.

“--and now I can’t get it to budge.” You conclude, thoroughly embarrassed. “I’ve obviously never really done this much before.”

“It’s fine! I got it.” Percy smiled kindly and started to manipulate the water into pushing the canoe to the shore. “You shouldn’t have tried canoeing on your own if you’re this inexperienced, you could have drowned or something.”

You shrug and sigh glumly, kicking the sand around with your feet. “I just, wanted to be alone for a while I guess.” You avoided eye contact from the male but you could sense him watching you carefully. “It was stupid of me, I know, I’m sorry.”

The canoe was now back on land and dry, as if it wasn’t just submerged in the lake a few seconds ago.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Percy asked cautiously.

You looked up at him and stared at his sea green eyes. They were so soft and kind. Your chest panged once again, just like it did a few days ago, but you ignored it.

“I’d like that.”

After that day, you and Percy started to spend more and more time together. That day in the lake, you two sat on the dock as you told him about your struggles in camp, with your parents (both mortal and immortal), and with your concerns regarding the safety of the camp.

Percy was surprisingly a really good listener, and actually gave you really good advice. He actually even made you genuinely laugh a few times.

You two slowly started to hang out more, you would have lunch together, train together and just goof around.

All though you were just forcing yourself to hang out with him before, you slowly started not to dread seeing him. It didn’t feel like a chore to spend time with him anymore. You would never admit it, but you actually looked forward to when you would see the son of Poseidon next.

He wasn’t all that bad, in fact, he was actually really fun. He didn’t make you feel like an outsider, he actually listened to you and you listened to him.

He made you laugh, and momentarily forget your woes, your mission, that this was fake, that your friendship wasn’t real.

Over the weeks, and soon months, the pangs of guilt taking root into your heart and conscience just kept increasing in intensity and frequency. But you keep on ignoring it, you knew where your loyalties lie, you already picked your side.

“--okay this is really hard, why is this so hard? Oh my gods, what the hell?”

You place your hand on Percy’s shoulder and stop him from rambling even more. You two were on the docks again by the lake. It was a secluded area and where you two first got close, it was where you two usually met up.

“Calm down, dummy. What is it?”

Percy took in a deep breath and said softly. “I like you...”

You take in a sharp intake of breath and heart began to pound as your cheeks began to heat up. You felt...*happy.*

“Wha-what?” You mutter out, completely flabbergasted.

“I said I like you! And you don’t have to say anything else, I just wanted you to know because I’ve liked you for a while now. Even before we became close I already thought you were really pretty and I always wanted to talk to you so I was really glad that we became friends and---“

Percy’s rambling started to fade out as a background noise as you realized what this meant.

It felt as if a million thoughts were flying in your head. All contradicting each other, all colliding and butting heads.

Your brief moment of joy was replaced by the guilt, the regret, which was more intense than ever. Your heart pounded even more, but this time it hurt with every beat.

Tears prickled in your eyes. “I--I like you too.”

Percy’s rambling was cut off short, his cheeks too were dusted pink. “Really? Oh my gods, I can’t believe it, wait, why are you crying?”

You didn’t realize that your tears started to pour freely. “Are you okay?”

I’m sorry.

“I’m just really happy.”

I’m so sorry.

Percy grinned sheepishly and embraced you tightly. Which only made you feel worse as you cried silently into his shoulder.

You were now dating Percy Jackson. People congratulated you, patted you on the back and wished you two the best. You even started to get closer with Annabeth and Grover. Things were going great, they were unfolding just as the plan said it would, it was going better than expected actually. Yet, the dull ache in your chest never seemed to cease.

Even as Luke commended you for your work, praised you and made promises that would normally have make you ecstatic, the pain never stopped.

The only time it stopped was when you were with Percy. When he holds your hand, wraps you tightly in his arms, only then does it stop.

When he kisses you, and whispers sweet nothings, only then do you feel at ease. He made you forget, just as he did before you two were together.

You found yourself seeking out for him, even when you didn’t need any new info to pass through to Luke. You began to seek his presence, his touch, his love.

It was like a disease spreading throughout your being. A poison injected into your bloodstream and it was without a cure.

You started to love him.

With each passing day of genuinely loving him, the feeling of guilt and shame tripled. You were trapped, you dug your own grave.

You didn’t know how many times you cried yourself to sleep, or how many prayers you’ve offered to the gods. You just wished for all of this to be over.

When you were with Percy, you liked to pretend that you two were just regular people. Mortal people, with normal lives where all you had to worry about were college entrance exams and assignments. And everything was okay, for a moment, all that mattered was that you were with him, and that was enough.

The spell wore off when you were alone. And you’re back in reality again and the guilt comes back in waves, always increasing in strength with each one.

How could you be so foolish?

“Hey where’s Percy?” You ask around camp, most of the campers shrugged and told you they didn’t know. It was still early in the morning, he was usually out and about at this hour.

“He and a couple campers left a few hours ago.” A nymph answered as she stared at her reflection in the lake, stroking her hair absentmindedly. “Someone came and said they spotted a couple members of the Titan Army near camp.”

You pressed your lips together disappointedly and thanked the nymph. You spent the morning in the strawberry fields as you thought through your new, more morally ethical plan.

Your mind was clear for the first time in months and your chest ached less frequently. You hadn’t been this calm since before being with Percy.

You supposed that you had subconsciously chosen your true side when you started feeding Luke false information a few weeks ago. But now you truly accepted it, you knew what you had to do. It was only right.

You realized that Percy might not want to be with you anymore once you tell him the truth and although the thought of it hurt, you knew that it was for the best. He deserved better than you anyways.

He would hate you. Well...you supposed you deserved it. You had it coming after all.

A small part of you still hoped though, that he might forgive you, that he might still want to be with you...that maybe he might still love you.

You were sitting on the dock when the sun was about to set. You were absentmindedly flipping through an old manual written in ancient greek, your mind elsewhere, when someone began to approach you.

You quickly recognized the footsteps and jump up to greet Percy.

“You’re back! I was so worried about you, they said--“ You go to hug the male but he backed away.

His head was low, his jet black hair covering his face. You took in his disheveled appearance. His clothes were torn in places and singed in others. His leg was bandaged and his arms were covered in cuts and bruises. They stayed locked at his side, his fists were clenched and shaking slightly.

“Percy what’s wrong--“

“I know.” He says, practically whispering, his voice wavering. “They told me, they told me everything.”

“You what? What do you mean--?” His face whips up and you knew what he meant even before he said anything.

His eyes, which used to be filled with joy and affection when they were on you, were now wounded. The pain was evident, the betrayal in them as clear as day.

“How could you?!” He cries out, his voice loud and shaking. “We trusted you, I trusted you.”

You take a step forward, he takes one back. Your hand starts to move on their own, inching its way to wipe the hot tears from his face.

He slapped it away. “Don’t fucking touch me!” He spits out. His eyes, no longer pained, but cold and hard.

It hurt, not the slap, but the way he looked at you. Like you were the lowliest scum of the earth.

He finally sees you as you truly are. You thought bitterly to yourself. It’s what you deserve anyways.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Percy, please, I can explain.” You plead as tears began to flow freely down your cheeks. You were shaking now as well.

As much as you tried to plead with the son of Poseidon, you knew deep down that it was of no use. The damage was done. And you couldn’t do anything about it.

You couldn’t believe how much of a fool you were.

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shiftysdogtags · 4 years ago

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Hiiiiiii I’d like to request some Babe angst please 👀👀

Okay, for the record I would like to state that this emotionally killed me and I must have cried the whole time while writing it. I used prompt 57.“You say you’ll stop, but then you keep doing it!”

Warning: This is pure angst and tears and not to ruin it, but there isn't a happy ending so if that isn't your thing, please don't read.

All request are open for fics, headcanons, and ships 💕

Taglist: @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @teenmagazines @curraheewestandalone @liebegott @vintagelavenderskies @inglourious-imagines @happyveday @easy-company-tradition @sydney-m

Don't Go

After you came home, Babe was different; you were all different. Everything you once knew was different. Nothing was how you remembered it, everything feeling a little off somehow. It was like stepping back into an alternate time or place where all familiarity was tossed aside and replaced with a permanent feeling of being lost.

He grew distant and trying to get him to talk was hopeless. One minute you were as close as could be and the next he had built walls so high it was impossible to break through them. All efforts to get him to open back up had failed, and it wasn’t from a lack of trying, so he left. You didn’t know where he went, and he didn’t make any effort to tell you. In the beginning it was for a short few hours, then it became a whole day. Before you knew what happened, one day became many, and then days turned into a week, until finally, he was gone completely.

He was there and suddenly he wasn’t. He had only taken a few personal items, leaving you with nothing but a goodbye note and silent house. The note itself was brief, nothing but his scrawly writing that was quickly written as a sort of afterthought. He left little and no information, no indication of when he would come back and certainly no definite reason as to why he left. The lack of clarity and explanations caused your thoughts to run wild and it made simple day to day activities difficult as your mind was plagued with nothing but Babe.

Trying to sleep at night was like falling through a void but never hitting the bottom. The harshness of the fall never came, and that was somehow worse than anything. It led you to become numb somehow, the falling feeling washed over you like a wave in a stormy ocean of uncertainty. It must have been three weeks before he came back. It might have been longer or shorter than that, but you couldn’t be sure. You lost track of time as the days rolled into one. All you knew was that when he did finally return, it was with a soft turn of the front door handle.

“You can't keep disappearing whenever you feel like it.” The sound of your voice broke the stillness, causing Babe to get a fright, he wasn’t expecting you to be sitting there. Your attention remained fixed on the piping hot mug of coffee in front of you, watching the steam rise and dance in random patterns. They were easy to see; the house was always that bit colder when it was just you around. Babe was always the heat source of the house as the radiators didn’t do a great job. “You say you’ll stop, but then you keep doing it”

Time after time after time he had repeatedly kissed your face while promising that he wouldn’t do it again, and that it was the last time he would do it. You wanted to believe him, you really did and maybe that is why you chose to put on your rose coloured glasses and ignore the deep crack in your relationship. There was no communication whatsoever, and it was taking a great toll on both of you.

“You have to talk to me, Babe.” Despite the whisper that was your voice, Babe heard you, you know he had. He stopped walking like he tripped on nothing other than the air beneath his feet. He didn’t let the unexpected stumble stop him from doing what he came to do. However, he did hesitate. His original plan had centred on you not being home, he couldn’t avoid you any longer.

“Do you want me to say it?” Babe never raised his voice and certainly not at you. His tone was one you didn’t recognise, and it scared you. Everything he had been feeling could be clearly heard. You knew what was coming, when he bothered to look in your direction it was a glance and nothing more. Each time you miraculously managed to catch his eye there was a hint of resentment, as if it was your fault he couldn’t settle. “You remind me of everything. Every time I look at you all I can see is death.”

There it was, the one thing you never wanted to hear him say. To make it worse, you knew it was true. You had been a medic during the war and you always felt like Death was hanging around you waiting for any opportunity to claim another victim. Being at home didn’t make the feeling go away, and you still felt the constant weight pressing down on your chest.

The confession was honest, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. His words sliced through you. The sharp feeling in your chest was no doubt the feeling of your heart shattering into a million and one pieces. Maybe it was easier to blame you, to make you responsible for the ache in his soul. It was your fault his friends didn’t get the chance to come home and to experience a life without war. It was your job to save them but more times than not, you failed.

A staring match ensued. It wasn’t one of angry looks, more like who would be the first to look away, who would be the first to admit defeat? You couldn’t answer him, there were no words. Not a single word, or sound, could make its way from your dry throat to your lips. Nothing could have changed the shocked expression on your face, jaw hanging slack in surprise at his honesty.

Babe took a few steps backwards before turning fully, heading into the bedroom, using your silence as a way out of the situation. You stayed silent while trying to listen to what he was up to. His footsteps paced the room going from one side to the other with the occasional closing of a drawer. The sound of zips and clothes hangers being thrown around the room filled your ears, and with it your eyes welled up. Quiet warm tears fell from your eyes and the longer he was in the room, the more tears that fell. Everything burned, your eyes from crying, your throat from the dryness and the few sobs that broke free. You try to muffle them, hands covering your mouth praying it was enough to keep them from escaping.

When he came back into the kitchen, Babe placed his bags onto the ground beside him. The wretched feeling you had tried to bury deep within your stomach rose up. The blistering feeling got worse, mostly from the realisation that this was the end. Your sobs became louder and you couldn’t deny them anymore. You accepted that using your hands as some sort of barrier wasn’t going to enough anymore, so you used them to cover your red face and bloodshot eyes. The tears were falling like waterfalls now, crying like you have never cried before.

“Stay, please.” You sounded pathetic, begging him not to go. You didn’t care because you knew if you didn’t say it now, you wouldn’t get another chance to and living with that regret isn’t something you were prepared to do. In that spilt second, you were prepared to do anything and everything to convince him not to go. If he had of wanted, you to walk for ten thousand steps while balancing a book on your head and holding a chicken you would have. You pleaded with him again, hoping your voice would come out stronger and more convincing. “Please, Babe, don’t go.”

It wasn’t fair asking him to stay and you knew that, but it didn’t stop you. He couldn’t stick it and you accepted that, yet it couldn’t stop your world from falling apart in front of you. It was like trying to catch water with a sieve and expecting it to fill up.

If he stayed, he would wither away until nothing was left but a man that could feel nothing but anger and sadness while you got to feel like you achieved something by convincing him to stay. The resentment that would fester in his heart towards you would do no good for anyone. On the other hand, if he went, you would never be able to fill the void he left while he would hopefully learn how to heal. It was a catch 22, no ideal situation, no outcome in which both you would get what you wanted.

“'m sorry.” Babe shook his head. He needed to go, he had to go for his own sake. His apology was poignant, and while you could tell he meant it, it was also indifferent. It was all you needed to finally realise that all the love he once had for you was replaced with coldness, all romantic emotion was gone.

Crossing the room, he pulled on your wrists moving them from your face and tugged you towards him. You both hesitated, not knowing whether a hug was acceptable. It lasted for a fleeting moment, ending before you could fully relax into it. Perhaps it was just as well, he would be gone once it ended and who knows when, or if, you would ever see him again. On the other hand, you didn’t want your last few minutes together to be ones you would regret for not holding him tight or long enough. You wanted to remember him forever, no matter how crappy things ended.

You let your arms fall to your sides, Babe moving backwards to pick up his bags. You didn’t want to watch him physically walk out the door, watch him walk away from you, but you couldn’t look away. With eyes fixed on his every move, you saw how there was no hesitation within him. He had made up his mind, yet his hand was shaking as he opened the door. By the time you had blinked, he was outside and gone, door clicking behind him for the very last time.

#babe angst #babe heffron angst #babe x reader #babe imagine #babe heffron x reader #babe imagines #babe heffron imagine #babe heffron imagines #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers angst

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zahra-kha · 4 years ago

Text

Sides

We all have our own sides to a tale. Whenever there’s conflict where two opposing sides believe themselves to be correct, rarely does the other evaluate their own actions to consider how they contributed to the conflict coming to a head in the first place.

A lot of that may have to do with the idea that we’re the main characters of our own story, and in that story, we’re the hero. The good guy. In which case, being wrong, or being in the wrong, is the same as being the bad guy.

We all feel justified in our own narrative, even if we have to twist logic and the truth to make it so.

Love is a powerful motivator. I’ve seen it drive people to do unspeakable things, and I’ve seen it give them insurmountable strength. Personally, I see love as a tool - in the right hands, it can be a powerful motivator and influencer. In the wrong hands it becomes twisted and warped - but still a motivator.

In Sahrin’s mind, he can’t understand Armand’s actions, because his love for Armand - the love he’s tried to cultivate and shape - isn’t the same as Armand’s love for him. Throughout these years Sahrin has tried to love him the same way he did Zahra, like a father. Armand was motivated by this love, but interpreted it as something completely different. When Zahra came around and Sahrin doted upon her as a father would a daughter, Armand didn’t see it that way, because admitting Sahrin didn’t see Zahra as a woman would mean he didn’t see Armand as a man - both of them being around the same age and holding similar positions and rankings in the troupe.

Zahra’s sin was ignoring Armand’s hatred even though she clearly knew it for what it was. She wanted to keep Sahrin’s illusion of the troupe’s family so badly she decided it was better to let the resentment build into something tangible rather than address it. Zahra is neither blind nor stupid, but when she loves, her life means less than those she cares for. And that’s just for family. I fear what would happen if she ever truly fell in love. To her, I believe love has come to mean sacrifice.

Armand’s sin was allowing his twisted version of love fester until it became obsession. I imagine deep down he knew Sahrin would never return his feelings but he refused to accept it. It was easier to lash out at Zahra, using his resentment to feed into his jealousy until it became murderous rage. He justified his actions by telling himself Zahra’s desire to branch out meant a lack of loyalty to the troupe, and in turn to Sahrin. To him, love means possession.

Sahrin’s sin was not acknowledging Armand’s love for what it was - an unhealthy obsession. Like Zahra, Sahrin’s sharp and perceptive, but he’s been obsessed with this idea of the troupe being a family. He pushed his narrative onto Armand, hoping he’d just give up one day instead of truly looking at Armand and seeing him for who he was. He even thought showing off me as a lover would be enough of a dissuasion. Now he’s running after his own troupe member, seemingly confused as to what drove him to such dire actions.

I don’t know what love is to Sahrin, perhaps many things. He has a tendency to push his ideals onto others and hope things work out for the best. It’s not a bad trait when those ideals are things everyone agrees on, it’s how the Lasyah troupe began. However, now we’ve reached a point where too many differing ideals are clashing, because time changes people, even Sahrin.

Armand believes himself to be justified in his actions, but he runs because our rules demand those who harm another of the troupe must be punished. Sahrin believes himself justified in what he’s about to do once we catch Armand, because the rules were broken - nothing more or less - even if it pains him. I don’t think this is an issue that’s black and white, are all parties except one truly blameless here? Could this had been prevented before it had escalated to violence?

But I’m just an observer, I’m not here to judge. Besides, it’s a moot point now, we’re past the point of no return.

“Fitaan, send word back to the troupe, we finally have Armand in our custody. We won’t be bringing him back, he’ll stand judgment here.”

So says our leader.

#ic #zahra kouris

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maruzzewrites · 5 years ago

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Can you write a Risotto x reader with Abbi cura di me - Simone Cristicchi please! Umm can it be something like Riz doing everything he can to kee reader for himself. And his descent from sweet love to yandere-ish love! Instead of reader being afraid of him , they grow to love him a lot. It’s ok if you can’t or don’t like this request!

Content warnings: yandere content, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, description of violence, gore, death.

Life was, is andwill be important for Risotto. Despite how idealistic this ideal sounded tounknowing ears, the dark man was anything but. He knew life, and he knew death,held both in his hands and transformed one into the other. His line of workdealt with both, and much more, making him stare into the eyes of dying men andwomen to strangled every last ounce of energy from their bodies, until theywere merely limp husks to dispose. Yet, Risotto knew the value of life; afterso much time spent with corpses, one starts to appreciate the animation ofliving beings.

The first timehe faced life, it was the day his aunt run to his grandmother’s home. Therushed steps, the steady tears, the hushed whispers and the ready pleas; theychoked the voices of the two women as they wailed, and moaned, a young Risottosimply witnessing the scene as a play of pathetic emotion. Yet, it laid in hismemory with vivid colors, like a painting in a museum, distant in time. And hefaced death soon after, at the funeral; the warm, shining sun illuminating acrowd of people burying a young teen, a face he knew and grew up with. His facestayed cold, muscles unmoving, but a frown adorned his forehead as hisgrandmother gripped his arms tightly to keep herself up through the pain.

That day,Risotto faced life and death for the first time, and he learnt something abouthimself. He couldn’t process emotions the same way others would; when he wassupposed to mourn and cry, he could only feel bubbling rage, white-hot anddripping blood. And when he saw the man who caused this revelation, his cousin’sbutcher, he couldn’t feel satisfaction or relief at his sentence. Yet, he wasmerely a young boy, still in school, with his duties and years in front of him,with all his life stretching on the path of his future. Life, after all, wasimportant and it was essential to cherish it until you could, until death camealong.

Soon enough, hebecame fixated on this thought, on this idea. And people, those he loved,needed to cherish life with more attention, more care, more caution; he becameapprehensive in his usual stoic way, as he ordered and nagged those around himwith silent tugs towards watchful behavior. His ways, from worried, becameprogressively more aggressive, until they distorted into almost violentoutbursts of intimidation. And Risotto learnt another, important lesson:friends, family, loved ones didn’t appreciate him intruding into their livesuntil they feared him more than any other threat outside the secure cage of hisaffection.

Everyone triedto wriggle their way out of his grasp; everyone, but a single person. Achildhood friend, one he didn’t think much of after they both grew anddistanced themselves from each other’s social groups. In his quest to keep, tohoard, to protect, they were caught into superficial warnings and pressuresthat meant very little near the ferocious intimidation he offered hisrelatives or closer friends. Nonetheless, they just smiled and thanked him witha thoughtful tone, and he felt time freeze for the minute you continued on yourway.

Everyone pushedhim away, suffocated with too much of that love, and that care, and that devotion.Yet, you just acknowledged his efforts, giving tender care back at him, a sweetsmile complimenting the glint in your eyes as you thanked him once again forthe warnings, notices, advices. And he found himself bashing into the light oflife, following your steps to seek that important element he wanted to protectso much, so dearly. He started to direct all his attention to you, an ignoredpart of his life until that moment, and you just accepted his consideration asif it was kindness.

For the firsttime since the day his cousin died, Risotto was feeling warmth in hisbloodstream and tightness in his throat as he spoke to you, as he spent timewith you. Most people were starting to disappear from his vision, and he couldonly see you with your light steps, bright smile, shining attitude. Whenever hetalked to you, you closed your eyes slowly as if to concentrate all yourattention on your hearing. His heart shuttered in his chest when you started toask him for concrete ways to keep safe, when you confirmed you didn’t want himto worry or concern himself with you more than he needed to.

After so muchtime, he learnt how to be his age again, not plagued by the ghost of a deadteen whose word were distorted by his mind. Maybe, just maybe, he could relaxfor a minute just to relish into the fond embrace of normality, of love andcare. You were delightful, listening to him, clinging to him, asking for him;feeding his own need to have control and protect those he cared about, withoutawakening his more violent side until you hated or feared what you summoned. Itwas just wonderful affection, young fondness, and perhaps any shadow of doubtwould gone from his mind if he waited enough in your glow.

However, lightcan make the shadows harsher just as much it can dim them under its strength.

Despite hisnewfound apathy towards anyone else and heightened affection towards you, hestruggled to keep his darker thoughts under control, around your sunny attitudeand lovely behavior. He would imagine himself hold you so close that your bodycollapsed together into a puddle of blood, flesh, bones; but he limited himselfwith taking your hand in his, enjoying the timid smile to offered him as yourubbed your thumb over his fingers. When he saw other people talking to you, hecould only imagine his fingers keeping their jaws in place as he pressed, andpressed, until the bones would creak and crumple under his ministrations; buthe simply greeted his teeth when you returned your eyes to him, after a quickchat with someone else, still centering your thoughts around him.

Fifteen,sixteen, seventeen. The years passed, passed and didn’t subside those murky contemplations,with you locked away in his arms as corpses clung to his ankles in a futileattempt to ask for forgiveness. He needed an outlet, somewhere to lash outuntil he was empty of that darkness and he could rebuild himself under yoursun. Hurting you, physically or emotionally, it was the last of his thoughts,the thing he didn’t wish for; but who could be the victim of his pent-upaggressiveness, buzzing under his skin and clouding his mind? Risotto knew, hewas aware: the cause of his anger, of his resentment and wrath, out so soondespite his crimes thanks to a corrupt system who couldn’t grant him justice,or rest.

It was chilling,frightening even, how easy it was to end a man’s life. Risotto didn’t findhesitation or indecision when his hands wrapped around that man’s neck,squeezing until he was wheezing and imploring without voice. For Risotto, hedidn’t have a name or a face, just bloody hands and a sin, and his anger flaredup where pity or regret should have been. With boiling strength guiding him, heshook that body and slammed the back of the man’s head on the ground, again andagain, with increasing force. It wasn’t a raptus, or madness, and Risottostayed lucid and in control for the entire time. When he felt the man’sheartbeat slow down and wither under his fingertips, still grasping his neck,he stood up and walked away as if he didn’t have blood under his nails.

The followingdays, they were fast and chaotic, but never blurry. The corpse discovered, theinvestigation, with suspects and interrogations, the city falling into chaos asyou clung to him for security. He didn’t reveal you anything, scared to taintyour relationship, yet he could only grow worried when the dark thought stayedand worsened as he watched the fear swirling, simmering inside your eyes whenyou looked at him to find safety. His mind was screaming with fury to keep youaway from people, from your own freedom. If you knew who he was, what he haddone, would you still look at him as a savior? If he was to take you away, keepyou to himself, would you resist? Be scared? Or, perhaps, fall into his arms?

The questions hewanted to answer were too many, too shaky the foundation you were standing onto really consider confessing to you his deeds. But all the same, you came toknow the moment he was accused of the murder, and your gaze couldn’t containthe surprise and the fear, breaking his heart, his spirit, his soul. Even if hewanted to stay or bring you with him, he just fled his hometown at the youngage of eighteen, with the outrage and sorrow he left behind following after him.Until he couldn’t hear the cries anymore, until the pointed fingers were out ofhis vision, until your steps couldn’t be heard anymore. And he drowned into thepit he let fester inside of him, the dark thoughts he tried so hard to containfor years, suddenly becoming his very mean of survival.

In the world ofillegality and crime, no one cared if he was violent or destructive, if hecould rip someone’s to sheds or if he wanted to suffocate someone liberty forhis own personal gain. Nonetheless, he felt like sand just slipped through hisfingers, as you became a memory of a past he looked at without regrets. Theonly thing he wanted to go back to was the careless way you looked at him, thegentle love you would display when he would simply stay silent and stoic, withardor in his eyes that others couldn’t see. You were precious to him, youbecame essential in your own, quiet way. Yet, restrained man he was, Risottonever bothered to go back to drag you under his shadow, focused on keeping upthe front he needed for his new life. Or maybe, he had always been this cold,this unfeeling, under the pretense of being a normal person.

The only timeshe felt closer to others were the times he was around someone who fed into hisattics, his suspicions, his paranoias. Never really forgetting the way youfitted perfectly into his being, Risotto went on. Yet, every day reminded himof those moments, of that light; the way he had to see death approaching histargets, the way he felt those people life slithering away under his hands and,later, with the help of Metallica. The contrast of this deadly existence, withthat simple life, made of words and no actions, clawed at the deepest parts ofhis mind until he could only come back to satiate his need to see you.

A part of himwanted you cage you, bring you with him somewhere you couldn’t escape, yet hismore rational brain wanted nothing more than you loathing him and what hebecame so that he could bury those memories deep inside his brain, never to be recreated.His mind couldn’t phantom any other option; it was either hate or possession,both sentiments tainted by his actions that could only lead to your contempt.So, meeting you couldn’t be something he did normally, just bumping into you casuallywhile walking around the streets of his own city.

It took no timeto learn your current address, not far away from your parents’ home, all alonein your room as you got ready to sleep. With an oversized pajama that drapedover your body as if you wanted to hide it from prying eyes, he sneaked in andwaited for you to notice the menacing figure looming in the corner, as soon ashis invisible mantle slipped from his shoulders. With a new blur of colorappearing in the corner of your vision, you turned around with lazy disinterest,replaces soon after with terror and wide-open eyes. There was a beat, silenceveiling this encounter while Risotto watched you with a stony face, coldnessemanating from his attitude.

“Risotto,” yourvoice came out small, and fragile, making something tremble inside of him. Hesupposed it was meant to be a question, but there was enough resolution insidethose words that he doubted his own assumption. He stayed still, in his owncorner, looking down at you in an attempt to intimidate you into submission. However,you stood up from your bed, your steps tentative as they hit the cold floorunder your bare feet. You tiptoed slowly towards him, and somehow he felt likebacking off as a scared animal despite your smaller size. You blinked at him,incredulous, speaking with caution, “Are you really here?”

He kept silent,still, almost lifeless, for a moment, before nodding and admiring with a sloweddown heartbeat that your lips curled up just slightly. You tiptoed closer again,and stopped at less than a meter from him, hugging your arms around your ownbody to protect yourself from the cold, chilly air of February. Risotto remainedmotionless, but his muscles tensed suddenly at the closeness he didn’t expect.His face didn’t betray any sort of emotion, though, if the probing look yougave him could indicate anything. There was relief in your voice when you spokeagain, a note of happiness too, “I missed you.”

Missed him.Risotto never really contemplated the possibility of his object of devotionreciprocating his feelings or his dedication, he was ready to harbor those emotionsin the intimacy of his mind while deciding the actions he would carry on whenhe saw you again. But seeing you with your insignificant frame, curled up tokeep warmth, looking up at him as if he was someone who came to rescue you froma miserable life; something settled inside of him, not quite adjusting hisdarker thoughts of possessing and devouring every part of your life, but hecould sense something softer hatching.

“I came back foryou,” he spoke with an even tone, striding to you with few steps to close the distance.He rested his hands on your arms, holding you while pinning you with his gaze,but you smiled all the same. He continued, encouraged by your wordless serenity,“I have nothing left here but you, so we can run away,” his voice didn’t letout the emotions gripping his throat, the apprehension at your rejection. Heraised his hands once again, to hold the sides of your face with much moredelicacy he first assumed he possessed. Your lack of fear at his action gavehim the push he needed to complete his train of thoughts, “Where do you think Iwill take you?”

You looked athim, studied his eyes with the expertise of someone who could read an ancient,unknown language. Your blinks were slow and measured, your breath was soft asyou sighed, a caress of your nails over the back of his hand signaling him youwere listening still. He could see the comprehension, the absence of loathingbehind your eyes, only the desire to understand and go back, if only to be keptunder his wing to flee somewhere. Then you talked, and Risotto had to restrainhimself from gripping your face with more force, “With you, I don’t care.”

This man, soimposing, dangerous with his bloodthirst and violence pumping under his skin;he didn’t scare you for you knew he never wished to harm you, you didn’t gainany contempt from him. He understood that in that moment, and from the firsttime he faced life, he felt like he was holding it in his hands. For the firsttime in his life, Risotto’s voice faltered as a low whisper reached your ears, “Ilove you.”

Your smile wasenough to cement his next move.

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #risotto nero #risotto x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #gore ///#Anonymous

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