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peakyblindersxx · 3 years

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whiskey business - john shelby x reader (part 8 of ?)

gif by @thesoldiersminute can i send you a cake or something cause fuCk!!!!!!!!!!! he's beautiful

a/n: to everyone still reading this fic, my sweet angels, ily!! this fic is so near and dear to my heart and @stxdyblr-2k has just done such an amazing job with it i can't even thank her enough. as per the last part, this one is also mostly her, just me editing but i hope you guys love it as much as i did!!! don't worry, there's gonna be a lot more :) and i apologize for being not as active, i'm gonna try to get a couple of requests up that i'm really excited about this week tysm for being patient with me <3

love, abi xxx

read part one two three four five six seven | my masterlist

prompt: ada has some talking to do, and you're not about to deny her.

warnings: fluff, semi-angst, tommy being the cocky mf he is (let's be real, it's only acceptable cause he's so damn fine), john being cute and in love and jesus i am head over heels

tagging: @datewithgianni, @mayaslifeinabox, @deepdonutkid, @springsoulofengland, @lilymurphy03, @operation-spot

You had planned to go to Ada's after work, but she obviously had other ideas. She didn't even bother walking in and asking to speak to you; instead, choosing to bang on the window closest to your desk and yelling at you to "fucking hurry up!" Your boss opened the door for you expectantly, not offering you any protection; he was firmly in the Shelby's ever growing pocket and as long as he could go home to his children, his sickly wife and their six bed in the country, with a full time nurse and nanny, he had no interest in crossing Thomas.

"Ada, I was coming to see you after work, I swear."

"I know. I was going to let you but..." She trailed off. "We need to talk. I don't know what the fuck is going on with you. John said he'd seen you last night and you asked after me."

John had indeed seen you last night. It was strange waking up with him, used to leaving almost immediately after he was finished with you. Your small bed could barely comfortably fit you both, having to intertwine your limbs with John's to not fall off the edge. You had awoken to John pressing a kiss to your forehead before lazily trailing his fingers between your legs, waiting for you to open your eyes before settling between your thighs, tongue swirling around your clit, making you cum before sunrise.

"Do we have to do this in the street?" You practically begged, the shouting having attracted onlookers.

"I wanted to talk to you before anyone else in the family gets to you because I need you to be honest."

"Ada-"

"No, I'm doing you a favour here, so you fucking listen. Right now, between you and I, no bullshit. No tactics. No white lies. You have to tell me exactly what we're dealing with." She looked frantic, scared for some reason.

You nodded, walking her down the side street, careful not to link arms with her. You knew she was doing you a favour; this wasn't about forgiveness or friendship, much more was at stake here.

"To what extent was Thomas involved?"

That took you off guard. Ada read the confusion on your face and sighed impatiently, her subtle plea for you to keep up.

Shit. You remembered your conversation with John, how she thought this was her brother's way of pushing her out of the company.

"Don't spare my feelings. What did my brother say to you?"

"He said it was in our mutual interest that you didn't find out. He didn't care who John slept with but cared who you trusted so I had to trust him. He said there was no point in upsetting you over one of John's conquests who he'd tire of in a month."

"That all?"

"Pretty much, I didn't know Arthur knew. He never talked to me about it, did laugh at Thomas' digs now that I think on it-"

"Did you know Isaiah and Michael knew?"

"I thought they were aware but no one ever talked to me about it."

"Of course they wouldn't." She hissed, frustration causing a nerve on her neck to jump.

Ada and you had spoken for years about the rampant misogyny of her brothers and any men you two came into contact with. Although you were both far more reserved than you used to be as rebellious and adventurous thirteen year olds, you'd both grew increasingly angry at how you were treated. She'd long written off her brothers as womanisers, who saw women as purely sexual and entertaining, objectifying them. You both long despised how they dehumanised women. She was amazed that Thomas had attempted to settle down and managed a somewhat loving marriage, but resented him for his carelessness and need for power which inevitably killed his wife.

"Ada, I just want to say..." You licked your lip nervously, unsure of how to continue.

"You need to talk, Y/N. No bollocks."

"Before last night, he'd never been to mine or called. I always went to him."

The muscle in her jaw tensed.

"You slept with him last night then?" You met her question with silence and she rolled her eyes. "The second he said he saw you I knew you had, he wanted to tell me that he was going to continue seeing you and that he hoped I'd be able to accept it one day."

"We never intended to hurt you. It was meant to be fun at first, but now..." You cut yourself off with a sigh, unable to admit you'd fallen for her brother.

"Isn't fun for me. It's fucking embarrassing." She paused, lighting a cigarette, nervous to offer you one, conflicted within herself. She raised her eyebrow, prompting you to continue, the mannerism so similar to her brother’s.

"It should never have happened. I am never going to be able to fix this, I'm so fucking ashamed for doing this to you, Ada."

She sulked, silently drinking in your words.

"Obviously it's not going to be the same, yeah? I'm really fucking upset. I'm so fucked off with you but Poll's really worried about a coup. She thinks you're being used as blackmail against John to keep him on side with Tommy while he expands."

"Makes sense."

"You're part of a much bigger game, you know?"

You nodded. "Yeah, and I knew I would lose from the start. Fucking tragic, Ada."

"My brothers keep pushing, keep growing the business. They keep chasing this prize but I don't think it even exists."

"If it does, it isn't worth it if this shit is the cost. I didn't mean to play into his hands."

"You couldn't have known." She said with a shrug, " 'Siah thinks John loves you."

"He told me last night." Several times, this morning also. You would never tire of hearing him moan those words into your neck or being yelled from your front door as he left for the office.

"You love him, don't you?" She said bluntly, a statement more than a question, your face suddenly hot with embarrassment.

Everything you'd suppressed for months, everything that you'd hidden, every time you lied smiling, every knowing glance from a stranger, every degrading comment from under Thomas' breath.

"I do, an awful lot."

She pauses, relighting her cigarette, "The worst thing about the entire situation is it could've been fine if someone told me. I wouldn't have loved it, obviously, but-" Ada sighed, rubbing her temple with her free fingers.

"I thought you'd hate me."

"How could I? I'd be more angry that you'd drop your standards for my brother. Seriously? Him? Mate…."

"Come off it, I've always thought he was charming. He's funny, smart-"

"Don't gush over my brother, it's grim. I'm just so fucked off you all lied to me." She peered at you through her cigarette smoke. "If you love him and he loves you..." she pressed her lips together as she tensed her jaw, "I could get over it. If it'd make you both happy. But that's going to take a long time. A long time."

"Ada-"

"Look I have meetings and shit to sort, I have to run." She interjected, checking her wristwatch, adjusting the cap which sat atop her trendy short haircut. You caught her arm before she could turn away.

"Thank you. For understanding."

She shrugged you off, "I don't get it, I'd never do that to you. But you also don't get to choose who you're attracted to. I'm really hurt, but I do love you and John a lot. He mentioned that after last night you helped him, got him cleaned up. I have to believe that you both do love each other. So I have to believe that this is a good idea for you both and not stand in your way."

"I love you, Ada. Can we hang out soon, just us two?"

She shook her head. "I need some time, I'll be in touch, yeah?"

You nod, stretching out your pinky finger. She sighed and linked it with hers, as you'd done since you were children, a silent signal to each other after a fight that you still had the other's back.

"Right, I've got to get back to this meeting, Tom is getting done by Polly for nearly getting John killed. I need to be there in case one of the lads needs patching up."

"Your aunt has a nasty left hook, I'll give her that."

"She'll be pleased you think so, she wanted Tommy to slice you to bits for crossing me."

"Fuck’s sake, thanks for the warning, I'll keep my head down. Good luck with the meeting."

Ada nodded and you watched her walk away, a Blinder suddenly appearing by her side seemingly from nowhere. This city was crawling with them. They clambered into Ada's car as you watched the car disappear into the distance before walking back to work. Thankfully, with your head still attached to your shoulders.

*******

Ada arrived at Thomas' estate, following the swell of shouting voices to his exquisite library. It was eye roll worthy and typical Tommy to choose the location of his post-fuckup debrief to be where he had the best view of the gardens, river and rolling hills. She could bet he'd sit in a corner and stare at the view, zoning out their aunt's lecture.

An armed blinder she vaguely recognised opened the door. Thomas was making a statement today with the armed guards, she noted. Her brothers really were fucked up. Arthur was an alcoholic killer who couldn't understand that Thomas would betray them all eventually, Finn was letting the tokyo and the razor chasers that circled him distract him from keeping the family together, John was apparently in love with her best friend, and finally, Thomas nearly got Arthur and John murdered last night with his foolishness. At this point only herself and Polly were holding everyone together, keeping everything silently moving along.

The door opened, and she was the last to arrive, Polly glaring as she murmured an apology, standing next to Finn. His eyes were bloodshot, grey-purple smudges under his eyes, he'd obviously had a heavy night. The last thing the poor lad needed was Polly's shrill yelling and the blinding sun streaming through the large immaculately crafted windows, which he'd tried to block with the brim of his cap. John caught her eye, acknowledging his sister with a nod, which she returned with a small tight smile.

Ada couldn't bear to think about the reasoning behind her brother's smug interjections in between Polly's rant to Thomas who was listening wordlessly, smoking.

Y/N and John? It didn't make sense. They had a similar sense of humour, sure, but she was far too intelligent for him. He also had a swarm of children, while Y/N preferred a wild night out only staggering home at daybreak.

It made far more sense for Y/N to end up with Michael, or if it had to be a brother, Finn. They were younger, so had less responsibilities and commitments so they could keep up with her. But John? Of course she knew he was believed to be the Casanova of her brothers, he was kind, he was an excellent father, yet he could never keep anyone around long, usually John was chasing someone new after a month or so. That's why the revelation that John had been involved with her best friend for almost half a year had taken her completely by surprise. Maybe that was why she was open to them being together. That had to be it. This relationship was completely out of character for John; she needed to believe that he was serious about his feelings towards Y/N and wasn't going to fuck her over. Because if he did, John would be a dead man.

"I don't know why you're all bleating at me. Yeah, I overlooked some details in the planning of last night's meeting-"

"Such as warning us that they were really fucked off because you'd helped bomb their warehouse." John pointed out.

"What do you want me to do? Apologise? Grow up, John." Tommy snapped back.

"They had loaded guns against their heads, they deserve an apology." Ada interjected, John giving her an appreciative flash of smile. She did love her big brother. Despite the fact that she'd pretty much only been yelling at him for the past month, John never dismissed her feelings and only apologised. It was confusing to admit to herself, but when Isaiah told her that he was confident John loved Y/N, she felt a wave of relief. At least he cared about her; it was the bare minimum but the Shelbys were notorious for not even meeting the bare minimum for acceptable social interactions.

"They didn't fuckin’ get shot." Thomas stated, his voice matter of fact and condescending.

"Do you ever hear yourself speak?" Polly spit back at him. "They didn't get shot this time. But it was too fucking close."

"It won't happen again, Polly." Tommy sighed. "What else can I say? Sorry lads, take the weekend off?"

"It's a good start." Arthur countered, "You're also paying for the extension on my house and my wedding."

"Fuck’s sake Arthur I was joking. But fine. Sure."

"You can't buy your family off." Polly scoffed at him.

"Think of it as compensation, a settlement." Thomas coolly corrected his aunt. "What do you want, John? A fucking farm?"

John hesitates while Finn whispered suggestions to him, Ada meeting his stare, John raising a brow to her in question. She sighed and nodded her approval.

"You can pay off my mortgage Tom, give me the kids' birthdays off-"

"So you'd never come into work then?" Finn cut in, Ada elbowing him in the ribs. She usually enjoyed Finn's remarks but she knew where John was heading; she could barely breathe.

"Tom, you're also to leave Y/N completely alone. If you have a problem with her, you come to me about it." He said firmly.

Arthur and Tommy traded knowing looks, obviously more aware of the ins and outs of his relationship than Ada was.

"Also if you're paying for Arthur's wedding I want the equivalent in cash." He adds.

Tommy shrugged. "Whatever. As long as we can move past last night and focus on today's order of business."

John nodded, satisfied. He knew Tom wouldn't care, but just saying out loud that he was involved with Y/N and having his family aware was a relief. He hadn't realised until he finally admitted how stressful keeping his relationship a secret was. Now, he could stop worrying about Tommy interfering.

Polly rolled her eyes, lecturing the brothers on their lack of moral backbone to allow themselves to be bought off, but dismissed them. She caught Ada's arm in hers on their way out, pulling her far from earshot.

"So Y/N and John are together now?" She asked, her face firm and scowling.

"Polls, I talked with her, she's aware of what she's done. She apologised and meant it. What more can I ask for?"

"Her not to have fucked him in the first place."

"She said that. Look, Polls, they're happy right? John seems happy-"

"He always is when he gets a leg over."

"You know she looked after him last night? Fixed him up after the meeting."

"Meeting? It was a fucking set up." Polly hissed but her face had softened. "She cleaned him up?"

"Antiseptic, bandages and all."

Polly looked subtly impressed, although she'd never admit it. "He went to hers? Not yours?"

"He wanted to talk to her." Ada shrugs, "I saw her this morning and-"

"What do you mean? You bumped into her?"

"I went to her work." Ada admitted, her aunt shooting her an exasperated glare.

"Why do I bother? Nobody listens to me."

"I had to talk to her, I'm glad I did. She reckons she loves him, he told her last night that he loves her, so..."

"We are talking about John? Our John?"

"I know Polls, I'm as amazed as you."

Her aunt huffed, unimpressed. "Are you okay with it though?"

"I guess, I just want them to be happy. I've told them to give me time with it."

"She was a good friend growing up, but people change, sometimes for the better, often for the worse."

"Poll, it's Y/N; she's my best friend. At the end of the day, we'd do anything for each other."

"Sweet Ada, you're going to be so miserable if you keep letting people walk all over you." Polly said wisely, kissing her goodbye affectionately. "I hope you're right. If she makes you cry again I'll kill her myself."

"Thanks, Polls."

She knew her aunt wasn't joking.

#john shelby imagine #john shelby x reader #john shelby fluff #john shelby series #john shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fluff #john shelby #john shelby x you #peaky blinders imagine

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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King of Cups || Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Moon

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | four

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: All relationships are about give and take.

Word count: 7k~

Rating: Explicit (Mature until the last few paragraphs)

Warnings/tags: nightmares, trauma, drinking, fluff and pining, drugs/being drugged (medicinal), wound care, blood, shots/needles, mature themes/language, emo shit, masturbation (f)

Notes: Hi friends. This is broken up in two portions: the first, being in Nevarro, and the second taking place some time later (hopefully that becomes clear when you read it heh). I'm hoping I captured the varying, distinct tones in each of the sections. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) Enjoy x (gif credit: @skyshipper)

They come at night.

The visions.

Your legs are rock, crumbling - eroding - with each weighted step, trudging through the city you once knew, laid bare to waste all around you. The air is grey brown, chalked with dust—with ash. There are bodies lining the road like trimmed hedges, floating by their ankles—ugly, corporal zeppelins. They’re pale. Their eyes are burned to coal and their tongues hang dead and waxy from their mouths.

They begin the same, choreographed like this; you follow the paths your mind has carved out for you, time and time again.

You spot him, plated in silver at the end of the row. Your feet stop. You see him, and he sees you. You feel his eyes - hawkish, piercing - under the murk of his visor. A predator’s gaze. He’s got a man in his fist—you think you recognize him, you might not—held by the scruff of his neck.

Sometimes it’s X’elo, bending to break in his gloved grasp. Other times, a stranger—a half remembered photograph—a memory of a memory of another dream entirely.

And sometimes, it’s you.

You hear the howl of wind scream through your bones—through the bones of the ruins there—but you don’t feel it. There’s only heat—the kind that’s unavoidable and omnipresent, as heavy as guilt. The hunter brings his hands to frame the man’s temples—yours too, sometimes— pebbles and slate trembling off you as you move towards them. You’re running, you realize, immobile but running and you’re not sure how or why—you never get there in time to find out.

He snaps his neck. You hear the crunch in your own ear—inside your own head.

It becomes night—blood moons drip wet from the sky. They splash onto the dirt. It turns to mud, caking the underside of your boots, squelching as you walk. You round a corner and—

You don’t recognize this. This is new. This— no, this is wrong.

A door. Rutted, freestanding—a dark monolith.

You stutter in your sleep, a crease in your brow.

It’s just a door.

No, not here—

A door. Black wood, a brass handle. Just a door, and you’re sweating. Just a door, and you’re suffocating—you’re being smothered—like your outsides are clawing to get back in through your throat and it’s sucking you in—this door, it’s just a door, it’s just a—closer, nearer, looming taller overhead—

You gasp awake, clutching at the scratchy blanket drenched cold with your sweat. Your rasps echo against the hull, sharp pants scraping the hollow metal, and you bring a hand to your chest—steadying, steadying, the fear of your racing heart.

You sit up, throwing your legs over the edge of the cot, and rake a shaky hand through your hair—the damp of the strands sticking to the nape of your neck. Your breathing evens out, tampering, with your forearms braced on the plats of your thighs; the rise and fall of your breasts against your sleep shirt quiet until you’ve stilled.

You roll off the bed, the aluminum frame whining with the shift, and you knock a knee into one of the carbonite pods as you stumble out of the storage room—your bedroom, now.

You couldn’t handle much more of it. You bought a bedroll the first planet you stopped to refuel at after Bajic, hermitting yourself away into the bowels of his ship. It was the only smidgen of untapped real estate left in the Crest, and it was far be it from you to complain about location. You were just thankful to be out of that copilot’s chair—no amount of bacta could unwind the knots in your neck after sleeping there night after restless night.

So you bunked with the bounties Mando had brought in, like one big macabre slumber party—the chrome slabs slotted up - watchful - in their chambers.

You try not to spare it much thought.

Padding through the Crest, soft bare feet leaving crescents on the steel deck, you step into the fresher to splash water on your face, jolting you back into the present and out of the nightmare, out of—

Just a door.

No—

You towel off, patting yourself dry. Inhaling, your lungs expand with the massive rush of air, and you hold it there until it hurts, until it prickles the corners of your eyes, and finally - deliberately - you release.

You look into the mirror.

You blink. She blinks back.

///

You make breakfast now.

It’s not something you both agreed to, it’s just something you do. Funny, how quickly you adapt to new normals, to new routines. You have rituals now—you two. You make breakfast, and you leave a bowl for him out on the counter before you slip into the shower. When you get out, the bowl is empty and the dishes are washed clean, drying face down on a rag. You smile. You never speak of it. Like ivy crawling up cobbled walls towards the sun, it happens— without prompt or feed, it simply is.

///

Nevarro reminds you of Dallenor—the craggy blandness of it, the endless black sands—and you fight the urge to hate it solely based on this principal alone.

You stay on the ship with the little one while Mando goes into town, meeting with some Greef Karga character to sew up Guild business. You have no idea how he ever managed to get any hunting done with the kid always acting up, pulling hijinks and inciting anarchy. He’s nearly torn the whole place to shreds. How such a tiny body can produce such a massive wake of damage is a mystery you will never solve.

You make yourself watch.

You force your jaw, set and held, as Karga’s men haul the quarries out of the ship, hovering eerily down the ramp.

X’elo, the smuggler from Vohai, some two-bit thief, and a woman Mando caught before you met, all parading single file out of the Crest like a funeral procession. They’re criminals, each and every one—they’re violent and they’ve done terrible, irredeemable things—but they’re people, too.

And isn’t that what makes it all so cruel. So sad.

The least you can do is give them an ounce of dignity before they’re subjected to their fate— however harsh, however fair.

So, you watch.

Maybe they don’t deserve it—they’re here by their own hand, after all, a bed of their own making— and maybe they haven’t earned it back any. But perhaps it’s less about what you can offer them and more about what you refuse to let the galaxy take. Because don’t you deserve to stay unfragmented? Complete? Would you rather be robbed of this humanity, your sense of decency—have it stolen from you?

Doesn’t it cost you nothing to be kind?

You pray neither sound nor fury will strip you of this—this open-eyed tenderness. You beg that you remain, undistilled, despite despite despite.

///

You’re so much more relaxed now then when you first came on board. You were as quiet as a church mouse then, tip toeing around the ship like you were afraid you’d ruin her.

Din will never admit it, but you even managed to get the jump on him once or twice—appearing exactly when and where he least expected. And he didn’t - couldn’t have - he didn’t expect you.

This.

And he looks at you now: lit by lamplight—the kerosene filament flickering warm in the dark hull— slotted back and humming to yourself as you swipe a finger over a holopad, feet propped up on a crate by the table, and it all looks organic. Right.

The drink in your hand, sloshing against the amber jug, no doubt eases your mood. You’re drinking it right from the bottle. He thinks it’s fucking charming.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Maker above,” you hiss, startling a foot out of your seat. You shoot him an accusatory glare, but there’s no malice in it—there’s laughter ringing around your eyes.

Honestly, that man needs a bell on him.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he comments dryly, stepping past.

You move your legs from their perch and sit a little straighter. “You- you could join me,” you chime, “if you want.”

His feet slow until he’s stopped completely and he pans over his shoulder to you. You can’t read his expression—it’s steel all the way through— but you think you feel the air around you both quiver - shudder - with something unspoken, something kinetic.

The scrape of the chair as he pulls it out from the table is deafening, the thunk of his metal body sinking into it even louder.

“What are you reading?” Mando asks.

You cast him a sheepish smile. “CoreWorld News.”

“Anything good?”

Your mouth twists, biting the inside of your cheek. “Never.”

He huffs a breathy chuckle.

There didn’t seem to be any good news anymore. You forage for it—scouring the net for just a whiff of it, of something pure. There is plenty of greatness left in the world, but you find that what it lacks most is goodness— humble and precious. More often than not, you come up empty and disappointed—but never so dissuaded that you do not search again the next day, and the day after that, and after that and after that again.

“How’d it go with Karga?” you ask, setting the holopad down and switching off the display.

“Fine. Good.”

“Good,” you smile. He’s terse—sparse. You think it’s endearing now—vexing too, without a doubt, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive anymore.

“Nothing close to Coruscant yet. More outer rim chaavla,” he grits out, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a tickle of bemusement in your voice and a quirk to your chin. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I know you want to get back.”

You hope the glow from the lantern in the galley is dim enough to camouflage the tinge sprung on your cheeks. The truth is becoming more and more clear to you, whether you like it or not: with each passing day, you want to go back to Coruscant less and less. You have to—you know you have to. You have your career, your whole life, waiting for you. But—

But.

“You told me it would take a while—longer than I’d like.”

“I know.”

“I’m happy to be here— I-I’m grateful,” you catch yourself.

He clenches his fist under the table, beyond your line of sight, gnarled tight into a ball. It tethers him down, anchoring him in place—because if he weren’t, fuck, he’d fly out of his seat so fast—

“Alright,” he chokes out.

“Alright,” you smile, glassy.

There’s a kind of mist encircling you two, an incense of a sort, intoxicating and sinewy and lulling you into a hushed calm. It’s thick around you - lush - and you can feel it settle like lead behind your eyes.

“Can I pour you a drink—for later?”

It’s late into the evening, well beyond the hour where the lines of decorum blur. You’ve crossed into the Other—that tarred, limber undertow. Dangerously weightless and free. The liminality between here and there— that twilight place.

Shadows bounce along the walls. Your outline—his too.

“I’d like that.”

///

You’re not as tipsy as you could be, but you’re less sober than you’d like.

Subconsciously, buried somewhere deep, you’re aware that Mando is humoring you and that you should let him get on with his night—but you don’t.

You’ll be annoyed at yourself later for this.

“Okay okay, what are your hobbies?”

A deadpan tilt of his helmet. “I—I don’t understand the question.”

You gape at him, your bottom lip glossed as it parts, plush and wet, and you laugh. “Hobbies,” you reiterate. “You know, stuff you like to do? For fun?”

You see the gears under that helm wheel and spin. It shouldn’t take anyone this long. The question is basic and the answer should be relatively immediate—but Mando has to mull it over. In all of his cycles, as hardened as they’ve been, he hasn’t been gifted the luxury of leisure - fun - and he hasn’t been afforded the time to dwell on the lack of it.

Selfless, without a moment of ownership to himself. This is the way.

“I-,” he pauses, mouth clamping shut. “Skip.”

“Fine, fine,” you tut. “What is... your favorite planet?”

Din stretches back, his beskar groaning against the chair.

All the planets he’d visited were out of necessity—out of demand and credit, never because he wanted to be there and certainly never out of favor. They were tainted—made insipid and unremarkable by the quarries he chased to them.

But there is one in particular that stands out; he remembers a planet the kid seemed to like—how he babbled the whole time, slung in the satchel at his hip, entranced and enthralled. He was on his best behavior, too—the little womp rat didn’t even try to stuff his tiny, wrinkled face with anything. Not once.

“Adega.”

“Adega,” you repeat, testing the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it. What’s it like?”

He draws in a long breath, his ribs yawning against the corset of his armor.

He should’ve gotten up by now—fuck, he shouldn’t have ever sat down in the first place. It’s not like he didn’t have anything to do; he needs to downshift the Crest’s power converters, switch off the shield projectors, chart a course to his next job, get some damn sleep if he’s lucky…

But you’re here before him. You’re here and he can’t deny you—not when you’re looking at him like that, like the sun shines out from his fucking face—far softer, far kinder than he deserves. Not when you’re here now, and you won’t be for much longer.

He’s racing against the clock—the swinging inevitability of it. Each moment he shares with you, is a moment that brings him closer to taking you back.

Din is a fool. He knows he’ll lose. He races anyways.

“It’s a water planet—mostly ocean,” he begins.

You allow your eyes to dip close, savoring the description, and you tuck your legs up to fold over themselves.

“But there are islands. Some are small, private—with red trees that go all the way to the sand. Others have whole cities on them.”

You remain quiet - patient - like marble, chiseled and sanded as thin as chiffon, veiling over your face in fine, cascading sheets. Transparent - ethereal - you listen to him blind, letting his words guide your sight.

“The kid-"

Your tongue darts out over your lip and he stutters. Din has to shift his hips, relieving the growing heat that’s tightening below his waist.

“T-The uh, the kid loved it. I’d never seen him like that. The bogwing didn’t want to leave,” he chuckles. He conjures the details he thinks you want—the details he thinks you might like most. “The people are honest—generous. The days are long, and the nights are warm.”

He’s no poet, but it doesn’t bother you.

“I can see it,” you say, before blinking your eyes open. "I'll have to go some time." There’s pink on your cheeks, seeping past your jaw and below the neckline of your shirt to the swallow of your breasts.

You look at him— he looks at you.

A noise hums from somewhere inside the ship.

“Are you scared of anything?” you murmur.

Mando lets a beat pass.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” You smile at that—small, wistful. You’re not even sure why. “You?” he asks.

Your chest rises with a deep inhale. “I used to be scared of dying. I thought I was gonna die young. I was convinced—I had dreams about it all the time as a kid.”

But maybe that’s not it entirely. Maybe it’s not the fear of dying itself, but the dread of living and dying alone. And isn’t that at the heart of it—at all of this?

I just don’t want to do this all on my own.

He’s never been privy to this version of you—this sloping tone, the liquor buzzing through your speech, churning your words to treacle. You sound nonchalant in way that’s jarring, as if you aren’t talking about death— the fear of your own tenuous mortality.

“But I bet everyone does,” you continue dismissively, “just one of those things.”

He’s almost cautious when he replies. “I’m not sure they do.”

Your expression contorts, knotting for an agonizing moment—until the tension all but disappears. “Huh,” you shrug flippantly, and take a swig. That heaviness, that fog, dissipates nearly as soon as it arrived. “Anyways, favorite color?”

He rolls his eyes; you can see it in the way he tilts his head to you. Really, he seems to say, how old are we?

“You’re right, you’re right— that’s low brow. I can do better…” You melodramatically tap your chin, eyeing him pensively.

“Okay. What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” you nod to his pauldron, “that symbol on your shoulder.”

Tawny fingertips trace absentmindedly over the emblem. “It’s a Mudhorn. It’s-” Mando hesitates, before his hand returns to his lap. “It’s the sigil of my clan.”

You arch your brow. “I didn’t realize you had a clan— is it- is it like, big?” Stars, you sound dumb—and there’s no excuse. You’re not even that drunk. “How- what is a clan, exactly?”

“In Mandalorian culture, your clan is your family. Aliit. Mine, it’s—it’s a clan of two.”

Something in the pit of you stirs, a sickly warmth, pulling at your gut like a rope. You glance over to where the child sleeps, snuggled away in his pram and your lips curl into a smile, hidden behind the bottle you bring to them.

“You’re lucky to have each other,” you say gently, taking another sip.

“We almost didn’t—shouldn’t have.”

His hands tense into his legs—the creak of leather against his thigh plates is audible even from where you sit.

You narrow your eyes curiously. He heaves.

“He was a bounty and I did my job. I turned him in. I went back for him, but—the kid, he saved my life, and I could’ve left him there—I would’ve, before.”

It all comes out like tires grinding through gravel, bruised and roughened. It’s regret, you realize—this is the sound of guilt, frigid and rued, pushing through his modulator. It makes you want to reach out to him, put your hand on his, comfort him, reassure him—something. But you can’t. He’s too far away. He’s on his own sea—untouchable.

You decide it right then and there: you can’t bare that sound, the wracked timbre of it. You hate it. You think you’d do anything to rid the way in constricts his throat—makes him hoarse and clipped, even through the guise of his helmet. It pains you, a visceral stabbing, right to your core. You could go a lifetime without hearing it, and it still wouldn’t be long enough.

“But you didn’t,” you offer.

“No,” he utters. “No, I didn’t.”

Mando gives you these tortuous, beautiful previews of himself. Like light passing through stained glass, you sneak brief glimpses of the paintings there, the stories and fables and the lessons they teach, until some great cloud drifts past, blotting out the sun, and all goes dark again.

You know this is rare. You know you’ll be home soon. You know to cherish it—to relish what he gives, when he gives it, if he gives it at all.

But—you want more. You’re a simple woman, at the end of all things: all you want is to hold him.

“I think you’re a better man than you let on, Mando.” There’s a knowing twinkle in your eye, a coy lilt to your loosened tongue. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were flirting.

“You don’t know that,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have my suspicions." You're smirking something awful - deadly - as it sears into him.

He grunts, flames licking up his chest. Din has to bite back his grin, making careful it doesn’t shape the sound of his vowels; grateful for the helmet that buffers him, the mask that seals him away into anonymity, into apathy.

If he can convince you, maybe he can convince himself too. Maybe.

“Next question, dala.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were flirting.

///

Your eyes are blown wide, gawking at him.

“I’m not a medic, Mando—I’m not a fucking surgeon!”

Mando crashes through the Razor Crest, red dollops trailing in pools behind him. He grunts, hand pressed to his side, blood pushing out of the gash that’s torn into him— a canyon down his unplated body, spewing angry and insistent with each spasm of his heart.

With a broad stroke, he sweeps the clutter off the table and onto the floor, spraying across the deck.

“Medkit,” he barks, hoisting himself up to lie, hulking and pained, out on the slab. You scamper to it, ripping it off the wall, and return to his lumbering body. His breathing is labored—he’s forcing it, seething it out.

Mando’s legs bend off the table at an uncomfortable angle and he rasps when you crane them up by his booted ankles – fuck, he’s heavy – to situate a small crate under his feet. They drop with a dulled thud— without muscle, without resistance. The languid weight of a dying man.

You’re stationed beside him, medkit spilled open. “W-What now, what do you need?”

“I need you,” you heard him say, deep and bassy, as he ascended the ramp. With a colossal drum of your heart, you spun around - I need you - a blush stippling your jaw. The pregnant expectation built behind weeks and weeks of stalemates and stolen glances - I need you - all rearing to a head here and now and finally, finally something—until you saw him, doubled over, bracing himself on the wall, a line of blood smearing behind his palm.

“Bacta-“ Mando wheezes, “bacta shot.”

You rifle through the supplies, littering them as you dig through the box.

Sure, you had gotten your first aid certification with the Movement—it was required, and you retook the courses every few cycles. But that was gauze wrappings and mouth-to-mouth and anti-inflammatory tablets—that was not this, and this is fucking surgery. You’re out of your depth—and Mando must be out of his damn mind.

“I nee-“ He inhales sharply, and his body spasms, gripping the ledge of the table like a vice. “My chest plate—take it off.”

He’s told you bits and parcels of the Mandalorian way—of his Creed— and you aren’t under the impression that this would be strictly sanctioned.

“M-Mando, I thought— are you sure?”

“Yes I’m kriffing sure—do it. Just do it,” he snaps. He hates this—he fucking hates this. Soft. Weak—weak weak weak, he’s so fucking weak. Laandur.

You fumble over the armor, uncoordinated as you unclasp it from his cuirass and Mando strangles out a sigh as soon as it leaves him. At last, you fish the shot from the medkit and hold it up to the light, the medicine like venom as it whirls in the tube. It’s uncomfortably large—simply holding it makes you squirm.

“W-What is that?”

Your eyes flit over the needle and then back to the bounty hunter. “What do you mean ‘what is that’? It’s a shot.”

“That’s a lance,” he growls.

“It’s ebacta-”

“It’s green!” he hisses out incredulously.

“It’s all they had!” you bite back, panic skipping through your veins.

You’re practically yelling at each other, the tension winding and coiling tighter and higher as the seconds tick by. You feel each one, tapping along your vertebra like a metronome, keeping time, keeping time, wasting time—all this back and forth is a waste of time and—

You’re nervous—you’re fucking terrified—and Mando doesn’t frequent this position either—this vulnerability. He doesn’t know what to do with it, where he belongs in it. I need you, he said. He hadn’t needed anyone before and now look at him, bare breasted before you, wounded and mewling like roadkill.

You rap the needle with a knuckle, banishing the air pocket, and test the plunger. Droplets of liquid spurt from the tip, and he begins to rile.

“Dala,” he warns.

“Mando,” you mimic.

“Nu draar-”

“Do you want my help or not?” you spit out, and he shrinks, visor trained on the jab, that unnatural chartreuse swirling inside the glass vial. “Okay. Okay, on three.”

“Wait, wait-"

“One..." You try to sound firm - competent - but you’re a fucking mess. Your breathing is erratic, tunic soiled with sweat, and you’re trembling.

“You don’t-“

“Two...”

Mando huffs exasperatedly, “Ah, fuck it-”

“Three.”

You drive the syringe down, stabbing into him. His body seizes—flexing rigid—as soon as the viscous gel is injected, oozing oozing oozing until it’s pumped empty and spent.

And then— nothing.

All that whirlwinded frenzy, that raging tempest, and now silence— dead silence. He lays there motionless, fidgeting ceased, that ungodly needle pitched like a flag pole from his chest.

… Shit.

“Hey,” you touch a hand to his shoulder.

The smug bastard could be having a laugh under that helmet and you’d have no idea. That’s what you tell yourself—that’s what you’d prefer to believe anyways; it’s better than the alternative, better than—than than than fuck—

“Hey, this isn’t funny...” A little rougher now, you jostle him. He doesn’t react.

“… Mando?”

His head lolls to the side.

With a whistle, the room goes mute. Sound and oxygen alike, it all gets vacuumed out, and your senses invert. You can hear every tick of your body: the bone of your jaw as your teeth mash together, the pulse at your wrist, your stammering heart beating beating beating in your inner ear, the bob of your trachea as it grates against your neck.

Kriff. You killed him—you killed the Mandalorian.

Oh Maker, oh shit-

You press down around the puncture site with a wide palm before yanking the syringe out, flinging it away. You’re shaking him now, wrestling with his limp body, and you’re shouting—croaked with worry, with fear.

“Fuck, Mando—Mando!"

The sound is like glass shattering.

He gasps wildly, gulping down air as if he’d been drowned, writhing like the undead from your operating table. You buckle over him, fatigued and slumped, and cry out in blessed relief.

Your instincts, those poor frail nerves, tell you to smack him—but given that he’s bleeding out, you refrain.

“Don’t do that to me!” you exclaim, breathy and strained.

“Don’t do that to you?” Mando retorts, panting. You let out a weak crackle of laughter and he moans. It’s like he’s been hit by a speeder - twice - forward and then reversed over again.

“Maker, what did you give to me?”

“I got it on Vohai. They uhm- they said it was good quality-“

“And you believed them?”

Your mouth twists shyly. “I-I wanted to believe them,” you correct him.

It’s his turn to laugh now, tired and raw. Oh, you sweet little thing.

You swallow, saliva coating your ragged windpipe. “I’m sorry—Maker, I’m so sorry, a-are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, gargled, “but remind me never to have you save my life again.”

That earns him a light slap to his arm. If he’s well enough to dole cheap shots, you figure he’s fit enough to take yours too. He’s spliced open, whole chunks of him missing, and he still has the wherewithal to be an ass.

“Well, you’re not out of the woods just yet.”

///

Regrettably, Mando might have been spot on about the bacta—in fact, you’re starting to question whether it’s really bacta at all.

A delirious grunt ripples through the bounty hunter’s modulator as you cut open his ripped flight suit, careful not to slice him with the vibroblade. His black undershirt is matted to his gaping wound, the blood bubbled over and through the rough material, and you have to peel the fibers out of his coagulating flesh to get to it. You toss the fabric into the bucket next to you with a sloppy, wet plop.

It didn’t even occur to you. You were so swept away by the state of him—by the dizzying carnival of it all as soon as Mando breached the Crest—you didn’t consider the fact that you’d be seeing him. Touching him.

You have to mask your expression when you meet his skin for the first time. He’s golden—he’s golden everywhere—like desert sand dunes sizzling under ripe, afternoon suns—dappled with memories of violence, branded into him.

You’ve never heard him like this. He keeps noising these feverish little nothings— gasping, moaning in a language you don’t recognize—and you do your best to distract him. It’s one of the tenets you recall from your aid training: keep them talking, keep them sharp—engaged.

“Do each of these have a story?” you ask, eyeing the marks that riddle and pucker him.

“Some of them.”

“What about this one here?” You touch a faded ribbon of scarring. It’s older than the others—paler. Your fingertips are cool and he blazes beneath them.

He tries not to twitch. You try not to notice.

“Fell out of a tree when I was a kid—haven’t thought about that in a while,” Mando pants. “B-Broke my wrist, got scraped to shit— my buir, m-my mother, she chewed my ear off.”

“Mm, I bet she did,” you smirk—you can relate to the feeling.

“I-I remember the lines around her eyes. H-Her eyes— they were green, bright green— jade.”

He lets out a wince as you swipe a disinfectant soaked rag over him. You cringe and flash him an apologetic look.

“Sounds beautiful,” you muse, a quiet smile pulling at you as your deft fingers work. “Did you get her pretty eyes too, Mando?”

Something is caught in his throat— a chuckle, or a cough more likely. “No, they’re brown. Just brown.”

Your whole body locks.

Just brown.

Two words - just brown - and suddenly you’re rich— full to the brim with him.

And fuck, if it doesn't feels like a gift. Like he gathered something precious and laid it in your arms and said here, you can have this now. We can share. Sometimes you forget that there’s a man under all those layers; a man— a warm blooded, tanned skin, brown eyed man. You hadn’t often wondered what the Mandalorian was hiding under his armor—he was so finite, so unmovable, the mask he wore became him. He was beskar - indistinguishably - through and through.

But that was before. And now you’re blinded with him— with all the details you cannot unsee.

“S-She was the last person to take care of me—like this.”

It comes over you so suddenly, you’re taken aback by it: that knee-jerking gut wrench. And not because there’s heartbreak in his voice, but because there isn’t. Because he’s had to be so invulnerable—so unyielding and invincible for so long—that he doesn’t even realize what he’s without.

And you, if only for a silly, naïve moment, wish you could give it back to him. Every little ounce of goodness that he’s been deprived of—to dip into his time stream, and rewrite.

To plant but a seed of it there, even if you don’t stay long enough to see it’s harvest.

“Tell me more about her,” you say.

And beyond expectation, beyond reason, he does.

///|||///

This—this is wrong.

He feels pulpy - soggy - wrong. He’s more liquid than he should be—there’s nothing solid about him now. He’s swept away in the tide of it—this green current charging through him and he let’s go - what is there to hold onto anyways? - floating belly up on his back.

Din spills—like the aperture split into his side, he gushes. Whatever dam he’s forged around himself, the beskar and duracrete there, cracks.

The stream trickles until he floods and like any good story, he starts from the beginning.

He tells you of home—his first home. Aq Vetina.

You’re plucking spikes and nettle from his side, and he barely feels it—all he has is this sinking, unending wet—and they hit the tray with dull plunks, punctuated and staccatoed.

He tells you of the adobe dwellings and the domes and columns. Marketplace canopies and caravan bazaars.

plunk

The oak trees, the willow bark, the spires he’d climb until the sun set.

plunk

The tall mountains and the dry, rubbled earth. Of the nameless neighbor children he played with, kicking a ball through the dirt. Red robes trailing, fraying.

plunk

His mother. The shawl she wore. The copper of his father’s ring. The herbs she grew by the light from their kitchen window. How he held her hand while they sat by the fire.

plunk

His tongue doesn’t belong to him—it wags numb and supple. He’s lost his sense of direction, unbound by north or south, and these words are simply happening to him. They keep happening and happening and escaping and—

It’s not just the off-bacta speaking for him, making him pliant. He wants this. He wants to bend—he wants to bend for you.

And now there’s no stopping it—there’s no breaking this, no halting it's downhill momentum. Din describes the attack, the heat of the fire as his town - his world - burned down, of his parents concealing him—a child, abandoned and bunkered away in a cellar to live or die with or without them— being rescued by the Death Watch and raised as a Mandalorian himself.

Your bandaging has long since finished, but you remain, hovering over him as you listen—listen as the jigsawed shards of his life stitch themselves together. Like a moth to a flame, you are drawn in and in and in, until you’re butted against the wick of it. Inseparable.

When the well of his words runs dry, neither of you go to move. Pin-drop silence envelops you. Your hands still on his chest, palms like a weighted quilt—warming him, securing him. He feels-

He feels safe.

“Mando,” you murmur, and the epithet has never sounded so fucking sacred, whispered from you like a prayer. You cripple him; the web of concern along your brow, the sheen in your eyes, the breathy part of your lips.

His throat has gone dry and he shakes his head left right, beskar grating against the makeshift gurney. Mando. No. No, that’s not right—that’s not who he is, that’s not who he wants you to know.

He draws his hand up—it’s so fucking heavy, he can barely lift it—but he tries, he tries, he wants to. You’re right here, you’re touching his chest and you’re healing his body—his mind too, if he’d only let you—and if he could just get to you. If he could just lace his fingers with yours—would you let him? Should you?

“M-My name-"

A warbled wail from the kid’s alcove rips through the cradling hush, and you both react immediately, lurching up to tend to the child. Din forgets—he hears his foundling and his reason leaves him—and he flinches with a grimace. You urge him down, steadying him with a pointed look.

“Rest.”

It’s a command, there’s no question to it, and it’s teeming with all of these unrecognizable concepts— care and assurance, worry and compassion. So impossible to disobey in the way that gentle things are—too soft and too right to say no to. He relents - gives - helmet thudding when it connects back with the table.

Din, he pleads, desperate for you to read his mind. Like a mantra, his subconscious rambles it on a drug addled figure-eight, coming around only to repeat itself again, infinite and wanting. Din Din Din-

Only when the child’s cries muffle into hiccups and his hiccups slur into coos does he let his exhaustion get the better of him. There was too much—it was an assault from all fronts. The blood loss, the drugs, his life like a monsoon as it crushed him open. And all it took was a wound, a brush with his mortality, for him to surrender it to you.

He turns his head, searching for you through the blur of his vision. You’re there in the doorway, rocking his boy in your arms, haloed with light.

I need you, he said. I need you I need you I need you I need-

Din’s eyes shut.

He doesn’t dream. He sleeps like the dead, blissful and undisturbed.

///

You spend hours scrubbing the deck on all fours, spine hunched and aching, cleaning scarlet off silver steel. It got everywhere, the splatter of it—even on the surfaces Mando didn’t come in contact with. The smell of blood, that nickel musk, it lingers long after its welcome—long after the stain of it, the stain of him, has vanished from the Crest. From your skin.

At some point during the night you nod off next to him, curled over a crate, and when you wake Mando is gone—presumably back to his quarters but gone all the same. All traces of him gone - expunged - and the ship feels hollow and gaping— a sterile Mando shaped hole in his absence. You follow his lead, retreating to your bed for a few more hours of sleep.

The next morning doesn’t go as you’d like.

You weren’t sure if he would remember any of it—of what he confided, of what he almost confessed— but by the way the tension ferments between you, you can only assume he does.

They go through their routines, stilted as they are.

He’s up early— unnecessarily early. Mando goes to the cockpit to rouse the ship, plugging in the coordinates from his tracking fob to chase after the escaped bounty. Thrusters set. Repulorlifts and auxiliary engines engaged. Deflector shield generator on. Weapons check. Atmospheric pressure regulator switched.

He’s slower, you note— his movements are crawled—with only half the feline agility he typically possesses and you want to tell him to sit, to take a break—to get off his damn feet and to let you help him—that it’s okay if he rests. That he can take time for himself. That it doesn’t make him any less of a Mandalorian—any less of a man.

But, you can’t.

And so the day is pulled taut like this—a bowed string ready to snap, chalked full of false starts and tinny stoicism. A sharp, intentional air of avoidance with every action. They were out of step, out of sync, and it reminds you of the first days you’d spent on the Razor Crest, orbiting each other—planets apart.

Because he’s shared too much. You knocked, Din answered. He opened the door and he let you past and now he has nowhere left to go but inwards. He’s cornered with no exit strategy - no option - but to close back up again and furl in on himself like a fern in the dark. Curling - evaporating - until he’s nothing but armor—nothing but mirrored edges and metal plates.

But—

you still made his breakfast and he still washed your dishes—and maybe that is enough.

///

You pass each other in the corridor, as you have done before.

You smile gently—soft as sin— and it breaks him, like it always does.

You have a hand on the rung of the ladder when he calls your name, and you turn to him, bright eyed.

“Thank you,” he rasps, “I never thanked you.”

He’s so strikingly sincere— standing there, arms dangling stiff by his sides. He looks different now, somehow— different, but the same. Fuller, bigger—smaller, too.

Human, you realize.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “Of course, Mando-“

“Din.”

You forget to breath. Time forgets to move.

“My name is Din.”

///

Din. Din Djarin.

It takes you almost a week to say it—to even utter the syllable aloud—and you only ever risk it when he’s gone on a hunt and you know you’re alone.

“You like it when I touch you like this?” you hear him say, the fabricated echo of his voice in your skull. He’s got two fingers in you—you can envision them now, clear and potent, the golden hide of them—and he moves slow as he takes you right to the edge, dancing dastardly along that cliff side before retracting himself and backing off. You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking; you can feel it in his fingertips, how they mock you—how they scorch into you and leer.

Even in your fantasy, he’s a prick.

“You like it when I make you cum on this filthy fucking cot?”

You keen into your hand, whimpering into your bitten raw lips. The scene is playing on without you now, writing itself. All you can do is lay here and take it, succumb to it, starved and desperate and vile as you thrash on your bedroll.

You rove your palm over your chest—

He snakes up your shirt, twisting your nipple until it’s peaked and perked under him, until you yelp with that muddled jolt of pleasure and pain. He’s lazy and fitfully unhurried, each movement sauntered and proud. He’s coaxing it out of you, this orgasm, as he kneels over you, your vision flooded with the cold menace of his beskar. Finally, tortuously, he traces his thumb over your clit, toying with you in small circles until you’re shaking—vibrating, every molecule of you—like you’re going to burst, incinerate there in your bed. He’s urgent now, demanding, and thrusting into your swollen cunt and the pressure mounting in your heat swells until, until, oh my st-

You fuck your fingers until they prune, drenched with the thought of him teasing you, stuffing you full with anything he’ll give you; his hands, his cock—Maker, his tongue. You let it roll around your mouth when you touch yourself like this in the dark belly of the ship—heels digging into your thin mattress, knees steepled together—and you’re panting, wanton and velvet, before a fist shoots up to muffle the moaned name wafting from your lips like smoke.

“Din”

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #mando x female oc #mando x you #mando x reader #mandalorian smut #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x female oc #din djarin x female oc #din djarin smut #King of Cups #pedro pascal #fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #slow burn #smut

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hwauas · 3 years

Text

✨: "taste of heaven" pt.1

> collaboration with ma sweetheart @nateezfics 💕

> part 2 (here) on her blog!

kang yeosang (강여상)!

you were born in the wrong place in your opinion. you never chose to be a princess. you never chose to have a high statute. you never chose to have this much duties. but you had to go through this. you had to live with this. you have to deal with this everyday. and everyday seemed to be the same for you. waking up every day at the same exact time. having everyday the same breakfast. having the same toilette every morning. and working on tasks the parents gave you, thinking you were able to achieve them as a princess. you could get some tasks about a tiny area in the country with problems to solve, or you could get task about servants' and maids' timetable. your parents got you very ambivalent.

but little did they know, you were tired about this. the only free time you could have were afternoons here and there. the rest of the time, your statute got you busy with different tasks.

you wanted a significant change. you wanted to be free. you wanted to escape in aim to live. you wanted and needed a whole another life.

the garden aback the castle was your way out. a place a little bit wild, way less tidy. the greenery was free to crawl everywhere. around a pond, there were water lilies, and different type of flowers and plants. the pond seemed to be wild with all those plants. and around this pond, there were stone benchs and arches. creepers were crawling around the different items in the place: on the bench legs and all around the arches.

the thick foliage of the trees was reducing the sun light in the place. the whole atmosphere was softer, the dim light was creating an atmosphere o so relaxing and almost romantic. spending time there was your favourite activity. you could focus on yourself, things which were important to you, and you could dream and breath.

today, you managed to have some time for yourself. you needed to be somewhere you felt secured in, and somewhere you could relax. somewhere you could take off your crown for hours.

today again, the sun was shining through the foliage, making the place look magic. few rays of sun were illuminating the pond and were reflected on the foliage above. the water, where the sun shone, looked like myriad of diamonds. the birds were chirping around you. the plants seemed to be a little bit greener with the few rays of sun.

it was a perfect place, at a perfect moment.

what you didn't know, a man was approaching.

he was your opposite : independant, even though he had duties, and free, even though he had a statute.

he was breathtaking: sharped jawline, plump lips, little nose, thin eyes with brilliant pupils, eyebrows decorating perfectly his forehead, and bangs falling gracefully on his forehead, giving him a slight of mystery.

his body was perfectly sculped: large shoulder, thin waist, developped chest, sharped collarbones, long legs. you could have said his body was sculped by Greek gods themselves.

but he was the actual god.

herald of gods, he was also a protector: merchants, human heralds, orators, travellers, but also thieves.

pacing up and down the whole world to deliver message was his main activity. he was excelling at it.

his footsteps got you out of your thoughts. you were fully aware of your surroundings to localise the person approaching as soon as possible.

from the corner of your eyes, you could distinguish his figure approaching yours. few rays of sun lit up his body. few of them also lit up his brilliant pupils on you.

“it's the very first time i'm seeing such a beautiful person here.”

his voice was soft. it was like a lullaby to your eyes.

you turned your head over him. his brilliant pupils were looking deep inside yours. his gaze seemed to be more precious than anything else. and the thin smile on his lips was adding more preciousness to his face.

as soon as your brain totally assimilated his beauty, your heart almost immediately reacted: it was beating so fast. you never felt this way before. you never felt your heart react this much to someone unknown to you

“really? aww, i'm sorry. but since this little place is behind the castle i live in and this place is owned by my parents.. i guess you can see me here pretty often.”

you offered this man your prettiest smile.

“oh, so i'm walking in a private area? oh, i'm sorry, i don't have any permission..”

you giggled, making you look even cuter in front of him.

“i give you my permission.”

your eyes were glued in his. you couldn't look somewhere else. something was pulling you closer to him. and without you could even take the control over your brain, you were in front of him.

“i hope you're gonna use this permission wisely.~”

“may i offer you.. my company?”

you could blush at this precious look on your face. he was looking at you so tenderly. you could say he was as mesmerised by you as you were mesmerised by him.

“this is a good answer.”

because of a breeze, your dress brushed his legs, and mixed up with his own clothes. few strands of your hair slowly flew, coming in front of your face. and the man in front of you didn't waist time to push them away your face, behind your ears.

the man then put a hand on your waist, and invite you to sit back on the bench. he was so gentle with you, and led you to the bench like a real gentleman. his hand on your waist, his gaze on your face, a smile on his lips.

he sat besides you, yet was facing you. he was admiring you, like you admire a deity. his own heart was beating irregularly. and just as you, he never lived something like that before.

“who might you be?”

your voice was a little bit shaking because of shyness. you were looking down to the pond. yet this time, you were really blushing since you were feeling his sparkling gaze on you.

“i'm Yeosang. Kang Yeosang. i was supposed to pass by quickly for a mission but.. i don't wanna live now i know someone as stunning as you is here.”

“a-a mission?”

his compliment got you stuttering, and going redder — he was indeed succumbing to you. you were even playing with your fingers. your heart was still beating fast.

“yes. i am gods' herald. but this message can wait, and will wait.”

Yeosang slightly tilted his head to the side. gently, he grabbed your chin and made you look straight into his eyes.

“and you? who are you?”

his pupils never left yours. the tenderness in his eyes was warming you up, and he soon felt like home to you: you didn't have to be shy anymore around him — plus, he was in the same estate, right?

“princess y/n. Lee y/n.”

“does the princess believe in gods?”

Yeosang looked next to you, where you put down your crown. he took it, and gently put it back on the top of your head.

“now, she does. she has a god in front of her, how could she not believe in gods now?”

you were first looking at his eyes after he put the crown on your head, but your gaze eventually wandered over his face: his forehead, his nose, his cheekbones, his cheeks, and his plump lips. your gaze stayed there for a moment. and Yeosang noticed it.

“and does she want to kiss this god?”

“she's craving for it. but is this sensible?”

your eyes quickly went back to his pupils. the sun was shining over his face. his skin seemed to be smoother with the rays of sun.

“i've fallen for you, even though we just met. is this sensible?”

Yeosang softly grabbed your chin between his thumb and forefinger. he kept your face up, looking in your eyes. the birds weren't chirping anymore, and the whole place was quiet. it was as if the whole world stopped to look at you both.

“it's not. but i'm not trying to hold myself back. if my whole soul suddenly started to scream out your name, then i'm happy to say i'm not wise anymore. nothing is sensible now i've met you.”

“shut up and kiss me. it's a royal order.”

“what my princess wants, my princess gets.”

Yeosang softly leaned over your face. his lips gently touched yours. his lips moved against yours perfectly, as if both of your lips were meant to be against each other.

you slowly came closer to him, as if he was a magnet you were attracted to. your hand wandered over his thigh, and upper to his chest. your whole body was screaming his name out: the heart beating fastly, your skin getting hotter, the palms of your hands getting clammy.

but the kiss had to end. you — sadly — couldn't stay suspended to his lips for ever.

“if nothing of this is sensible, let's be unreasonable.”

your eyes were showing off distress, pleasure and love.

Yeosang was everything you wanted, needed, and had everything you were craving for — freedom. you wanted and needed to have him by your side. him, for what he was, and what he had, was what you had to have by your side.

“is this.. an another royal order, princess?”

his warm hands wrapped up your shoulders. but slowly, they were wandering down your arms to your hands.

“it is. do it.”

slowly, Yeosang started to kiss your forehead. his kisses went down, again and again — your temple, your cheek, your jawline, your neck, and your collarbone.

the next moments would be animated.

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musicallisto · 3 years

Note

Hi, congrats on 800 followers! Can I please get a Six of Crows ship? I’m have short brown hair (I dyed red last week) and green eyes. I don't mind if im shipped with a girl or a boy. I like reading (no romantic novels), music and photography. I'm Aquarius. I’m very curious. I'm a little shy and even cold at first. I’m not good with feelings, I mostly keep them to myself if I can, but I care deeply for my loved ones and would do anything to help them, even if I'm not very good at giving advice. ☆

hi! here’s your vanilla milkshake, I hope you like it! I ship you with jesper fahey!

You don’t imagine the extent of my joy to be able to add a gif of an actual real person for Jesper... however shall I survive until Aprid 23rd?

For the longest time, you thought the world started and ended at your corner of Fjerda, in your frozen estate by the True Sea.

You were descented from minor Fjerdan nobility, and your father, jaded by Court Life and its political intrigues - and, unofficially, penniless after giving his all for the sempiternal wars on Ravka -, had decided to leave the capital and retire to his family’s estate by the sea a few years after you were born.

All you had ever known were the large, marbled corridors you’d spend entire afternoons wandering, daydreaming about adventures in the confines of the country - or living the lavish life of a true Fjerdan princess, in an outrageously enormous bed of satin sheets...

The house was spacious and beautiful, with a marvelous view over the sea, gently carrying its boats to and fro before you - and you’d stay there on the balcony in your flowy white dress, admiring the ocean until you couldn’t fight the chills of the night creeping up your spine anymore; but as tranquil and languid as your existence was, it was also terribly lonely.

All you longed for was a sibling, a friend, a partner in crime, someone you could explore the world and go on quests with...

... until a lighting bolt tore the silence, one night.

You couldn’t sleep, so you had gone on a walk by the shore as you often did - your father was never worried about it, since you knew the rocks and their cracks like the back of your hand, and would know the way back home even with your eyes closed.

But you were so absorbed by the distant twinkling of stars that you didn’t notice the shadows creeping up behind you until it was too late.

Screams in a language you can’t understand; an arm around your neck in a chokehold, another slipping under your knees; you thrash around, slice all you can, bite and claw at all you can grasp...

Your abductors know better than to let Fjerdan nobility get away from their grasp. They don’t know exactly who you are - but they’ve guessed from the distinguished aspect of your house that there’s a fine sum to gain from whoever will be willing to pay for you - your father for a ransom, or anyone else, in Kerch, who’ll make good use of your services.

Those brothels in Ketterdam pay good money for young girls, they hear - even more so for a Fjerdan pearl.

When they throw you on an overloaded carriage like a potato sack, you’re still yelling at the top of your lungs, pleading for your father, for one of your maids, for anyone to help you.

But no one hears.

You shed all the tears you have in the first night, tossed around in a dark chariot, off to somewhere unknown. Your father hasn’t prepared you for this - nothing, not even your books nor your fantastical imaginary adventures...

But you don’t intend on being sold off that easily. So you devise a plan to get away.

The first opportunity to break free presents itself when your kidnappers force you to board a ship; but they manage to catch you before you’ve run very far.

But second time’s the charm; with nothing better to do during the voyage than to bide your time and gnaw at your bonds, you’re able to slip from your captor’s watch, and blindly run through the harbor - just to get as far as possible from the stench of this floating carcass.

The first thing that strikes you is the odor. You’ve known the sea forever - it’s clear and bright as ice, and smells of fresh mornings and cold salt; never of this green rot that festers everywhere in these streets... and all those chimneys, all those people, who stare you down as you run down these grimy streets, barefoot in your off-white dress...

You understand that you’re farther from home than you’ve ever been, and it’s not a thrilling adventure, it’s terrifying and overwhelming, and you want nothing more than to burst into tears.

But you don’t, because a pair of strangers flag you down in a language you don’t understand.

A tall and lanky dark-skinned boy, wearing vibrant fabric and a self-assured grin; and possibly the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen in your life, all bright eyes and genuine frown.

Paralyzed, you open your mouth, once, twice, incapable of making the slightest sound; until the girl notices your visible discomfort, and, eyeing your pale eyes, asks in the slightest of Ravkan accents;

“Are you Fjerdan?”

You nod with all your soul. You’re ready to cling onto them both for dear life.

“What happened to you?”

Your voice fails you - you can’t explain it - you haven’t even comprehended it all. You were curled up in front of the fireplace just the night before...

“Do you have anywhere to go?”

You shake your head with despair, trying to blink back the tears.

“Come with us. We know someone who’ll help you.”

You don’t mull it over very long. Maybe it’s your sheltered uprbinging that has made you naive; maybe it’s the curiously comforting warmth you see in the Ravkan girl’s eyes; but you simply have no better option, and you can’t understand a word of Kerch, or wherever it is that this barbarian folk speak.

Although your two saviors start arguing, probably about whether or not they can reasonably take you in, your tear-stained cheeks and desperate vulnerability are enough to convince them - so you follow them.

Into the lair of the Dregs, of whom you’ve never heard - and of Kaz Brekker, who you know very well.

After all, he’s the infamous gangster who invaded your homeland, broke into the Ice Court, and stole the Shu boy - or so you saw your father read in the papers. To know that you are under the same roof as that lowlife would be enough to give your father a heart attack...

You’re half convinced that he’ll throw you back to the streets, but Nina and, surprisingly, Jesper as well, plead in your favor with a greatly convincing fervor. You learn that it’s probably because Kaz has much greater worries on his mind - the criminal group is planning on retrieving one of their own from the clutches of a treacherous business partner, or so you’ve gathered.

Either way, you’re more than happy that the terrifying and redoubtable Kaz Brekker is leaving you alone, and that you can enjoy Jesper’s company.

You two become unexpectedly good friends overtime. He comes to visit you at the Crow Club, where you’re staying, almost every day. Yet communication is not your strong suit, especially in a language you don’t understand at all, and you don’t fancy yourself a particularly enthralling girl to be around.

Not when one has lived the life of a criminal, a sharpshooter, a wanderer, a playboy... well, all those things that Jesper prises himself on being, and all those words he’s taught you in Kerch.

(That and the curse words, of course, that you’re a bit intimidated to use at first, until they slip out of your mouth one evening when you drop your plate at dinner with the Dregs, and the entire canteen falls dead silent.)

“Did she just say ‘fuck’?”

“I think she just said fuck.”

“See, Matthias, she wasn’t immediately struck by lighting by Djel’s hand. You won’t die if you say it.”

Speaking of Matthias, he’s also a good friend of yours - it’s comforting and refreshing to have a familiar face around, one of Fjerdan roots and mores.

Although the rest of the group says you’re not that Fjerdan.

“You’re one of the feisty ones, at least.”

“I’m not ‘feisty’. Shut up, Jesper.”

“Ah, I see you’ve been working on the vocabulary I taught you!”

Matthias and you both have a lot of soul-searching and unlearning to do about the outside world - you were raised in particularly bigoted environments, you somewhat less than him. The hatred for the Grisha he’s been taught by the Drüskelle is fear in your case; you’ve been brought up on bedtime stories of bloodthirsty Grisha who devour unruly kids, and war and devastation caused by their unstability and blasphemous magic.

It’s even more of a shock to you when you learn Jesper is a Grisha.

Unbeknownst to you, you’ve started to fall a little for him - how could you not? He’s funny, charming, sarcastic and witty; always has the best stories to tell, and despite it all, sincerely cares for you amidst the chaos of their heist and revenge plans.

But to learn he was the kind of monster - no, the kind of creature - no, the kind of person, you force yourself to correct mentally - that you had been taught to fear for your entire life...

“I’m so sorry. You should never have been there.”

He’s pacing back and forth in your room after a shootout has gone awry and you were caught in the crossifre; it’s the first time he’s ever had to use his Durast powers to get you of the mess - and normally he wouldn’t have, because it’s a secret he wishes he could carry to the grave, but the fear of losing you was too strong...

“Thank god that I was there, though. What would you do without me?”

He’s fidgety and restless, nervously playing with his pistols, and his nervous laugh is all but genuine; and you’re huddled up on your bed, staring him down with wide eyes.

“Jesper, you...”

“Yeah, maybe not the best moment.”

“Jesper...”

“It’s like they have a knack for knowing exactly where we’re gonna be and when...”

“Jesper!”

He abruptly turns to look at you, and his eyes widen. He’s starting to understand, almost, but refuses to believe it. Your voice is a murmur, and you can hardly hold his gaze.

“Jesper, are you... going to hurt me?”

His words die in his throat. He remembers where you’re from... the garbage that they must have filled your ears and head with from the day you were born... how feverish Matthias was with Nina... he looks at his hands, and his Materialki magic rumbles like a dark curse.

“Y/N, you’re scared of me?”

The sheer hurt in his voice breaks your heart. Even though you’re trembling, you let him step closer to you, slowly. It’s Jesper in front of you, not some ungodly monster from legends... Jesper, your Jesper...

“I’m... I’m sorry...”

He cups your face in his hands, warm and just a bit moist, and stares into your eyes with a vulnerability you have never seen in him.

“I’d never do anything to hurt you, Y/N, I swear on my life. All I want is you to be safe...”

Safe from me, if that’s what you wish, he thinks for a split second, but you don’t give him time to doubt; you’ve captured his lips in a frenzied kiss, and hold on for dear life onto his lean shoulders.

Fjerda and its blind hatred is very far from you, now. You're locked in Jesper's embrace, and you won't have to hear their lies anymore.

You know you have nothing to fear from him; not now, and not ever.

800 follower sleepover CLOSED!

#sarcasticandfangirl #800sleepover #THIS GOT SO LONG OMG i need to write for six of crows already the inspiration is unquenchable #six of crows #soc #grishaverse #ship request #jesper fahey #jesper fahey x reader #jesper fahey headcanons #six of crows headcanons

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yourenotacat-writes · 3 years

Text

WIP Wednesday

New one-shot! It's post-calamity zelink and I'm super excited about it! My original plan was for it to be really short (~1k) and lighthearted, and it is neither, which is. very on brand lmao. Please note that this fic will be nsfw even though this snippet is not. And oh yeah, Link is trans in this 🥰

It dawns on Link as he reaches the loft that his legs had dragged him here on their own. He has no plan. Even after spending the better part of his morning in thought, words elude him. A lump sticks in his throat, thick as honey, as his eyes land on Zelda in their bed. Book in her hands. Hair tousled with sleep. Wearing his tunic.

The floorboards creak, and she doesn’t so much as glance up.

It’s obvious when she’s upset. That little wrinkle in her brow always gives her away, indicative of her endless thinking. While their approach to comforting each other has been hands-off—the other will open up when they’re ready—it’s been a week, Zelda hasn’t said a word, and Link was slowly losing his mind. Half of him is frustrated, desperate to know what he did so he can apologize and put it past them, but the other half stands at the top step, dumbstruck at the sight of her.

Link sighs, losing his nerve. The mattress groans as he plops down at the foot, kicking off his boots, before crawling in beside her. Their legs brush, and he ignores the urge to scoot closer.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Her smile is weak as her eyes glimpse his. “Mornin’.”

He waits for Zelda to close the book, to turn to her side, to say anything else, but she doesn't. The lump thickens, and he swallows it down. “You sleep okay?”

“Eh,” she says, shrugging. “Good hunt?”

Link shakes his head.

“Only bokos. Koyin asked if I could clean up that beach camp again. Wasn’t a blood moon this time. Just the draw of free real estate,” he jokes, eliciting a half-hearted snort from her. “We should tear it down before another group moves in.”

Zelda hums, agreeing, as she turns the page.

Silence falls between them, stretching until even Link can’t bear it. He cuddles into her side, leg draping over hers, hand tucking back her hair, and plants a kiss to her shoulder, brief and hopeless. That wrinkle only deepens.

“Did you eat yet?” he whispers. “If not, I could make you something.”

The book snaps shut as her face pinches together. Despite the way she’s trembling, she stays still, and his heart sinks, stilling with her. After a moment, she exhales a strained breath, asking, "Why are you so good to me?"

Link softens as he circles her waist, kissing her again. "I can treat you worse if that'll make you feel better."

She laughs once, then sniffles. “Maybe.”

Zelda drops the book on the window sill before turning over in his arms, smushing her face into his neck, and breathing deep. His cheek falls to her head, nuzzling the slight frizz, as his fingers walk along her spine. His voice is hardly even a whisper when he asks, “You okay?”

Her head shakes.

“Something I did?”

Again.

“Then what’s wrong?”

Zelda heaves a sigh, hand snaking up his chest and pressing firm over his heart. His arms tighten, as if a hug will coax it out of her. She balls his tunic up into her fist and burrows further into his neck. Link feels her lips more than he hears them. “It’s dumb.”

He scoffs lightly. “Not possible.”

It’s quiet then, until her fingers loosen on the fabric, until her breath makes his neck sweat, until the shadows on the floorboards shrink, and for a minute after that.

“Why can’t I touch you?” Zelda asks.

“You are,” he says. “Right now.”

“No, not—” She groans. Her hand crawls to his tunic's hem, dipping beneath and trailing just to his sternum. Link goes rigid, mouth like cotton. “Why can’t I touch you… the way you touch me?”

#'this will be lighthearted' i say as i make both of them cry in the first draft #🤦‍♂️#at some point i'll accept that i just don't write short and purely fluffy things but not today jfhhjss #wip wednesday #snippets #botw

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arysthaeniru · 3 years

Note

aAAA the joy of seeing an update on your current favorite fanfic is just aAAA

I always felt that kiwami 1s Nishiki was just a bit too,, I dont know how to describe it; but essentially he just felt off, granted yakuza 1 is a product of its time and therefore the plot is a bit dated and whack as all hell

The way you write Nishiki just feels so much better and realistic; in the original he just seems so uncaring towards Kiryu? which just feels kinda OOC? You'd think he still cares about Kiryu despite it all, especially when you take Yakuza 0 into consideration; and i feel like you portray Nishiki much more accurately

I never thought much about Yumi, because honestly, in the original she was kinda just, there? You actually made her a very interesting person! like I'm actually invested in her in your story! (side note you ever think about her clone who got tortued and died? yeah who WAS that???? thats never brought up is it??)

Theres so much more to talk about but in short; This is the best fix it/rewrite of a game plot I have read to date and it brings me joy in my current stressful school life. and no I will not stop praising it or the author, because this work has made me very happy. ;)

I just have a gift for picking favorites that end up dying,,aand another favorite of mine is Mine

imo theres a lack of soft, reassuring Minedai, i just feel like he'd need a reminder that people love him as a person and not just for the money he can provide, even if its obvious

I'd love to see how you'd write them, but I understand if theres more interesting/appealing drabble requests!

- Carp

CARP, thank you for this <3 this is so sweet!!!!! I’m so happy you enjoy my Nishiki! I had fun playing with what Yakuza 0/the Kiwami additions gave us about Nishiki’s personality and outlook on the world, and trying to reconcile that with the plot that Yakuza 1 initially had. Ultimately, I fell on the side that you did: even if Nishiki’s ambition took him down a monstrous path, I don’t think he’s the sort of person who neglects to pay back his debts. And he’s aware of the huge debt he owes Kiryu. Not to mention, their bonds of trust and love vanishing completely because of jealousy felt unreal to me. Their relationship becoming twisted or strange? Yes, but vanishing entirely felt unsatsifying to me.

And Yumi!! I had so much fun excavating her character from the clues we get of her in canon. I worry sometimes, that she’s unrecognizable, because you know, I’ve given her a college education, and a whole bunch of interests beyond hostessing alone, but people seem to like it and like her, which is great!! I hate fridging women characters, so keeping her and Reina alive was important to me, hahaha. (RE: fake!Mizuki, there’s this substory in Kiwami that actually addresses who she was, BUT IT’S EVEN MORE HORRIFYING. So that’s why Yumi in my fic is the one captured and tortured by Nishiki’s men, because the thought of this poor innocent woman getting dragged into the mess was just untenable to me.)

Anyway, thank you for your support and kind words, and I hope you’ll continue to read and that my fic can continue to relieve stress. I--tried to write this about Mine, but Daigo kind of stole the spotlight a little??? I hope you still like it--if not, I will try a ficlet from Mine’s perspective too. I enjoy minedai a lot, but I haven’t had room to think out their dynamic yet, so this took me a while.

Daigo’s no stranger to being desired. He’s attractive, he knows this—his mother’s beauty lives in his veins, and he’s always had the money to look after himself. Fancy soaps to wash his face, the invisible retainers to keep his teeth straight, fancy suits and skin-tight shirts to show off his frame. For all that Kiryu insists his charisma is something that comes from the soul, Daigo knows it wouldn’t be able to draw the sort of attention he does without being attractive.

Which is to say that Daigo’s not especially thrown off by the intensity of Mine’s gaze. It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again. The thing that surprises him is how much he relishes in being seen by Mine.

Maybe it’s because Mine’s an island in a stormy sea, one of the only yakuza his age who’s sensible and level-headed enough to make it big. Maybe it’s because Mine’s gaze is always so reserved, polite, never overly lusty or overstaying its welcome, and Daigo has so rarely been desired so quietly. Or maybe it’s because Majima and Kashiwagi so clearly disapprove of him—Daigo’s always been something of a rebel, and he hasn’t shaken that off, even now he’s in his thirties and is the arbiter of rules for the Tojo Clan.

Daigo can’t quite put a pin on why he’s so comfortable with Mine’s yearning looks, but he’s never been one to hold back when he wants to indulge in something good. Not exactly a hedonist, not by yakuza standards, but Daigo has never kept himself from enjoying life, in the name of some dubious ‘honour.’

Which is why, in an after-hours meeting with Mine, as they eat cheap takeout sushi together, Daigo takes his chance. A momentary slip, the slightest hint of wasabi left at the corners of Mine’s lips and Daigo swoops in, rubs a thumb over the corner of Mine’s lips. Mine stutters to a stop, mid-sentence through a rundown of the real-estate that the Hakuho Clan’s been purchasing up, and stares at Daigo, eyes bewildered.

“Sixth Chairman?” he asks, his voice still remarkably composed.

“Wasabi.” Daigo says, nonchalantly, as if it’s nothing, and sticks his thumb into his mouth, slowly licking it off with a lingering lave of his tongue. He feels a sharp stab of satisfaction as Mine’s eyes turn darker, and his gaze follows Daigo’s hand down.

Daigo straightens up, languidly, and cracks his neck, casually. At this point in the day, he’s untucked his shirt, and he knows that a slight strip of his stomach will be visible when he stretches out his arms towards the ceiling. And as predictably as clockwork, Mine’s gaze darts downwards, to that pale expanse, to catch that brief second of skin. Daigo can’t help but feel warm. Something about being watched by Mine is exhilarating.

“Smoke?” offers Daigo, but as usual, Mine refuses, with a polite shake of his head.

Daigo knows from hearsay that Mine’s something a health-freak, so he’s not entirely surprised. It’s already too late for Daigo to preserve his health—he knows that his liver’s already been pretty ruined from long nights of binge-drinking as a youth, and this job’s too stressful to withhold from vices like smoking and drinking, without an optimal end-goal. So he walks over to the window, cracks it open a little, and lights up.

The breath of nicotine curls over his body, a tender caress, and Daigo feels his shoulders drop, as the relaxation hits. He pulls off his cufflinks, tosses them into his pockets and rolls up his sleeves. He takes it slow, runs his fingers over his skin a little more than strictly necessary. Surreptitiously checking the reflection in the window, Daigo watches Mine watch him, and smirks at how intense that gaze is, how Mine’s mouth has opened, and Daigo can just see the soft pink of his tongue.

“Dojima’s just fine, you know. When it’s just us two.” Daigo says, turning over his shoulder. He smiles, one of those charming smiles that had always gotten him whatever he wanted as a child, “We’re same-aged friends, after all.”

“Dojima-san.” Mine acknowledges, after a brief pause.

Daigo turns around, to properly look at Mine and lifts an eyebrow. “Dojima. Or Daigo, preferably. Dojima-san’s always my father in my head.”

Mine nods, face impassive. Daigo can’t read him like this. Maybe that’s why he likes when Mine stares at him, filled with longing. At least then, Daigo feels like he knows him. In moments like these, his implacable gazes might as well be a brick wall. “Right. Your Father was also in the Tojo Clan.”

Daigo smiles, wryly, and blows out a puff of smoke. “One of the most horrible men I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting—and I had to call him Father. But damn if he wasn’t good at the job.” He sighs and stubs the cigarette out against the ashtray. “...sometimes feel like I’m competing with his dead spirit. Everybody’s looking at me and wondering if this is what my Father would do. Or what Kiryu-san would do.”

“You’re doing better than any of them.” Mine says, immediately, with a vicious ferocity that Daigo wasn’t expecting. He can’t quite stop his eyebrows rising in surprise, and Mine straightens upwards, looking self-conscious immediately. Daigo regrets his instinctual reaction, immediately. “That is to say, Dojima, that I think that you’ve pulled this Clan into somewhere far more respectable. From what I’ve heard of your Father, he didn’t have the temperament to do proper business on this level—too insistent on formal obeisance and unable to be flexible as the times require. And Kiryu-san might be very honourable, but we are yakuza. There are certain things you have to do as a Chairman, that he couldn’t bring himself to do. But you are practical and do what is necessary, while also not overstepping into excessive violence. You are uniquely suited for this job, Dojima.”

...he’s taken aback a little, he can’t deny it. Daigo wonders if his cheeks are colouring, wonders if his obvious shock is offputting, wonders if this is how Mine feels every time Daigo teases him lightly about his obvious attraction. A startling warmth spreads through his chest, and Daigo can’t stop the slight smile that touches his face. Has anybody ever said something so unreservedly kind and measured about Daigo before?

Maybe this is the difference between everybody else’s gazes on him, and Mine’s gaze. It’s based on something more than desire alone. Respect.

Daigo runs a hand over his slicked-back hair and ruffles it free, with a rueful smile, a smile that he couldn’t take away from his face, even if he tried. “I appreciate that. You know I couldn’t do it without you, right?”

He’d never really believed himself capable of attraction to a man like Mine. All of his previous childhood crushes had been on bright, cheerful conversational, pure-hearted people. Daigo had always figured they would balance out his sardonic cynicism. He’d never thought someone as reserved and principled as Mine would ever make his heart flutter. But then, there was something about that deep hunger and passion that Daigo craved. Perhaps it was because he was no longer the gloomy punk of his youth. Maybe his tastes have changed towards tall, dark and handsome. Maybe Mine’s just that special.

“Dojima—” Mine says, clearly trying to refute it, but Daigo cuts him off.

“I mean it. Everybody in this fucking Clan wants me to do something or be somebody else. Kashiwagi-san wants me to be my mother. Majima-san wants me to be Kiryu-san. Everybody else expects my Father. But not you. You deal with me honestly, and with candour, and never hold any expectations against me except success. I appreciate your faith in me.” Daigo takes a couple of steps forward, until his shoes almost brush up against Mine’s own. He leans down over Mine’s chair. “I could not do this without your backing and help. Truly. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone like you in my life. A true friend.”

Mine tilts his chin up to meet Daigo’s gaze, a hungry devotion in his eyes, and Daigo, for a moment, wonders if this is wrong. If he should hold back, like Kiryu would. But Daigo is Daigo, and Mine clearly wants him anyway, so he leans down and kisses him.

Mine’s mouth is velvety smooth and wet and hot and it is oh-so satisfying a feeling to put his hand against Mine’s broad neck and feel his warmth up against Daigo. He pulls back, with a satisfied sigh, and feels the burn of wasabi across his lips, a final parting kick.

#minedai #mine yoshitaka #dojima daigo #spiraling downhill fic tag #yakuza #rgg

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selkiesblog · 3 years

Text

The ruse(DracoX OC) Chapter 1- The plan

"mooom please, does she really have to spend the summer here???" The little boy with white silverish hair said pulling on his mother's robe ends, hiding his head over her kilt

Every June until September Saphira Jones would come to his mansion to spend the summer over the Malfoy's

It started as a tradition, the two families were quite fond of each other. Since Voldemort first vanished and the rumors of his return started. The Malfoy's needed to reassure their family's safety and economic stability in case of things gone wrong during the rise of death eaters and late battle. So they made a pact that neither of the children would know: for every year until they turn a majority age, they would unite their families in expectation of a great match. And not until then deny or agree with a marriage proposal, that should be made

Draco utterly despised every second and Saphira knew it, so she would try to make his life just as miserable as hers, the only problem is that the game they both plays of twisting and pulling each other until one or another give up or break was never-ending

He would bark she would bite

As a child, they would fight over toys

"Mooom!!! Saphira stole my broom!!" He cried

"No, I did not!!"

Sometimes she would indeed steal his toys and hide in the most inconvenient of places cause at the very young age she would be more advanced in spells than he, a fact that she would- till this day- constantly remind him.

"You did!! Stop lying!!"

But this time she didn't

Oh no, he was just having fun getting her in trouble.

"Safira, give him his broom!" Her mother stepped in the light

before she could deny his allegations or make any more of her comments she heard a snap and by pulling her hear she was dragged into her room "that's it!! No wand for a week!" He smirked through his fake tears

And it got worse as it got physical. In school he will do whatever it takes to provoke her, pulling her long brown braids, pushing through the halls, calling her names until she snapped over him with her hand in a fist. She got -10 points to Gryffindor's he got a red-eye

Summer came and there she was again cuffed to him like a second skin

"Kneel," he said

"No you kneel" she pushed him

"No, I'm older than you"

"And I'm richer than you"

"Enough both of you!!!" Narcissa said "now Saphira, kneel" she took a large breath, she went down reverencing like a Princess only less charmingly. He puffed his chest with pride and kept his back straight smirking with victory "now you kiss her hand" they both looked at Narcissa who seemed with her patience on the edge, both hands in her temples. Draco not into hearing more of his mother's speeches on how the Yule ball was a very important event and that he was going to make a fool of himself if he didn't know the proper steps. Soon he raised her hand to meet his lips and planted a kiss there

The music started, slower. Saphira still taken by surprise with his action crumbled over his pace, stepping on his foot. The music started again and again until she got it right, only when it was time for him to spin her and catch he let her fall

Fifteen and It was time for pranks that she learned from the Weasley twins, Fred and George. Colorful bombs in his dorm room or shoes that would fart every time he walked, name it she has it

"Never heard of it?"

"What does it do?"

"It tickles the skin non-stop until the person breaks in laugh"

"Rather harmless..." Fred started

"But very affective" George finished

"Okay!..." She whispered to herself "Rictumsempra"

In the tall estate of the games, missing one point to Slytherin score 150 and Draco catch the golden snitch. He started twisting on his broom, having a pit of a contagious laugh. Everyone started to making fun until he lost balance and crush in the dirt of the ground

She was shaking when they took him to Papoula Pomfrey, he had hit his head but the problem was in his broken arm. He was still conscious when they asked him what happened, he just looked at her, and said "I lost balance and fall"

He lied?

It didn't make sense, he knew it was her and he wouldn't tell her off? He would always tell her off. Draco was the boy who would do everything in his reach to get her in trouble, wasn't he? Did he beat his head so hard that he has forgotten he hates her? Was he gonna use it to his advantage, just waiting for the right moment to strike like a snake?

While he was asleep she stayed up all night on his side, guild kicking in, anxiety keeping her awake, looming at his facials expression as he slept. That night Saphira discovered many things...

first one: Draco talked in his sleep

"No, No I won't fail you"

he woke in shook in the morning, sweat dripping from his forehead, breathing heavily

"Are you feeling better?" She asked ready to question why didn't he told dumbledore it was her who cursed him

"Yes" he simply said

Second one: don't trust the Weasleys with spells

"It was a really hard crash" she sighed "unfortunately I have some bad news" he positioned steadily in the bed frowning "you fall so hard and ground that your face fractured" he quickly turned to the mirror on his side " now you look normal"

His delicate lips had a small cut in them, nothing scandalous, but he looked angry as he turned at her, his serious serious expression turned into a grin. They both laughed immensely for a couple of seconds and stared at each other not knowing what to say, or do.

"Draco?" A small voice echoed in the corner of the room

"H-Hi pansy!" He said

Suddenly it was a weird atmosphere that broke through the windows as she had just crossed nearly headless nick for the first time

"I'm gonna live your two alone" heading out the door, leaving space for the both to talk she realizes the Third one: she was completely head over heels in love with Draco Malfoy

And every time she would catch him snogging pansy in the corner of the halls, kissing the length of the neck, or overheard them talking, she would get this feeling of nausea on the bottom of her stomach

"You're jealous!" Hermione said

"Why would she be jealous?" Ron asked with his mouth full, she never so gentle smacked his head with her hand pointing at the way pansy would play with Draco hair

"He doesn't even like it in the middle part," Saphira said playing with the vegetables on her plate with her fork, not hungry at all

"You gonna eat that? " Ron asked

"Wait...you like Draco? " Harry asked, "why?"

"I don't like him!!!"

"Okay...But you spent every summer with him, it's a little suspicious"

"It's because of my family you know that"

"Have you ever considered confessing your feelings to him?" Hermione again asked

" I don't like him," she said again loudly "even so, he doesn't see me that way"

But the thought lingered in her mind for a couple of weeks, weeks-long enough for the students already know that Malfoy would keep his Summers busy with her. Suddenly everyone knew and assumed the same thing that Hermione did

"Are you dating Malfoy?"

"How long are you guys together?"

"What about Pansy?"

"Is he a good kisser?"

Overwhelmed by the random questions and thoughts she went to talk with Draco personally until found him talking with Blaise and his friends "come on guys, I'm not dating her" he laughs "she not even my type" he said making an ugly face "I am just is stuck with her through the Summers cause she so annoying and boring that even her parents don't want her around" he quickly realized the words that had just come out of his mouth and shut

There was so much truth in those words, the truth that she never wanted to admit nor she could. She was adopted, it's true, people didn't know and those who knew certainly didn't talk about that.

When two purebloods decide to adopt a magic muggle-born, the elite society doesn't take it very well, first of all, it's illegal. Second: the chance of dishonoring the bloodline and status of the family by polluting their legacy mixing their divergence with a "mudblood", it a risk that no one should take, even a mother who lost her child at early birth; a bare family in an empty nest; a tree rotten in its core. She was embarrassed, only for a couple of seconds, soon she was filled with the very familiar feeling that emerged in her mind of angst

She got a suspension when the school heard from her that she had used a spell against a student and wounded him during a game of quidditch. Sitting on the bench Draco looked at her stiffed

"Why did you tell them?"

"My parents are going to move me to

Beauxbatons school" he looked worrisome that she almost felt pity "then I won't have to trouble you with my annoyingly boring behavior" she was about to get up when she felt his hand on her wrist twirling her body close to his, too close even

"Is this what you want?" She felt his mint breath in her cheeks and shivered over the wooden cologne

"W-what I-?"

" You wanna ruin everything don't you?" Her stomach filled with butterflies "our parent's plans, the secret, you found out and now you wanna ruin it"

Instantly the short moment went away, she stepped out of his intense gaze and unlocked her wrist

"Secret?"

"Why do you think you would come every summer to my house?" He said

"obviously isn't because we're so friends"

"Our parent's plans all along were that we would be more than that, I guarantee you" the words hissed against her thoughts, it was all so obvious now "marriage, Saphira, they want us to be wedd"

She felt like crying, run away like a little girl who just found out that Santa isn't real. She felt like breaking. Draco was bounded to her, stuck with a girl that he doesn't want

Making his life miserable as hers

"Draco, hear me, loud and clear," she said crying out, he never saw her tears, but that day it poured like a stormy rain

"you will never, never marry me. I give you that" alone with his thoughts, he builds his first wall

You're free

That summer she didn't come. It was his darkest summer, that gloomed into his mind like clouds over a parade

_____

"Will you fail me, boy?" Voldemort whispered

"No, my Lord"

#draco malfoy #harry potter #fiction #fanfic #pride and prejudice #pansy parkinson #theodore nott #romance #wattapad #bridgerton

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indiacater · 5 years

Text

ADDICTED CH.1

Chapter Title: The incidents

Rating: Mature/NSFW

Prince Liam and Lady Naima of Valtoria have a strange addiction.... to each other. Their fathers are at their wits end of it and are determined to make it stop once and for all. Can it be done or will it fail?

Tagging: @bobasheebaby @nikkisha16 @carabeth @aworldoffandoms @mfackenthal @ao719 @hopefulmoonobject @elles-choices @darley1101 @desiree-0816 @sashatrr @emceesynonymroll @isporticus1234 @blackcoffee85 @umccall71 @dcbbw @radlovedreamer @sweetest-marbear @whenyourheartskipsabeat @mrsnazariowrites @jessiembruno @sumbarbietingz

[[MORE]]

Dr. James Sugar sat across from the two most agitated men he’s ever met in his storied career. “Its not every day you’re summoned by a king.” He thought to himself. James is psychologist and sex therapist with a specialty in addiction. He has dealt with very interesting cases, but without truly knowing what to expect, he feels this might be his most interesting yet. After pulling out his notepad and timer he clears his throat and begins the session.

“Gentlemen.” He began. “I'm very honored you sought out my expertise. Let us begin. How can I--" “OUR CHILDREN ARE ACTING LIKE HORMONE DRIVEN DEVIANTS!” Constantine interrupted. “ITS MAKES A MOCKERY OF THIS COUNTRY, THE NOBILITY AND I WILL NO LONGER STAND BY AND LET IT RUIN MY SON’S REPUTATION!!” He finished seething. Lord Darren waited a few moment before speaking. “As his majesty has loudly stated, we need help with our children’s…. Addiction.” Dr. Sugar leaned in slightly baring a confused. Lord Darren sighed as he explained further. “Since they were young kids, babies even, they have been close. They would attend meetings to understand the roles they will one day inherit.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “It was after the deaths of both of their mothers that they became more intimate.”

Dr. Sugar shrugged. “Explain to me how it started? Did they begin having a sexual relationship or…” he immediately stopped himself as both men's faces drew hard scowls. “Just walk me through how it developed to where we are now" Constantine then spoke up. “It started pretty tame. Adorable even. When their mothers were alive they would entertain themselves, play chess, watch trivia games. After they were gone the kids became closer. First it began with calls to say good morning or goodnight. Then it grew to holding hands, kissing.” Constantine grimaced. Lord Darren interjected. “We had guards keeping an eye on them. And we were told that they would spend hours holding hands. When they were about 13-14 they began kissing. One guard observed them going at least a few hours of them making out with each other.”

“DON’T SUGAR COAT IT DARREN!!!” Constantine shouted. “Their antics are on full display not just here in the palace, but at the estate in Valtoria, hell even their best performances are for when they’re at school or at a social function.” Pinching the bridge of his nose as he wrote down on his notepad, Dr Sugar seem to have a good idea of what to think of the situation, but he needed more specifics. Looking up from his notepad he took a deep breath before asking this question. “Can you both elaborate on these so called antics of your children?” He looks between the two. “Lord Darren. Why don’t you start.”

Darren sighed as he rubbed his hand over his mouth. After a few moments of contemplating he sits up straight, ready to talk. “Okay. There is one incident that happened not too long ago.”

One Week Ago

Darren was never formally given the title of Duke when he married his wife, Aisha. They had met during a spring break in Mexico, had a wild fling and soon after Aisha learned she was pregnant. She then contacted Darren and brought him to Cordonia where she revealed her pregnancy and basically telling him they were to be married so she could secure her rights being Duchess. So it was mutually beneficial for them, Darren received financial security and Aisha's reputation was intact and bonus she became a mother to a gorgeous young woman who like her had tact, sharp wit, and was as violent with her words as she was in her defense training. After the death of her mother Naima was basically in charge but as she was still young allowed her father to have some control to save face but lest the majority of duties to the trusted majordomo. All big decisions were left to her. One the day of the incident Darren was overlooking a new tax agreement for the local business people. Naima and Liam were nearby on the couch watching an American Football game, Seahawks vs Vikings. Darren was from Seattle, and briefly played in the NFL for the Seahawks, plus it was Naima’s way of connecting more with her father. On this day in particular was odd Naima was being her vocal self but Liam was unusually quiet. “Hey Naima!” he called out. Naima slightly turned around to face him. “Yeah dad. What is it?” she responded. “Is the prince okay? He’s awfully quiet.” Naima smiled. “Yeah he’s fine, he’s just acting as my foot stool for losing a bet going against the Seahawks defense. Plus he’s furniture now and furniture doesn’t talk. You have a tax policy that needs your attention more.” She says as she turns back around.

As Darren was unaware of was that Liam was on the floor, Naima’s legs slung over his shoulders as he took to his favorite hobby. Placing light bites on her thighs, as hands snaked over her waist and creeping over her breast playing with her hardened nipples. Liam mostly enjoyed getting her ready. He particularly enjoyed seeing the erotic face she made when she was at peak excitement. Liam smiled as soon as he saw that face. “I wonder how she’ll stay quiet when I do this" he thought as he immediately buried his face down between her legs, Naima made a brief squeal but not loud enough for her father to notice.

Liam began with a slow shallow rhythm, tip of the tongue lightly brushing her clit causing her to shudder a bit. He reveled in the taste of her. Feeling her get wetter by the second. It took everything in him not to give himself away otherwise he have had Naima screaming his name by now. Liam continued at his shallow pace for a bit more before hardening his tongue and making more harder and faster strokes. The sensation made Naima bit down hard on her tongue to keep her from making too much noise. She quickly checked to see if her father noticed anything and luckily for them he was oblivious. Soon she was feeling that pleasurable pressure that could not be stopped no matter what. Bracing herself she had one hand covering her mouth and other hand holding Liam’s head as her hips rocked furiously against his mouth feeling his tongue roughly play with her clit sent her over the edge as she came hard.

“Everything okay there sweetheart” she heard her father say startling her. “Yeah things are good" she responded breathlessly “Or the would be if the damn offense could hold onto the ball.” She continued trying to sound agitated. “Okay let me know when something good happens.” Darren said as he went back to reviewing the papers. Naima leans back on the couch as Liam lifts up head with such a devious smile as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then bring his lips to her neck as he moves back on the couch lips never detaching. “He can be such a jerk sometimes.” Naima thought as she smiled to herself. Soon she felt Liam’s hard length straining against his pants. Naima knows that they had a push things enough but she had not fully come down from her orgasm to think straight. Immediately she undoes his pants, Liam shoves his pants down enough to free his cock. Naima, making sure to alert her father moves to Liam’s lap and with easy maneuvering slides Liam inside her and it was her turn to watch Liam make a erotic face. Unlike Liam she didn’t have the luxury of time so she had to move her hips at a rapid pace again not trying to raise Darren’s attention. Liam’s neck kisses soon turned into bites as Liam tried to keep quiet but failing miserably. Naima feeling Liam about to explode, pressed her mouth to his in a heated kiss, shooting her tongue inside his mouth to keep him quiet. Naima’s hips moved even faster until she had again erupted and Liam releasing himself soon after.

After a few moments both had detached their lips and immediately pulled apart to fix themselves up to catch the last of the game. The Seahawks had won, just barely. The Vikings kicker completely choked. Darren had finished the tax agreement and left to take the documents to the office to be finalized with Valtoria businessman union. As he came back he over heard their voices.

“Liam, that was stupid and really crossed the line. My dad was right there.” Naima exclaimed as she looks around the couch. “And where the hell are my panties.” “No idea" Liam said, smirking. “Are you sure you wore any today. Besides why don’t we head upstairs and actually make some real noise?” Coming up behind her. “You’re such a bad influence on me. You know that? “ she said as she turn to face him. Immediately she grabbed his hand and they both disappeared to her room. As a shocked Darren stood in the hallway not believing what he just heard.

Present day

Darren looked over at Constantine whose face had gone a shade of dark red. “If this happened that recently why did you not inform me of it until now?” he seethed. “You had already arranged this meeting with the psychiatrist” Darren answered.

“Gentlemen, please.” Dr. Sugar spoke up. “While we are on the subject, Your majesty please enlighten me with the incident you witnessed that brought us here today.” Constantine gave Dr. Sugar a cold stare before finally dropping his shoulders and letting out a huge sigh. “I tried to get Liam to break this habit of his and when I held the government summit I thought I had succeeded. An foreign Ambassador had brought his daughter. She and Liam had met before and got along well. So during the duration of summit I made sure Liam spent any free time he had with her. And things seemed to have been going to plan. Until the gala ball I hosted at the end. Liam had disappeared and a guard and I went to look for him.”

Two weeks ago

Constantine and guard, Andrew walked the halls searching for Liam. He wasn’t in his room, nor was he in the library, his favorite hiding place, and he wasn’t in the garden maze. As he entered the hallway to the training room he came across lady Carmen, crying and visibly upset. “Lady Carmen, have you seen Liam? Why are you so upset?!” he asked already knowing the answer. Carmen pointed in the direction of the training room. “Your majesty. You son is no better than his brother.” She sobbed as she ran away. Against his better judgment both Constantine and Andrew walked towards the training room and cracks open and the training room door and tried to contain his anger.

There he saw his son and Lady Naima passionately kissing on the training room floor. Moments later Liam pushes Naima down as he lays on top. Frantically he undoes his pants and shoves them down while both hurry to remove Naima’s panties. Seconds later and both of them are screaming, panting and moaning like wild animals in heat. “I prinkípissa mou” he could hear Liam say over and over. Disgusted Constantine closed the door and walked to his office.

Present day

Dr. Sugar sat slightly stunned. “This might be one for the record books” he thought, as he finished writing his notes down. Taking a deep breath he looked up to address the men in front of him. “Gentlemen, our time is now up and I think I have of an idea of what’s going on. Before I meet with Liam and Naima respectively I will need to speak with pretty much anyone who is aware of their addiction or antics. Like their friends, maybe a teacher or one of their guards.” He says as he gathered his things. He bid the men good day and as he walked down the halls he saw a young couple, heavily making out, in the hallways. Not even aware of their surroundings as they were desperately looking for a room. After seeing this display Dr. Sugar identified them as Liam and Naima. As soon as he passed them they found a room and then Liam lifted Naima up and she wrapped her legs around him as they disappeared in the room and slam the door behind them. “I think I have my work cut out for me.” He said to himself as he headed out.

"This. is. getting. out of hand. Darren!" Constantine exclaimed as he slammed his glass to the floor causing it to shatter "I thought they had put this disgusting behavior behind them only for both of us to see its escalating." He paces back and forth trying to asses the severity of the situation, glancing at Darren as he sits tensely staring at the clock on the wall. Finally Darren stands up and shrugs his shoulders "What do you suppose we can do? Liam is 19 and Naima is 18. We don't know how long they've been sexually involved like this." He tosses his hands in the air and he begins to pace back and forth. "Maybe the best course of action would be to arrange their marriage?"

Constantine immediately stopped in his tracks. "Darren, you truly are a brainless man." He spat out with irritation. "The media would have a field day if that was to become the agreed upon decision" Constantine would never allow a marriage between them after the gala incident when he heard Liam call Naima “I prinkípissa mou” My Princess.

#indiacater fic #trr king liam #liam x mc #this story is wild #choices

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lizzybeth1986 · 6 years

Text

Quick Thoughts on DD Book 1 Chapter 5

• Content Warning: There are references to slut shaming while speaking about opera singers, and I speak about executions in the Hamid scene (I've not added grisly details or anything, but to me what I have included does sound a little macabre). I don't know if those warrant a warning, but I'd like to err on the side of caution and ensure that anyone comfortable with that knows this before they make the decision to proceed.

• Okay on with the QT!

• Why hello there, fancy hot looking Ottoman prince dude.

• Looks like not one but both of my MCs will be living the thot life.

• Apologies for the huge delay guys. There was a LOT to unpack this chapter, and it took me a while to actually explore, confirm my research and get a clear idea overall of how I wanted to approach this one. I'm hoping once TRR ends I can get these babies out earlier.

• You know what I realised? The Lady Grandma LIKES a sassy bitch. There are several times this chapter she's actually been more approving of my headstrong Marianne than she has been of my more mild-mannered Florence. See all of this:

She's mostly approving of this, however, when Henrietta is the recipient of this behaviour, but there are also points where she appreciates the MC's candor (if she chooses to show it) such as if the MC refers to the art of the fan as "ridiculous". If there is one thing that consistently gets on Dominique's nerves, it is occasions where the MC might speak of herself and her former background negatively, mostly out of annoyance because it shows she hasn't comfortably settled into her role yet, and Dominique needs the MC to do so if Edgewater is to stay within in the family and bloodline.

• Also I love the subtle streak of independence we get to see in Annabelle. She is someone who is doing what is expected of her, someone who tries to make the best of her circumstances the only way she knows how, but she is also refreshingly open about how stressful it is for her to go down this path, even in her free scenes. She is also playful and mischievous and doesn't take herself too seriously, which makes a lot of her scenes a joy to do.

• I also really really liked the option where you tell her she's the one you want to marry, and her reaction is both a disbelief that such a dream could come true alongside a receptiveness to the idea. It's soft and sweet and beautiful.

• So we start out with a crash course on the nobility we'll meet in London (Alfred Halloway, whose daughter Felicity is debuting this season, and the Barrymore family, who are related to the Halloways by marriage). Only this time, Annabelle wants to be a snarky little boss and fill the MC in on all the juicy gossip that Lady Grandmother won't give her.

• Lady Grandmother: Alfred Holloway is the viscount of Lochdale. His daughter, Felicity, will be coming from her estate at Bellington Hall to make her debut this season.

Miss Parsons: Alfred Holloway is an arrogant prig who looks like an Easter ham studded with cloves.

(For the record, this is what a clove-studded Easter ham seems to look like:

Holy shit Annabelle you savage af)

Lady Grandmother: Miss Holloway's family is also tied by marriage to the Earl of Barrymore...

Miss Parsons: Oh, avoid the Earl of Barrymore. His bed has more traffic than Drury Lane!

Annabelle here must be referring to the crowd that tends to flock around the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, which was popular as a source of entertainment for its plays and had a seating capacity of 3000 people.

• The free scene with Annabelle is important because it eases us gently into the main themes of her scene later on. The women get to speak about the whole concept of a "marriage market", and straight off the bat Annabelle lets us know how uncomfortable she is with having to go through a wedding to another man.

• She also speaks about what else - besides the fact that Harry was her closest friend - about his death affected her. Having been promised to Harry, Annabelle didn't have to go through the rigamarole of finding a husband. She had learned to settle with the idea of being married to someone who she knew and liked at least, if not loved. It's sad to us modern readers now that Annabelle would have to settle for less than passion or love, but back then I don't think she could have imagined a better deal. And now...and now she will have to settle for even less than what she had with Harry. This was a pretty neat way of easing us into the larger conversation she has with us in her diamond scene.

• A few days pass, and Briar is now helping us get ready for the trip to London. You have the option of encouraging her romance with Mr Woods, which...cmon. They cute 😊

•

Ooh so our House Colours are navy blue and gold! (considering that the Earl's default outfit itself is navy blue, I should have figured that would be a house colour). It's nice but MY NECK WHERE IS MY NECK.

Did You Know: that up until the middle of the 19th century, men's and women's riding habits were largely made by men in a distinctively masculine style. This is what Candice Hern's article "Regency Habits, Overview" on her website Regency World, says:

"Though the style and cut of riding habits changed with time and fashion, they continued to be tailored in a masculine style throughout the 17th and 18th centuries and into the early 19th century. In La Belle Assemblée in 1815, we read that: “Habits have, ever since they were first brought into fashion, been considered as decidedly calculated to give even the most delicate female a masculine appearance, and the wits of our grandmothers’ days were unmercifully severe on the waistcoat, cravat, and man’s hat which were then the indispensible appendages to a habit.”"

•

YOU'RE NOT COMING WTF DAD NO.

• WHO KNOWS WHAT THEY'LL DO TO YOU WHILE I'M GONE.

• I'm having a sinking feeling about leaving my old dad around in this house while Henrietta is still there, Grandma had better be his bodyguard (or maybe not. Cordonians seem to have weird ideas of what constitutes a successful bodyguard *COUGHCOUGH Mara and Bastien COUGHCOUGH*).

• Like most of the fandom I have a feeling the Earl will die sooner than we think. @i-dream-so-i-write once mentioned that it could well be towards the end of the book, and I think that's a fitting dramatic turn this book would take into the next. I'm going to miss the hell outta this guy though 😟

• Henrietta sent Mr Marlcaster and Miss Sutton ahead of time so they can screw things up for us, so we will need to butter them up like no tomorrow when we reach there, apparently.

• Hello Luke! It's been exactly one chapter!

• Kinda like the bonding the MC and Luke have with regards to the horse. Their first real conversation began with Clover, so it is fitting that their bonding continues over her at least for their initial interactions.

• Aww man, Henrietta wants Clover the horse to be sold and they give you a diamond option to keep her, name her and get extra scenes with her. Florence calls her Moonstone, Marianne calls her Pepper. Moonstone suits Florence's particular sense of whimsy, and I figured Marianne would want something short and snappy and it helped that Luke gave the horse some salt before the diamond option came up 😂

It's a fairly nice scene I guess, but it drives me batty because this book is already taking astronomical sums of money early on in the book, and people are already beginning to get frustrated. Even TRR, which is a pretty expensive book, took more than half the book before they pushed forward the option to buy the Derby horse. It just is beginning to feel like too much too soon at this point.

• Of all the free scenes this chapter, my favourite has to be the exchange among the four in the picnic en route London.

I found this particularly interesting because all of these people, so far, have been outside the rigors of the Season in some way or other. Briar is the most outside of this system of doing things: she has grown up completely out of it and will probably always struggle to understand the way things work within the gentry. Luke has spent years in that environment (that of the gentry) so he knows some of it, but he still is and will always be an outsider. Annabelle has grown up in this environment and is perhaps the closest to it, but has never had to take active part due to her association with Harry and the Edgewater Estate. And the MC straddles both these worlds. She is an heiress, part of this high society, but she was born in and more familiar with Briar's worldview. And I love how this scene captures all this in just a few bits of dialogue.

• Also Luke's sensible response to Annabelle's question and Briar being a teasing little imp is super cute, I will fight anyone who disagrees with me on this 😂😂😂

• So many gems nestled in Annabelle's scene guys I can't even. There's so much going on in this one. So much.

•

The main thing this scene does is to - without a doubt - establish Annabelle as a closeted lesbian. She's still at the stage where she's aware and finds it odd that she doesn't hold any affection for any man, that the idea itself of marriage frustrates her, and her growing confusion that she's now feeling for a woman all that she "should" be feeling for a man. There are points where she almost welcomes it, like the scene I mentioned earlier, but she still is clearly struggling.

The MC has three ways of responding to this - one where she misses the point completely and says "you haven't found the right man yet" (Marianne, unfortunately), another where she states that she "understands" (which is left open - either it is a gesture of support from an ally, or it is from someone who understands her dilemma to...well...some extent. Florence is the second. She is bi, so her "I understand" was basically "I've fallen for some men sure but I also have a hard time figuring out what my sexuality is"). My favourite is the response where the MC speaks of facing a similar dilemma in her life and is an excellent choice if your MC is also a lesbian. I couldn't use this one for Florence or Marianne because it didn't ring true for either of them, but I did see the screenshots on tumblr and it's quite poignant.

Did You Know: Lesbian/sapphic relationships and sex were not as much seen as illegal as invisible...and this was an attitude that a later monarch, Queen Victoria, would uphold as well, refusing to sign a legislation to criminalize it by insisting that "women do not do such things". Obviously as we all know, she couldn't be any more wrong. Today we know of famous lesbian women of the Regency as Anne Lister, owner of Shibden Hall, and the Ladies of Llangollen - two women from Ireland named Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby, who had a romantic relationship for over 50 years. Gail Eastwood, in an article titled "Queer in the Regency: a Slice of Once-Hidden LGBT History" says:

Defying their families, the two established an estate in Wales, called Plas Newydd, rather than enter into marriages with men they did not love. Though they incurred significant debt in order to have a staff, they survived on the generosity of friends until a fascinated Queen Charlotte convinced King George III to grant them a pension.

Plas Newydd became something of a haven for writers during the Regency era, especially since the couple living there could afford to keep it.

Part of me wonders if elements of this story may be found in the Annabelle x MC route. Or like Anne Lister, who was well-endowed enough financially that she could refrain from marriage and have relationships with women. Maybe, or - given the limitations of having to chart out a storyline that will suit every LI - maybe not. Whatever it is, I'd be very interested in finding out how they'll handle the MC's romance with Annabelle.

• The second most interesting thing is Annabelle speaking about her poetry, and the restrictions her father has kept on her talent. She mentions him looking down on women's poetry as being "all bad rhymes and flowery sentiment", and that - in keeping with the times - he prefers Romantic Age poets such as Wordsworth, and that famous influence on Romanticism, Shakespeare. If we choose to ask her about showing us her poetry, she tells us her writing is "of a...delicate nature" (get it, girl! 😀) and if we choose to encourage her instead, the MC makes references to Mary Wollstonecraft, whose ideas of gender equality were considered radical for the times, and who is seen as one of the earliest feminist icons.

Did You Know: that in a time when female education was mainly geared to prepare women for their domestic roles, Mary Wollstonecraft advocated for women to receive an education that would help them survive beyond the home and the marriage market, stating that the one real barrier in the way of gender equality was the disparity in the education women received compared to men. She says, "this homage to women’s attractions has distorted their understanding to such an extent that almost all the civilized women of the present century are anxious only to inspire love, when they ought to have the nobler aim of getting respect for their abilities and virtues".

Her daughter, Mary Shelley, would write the famous novel Frankenstein in 1818, two years following the events of Desire and Decorum.

• Within this scene also lies a little tidbit that will hold some importance in Chapter 7: the MC tells Annabelle that her mother used to sing in the opera:

So this could be the root of some of the snarky remarks Henrietta makes about the MC's mother. She has close pretty darn close to calling her a "prostitute" on more than one occasion, and her comment after the MC sang along with Annabelle in chapter 3 about how it was "no wonder" that the MC could sing, given her mother's profession.

Did You Know: Opera singers had a very different reputation in the Regency era, not all of it very positive. Shana Galen, who is described as a Regency adventure author, speaks about how opera singers were viewed at the time: Of course, it was perfectly acceptable for a young lady to show her talents on the pianoforte or to sing in front of a small group of family and friends, but performing on the stage at Drury Lane or Covent Garden were frowned upon.

Female performers, especially, were shunned by society. One example of this sort of attitude was seen in the ridicule faced by a singer named Dorothea Jordan, who had an long-running affair with a Duke, bore him ten children, and who was the subject of a "satirical cartoon that showed her in her bedroom, gazing adoringly at a duchess’ coronet, which she hopes someday to wear by marrying her lover. A map on the wall purports to show the route from “Strolling Lane” (i.e. prostitution) through “Old Drury Common” all the way to “Derbyshire Peak.” A genealogical chart of the nobility lies on her dressing table, and her bed-hangings are crowned by a Phrygian cap, symbol of the French Revolution. The latter is intended to ridicule her pretensions to nobility; as a common woman, let alone an actress, she should know her place" ("Glimpse at Opera during Jane Austen's Lifetime" by Maggi Andersen, for the blog Historical Hearts).

• Luke's scene on the other hand is lighter in content but is important if you look at it from the viewpoint of establishing his role in the MC's life before they reach London. As a neutral friend, he is happy to serve her and considers her a vast improvement over Countess Henrietta. He tells her that she possesses what Henrietta lacks, understands something that Henrietta would never understand in several lifetimes: that looking down on people she believes as her 'inferiors' will leave her at a disadvantage eventually.

But if you hint at having feelings for Luke, the entire mood of the scene changes, and you see him feeling torn between his growing affections for her and his recognition that any relationship beyond the professional will end badly for them all.

• The thing with both Luke and Annabelle is that to not fall for them is to maintain the status quo. So even if there is an element of attraction, the MC not reciprocating does not tip the delicate balance that governs their lives at Edgewater over. But when she does...it gives rise both to moments of joy...and moments of fear.

• Ooh I love the animation for the train!!

I mean...just...look at this!

• The MC and Briar get to react in awe to their first sight of London before they get down from the carriage. We find out that we're pretty much stranded on the streets of London and no one has come to pick us up. Gee thanks, stepbro.

• Not gonna lie, but seeing Prince Hamid's shocked!face on his full-body shot made me giggle a little.

• He introduces himself as Imperial Prince Hamid, cousin to "his Imperial Majesty Mahmoud the Second, Caliph of Islam, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, and Custodian of the Two Mosques (the last especially was used in royal titles for many Islamic rulers, and refers to the Al-Haram Mosque (al-Masjid al-Ḥarām) of Mecca, and the Prophet's Mosque (Al-Masjid An-Nabawī) of Medina).

• In a sense he kinda reminds me of Kamilah: he is a fictional character positioned as being related to an actual historical figure, so they will give us plenty of background about the countries they were from (Egypt and Turkey [Istanbul in this case], respectively) but keep the actual historical figure at a distance. Making the fictional character a cousin and a person of an important position in that court is a smart choice to make: they're important enough to represent the royals of the times but distanced enough that it doesn't seem unnatural if they aren't that close and ergo can't tell you personal details about said historical figure.

• Did You Know: Sultan Mahmud II (the cousin Hamid mentions) was seen as quite a progressive ruler of his times. 1829 onwards, he tried to bring many, many reforms into the Ottoman empire, including (according to the Encyclopedia Britannica article on him) "adopting the cabinet system of government, provided for a census and a land survey, and inaugurated a postal service (1834), introducing compulsory primary education, opening a medical school, and sending students to Europe. In addition, the sultan’s right to confiscate the property of deceased officials was abolished, and European dress was introduced". It looks like some elements of this way of thought could be reflected in Hamid, from his talk of diplomacy in his diamond scene.

• Hamid not only positions himself as a bit of an outsider to England but also as a man who travels: talk of travelling and seeing the world is his ice-breaker when they get into the carriage. This will allow him not only to help familiarize the MC with London, and his home Constantinople, but also give her (and us) a view of what the world looks like at this point. For instance, if the MC speaks of even London is unfamiliar territory to her, he mentions the Blue Mosque, the construction of which was completed exactly 200 years prior to the events of the story.

• The other very essential point of this scene is to provide a bit of a parallel to Luke, but also as a counterpoint. Luke is disadvantaged both by his class and his race - ergo he has a very layered perspective. Hamid has privileges, but he is also aware of and in some ways used to the reception he gets in England, and has figured out how he wants to respond. Both Luke and Hamid find their ways to cope with their situation, and the MC is allowed - according to the ethnicity chosen for her - to relate to both.

Florence, for instance, relates heavily to this as someone is visibly a foreigner even though England is the only home she has ever known. Marianne does not fully understand this, but she can tell him like any decent human being would that she thinks it's wrong of people to treat him that way.

• Just prior to this the two manage to see the Tower of London, notorious for the imprisonment and execution of many, many people including royals and nobles. There is a short but rather poignant conversation on the "many people tortured and murdered over who had the right to sit on the throne" (among the people executed, you will find names like Anne Boleyn, Thomas More, Lady Jane Grey, Guy Fawkes and Walter Raliegh).

• Did You Know: For a long long time in England, executions were seen as a bit of a spectator sport. The more unusual the criminal, the bigger the crowd. The Capital Punishment UK blog speaks of the kind of atmosphere usually present around the time:

In many counties, executions were held on market days to enable the largest number of people to see them and school parties would be made to attend as a moral lesson, something which is certainly recorded as happening at Lancaster Castle. Public houses and gin shops always did a very brisk trade on a hanging day.

However, attitudes towards executions experienced a shift around the late 18th-early 19th century, and by 1864 Parliament established a Royal Commission on Capital Punishment, with a declaration that executions would take place inside the prisons rather than in public.

I'm not sure if this was intentional, but possibly the MC's and Hamid's reactions to the tower may be reflective of their times.

• Interestingly, Annabelle is shown to look jealous if you've been romancing her, and giving you a sly grin if you're just friends. I quite liked that little touch. Luke meanwhile is a little less open about how he feels at this point: whether you're romancing him or not, he is described as "watching you carefully" during your exchange with Hamid.

• So Mr Marlcaster got the letter from the Duchess to send a groom for picking the MC, but didn't...as per his mother's demands, surely. But AT LEAST you should have been a little prepared to answer me in case I dropped by anyway, dude? Instead of just standing there and staring at me like a scandalized goldfish.

• Looks like Edmund is still going to try screwing things up for us, and we'll need to find a way to get him on our side. After all, we get relationship points with both him and Theresa Sutton, and Lady Grandmother did tell us we could find a way to get them to be with us rather than against us.

• I'm looking forward to Chapter 5...but it's Chapter 6 I REALLY want to see. We're going to learn a bit more about the MC's mother's background!

General Thoughts:

• OMG so much was there to unpack this chapter!! A lot of it to do with Annabelle and Hamid, and Luke has taken a bit of a backseat this chapter but I'm hoping that's a taster of what's to come in his case.

• Look I love this story but IT COSTS SO MUCH. WTF. Keeping Clover was a nice option but it really added nothing to this chapter and could have easily been shifted elsewhere. I want this book to do well. I'm happy with how they're writing it, the effort they're putting into their research and into their characters so far...and I would hate for it to not be appreciated because they made it so hard for people to get into the book by making it this expensive so early.

• Florence is going for Annabelle and Luke (leaning more towards Annabelle at this point), and Marianne for Hamid and Sinclaire (I'm not sure yet but Hamid is a very very strong contender!!). Who would have thought I'd have my first polyam MCs in a book on Regency Era England!! Who woulda thunk!

• Annabelle particularly intrigues me at this point. She is clearly established as both inside and outside of this system, and vocally critical of it at least to the MC. She writes about her desires against the chargin of her father, and states that she doesn't want to merely settle into a 'safe' relationship like her mother, not unless she can know and trust that person (which is mostly why she agreed to the match with Harry even if she didn't love him). She is confused, and open and honest about her confusion. I really think the foundation of this character is immensely strong, but they really need to keep working on her and not just drop their efforts on her halfway. And I've seen that happen enough times with female LIs to be afraid.

• At this point, we now have three male LIs (one Master of Horse who is African-American, one family-approved eligible bachelor and one prince of the Ottoman Empire) and one female love interest. Is there space for one more confirmed female LI? I sure hope so but at the same time I don't want keep my hopes up.

However...IF the plan is to keep just one female LI, then they'd better do a pretty darn phenomenal job of her. If you're not going to give wlw players other options it's only fair to make sure the only option is given really, really good writing - consistently. They're doing a good job so far...but there's a long long way to go before I can fully trust PB to do justice to her.

• That's it for now! On to Chapter 6!

• Tagged: @boneandfur @liamraines @thespiritpanda @alanakusumastan @ernestsinclairs @private-investigator-nazario @bcdollplace @thedepthsremember @mcbangle @queenodysseia @novaelaras

If you'd like to be tagged on these QTs, do let me know! 😀

#desire and decorum #long post #annabelle x mc #luke x mc #hamid x mc #annabelle parsons #luke harper #imperial prince hamid #dnd quick thoughts #quick thoughts

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holdon-a-minute · 5 years

Text

As Time Repeats

Chapter II

Gone

"Hello I'm here to report a missing person."

"Okay slow down Madame, what's the name of this person?"

"Renae Cruzette."

"And your name?"

"Alice Cruzette."

~~~~

She pries her heavy eyelids to open, a pounding rattling Renae's skull making the struggle even more difficult. A painful moan escapes her lips but it only sounds an alarm in her head, her ears screeching in pain and an absurd ache searing through her mind. As she slowly and shakily lifts her body up off the damp, concrete floor to rest on her grazed hands and knees, her consciousness awakens all in one daunting flood and the survival instincts kick in. Renae scrambles to her feet surrounded by darkness—cold, empty darkness—the only slither of daylight visible from a barred window that's barely reachable from the ceiling.

Once she's taken in her environment, which is just a concrete box with no visible door and a tiny window, all of the questions start to stampede in. Where is she? Why is she here? Why did Clemence do this? Was she planning to take Renae all along? Has she really been kidnapped? And if so, how was she going to get out?

It didn't take long for Renae to start to lose hope after a full night in obsidian, oblivious, freezing, hungry and weak still trying to claw down the walls encaging her or find some way out. Her head is a mess. Twenty-four hours have barely passed and she's already began to lose her mind to the dark cloud of fear creeping up her neck, surely but slowly starting to possess all thoughts that cross her mind at two-hundred miles per hour. There was no knowing what was to happen to Renae down here, and she'd scraped at every inch of her skull to snatch at that solution, but her hands were slippy with sadness and she just couldn't think straight.

She's slumped against the wall, her knees to her face and her arms loosely hugging her bruised legs. Renae lifts up her battered head to reveal her red, blotchy eyes from tears that seemed to burn her face like lava trickling down a smooth mountain edge. Mourning in the moonlight, she whimpers in her grace, her blue lips trembling as she whispers aloud, "How did I even get here?" utterly dumbfounded. She knows that whoever locked her poor soul away in here used some force to launch her into this demented wreck of a place, evidence being the black and blue bruises that snake their way up Renae's whole left side of her body.

Maybe she was dropped.

Her body sulkily follows Renae's demands to stretch up and stand in the centre of the box as she peers up at the ceiling. And only now, as if she has been blind ever since she woke up, Renae can see clear as day the faint lines creating a large square right above her head. Her throat tenses up as realisation dawns on her, and Renae frantically starts to search for a way to get up. Scarcely reaching, she manages to brash her fingertips along the edge of the barred windowsill and finds a sharp slice of slate. She grips it tight in between her teeth, and begins jumping as hard as she can to grasp hold of the thick metal bars. Now dangling about two feet from the ground, Renae plants the flats of her feet firmly against the wall and walks her way up as far as possible. But as she turns to face the centre of the room again, her arm jolts, and a bar slips from its held positions. "Sh-t!" the slate muffles her exclamation.

Almost slipping back down the wall, Renae uses all of the little arm strength she has to yank and yank on the loose bar before she falls or someone hears her. It pops out, and she struggles her way through the gap, having to scrape and lean on her bruised side to fit. "Arrgh!" she lets out a strained, strangled noise and rolls down a small grass slope. The gentle breeze somewhat calms her as it caresses Renae's cheeks. She is outside. And she runs.

~~~~

Cold metal bar still in hand, teeth bearing in a snarl of anger and self-defence, and no sense of morality comprehendible until she is safe. She runs like no other, her mix of emotions getting washed away as the wind whips at her flesh. Where she is, Renae does not know, but she's racing alongside a huge, old brick building in an open, soft meadow where the grass tickles her calves. The building is just as much a box as the solid room she just escaped from, this wall running a mile long and half a mile up.

Adrenaline still coursing through her veins, Renae slows and steadies herself once she reaches the corner of the building. She peaks round the bend, and sure enough, there's the main entrance and an armed man guarding it repeatedly pacing back and forth. She spots a fairly busy country road about another two-hundred yards off, and a guy stood on the edge of the field—with his pulled-over, keys-in-ignition Renault—bellowing in pure frustration down his phone. The cogs start clicking in Renate's brain, as she watches for a minute and pieces together her escape; the guard is distracted by the fuming businessman on the side of the road, and she uses this to her advantage.

She swiftly but smoothly rounds the corner on crouched legs, silently stalking up to the guard while his back is turned and his eyes are fixated on the livid man, until she's close enough to bound onto his back—reaching for the handgun strapped to his right hip with her free hand—sending both of them barrelling forward face-first into the dry earth. Without thinking, she jumps to her feet and pulls. Pulls again.

And he's dead. No sound was made. Silencer, she notes. But one handgun is not enough for what she's been dragged into now, so she takes his long gun too. Renae starts to plod forward, taking a mere second to look back at the murdered guard before belting straight for the rearing and ready-to-go Renault. She's about to snarkly comment, "Perfect timing," as she slides into the driver's seat, but is held back as an alarm more like a war siren sounds melancholically in the distance, cutting off her devilish train of thoughts.

"Hey! What are you doing!" He drops his phone.

"Music to my ears," Renae slyly murmurs in response, like a serpent stinging all feelings with every slurred hiss, mainly to the piercing noise coming from the old building rather than the snarling businessman. She slams the car door and pushes the simple engine to drive. As fast as is can go. Just to get her anywhere but here.

~~~~

Renae finds herself back in Paris, the whole drive from the unknown to streets she can recognise a blur. Sometimes her flawless sense of direction really does come in handy. She speeds through the avenues of her estate, her aunty's house standing out like a pink elephant in a parade. She cannot peel her eyes away from the black front door, the closed white blinds in the windows, the folded newspaper thrown into the little yard, the neatly shut metal gate, the rough brown shoe mat on the little step. Her home, her bed just behind that wall, Alice sat snuggled up with a blanket and a mug of coffee on the couch, the ancient grand clock in the porch, that one creek in the stair, the soft fairy lights hung in the study, the old brown leather desk chair that smells of musk and cigarettes, the spider that's been living on the corner of the kitchen doorframe for weeks now, the chip in the wooden banister, the red wine stain on the countertop, all the miniscule things that bring tears to well up in her eyes, all the things that bring this clammy, nauseous feeling to settle about her. All the things that make Renae homesick.

But she cannot deal with that now, she can't face Alice in this state, in this brain-fogging mess. She carries on driving, to the next best place she thinks she can find answers. She scowls at the thought, "Millbruery Lane."

She parks some distance away, another narrow alleyway off the main road, and hides the long gun underneath her seat, tucking the metal bar and handgun into the band of her dark jeggings. Her loose-fit hoodie covers the odd shapes they create on her lower back, just like in the movies. Walking rigidly, all wrong and out of place, she heads down the lane she knew would make her feel like a ghost reliving a memory out of her physical body. The stores right along the bottom of the attached buildings are still magnificent to the eye, cafes still sit with intricate metal table and chairs outside, hanging baskets spread throughout are filled with rather dull, delicate flowers, antique shops still showcase their treasures in the wide window each store possesses, and the cobbled floor beneath is now as dry and gritty as the bark on a tamarisk tree in the Sahara desert.

Renae simply stands and peers at her surroundings, puzzled and pale, not quite knowing what she thought she would find here other than a feeling of fear and anxiety she never believed could be comprehendible by one human being. Still limping, she paces a full three-sixty spin, too truly scared to do much else as the realness of everything starts seeping in. "Wait..." she hushes, rushing to get the word out before she loses the thought again.

*Ding ding*

Her phone, she remembers. She took her phone and threw it behind her back whilst stood with a gun pointed to her face. Clemence's gun. She searches desperately along the floor, finding it convenient that she happened to just hear it go off. There, tucked behind a plant pot, is her her glossy black phone in all its glory, shining like the sun, like a shooting star promising Renae a wish, lighting up hope in the deep dark night. But the only thing her phone promises her is a message from an unknown private number. She opens it, barely prepared for the video she finds, not any bit ready to play it, and utterly too innocent for the horrors she watches.

~~~~

A black and white screen, speckly, blurred. Showing two separate rooms, side by side. Concrete. Dark. No doors, only an open barred window. A woman comes into view on the left-side room. Panic-struck. Stressed. Using her hands to comb back her long bouncy curls. A woman comes into view on the right-side room. More exhausted looking. Like the panic has settled down now. Until she starts to climb up the wall, pulling herself up by the barred window. She's tearing down down her exit. Her escape. Struggling until she's out of the cameras view. But as she finds her way out into the open, free, the woman on the left-side is met face to face with a man fitted in black. Head to toe. Identity indescribable. And as she backs up, fearful, she's ruthlessly forced up against the wall. Showering dark liquid everywhere, as she's shot twice in the skull. Blackness.

~~~~

"...No," Renae whimpers, "Oh no...no no no no no. Please. Oh...Alice!" She buckles over, face growing paler by the second until its true olive undertone is gleaming through. Dropping the phone, she turns to the public bin beside the large plant and doubles over again. Throwing up, hyperventilating, choking, sweating, getting dizzy, feeling limp. Numb. She twists and crashes to the floor, her back bumped up against the bin. Renae slowly wails in her weak state. She sits strangely on the floor—her head hung forward and her limbs hanging loose—and quietly but fiercely sobs. She sobs and she cries and she feels overwhelmingly grief-stricken.

Still hyperventilating, she almost chokes every time she tries to breathe in-between her involuntary snivelling, and she would have stayed this way—crying helplessly on the floor and letting herself cripple until she dies—if it weren't for the young man who stops to ask, "Miss...what has happened?"

Renae glances up, shocked to feel back in reality and in touch with the bustling life surrounding her. A man stands straight in front of her, tilting his neck to study her at a better angle. He wears a navy knit jumper paired with a plaid shirt underneath, stylish skinny jeans and a huge professional camera slung around his shoulder. It doesn't take Renae long to recognise his wavy black hair, deep blue eyes and curious persona. "Don't fucking move," her face reduces to cold stone, she pulls out her silencer and cocks it like she's done this a thousand times before.

Steadily, she stands, and keeps her trembling hand aimed right at the man's heart. "Woah!" he throws his arms up in innocence, "I'm sorry! I was just trying to help. Where did you get that?" He refers to the weapon in her grasp.

"You." He only stares guiltily at her. "You were taking photographs of me in the...the café. Why did you do that?" She steps intimidatingly closer, pressing the gun against his lean chest, "What do you want with me? Who are you? Who do you work with? Why did you do that? Why did you do that you sick son of a bitch!" Renae bellows out her last question, full of force and raw hatred, the same words as her two previous questions but utterly different in every way.

"What I, I, I...just do it for fun I didn't—I don't mean to, to offend...Miss. It is just a beautiful café to shoot in, and you were so carelessly...glowing I, I, I...couldn't not quickly snap the, the opportunity up...Miss..."

"Don't fucking lie to me. I've got a bullet about to put you six feet under and you try to fucking lie to me. Tell me what you were doing!" She's now got him plastered up against the wall.

"Alright! Okay okay," he cowers, "I could sense your powers' strength. It was radiating. It was immense."

Renae blinks a couple of times, bewildered, "Stop playing games with me, you fool," and grips his jumper with her free hand to shake him violently, then shove him back up against the wall.

"No! I'm being serious! I have this family heirloom that's been passed down for years, and it allows anybody who knows how to unlock it to see if someone is currently using magic or if they're even Thaumaturge at all. It's called seeing 'Inside out'."

"What are you on...you disgusting fuck?!" Renae releases him from her grasp and backs up a little.

"Wait look! I'll show you," he replies making her flinch and lock her arms into pointing the gun at his head as he reaches into a hidden pocket in his jacket, revealing a small, transparent sphere.

"It's a goddamned fucking marble!" She's aggravated now, and getting impatient.

But he ignores her dangerous temper, and carries on to softly breathe the word onto the orb, "Édisper..."

~~~~

All in one magnetic wave, the alleyway becomes a little brighter and a little hazier around them. Renae is jolted towards the photographer guy, forcefully pulled by no one in particular, and she claws at the jumper on his bicep, "What did you do?" But they're both distracted from the question as the dainty doorbell in the antique shop rings ten times louder than it should do behind them, and gradually a woman hops out. But she isn't hopping, she's walking in slow motion, like she's on her way to a party on the moon. Renae watches her for a solid minute, the man watching Renae for a reaction, and she's too focused on how strangely she's strolling that she completely misses the warm pink glow the woman's emitting, until it's too late and she rounds the corner.

Renae spins back around to face the man, but looks directly over his shoulder as she spots two more people strolling in slow motion. "Why are they doing that? Is he...glowing? What did you do? Turn these lights off!" She looks up into the sky, trying to find the lights this guy must have switched on.

"Uhm," he coughs.

"You're glowing!" But alls he does in response is obviously do a once-over on Renae with a raised eyebrow, "I'm...glowing? Have you drugged me?! Why have you made my glow black?" she asks him, more confused than angry now.

"I haven't made you anything, I've simply allowed us both to see what is already there. If a person is letting off that pink, wavy glow, it means they're Thaumaturge. If you see pale green in there too it means they're currently using magic. It kind of looks like the Northern Lights, you know? Oh! Look there! See? He's using magic to tie his shoelaces while he's on the phone." And he was. There was a man walking steadily, not taking a glance at his feet, while his right hand is holding his phone to his ear and his left hand is slowly twisting and turning in mid-air, tying his shoelaces from afar.

"What...? That doesn't explain why I'm blazing blackness," Renae pushes, slightly worried to listen to any more this mad man says.

"Well, that's exactly why I was taking photos of you. I don't know...I've never seen anything like it. At all."

"So let me get this clear, magicians are actually magic? And you have this...family heirloom that lets you see which people are magicians and if they're currently using...magic."

"Well...yes."

She chuckles, "Why should I believe anything you're saying, because it all sounds like a load of bullshit right now just to postpone your death?"

"Magic. What is the magic we believe? And what is the magic we see? For thousands of years, we read of fairies and wizards and goblins, and people believed. Yet how many of us will see a stand-up illusionist and not believe their capabilities at all? You're seeing it with your own eyes right now Miss, and I haven't touched a hair on your head, how could I have drugged you?"

"I...I don't know," Renae whispers in defeat, ashamed and confused and in so much shock, "Take us out of this," that when the man sucks them back into the dull movements of reality, Renae's body shuts down and she completely loses consciousness.

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