Tumgik
#and realizing his life was predetermined and so his freedom (when he thought he had it) was ANOTHER lie
marvelstoriesepic · 2 days
Text
Breaking chains (1)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Biker!Bucky x reader
Summary: Leaving behind an abusive and possessive boyfriend, and finding refuge in the hometown you once yearned to escape, certainly wasn’t a chapter you anticipated in your life’s story. Yet, eyes as blue as the sky at dusk, belonging to a mysterious biker drew you into a world of unexpected possibilities, where a job at his bar becomes more than just a means of survival - it’s a pathway to freedom and self-discovery. Though, breaking away from your past proves daunting when shackled by chains.
Word count: 7.8k
Warnings: mentions of a toxic relationship and possessive behavior; implications of abuse!; self-preservation; mentions of toxic parents
Authors note: Alright well, this is the first part of my first series. Let me know what you think :)
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
Tumblr media
You stood amidst the scattered moving boxes, a silent testament to the minimalism that defined your time with your now ex-boyfriend Michael. There aren't many, and for good reason - his need for control extended even to the belongings you possessed. Every item was scrutinized, every possession pared down to the bare essentials. It was his way of asserting dominance, of ensuring that even the smallest aspect of your life remained under his thumb. The memories of his manipulation and dominance lingered, a bitter aftertaste to the sweetness of liberation. He didn’t relinquish his hold easily, his grip on you leaving marks that may never fully fade.
Unwillingly, your thoughts drifted back to ‘that night’. A night, forever etched in your memory. It was the breaking point, the moment you finally dared to defy Michaels’ suffocating control.
It began weeks earlier, a simple request to enjoy a night out with colleagues, a seemingly harmless longing for independence. But for Michael, it was an affront to his dominance, a threat to his grip on your every move. In a calculated act of manipulation, he confiscated your phone and wallet, severing your ties to the outside world and trapping you within his realm of control.
His actions escalated, a twisted display of possessiveness and paranoia. He fabricated excuses to isolate you, to keep you tethered to his side. The world outside became a battleground - every glance from another man a perceived threat to his fragile ego. And so, he’d have you wear a baseball hat and sunglasses, shielding you from the gaze of others, lest they dare to see you as anything other than his possession.
But on ‘that night’, something within you stirred. A flicker of defiance fueled by the realization that you deserved more, that you were worthy of autonomy and freedom. The echos of his rage still reverberated in your mind, his shouts settling deep inside your chest. You could still feel the spit that had landed on your face and instinctively lifted your hand up to wipe your cheeks in an attempt to erase what isn’t there anymore. Still, the sensation lingered.
He wasn’t always that possessive.
You left the familiarity of your parents’ home behind quite early, a decision driven by a deep-seated desire for change. You held an affection for the quaint charm of your small town and the people living there, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place. There was an undeniable pull, a magnetic force drawing you away from the familiar streets and familiar faces, urging you to explore the vast expanse of the world beyond.
So you followed it.
Unfortunately though, not directly after high school as you had wished. Your parents had meticulously crafted a vision for your future, one that prominently featured pursuing higher education and following a predetermined path to success. You had relented, albeit reluctantly, and started studying graphic design together with Wanda, staying with your parents. Yet, as the semesters wore on, a deep sense of discontent found a home deep inside your soul. You felt stifled, as if you were trying to fit into a mold that wasn’t meant for you. The walls of your hometown closed in, suffocating you with their familiarity.
The unease grew until it erupted into a heated confrontation with your parents. There were tears, there was shouting, the disappointment in your parents eyes palpable. Dropping out college and leaving town without further education or a concrete plan was nothing short of a horror to them - a deviation from the carefully crafted script they had envisioned for your life.
They let you go. However, the acceptance came at a price - a palpable distance that grew between you and them in the years that followed.
Phone calls went unanswered, and messages were left unreturned, leaving you with a sense of loneliness. Their sporadic check-ins felt like a mere formality, lacking the depth and intimacy that once characterized your interactions with them, serving as a bittersweet reminder of the bond that had been strained by your decision to strike out on your own.
Their lack of communication stung, but you prided yourself on your resilience, and your ability to forge ahead in the face of adversity.
Until Michael anyway.
Seattle became your new home, a bustling metropolis teeming with possibility and opportunity. The streets pulsed with energy, each corner offering a new adventure waiting to be discovered.
You met Michael seven months into your new life. You were working as a waitress in a cozy, hidden gem of a café, a haven for locals and wanderers alike seeking respite from the frenetic pace of the city. It was your third job since moving there. You didn’t like staying somewhere longer than necessary. And also, your bosses were dicks.
He was a charming guy, his persistence a subtle yet relentless force that drew you in despite your better judgment. After that first encounter in the café, he became a familiar presence, his visits growing more frequent as he sought out opportunities to be near you. He was willing to wait for one of the tables under your care for that day, a fact that had you reeling in excitement back then.
When he finally asked you out, an invitation delivered with a charming smile and a twinkle in his eyes that left you unable to refuse. After that you found yourself seated across from him in a lot of fancy restaurants over the next months.
As the initial excitement of the relationship with Michael began to fade, a subtle unease settled in its place, a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It started with innocent questions, a curiosity about your day-to-day activities while he wasn’t around. But soon, his inquiries grew more invasive, more insistent, leaving you feeling suffocated beneath the weight of his scrutiny.
Michaels need to know every detail of your comings and goings bordered on obsession. From asking you how many men you served at work and if you opened the door for anyone to wanting to know how many men looked your way on your way home. No details escaped his watchful gaze. It was as if he sought to control every aspect of your existence, to mold you into his idealized vision of the perfect partner.
And so, you found yourself trapped in a vicious circle of control and manipulation, unable to break free from his ironclad grasp. The once vibrant spirit that had propelled you to leave your small hometown behind began to wither and fade, overshadowed by the weight of self-doubt and fear.
You retreated into a shell of self-preservation, losing sight of the person you once were. The fearless adventurer who had set out to explore the world with nothing but a sense of wanderlust and a thirst for adventure.
Gone was the confidence that had once been your armor, replaced by a constant undercurrent of doubt and uncertainty. Your wit and sarcasm, once sharp as a blade, became dulled by the oppressive weight of his control, buried deep beneath the surface with no hope of resurfacing.
In the face of his relentless demands and scrutiny, you found yourself second-guessing every decision, every action, until even the simplest of tasks became a Herculean effort.
As you gazed upon the meager collection of your belongings, a mix of relief and bitterness flooded your senses. Relief, because each box represented a step away from his suffocating influence. Bitterness, because you realized just how much of yourself you had to sacrifice to appease his insatiable need for control. But amidst the bitterness, there was a flicker of defiance - a determination to reclaim what was lost and rebuild a life on your own terms.
You couldn’t help the lang of longing for what could have been, a wish to turn back time and sever ties with him before the roots of his control ran too deep. It was a fleeting thought, quickly buried beneath the determination to forge a new path, one untouched by his influence.
“Hey, you good?”
The soft voice of your childhood best friend, broke through the swirling thoughts in your mind, grounding you in the present moment. You turned to face her, the furrow in her brow reflecting the concern etched on her face. Taking a deep breath, you offered her a faint smile to reassure her.
“All good, Wan, just got stuck in my head for a sec,” you replied, voice carrying a hint of relief at the interruption.
The brunette came to stand beside you, wrapping an arm around you. Her presence brought you a sense of calm amidst the chaos of moving boxes and swirling emotions. Her arm around your shoulders felt like a shield against the uncertainties you held within. Wanda looked down at your boxes, then back to you. “It’s nice to have you back!”
You sighed. You never once told Michael where you came from. Never uttered the name of your small little town. The reasons for that were shrouded in uncertainty, lost in the depths of your subconscious. Perhaps it was a form of self-preservation, a subconscious instinct to shield yourself from the potential harm that could come with letting Micheal take hold of every detail of your past. Or maybe it was the realization that your connection to your hometown had become tainted by the strained relationship with your parents, a painful reminder of the fractures that had formed between you and them.
Whatever the reason was; you were grateful for the anonymity it afforded you, a sanctuary where you could return to rediscover the person you were before you left, free from the shadows of the last three years and the suffocating influence of Michaels’ dominance. It was a chance to reclaim your sense of self, to embrace the qualities and characteristics that had once defined you, before the chains Michael put on you threatened to bury them beneath layers of doubt and insecurity.
“Need any help?” Wanda asked kindly.
You glanced around at the remaining boxes, taking in the cluttered scene of your new beginnings. “I think I’ll be good,” you replied with a grateful smile, “And again, thank you for letting me stay Wanda.”
Your friend reached out to squeeze your hand. “Always, Y/n!”
Wanda and you had forged a bond that transcended time and distance, a friendship rooted in the shared experiences of childhood. From the early days of elementary school, where you spent every break eagerly trading portions of the lunch packets your parents prepared for you, to the halls of high school where you navigated the challenges of adolescents side by side, Wanda had always been by your side.
You spent the day before your departure with her. Tears flowed freely and you reminisced the whole night about the memories you had created together. Though you both knew it wasn’t a goodbye forever, you promised her to come back for her one day. Little did you know then, as you said your tearful goodbyes, that fate would lead you back to her under unexpected circumstances.
Wanda’s open arms and support became your lifeline in the aftermath of fleeing Michaels clutches. With nowhere else to turn to and silence echoing from your parents’ end for months, Wanda was the only person you could turn to. Despite the limited space in her cozy apartment, she offered you a sanctuary from the chaos and turmoil that had come to define your life with Michael.
Wanda left you to it after making sure you were okay with doing this alone. And so, with steady hands and a resolute heart, you began the process of unpacking - not just boxes, but the pieces of yourself that were hidden away for too long.
****
“So how’s Pietro? Haven’t heard from him in a while.”
Pietro, Wanda’s brother has always been like a brother to you as well. He once stood up to you in High school, getting into a fight with a guy who crossed a line with inappropriate touching. Pietro swung his fist into the guy's face faster than you were able to react. You tended to his bruised knuckles afterward and held a cold towel against his eye where the other guy had punched him back. You told him he didn’t have to do this but he just smiled through his busted lip, clicked his tongue, and promised he always got your back princessa!
While Pietro didn’t initially grasp your decision to leave your hometown and might have been a bit upset at first, he sought you out a few hours before your departure. Pulling you into a tight hug, he made you promise to call him whenever you needed. He even half-jokingly vowed to fly to Seattle at any hour to handle any situation that made you uncomfortable.
At the time you had laughed it off but there were countless moments when you found your thumb hovering over the call button as you navigated the uncertainty and doubt surrounding your relationship with Michael.
Wanda and Pietro were always supportive pillars in your life, but you never revealed the intricate details of your relationship with Michael to them. Initially, you shared the surface-level aspects - the charming smiles, the sweet gestures, the moments that made your heart flutter and your knees weak.
However, as time passed and the complexities of your relationship with Michael began to surface, you held back from divulging your struggles, the doubts, and the moments of unease that gnawed at you. You tried to shield them from the burden of your own uncertainties and fears, so you focused on their lives instead, asking question after question but answering none yourself.
While they may not have known the depths of what you were going through, they sensed the shift in your demeanor, the subtle withdrawal from sharing the intricacies of your life. They respected your privacy, choosing not to probe deeper out of concern for your comfort.
But you noticed the way Wanda had watched you as you arrived at her place back in your hometown in a taxi with those few moving boxes. You remembered the uncertain glance she threw your way at your involuntary flinch at the hollow thud of the trunk closing. And when she reached out, her hand grasping your forearm, the squeeze lingered longer than necessary.
She didn’t probe on your anxiousness - not with words anyway - but her glances were laden with unspoken questions.
“God, don’t ask!”
Wanda had her back turned to you, standing at the sink and rinsing off the used dinner plates. She insisted you stay seated after finishing unpacking, citing your exhaustion, although it didn’t take you that long. You could almost sense the eye roll behind her exasperated sigh and leaned your elbows on the kitchen counter intrigued.
“Why? Did something happen?”
Wanda sighed as she finished putting away the clean dishes and retrieved two mugs from the cupboard, setting them on the counter before starting the kettle for tea.
Running a hand through her brunette waves, she leaned against the counter, facing you. “Did he tell you about the guys he started hanging out with?”
“He did. Haven’t heard much from him since.”
“Yeah, that’s because he pours his whole life and soul into their stuff. They’re like some sort of biker gang or whatever. Spends more time at their dingy bar than at home and even bought a bike himself, that big douchbag. I told him those things are death traps, but he just wouldn’t listen.”
The kettle went off during her exasperated rant and she poured the water into the two cups, while you listened intently.
“Can’t tell you how often I needed to pick him up and drag him home after he drank his ass off once again.”
Wanda sank into the chair opposite you, releasing a deep breath, and took her cup in hand, absently fiddling with the tea bag.
“A biker gang?” you repeated slowly, brows furrowed.
In your mind‘s eye, you envisioned a group of rough and tumble bikers, clad in well-worn leather jackets adorned with patches and insignias, marking their allegiances to their chosen brotherhood. Rough beards framing a face weathered by years of life on the road, and piercing gazes sizing up everything and everyone. Gravelly voices, the result of years of smoking and exposure to the elements.
They would ride in formation, their bikes rumbling like a symphony of power as they’d roar down the streets in a chaotic display of bravado. The streets become their domain, their playground, as they weave through traffic with reckless abandon.
It was a world where loyalty was earned through acts of defiance, and conflicts were often resolved with fists rather than words.
You could only hope that the world Pietro had been drawn into wasn’t the same one you imagined.
“They came here a few months ago,” Wanda continued, a sigh in her breath. She took a sip of her tea. “You remember the old thrift store of Miss Kaczinski a few blocks down, right?”
You nodded, a sense of nostalgia hitting you. You pictured the storefront with its faded sign swinging gently in the breeze, as you and Wanda would stroll by, looking like it hadn’t been changed once since the old lady opened the shop.
Its exterior was adorned with weathered wooden shutters and flower boxes overflowing with vibrant blooms. Wanda and you loved to come by in the afternoons - stepping through the creaking door and getting greeted by the musty scent of old books and garments, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender sachets and potpourri. Vintage dresses hung from wrought-iron racks, their vibrant colors and intricate patterns whispering stories of bygone eras. Tables were piled high with jewelry, scarves, and knick-knacks of every shape and size.
In the corner of the store, Miss Kaczinski would sit in her beloved rocking chair, its cushions worn with years of use. She would sit there knitting, needles clacking softly as she regaled customers with tales of days gone by, sending greetings and warm smiles to anyone who would listen.
The world moves too quickly, dear. Think about the steps you take.
She had told you that once. The full weight of her words didn’t truly hit you until now.
Wanda had informed you about her passing a few months after you left town. A pang of sadness had filled your stomach at the thought of the empty storefront - its windows dark and silent, its shelves empty and its doors closed to the world.
“They turned it into a bar. One of them even lives above it now. Pietro says they‘re good guys, but how can you be sure, you know?”
A knot formed in your stomach at Wanda’s troubled expression and a hollow ache spread through you. She hadn’t shared her concerns about the biker gang with you in the last few months, and you couldn’t blame her. After all, you kept your own struggles with your former relationship hidden.
Guilt washed over you like a tidal wave, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest. She might have kept to herself for all those months for the very same reason you didn’t tell her about the bruises under your sweater or the way you hid the heavy bags under your eyes under tons of makeup because your ex-boyfriend didn’t stop shouting at you just because it was time to go to sleep.
It was a vicious circle of silence, born out of the fear of causing the others distress.
A sense of regret washed over you. Perhaps, she had been trying to spare you from worrying about her and Pietro, just as you had been trying to shield her from your own troubles. It was a painful realization, recognizing how your silence had driven a wedge between you.
You were adamant about getting back on the right track with your childhood best friend, to reclaim the bond you had once shared. You longed for the simpler times, when you and Wanda would sit together with a container of ice cream, confiding in each other without fear and leaning on each other for support.
So you let her speak her mind, reaching out to grasp her forearm, squeezing it reassuring as she continued.
“I hear them driving through town all the time. I don’t know what they are up to or what drew them here in the first place. I mean there isn’t much activity in a small town like that, especially for a biker gang. But if they decide to hit the road again, I’m afraid Pietro might go along with them.” Her voice grew quiet and she let her gaze sink to her tea.
Your own tea was starting to cool down, too focused on Wanda to notice. You took a moment to gather your thoughts, processing her words, and leaned in a little, talking softly.
“Look, Pietro can be a knucklehead sometimes,” you conceded, eliciting a huffed laugh from Wanda, “But he is not someone to dive into danger head first or take unnecessary risks. He always does things for a reason. You and I both know that. He wouldn’t put himself in harm’s way, especially if it meant hurting you.” You hoped to alleviate some of Wanda's worries, not letting go of her arm.
You smiled at her reassuringly, relieved to see her shoulders relaxing a little as she let out a breath.
“We’ll keep an eye on things, alright? And hey, maybe-”
You got interrupted by the buzzing of a phone lying on the kitchen counter. Your breath hitched and your heart skipped a beat, a shudder was running up your spine and your heart leapt to your throat, before you realized it wasn’t your phone.
It wasn’t Michael.
You must have squeezed Wanda’s arm a little too tightly, as she was laying her hand over yours to gently pry it away. She got up to answer the call, but not without throwing you a cautious glance.
You had left your phone with Michael as you broke free from his toxic hold, retrieving a burner phone somewhere on your way to your friend's apartment. It had been a necessary step, a protective measure to ensure that Michael couldn’t track you down. The thought of him finding you sent a shiver down your spine, a reminder of the fear and uncertainty that had plagued you since you left.
You knew that he would try to find you, that he would stop at nothing to reclaim what he saw as his, the lengths he would go to get his way, the manipulation and control that had kept you tethered to him for far too long. But you were equally determined to carve out a new life for yourself free from his influence and free from the fears.
But for now, a sense of unease crept up your spine. The knowledge that Michael was out there, somewhere, searching for you filled you with a deep sense of dread.
A groan from Wanda seemingly a few moments later but you couldn’t tell, snapped you out of your thoughts. You scolded yourself for allowing something as simple as the ringing of a phone to jolt you back into a panicked state. Taking a subtle breath in you straightened up and focused on Wanda.
“Seriously? That’s the third time this week!” she exclaimed, rubbing her forehead in frustration, “Yeah, thank you, Sam! I‘ll be right there.” She put her phone back on the counter with a little more force than necessary, letting out a huff.
“What’s wrong? And who’s Sam?” you asked, watching her stalk to the coat closet to grab her brown jacket and pulling it on. Rising to your feet, you followed after her.
“Sam is one of the guys,” Wanda explained. You raised an eyebrow at that. “I don’t really know him, he just always calls me when Pietro‘s had enough to drink once again to come pick him up.”
Your brows were deeply furrowed as you watched her slip into her sneakers. “Why don’t they care for him?”
Wanda chuckled, though it sounded strained. “It‘s not like the rest of them are sober themselves,” she stated, “At least, I wouldn’t think so.”
You studied her for a moment, before reaching to your own jacket. “I‘ll come with you,” you countered, pulling your coat over your shoulders and retrieving your shoes.
Wanda straightened back up. “I promise, you don’t want to deal with an inebriated Pietro,”she reasoned, a chuckle in her breath, but you continued putting on your shoes, “Seriously Y/n, you had a long day, I can handle it.”
“Yeah, but I‘m back now, so you won’t.”
****
Walking through your hometown elicited an unexpected dread washing over you, like a cold shiver creeping down your spine. It had only been three years since you left, yet it felt like a lifetime had passed since you called this place home.
In the early weeks of your relationship with Michael, you had managed to visit your hometown a handful of times, catching up with Wanda and Pietro. But as Michaels' influence took hold, his grip on you suffocating, returning home became impossible.
The streets, once so familiar, now felt foreign and distant, as if you were seeing them through a haze of nostalgia and regret, a constant reminder of the choices you had made and the consequences that followed.
It was a strange sensation, like walking a tightrope between past and present, trying to find your footing in a world that had moved on without you.
The brick-lined sidewalks and quaint storefronts were just as you remembered them, each building steeped in memories of days gone by. But you felt a subtle shift as you walked side by side with Wanda, a feeling of dissonance that hung over the familiar surroundings like a heavy fog.
The bakery on the corner, with its charming red awning and inviting aroma of freshly baked bread, still stood proudly as a place you had frequented often in your youth. But now as you passed by, the sight of it filled you with a bittersweet longing, a reminder of simpler times before life had grown complicated.
Further down the road, you got sight of the small bump in the asphalt that had plagued you during your early attempts at learning to drive. You had cursed it under your breath each time you passed over it, remembering you should have slowed down.
All those indications of the life you lived here were overshadowed by what you had endured and the loss of your parents - once a source of support - now felt like a painful reminder of the rift that had torn your family apart. Their decision to cut ties with you upon your departure had left a gaping wound in your heart, a wound that had yet to heal.
Wanda was unusually quiet beside you, both of your footsteps echoing softly against the pavement.
The two of you turned around the corner and trepidation crashed over you with the force of a sledgehammer, leaving you reeling in its wake.
In the near distance stood the building that once housed Miss Kaczinskis quaint thrift store, its former charm and nostalgia stripped away like paint worn thin by the passage of time. The sight hit you like a brick to the gut, a visceral reminder of the irrevocable changes that had swept through your hometown in your absence.
The transformation was striking, the building’s exterior now adorned with graffiti-covered walls and neon signs, a far cry from the simple elegance of its former incarnation. The windows - once adorned with lace curtains and quaint displays of knick-knacks - were now covered with darkened shades, obscuring the view inside. Shadows and silhouettes from the people inside seemed to loom ominously over the street.
It was as if the very essence of the place had been washed away, leaving behind only a hollow shell of what once was. The memories of days spent browsing through Miss Kaczinski's treasures felt like a distant dream, lost in the swirling mist of time.
But what made your blood boil was the row of bikes lined up in front of the bar. Motorcycles, each sleek and menacing, their chrome accents glinting in the sunlight. They looked so out of place amidst the quaint surroundings of your hometown, filling you with a sense of righteous indignation.
You knew your feelings were likely exaggerated, that your anger was perhaps misdirected and irrational but in that moment it didn’t matter. All you could see was the desecration of a cherished memory, the violation of a place that had once held so much meaning to you.
Wanda and you approached the entrance and you stole a closer glance at the row of motorcycles. A sleek black and red bike caught your eye, its paint gleaming and looking new although you supposed it wasn’t.
There were a few others, a stealthy grey one, a sporty blue one but it was the black bike with the crumpled front that drew your attention most of all. It looked like it had an accident some time ago - a dent in the front, the paint slightly chipped and scratched. Someone had attempted to repair the damage, but the imperfections were still visible.
Wanda’s annoyed sigh snapped your attention away from the damaged bike, causing you to turn towards her.
“He usually waits out here.”
“You haven’t been inside?”
After finishing a message she typed into her phone, Wanda lifted her head to meet your eyes. “I have, but only once. Pietro was busy vomiting,” she grimaced, “Probably what’s happening now too.”
You released a slow breath. The silhouettes of figures inside the bar's darkened windows seemed to move in a wild dance you didn’t know the steps to. Laughter and off-key singing filtered through the brick walls, a cacophony of sounds that echoed through the air.
The sounds of revelry hinted at a group of people simply enjoying each other’s company, living in the moment without a care in the world. But as you stood there, overwhelmed by the turmoil raging inside your head you found it difficult to acknowledge that. The neon sign above your heads, with its bold letters spelling out ‘infinity’, seemed to mock your sense of displacement and unease.
“Alright, I’m going to get that dickhead, I’ll be right back.”
Wanda reached for the door handle, intending to enter the bustling place, but you stepped forward.
“Yeah, I’m not letting you walk in there alone.”
She threw you a side glance but knew it was futile and opened the door. The still so familiar chime of the bell above echoed through the room, a relic from the time when Miss Kaczinski had frequented the place.
You cringed.
After roaming the place you were surprised to find that none of the patrons seemed to react to the bell above the door, seemingly lost in their own world.
Taking a moment to let your gaze wander, you scanned your surroundings. The bar was dimly lit, with the glow of neon signs creating an intimate atmosphere. The furnishings exuded a sense of charm. Wooden tables and chairs were arranged in haphazard clusters, inviting patrons to gather together and share stories over drinks. It looked cozier than you had anticipated.
There were a lot more people than bikes out front and you couldn’t help but wonder who belonged to the biker gang. They seemed to be making quite some money with this bar. Guys were squeezed in booths, beer bottles in hand, and clapping each other’s backs upon talking animatedly. Near the jukebox, a group of patrons gathered, their laughter and chatter blending seamlessly with the music.
Your gaze landed on a corner where three men were engaged in a game of darts. The tallest one of them prepared to throw the dart. He looked intimidating at first sight, broad shoulders and muscles flexed but as he turned around with a boisterous shout and sparkling eyes, fists hitting the air playfully, and his long golden hair caught in the soft glow of the dim light, he didn’t look intimidating at all. He looked like a funny dude.
The guy beside him clapped him on the back, laughing himself, and lined up to throw next. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes in an exaggerated way before throwing the dart and landing a hit himself. The tall blond let out a booming laugh that filled the air, seemingly as happy as before, and swung an arm around the other.
The third guy was leaning casually against the wall with a glass of whiskey in hand, watching the game unfold. A smirk played on his lips.
It was when you noticed the corners of your mouth had lifted themselves.
“Wanda.”
The call cut through the din of music and voices, causing you to turn your head towards the bar. A guy - the bartender you assumed him to be - moved in front of it, approaching you while wiping his hands on a towel before tossing it over his shoulder.
“Your brother is helping Steve stock up the beer. Sorry for letting you wait.”
He glanced between Wanda and you, settling on you with a polite smile albeit tinged with a hint of confusion. “Haven’t seen you here before. Small town like this, you know all the people after a few months. I’m Sam.” He extended his hand for you to shake.
You took his hand, returning his smile. “I’m Y/n. I just moved back here earlier today. Been gone for some time,” you introduced yourself. “It’s nice to meet you, Sam!”
Sam’s smile was toothy, executing an aura of genuineness and hospitality. His demeanor was far from what you expected from a stereotypical biker and a sense of ease washed over you.
“Where did you-”
Another call of Wanda’s name interrupted Sam’s question and Pietro Maximoff came rushing over to you, his steps a little wobbly. A tall, blond guy came into view behind him, taking the place behind the bar and starting to fill some glasses for waiting patrons while Sam was occupied.
As Pietro reached you, his eyes shot wide upon spotting you, hazy gaze sharpening in an instant. He seemed sober out of a sudden.
“Y/n!” he exclaimed, his voice carrying through the room with an unexpected loudness that, nevertheless, didn’t seem to bother anyone. You were engulfed in a hug quicker than you were able to blink, Pietro squeezing the life out of you. A surprised laugh bubbled up from your lips as you hugged him back.
“It’s been so long princessa, missed you so much.”
“You better let go of that girl or she’s going to suffocate.”
A deep voice called out from behind Pietro, his tone laced with amusement. As the tight hold on you finally loosened, you recognized the tall, blond who had walked out with Pietro a few moments earlier.
He offered you his hand as well. Similar to Sam’s, it was calloused with a rough texture. He introduced himself as Steve and his smile would have to be the friendliest you had ever seen.
Steve turned to Sam after assessing the room. “Where’s Buck?”
Sam chuckled, a smirk playing at his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Upstairs. That punk is sulking.”
“I’m not sulking, Samuel.”
The annoyed tone of another guy hit your ears. You instinctively turned your head to see the newcomer.
He emerged from a staircase you hadn’t noticed before, next to the bar. He was tall as well, with broad shoulders and brunette hair that framed his face haphazardly. Like Sam, Steve, and Pietro he was dressed in the same black attire, with a leather jacket that hugged his frame snugly. Other than the others though he wore a glove on his left hand. His dark jeans were worn out, tugged into sturdy leather boots that seemed to have seen their fair share of miles on the road.
“Sure are, man. You disappeared for an hour, don’t think I didn’t notice.”
The brunette - Buck, as Steve had said earlier - now stood before you, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his jacket. With a roll of his eyes at Sam, he released a sigh.
His gaze briefly met yours before offering Wanda a nod and a small smile of acknowledgment.
“Nice to see you again, Wanda.” His earlier gruffness towards Sam was now replaced by a gentle tone. “Hope your brother isn’t too much trouble.”
Wanda let out a chuckle. “No, he isn’t, Bucky, it’s fine.”
You glanced at Wanda a little irritated, because she surely seemed more acquainted with the bikers than she had let on earlier. You didn’t have time to simmer in that feeling, your peripheral vision catching on Bucky - as he was called now - turning his attention back on you.
You met his gaze then, blue eyes seeming to shimmer like pools of liquid sapphire, their depths reflecting the ambient glow of the room with an ethereal quality. Despite the subdued lighting, his gaze was intense, like a magnetic quality drawing you in with an irresistible allure.
Shadows danced across his features, casting intricate patterns of light and dark that only served to accentuate the rugged contours of his face.
“You’re new,” he stated, gaze swiftly sweeping up and down your figure. Curiosity and intrigue danced in Bucky's gaze as he observed you, a far cry from the hunger you had grown accustomed to with Michael.
“Not new, just back in town,” Sam chimed in, having moved back behind the bar again and opening a few bottles of beer.
Bucky’s gaze remained on you.
“Back? So, you’ve lived here before?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yeah. I went to school here, with those two,” you answered him, nodding towards Wanda and Pietro, grateful for the temporary reprieve from Bucky’s intense gaze.
Pietro, in his inebriated state, slung his arm around you and pulled you into his side. “That girl basically fled out of here. Said she needed a change of scenery or whatever. Didn’t even know she came back.”
His words came out slurred and he leaned most of his weight on you, making you sway. Pietro looked down on you then. “How long are you planning on staying, princessa?”
You sighed, an uncomfortable smile on your face. “Well, actually, I’ve moved in with Wanda, so I suppose I’ll be staying for a while.”
Pietro recoiled, nearly knocking you off balance. “You’re staying? What about Michael? Did he come with you? Why didn’t you tell us? Did something happen? Did he-”
Wanda interjected by calling his name sharply, mercifully cutting off his barrage of questions. You couldn’t have been any more grateful.
Pietro’s voice apparently got unnecessarily loud when consuming alcohol, so you weren’t surprised if the whole bar just had heard the name of your possessive ex-boyfriend. What a way to kick off your new life here.
A lump formed in your throat, stubbornly refusing to dissipate despite your efforts to swallow it down. You could only hope nobody noticed the slight flinch of your body upon the unexpected mention of Michael. Pietro’s swaying hold on you might have masked it but apparently, one person noticed anyway.
Bucky’s gaze lingered on you throughout Pietro’s slurred words, a steady intensity that seemed to sear through you. You met his gaze briefly and supposedly weren’t able to cover up the discomfort that churned in your stomach, because he was looking at you as if he could see right through you, peering into the depths of your soul. His brows were faintly knit together in a furrow. You diverted your gaze, not able to withstand the heaviness in his eyes.
“Alright Pietro, we’ll get you home now,” Wanda declared, moving to the other side of him and taking hold of his arm to guide him towards the door. “Thanks for the call, Sam,” Wanda called out as you made your way towards the exit.
“No problem. And it was nice to meet you Y/n! Hopefully, we’ll see you around,” Sam replied from behind the bar, his voice carrying over the chatter of the patrons.
You were already halfway out the door but threw a smile over your shoulder. As you did, your eyes locked with Bucky’s again, who still stood rooted in place, looking at you.
You turned away with the door falling shut behind you.
****
The faint crackle of static from the television murmured in the recesses of your mind, the storyline of the movie Wanda had chosen slipping through your grasp although it was nearly the end. A chill had crept up your spine at the thought of going to sleep after Wanda and you got back home - Pietro having passed out on his couch the second you brought him to his apartment. You left some water and a pill on his coffee table.
The echoes of Michaels' unsettling influence lingered like a ghostly whisper, a constant reminder of the unease that permeated your every waking moment. The mere thought of slipping into sleep's embrace now held the potential for a harrowing encounter with the lingering shadows of your subconscious. He was already haunting your reality, going to lengths to get you under his control once again, you didn’t need him infiltrating your dreams. You hadn’t told Wanda of your fears but sensing your unease she gently suggested watching a movie.
So you found yourself nestled on her small couch, a soft blanket draped over your legs in a feeble attempt to ward off the chill that seemed to ignite in your bones.
On the coffee table before you, a pot of steaming tea sat between two delicate cups, wisps of steam curling and dancing in the air like ethereal spirits. The aroma of chamomile and honey wafted through the room. Your gaze wandered idly over to the television, where the tendrils of steam seemed to waltz and twirl in harmony with the flickering images on the screen.
Your mind couldn’t seem to give you a pause as it drifted back to the encounter with the bikers in their bar. The stark contrast between expectation and reality struck you with a profound clarity. Gone were the stereotypical images of intimidating figures with rough, gravelly voices and unkempt grey beards.
Instead, you were faced with Sam, his demeanor as open and inviting as the expanse of a sunlit meadow. His toothy grin, infectious and genuine, seemed to light up the dim room. He seemed easygoing, someone you’d want to share a laugh with, dispelling the shadows of apprehension that had clouded your initial impressions.
And then there was Steve, his eyes like pools of liquid warmth, reflecting a kindness and sincerity that melted away the barriers of fear and mistrust. His gentle smile radiated charm and ease, like the first rays of dawn breaking through the darkness of night.
But unlike the easygoing nature of Sam and the gentle charm of Steve, Bucky was the one to intrigue you. He seemed to exude a sense of reserved aloofness, his demeanor cloaked in a veil of quiet contemplation. Steve and Sam readily engaged in conversation, while Bucky only observed you with a keen intensity, the blue speckles of his irises flickering with a hint of curiosity.
His smile, if one could even call it that, was small and measured. He seemed guarded, not even having introduced himself to you. You came to know his name through the mentions of Steve and Wanda, rather than from him.
You didn’t know what to make of him with his enigmatic and capturing eyes, his countenance a mask of inscrutability that made it difficult to discern his expression.
“Something’s on your mind.”
It took a moment to find back to reality, the abrupt halt of the conversation on the television and the frozen image on the screen registering only as an afterthought. You turned towards Wanda, the remote still in her hand as she paused the movie, a soft expression on her face.
You let out a heavy sigh, adjusting the blanket around your legs and pulling it further up your body as if it could shield you from the impending conversation. As if it could protect you from the looming specter that haunted your every thought - the ghostly presence of Michael. His lingering presence like a shadow that refused to dissipate, cast a pall over your mind, enveloping you in a cloak of apprehension and dread.
The blanket also seemed powerless against the way, piecing blue eyes lingered like an indelible imprint, the intensity of it coursing through your veins like a potent poison. You should be done by the allure of enigmatic men by now, yet Bucky’s mysterious aura captivated you.
It was terrifying.
You felt gripped by icy hands, sending shivers cascading down your spine and leaving your entire body feeling as though it were encased in frost. You were thankful for the blanket again.
“Can I ask you something?” You finally found access to your voice again, shuffling slightly to meet your friend's patient gaze.
Wanda straightened up, the clink of the cup in her hand meeting the wooden surface of the coffee table as she leaned forward to place it there. A faint ring had already formed on the wood where the cup now rested but she didn’t seem to mind, her attention was on you again. She nodded.
Your fingers were wringing with the soft fabric of the blanket, taking a deep breath. “Earlier…you said you don’t really know them. The bikers I mean. But you seemed pretty acquainted with them at the bar.”
Wanda shifted slightly and you looked up, meeting her gentle gaze as she laid a hand on your wrist, stilling your fingers. “I really don’t know them well. Sam only calls me when Pietro is being dumb and I only talked to Steve and Bucky once. Well, Bucky only gave me his name, not much else to be honest.” That was still more than you got - the disappointment bubbling in your stomach went ignored. Wanda continued, “I don’t know why they reacted like that today but…I guess they’re really just nice people.” She shrugged and you lifted your eyebrows.
Wanda let go of your wrist to playfully nudge you, an amused laugh leaving her lips.
“God, you’re quick to judge! Is this a Seattle thing?”
An own laugh made its way past your lips despite the weight of the implications her words carried. It wasn’t a Seattle thing - it was a Michael thing. But you refused to allow those thoughts to consume you once again. So you let Wanda tease you, let her coax laughter from you. It was what you had missed - the simplicity of sharing a laugh with your best friend, bridging the gap that had widened during the years you spent apart.
Perhaps you’d rediscover a sense of belonging in the town you once longed to leave behind.
34 notes · View notes
olivyh · 1 year
Note
YOUR WRITING IS SERIOUSLY CRAZY GOOD!!! i love it so much..!!! makes me tear up a little../pos
was wondering if you could make something similar to your ruggie x reader 'Tired' fic...^_^ but with jamil!!! Completely okay if not!! make sure to have a good day, and again! LOVE UR WRITING SO SO MUCHH!!! <3
A/N: TYSM!!! <<<<333333333333333!! I'm so glad you enjoy my work! I hope I did this one justice (I have to learn how to write Jamil a little better;;;)
TW: Poisoning, injury
Braiding his own hair had always been therapeutic. 
His hair had been the envy of many and was the sole item that gained him the most attention. Jamil was often identified by his long locks that cascaded down his back, tied up in a loose ponytail with delicate braids weaved within. The small bells that clicked softly with his footsteps grounded him when he needed it the most- the often cool metal bringing him back to the present so he could do what he needed. 
When he was young, his hair was identical to Kalim's. It was cut short, the choppy bangs making way for his narrowed steel-grey eyes. Jamil never thought much about it- he'd even enjoyed looking like his friend, even if only for a few months until it would be cut short again. His frustration would be taken out through dancing- when he realized far too young that he would have to be limited and could never be the best at something. 
The day he'd realized that his fate was predetermined, that he would be doomed to live in someone else's shadow for the entirety of his life, he began to despise his hair. He pulled at it in the darkness of his bedroom, gasping through sobs as he writhed on the mattress and his breath hitched with every pained wail as he tugged at his sore scalp, wanting nothing more than to change, to be different. He didn't want to be a copy of someone else, he wanted a chance to be better than what he was. 
Jamil had seen the toll it had taken on his parents- their weary gazes as they sadly told their children to keep their heads low, the way their lips quivered when both Jamil and Najma were forced to enroll in self-defense classes to protect the Al-Asims, their hushed reassurances when both children would come back from the aforementioned classes, bruised and bleeding, shaking as they gazed up at their parents with wide, confused eyes. 
The Viper couple had always had an air about them- an air of hopelessness, of despair, almost. 
Jamil had wanted nothing more than to save them from that, to see his parents smile the way they had in their wedding photos. He would sometimes sit in his hallway and stare at those photos, trying to piece together what had gone wrong and why his parents never looked at one another like that anymore. Was it work? Was the constant pressure of being responsible for the Al-Asim's wellbeing getting to both of them? Jamil had sometimes thought about what it had been like for the both of them- born to servants, falling in love with servants and having children for the sole purpose of being servants. 
Jamil had known that they didn't have him and his sister for the purpose of being a servant. It was just... a coincidence. His existence was merely coincidence. 
A coincidence that had brought tears to his eyes when he first realized it, and one that he hopes his sister will never find out (he knows that she figured it out already, and he tried to ignore the way her muffled cries drifted into his room that night).
He had started growing out his hair in near-defiance. A way to prove his own freedom, to make his own decisions. He could do what he wanted to his hair- he could dye it, cut it, braid it. His hair was his freedom, and he had spent hours trying to find the right oils and shampoos to use, experimenting with different temperatures and seeing how the air around him affected it. He had tried hairstyles so late in the night that his arms ached from the effort well into the next morning. 
His hair by middle school was well past his shoulders and was already the object of his sister's whining and jealousy. His parents asked him why he didn't cut it, and he had fought them on it for weeks. 
Running his hands through his hair was his therapy, styling it was his own form of meditation when his heart felt as though it was going to burst from the pressure and the workload gave him migraines that pounded his skull until he took a well-deserved nap (which he rarely had the time for). 
He used to have a singular form of therapy, he used to dance and dance and dance until his feet burned and sweat poured down his face and soaked his clothes- sweat that hid the tears that would often spring to his eyes and stream down his face during these moments when he realized that he only truly felt free within the confines of his bedroom. He used to dance until the music caused his ears to ring well into the night, spinning and twisting to a rhythm that pounded in time with his heartbeat and his palms hitting the floor with a frustration that could only be matched by the quick tempo. 
The overwhelming throb in his heart sometimes only increased with the movements, the deep ache that could not be quelled by his quick turns and spins as he threw himself to the ground, gasping and panting as he lay on his back, the cold wood of his floor seeping through his sweaty tanktop as his lip quivered and he sobbed quietly, the music now a dull hum in the deafening silence of his room. 
When he had been poisoned, he had lost his ability to dance for weeks. He remembered the day vividly, waking up in the hospital, his head feeling as though it were full of stuffing and the world spinning until he was trying to swallow down the nausea that rose as his stomach clenched so painfully it made tears spring to his eyes as he whimpered for his mother just as he had when he was a child, begging for her to take the pain that was consuming his body away. 
It took him a week to be able to stand again, and another to stand without feeling that same nausea that would render him immobile for hours. He couldn't dance for a year, the spins suddenly becoming too much for his body to handle and the quick movements, once fluid, now being jittery and shaky. He no longer would feel the rush of adrenaline after a good routine, the satisfaction of perfect choreography as he became one with the music. He would stumble, and his head would spin until he had to rest against the floor to catch his breath that seemed to be running faster and faster with every passing second. 
Jamil lay in bed that night and stared, trying to will his shaking hands to still at his sides. He wanted to cry, to scream and to kick and to wail until he didn't have to be terrified day in and day out, until he could be freed from this agony that was a lifetime of servitude and danger. 
He had taken his time to begin caring for his hair more, to consume hours upon hours creating spells and figuring out how to flick his wrist properly to braid and twist his hair. 
He was normally so protective over it, smacking away anyone who would try to run their hands through the fine silk or who would come near him with scissors to trim the ends. His hair was his individuality, and the thought of someone else having control over it hurt his heart and made his stomach twist and burn as he recoiled from the thought alone. 
So Jamil didn't understand why he felt so...safe. Safe with his head in the prefect's lap, face buried in their thighs as his hand rested on their knee, rubbing it comfortingly with his thumb. Their soft humming brought him a comfort that he hadn't known since he was a child and filled him with warmth. The care they treated him with as their hands ran through his hair gingerly, treating each strand as though it were made of solid gold. Their nails were gentle against his scalp, gingerly twisting and braiding the thick black hair that cascaded down their thighs and splayed against the mattress like vines ready to flower against the soft silk of his sheets.
He felt protected with them, as though his worries were all melting away with the sun that sank below the horizon, casting the entire dorm in the shades of a warm fire that sent embers floating into the open sky- free to venture until they burnt out and became one with the stars. For the longest time, Jamil had longed to become one with those stars, to shine as brightly as they had, unbound by fates and surrounded by possibilities. 
For the first time in his life, Jamil had options. He no longer had to battle alone, no longer would be forced to swallow the poison that bound him to a lifetime of servitude. The shackles would remain until he and Kalim would come to an end, but their weight was lifted. The prefect took those iron bars and lifted them in their own hands, no matter how much he pleaded for them to allow him to carry this heavy burden on his own, that the weight he could carry was no issue to him despite the burn in his arms and neck as the years progressed. They lifted the chains, and he suddenly felt as though he could breathe again. 
As if on cue, his shoulders rose and fell in a sharp sigh as he felt tears well in his eyes, his hands pausing on his lover's knee as their ministrations on his hair stopped, making him frown. 
"What's wrong?" They asked quietly, voice barely a whisper above the winds of the desert and the soft chatter of the other Scarabia residents. 
"Nothing," Jamil said. "Everything." He finally admitted, feeling the weight lift off his heart ever so slightly. 
"Wanna talk about it?" 
"Not now," He would rather never talk about it, to protect them from the life that he had been forced to live and to keep them safe from the possibility of becoming a servant themselves- perhaps even the possibility of their own children becoming servants, then grandchildren, then great-grandchildren. "Spiraling."
He could feel their smile despite having not turned onto his back to face them as their hands continued to thread through his hair gently. The two have learned, through many small fights and trial-and-error, to speak to one another tersely. Jamil found that it was best that they know a little of what is happening in his mind rather than keeping it in the dark- even if his explanations were one or two words. 
"I'm sorry," They mumble, bending over to press a soft kiss to the shell of his ear. He hoped they didn't feel the shiver that ran up his spine nor the way that his heart trembled from the action. 
"Why are you sorry?" he choked out, breath caught in his throat. 
"I'm sorry you're in pain," he felt as though his heart was going to burst from the adoration he felt for the student, pure love spilling from the holes in the walls around his guarded heart and seeping into his veins. Finally, he rolls onto his back and gently raises his arm, raking his nails softly up their neck and winding around to the back of their head before pulling them into a soft kiss. It was far from their first, and Jamil could only hope that they never share a last, but it still made his stomach turn. 
"Please don't worry," He smiles gently, parting from the kiss and feeling a burst of pride from their dazed expression. Jamil lowers his hand from their scalp to their cheek, cupping it gently and running his thumb beneath their eye, brushing over their cheekbone and reveling in the way they lean into his touch and hold their hand over his own. I'm safe as long as you're here, he wants to say. Jamil wants nothing more than to hold them dear and to soak in all the affection they're willing to dish out to him. 
But he knows there's a time.
He feels that it's soon. Soon he could spill his heart out to them, soon he could cup their face and press their foreheads together and hold them so close to himself that it's nearly desperate and whisper sweet nothings against their lips and plead for them to stay greedily as he peppers their face in kisses and feels the way their chest presses against his with every breath. He wanted to hold them in those cold nights, the warmth of the both of them as they lay cuddled beneath the sheets peacefully as he tells them every single thought he's ever had about them, every single one of his wishes as though they could grant them as easily as any genie. 
He would trade in every last wish if it meant he had the courage to speak his mind at this moment, to watch their expression soften, or the way their eyes would widen when he would say what they wanted to hear. 
But there would be another time for that, he decides as he interlaces their fingers, still pressed against the prefect's warm cheek. 
"I love you."
237 notes · View notes
kaaytea · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media
Ties That Bind
Miya Atsumu x reader Royalty!au
Synopsis: Atsumu had everything and then it was all taken away. In the blink of an eye he watched his claim to the throne get handed off to his twin brother. In a desperate need for freedom, the young prince ventures into the Kingdom's Outer City where he meets a peculiar Baker. Through this meeting Atsumu uncovers just how different civilians view the nobility—to the point that it changes his life forever.
Word count: 13k
Warnings: violence, blood, strong language, Atsumu cries a lot
A/n: I have put my entire soul into this fic holy fuck. The amount of plot drafts I went through to find the story I wanted to convey is crazy. I love Atsumu and the silly thought of the twins competing for the throne was what sparked this (and good god did it turn into something else) Happy Halloween to all and I hope you enjoy!
Tumblr media
If there was one thing a royal family could be blessed with—it was a child.
Even more so when that presumed child turned out to be twins.
Atsumu and Osamu, born princes of the Kingdom known as Arellia, did everything together. Even from a young age, the boys were inseparable; where one was the other was always close behind—hand clasped in his brother's as the pair raced through the extensive castle halls.
The older they grew the shorter and farther the days spent dashing through the gardens became. Both boys spent their time being molded into proper princes, Atsumu more so than Osamu. As the eldest and first born twin, Atsumu held a great title to his name. As a child he didn't quite understand how different his path would stray from his brother's; lengthy lectures about politics and foreign languages he'd yet to understand, replaced the time he had spent sneaking extra cookies from the kitchens for him and Osamu to eat in a hidden library corner.
It wasn't until Atsumu's early teen years that he'd truly understood why the servants and teachers would watch him with hopeful eyes, that he'd finally connect the reason for the amounts of pressure put on him during his younger years. He was their next king, the next young leader to rule over his family's kingdom.
Osamu didn't have that title. Yes the boy was taught the same subjects and policies as Atsumu, but the emphasis and importance was watered down; royalty he may be, but a future king he was not. And yet the brothers never resented each other for who was to sit on the throne, fate had decided which one would hold the responsibility—even if that decision was only separated by ten minutes.
Atsumu's ambition to master every subject forced upon him grew the day he realized what his life had been set up for him since birth. His hunger to perfect his teachings and honor his father as future king outweighed any goal he had previously set. The crowned prince of Arellia put his heart into his work and spent a majority of his life preparing for his predetermined future; everything lay before him, perfectly planned and never astray.
Atsumu's fingers quickly buttoned the pure white jacket a maid had put out earlier in the day. It was one of his favorites—a snowy color covered in extravagant golden accents and gems that made his dark hair stand out. Dressing for dinner was always a hassle in his mind; he already changed into at least three other outfits daily for his set tasks, it felt silly to throw on something completely new when he could very well put on the garb he had worn to breakfast. Atsumu heaved a sign as he finished the last button and quickly turned to the vanity tucked in the corner of his vast room.
The prince's brows furrowed as he scanned over the surface of the piece of furniture, his confusion only deepening as a certain golden object was absent from its usual resting place. He crossed over to the vanity—opening drawers and moving boxes in a silly hope that the circlet was hiding in plain sight.
"Looking for something?"
Atsumu turned in a startled manner, eyes wide as he blinked in surprise at the man with white and grey hair.
"Kita! Have ya seen—"
Before the brunette could even finish the sentence Kita produced a simple golden circlet from behind his back. Atsumu instantly sighed in relief as Kita handed him the missing item.
"Where did—"
"The stables, your highness," Kita spoke softly, "It seems y’still forget to retrieve it after yer afternoon rides on the grounds."
Atsumu hummed at Kita's words as he placed the ring of gold atop his head, rearranging his hair in the mirror and centering the circlet so the small ruby encrusted in the ore lined up neatly at the center of his forehead.
"Perhaps I should start keeping it in my room when I leave for the stables."
"I believe that would be a preferable decision," Kita said. The man met Atsumu's eyes in the reflection of the mirror, the brunette stopped his preening when they locked gazes. "You've been far too lenient with yer care for it."
A brief pout crossed Atsumu's face. The whereabouts of a simple circlet weren't as important as learning to run a kingdom; accessories could be replaced when lost or damaged, a kingdom is far more permanent. The prince pivoted on his heel, turning away from the vanity mirror and breezing past Kita with a smile.
"A crown is the least of my worries, Kita. Besides, I've been far too busy to keep track of somethin' so insignificant,'' Atsumu called over his shoulder, a smirk toying on his lips as he slipped out the door of his bedroom. Kita—completely unfazed by Atsumu—followed close behind the prince as he hurried his way towards the great hall.
"Weren't y’not just frantically searching yer room for said 'insignificant' object?"
Atsumu froze mid-step at Kita's response, his face scrunched up as he attempted to fabricate an excuse, but gave up as he watched Kita walk past him, an almost satisfied smile on the advisor's face due to striking the prince where he knew would hurt the most—his pride. Atsumu huffed in an irritated manner before speed walking to catch up with his friend.
Kita Shinsuke had been Atsumu's advisor, and trusted friend, for as long as he could remember. During his earlier years, Kita was more of a person to keep the young prince company and help him stay organized as he was whisked to and from every corner of the castle. Stripped from his life as a middle-class child, Kita was recognized for his strong work ethic and attention to detail and thus offered the opportunity to be trained as an advisor. Although he spent most of his childhood in his parents’ modest Inner City home, Kita truly felt more at peace visiting his grandmother, who lived in the Outer City surrounded by fields of flowers and rolling hills. Nowadays Kita was tasked with assisting Atsumu in any way he needed—which usually meant keeping the man on schedule.
The pair entered the extravagant Great Hall. Cream-colored walls stretched to form the large room with floor-length glass doors lining the left side; each one led to a stone landing whose stairs would bring you straight into the rose gardens that spread out before them. The High ceilings were lipped with golden moldings, each swirling in intricate patterns that directed straight to the crystal chandelier centered in the room—the fiery lights from early sunset passed through the gems and caused spots of rainbows to dance across the walls in welcome. In the center of the room was a long birch wood table with chairs dotted around it; at the far end of the table, five places were set for dinner, one of them being filled by an identical version of Atsumu biting into a tart, most likely snagged from the kitchens before his arrival.
Kita bid Atsumu goodbye and slipped through one of the hidden doors behind a tapestry of a golden fox, probably down to the common area the servants gathered in for their meals. Atsumu made his way towards Osamu and plopped down in the seat beside his brother. The younger twin said a muffled greeting through a mouthful of food.
"Don't let Ma see you eating that," Atsumu teased, "She'll go on one of her rants about spoilin’ yer dinner."
Osamu eyed his brother, swallowing the last bit of the berry tart and brushing away the evidence of crumbs from his lips.
"Her and Dad are in some meeting about those attacks on the trade roads toward the Inner City, so unless y’say anything there's no way she'd find out."
A shitty smile spread across Atsumu's face—one that already had Osamu dreading whatever his brother was planning to say during dinner. As quickly as the smirk appeared it was gone, being replaced by a blank look and blinking, confused eyes.
"Wait if Ma and Dad are in a meeting then where's—"
"'Tsumu! 'Samu!"
The owner of the shrill, giggly voice echoed around the room as they burst into the hall. In a whirlwind of gold and blue, a little girl bound towards the princes, her poofy dress bouncing and twirling with her excitement.
The twins turned towards where their little sister was charging towards them, soft smiles and laughs breaking through their trained composure at the sunny voice of the little girl and the exasperated nanny who was standing in the doorway.
"Look! Look!" She called pointing and twirling in her dress, "I match the both of you!"
She wasn't wrong, the deep navy of her dress matched the blue that Osamu was wearing, and the gold details lining the bodice and edges of her skirt were a perfect replica of the ones Atsumu was dawning. A cheery laugh bubbled from Atsumu's chest as he stood up from his seat and went to kneel in front of his baby sister. The little girl twirled again to show off the frilly dress, her dark brown locks dancing around her face as she spun.
"Ya look beautiful, Mitsuru!" Atsumu encouraged, hand going out to straighten the princess as she teetered and stumbled after all her spinning. A beaming smile split the little girl’s face, her onyx eyes—the same shade as Osamu's—twinkled with childish wonder.
Mitsuru turned to where Osamu was sitting, directing the same heart-attack-inducing smile towards him. "Do ya like it too, 'Samu?"
Osamu smiled gently at her, the kind of smile that eased a person's worries and melted their heart. The prince motioned for her to come over to him—too which she happily obliged—and straightened out the petite crown that sat on her head.
"'Course I do 'Tsuru, yer lookin' more and more grown-up every day."
Mitsuru happily danced in place at both of her brother's approval. The twins watched their baby sister twirling about with loving smiles; it seemed like just yesterday the two of them were being called into their parents’ quarters to meet her for the first time—eight years had gone by as quick as a sneeze.
"Mitsuru," the voice of the princess's nanny broke the joyous spell the girl had cast over the room, the chastising tone sucked the bounce right out of Mitsuru's feet. "You know your mother and father have requested you practice acting like a big girl for when the representatives from Wisteria come to visit. Was that outburst very ladylike of you?"
The girl visibly slumped at the woman's words, her little feet shuffled uncomfortably at the wooden floor.
"No," she said dejectedly, "But I wanted 'Tsumu and 'Samu to see my new dress."
"That's fine dear, next time just do it a bit more quietly," the nanny's hand caressed her fluffy hair then guided her to the seat across from Osamu's.
"Mrs. Finn," Atsumu started, "What's this about the Kingdom of Wisteria?"
Osamu perked up as well, "Yeah we weren't told anything."
The woman opened her mouth to speak as she lifted Mitsuru into the cushioned seat, but whatever she was going to say was cut off by a strong voice echoing from the entrance of the Great Hall.
"We've agreed to invite some members of the house for dinner," the King spoke as he escorted his wife towards her seat beside Mitsuru. The nanny bowed frantically towards the King and Queen before excusing herself and slipping through the door behind the fox tapestry.
"I thought we cut off all communication with them?" Osamu questioned, reaching for the glass filled with water set before him.
"We have, but the council and I think it would be in our best interests to reconnect with them. Their firstborn is looking for betrothal candidates."
The twin princes blinked back at their father from their seats. Never had the prospect of an engagement been discussed. Usually, these things were decided while royalty was in their teens—not early twenties.
"So Osamu would be betrothed to some princess?" Atsumu's voice broke the hanging silence. He had nothing to worry about as the next in line, most Kings in Arellia marry a second-born royal to avoid the rare possibility that they'd have to leave to rule their spouse’s kingdom. Atsumu's unbothered mood vaporized when his father didn't respond, the sick feeling only worsened as he watched his mother exchange a pitiful look with the king.
"You haven't told them, dear?" She said in a hushed voice, almost as if she were pretending the pair weren't sitting directly across from her.
"Told us what?" Atsumu and Osamu said at the same time, sharing brief confused looks with each other.
The King cleared his throat while picking up the fork beside his plate; cooks and servants had started bringing out trays of mouth-watering food and placing them around the table. Mitsuru—who was oblivious to the tension enveloping her family—dug straight into a bowl of rice.
"The council has recently expressed their approval that. . .Osamu will be the candidate for the throne of Arellia."
Atsumu's throat closed up. He couldn't breathe, it was like he was silently choking on air, his lungs struggling to drink in oxygen. Sound became irrelevant as he stared at his father in disbelief, the muffled protests from Osamu felt miles away as a loud ringing only he could hear invaded his thoughts. Atsumu's entire childhood had revolved around the fact that he was to be the next king, now his one purpose—his life's work—was being stripped away because some ancient council members deemed him unworthy.
As Atsumu's mind started to process the news, the anger built. His hands balled into fists that shook in rage—a rage that was not only directed at the deteriorating politicians in the court, but also at himself. The sounds of the tense argument between Osamu and their father started to rush into the prince's senses in a similar way one surfaces from water: graceful but all at once. With a sharp slam Atsumu stood up with his hands flat against the birch table, the sudden outburst had made Mitsuru jump and sink closer towards her mother's side once she noticed her brother's irritated state.
"It's against the law for them to do that—I was born first! It's my birthright to be the next king, not Osamu's!"
Atsumu's eyes flicked sharply to his father's face, a venomous emotion lingering in his stare. "I've spent my entire life preparing for this role, I won't let some shitty politicians ruin that for me!"
Mitsuru sniffled pathetically into the Queen’s side, the woman's hand ran comfortingly over her daughter's head as she watched her family tear into each other.
"Dad, perhaps ya should reconsider—"
"Stay out of this Osamu! You’ve already ruined enough!" Atsumu snapped, directing his attention towards his brother. Osamu's brows furrowed and an emotion flickered momentarily in his eyes, one that Atsumu didn't care to acknowledge. The older twin opened his mouth again to spew a vicious wave of words at his clone.
"Sit down, Atsumu!"
The King's voice came out strong, demanding, and hot. The sheer force had Atsumu falling into his seat sitting straight as a board. His eyes burned hotly at the plate of food in front of him, a plate of food that would not be able to satiate the angry hunger building in his chest.
After what felt like hours the Queen's gentle voice rose through the tense air, defusing the heated stares and violent thoughts brewing. "This matter can be discussed later, perhaps at a more appropriate time than at the dinner table."
The rest of the meal was silent, all except for the hiccups and sobs coming from Mitsuru; the girl's tears dripped down her face and onto her new blue and gold dress—a dress that was supposed to represent her two beloved brothers.
Tumblr media
Atsumu was up and out of the Great Hall the second the last plate left the table, storming through the corridors towards his room. Nobody tried to stop him in fear of being on the receiving end of his explosive irritation; even Kita's voice died in his own throat as he watched the man breeze past him. Kita was rational and decided to let him simmer down a bit before even attempting to approach him.
Atsumu slammed his bedroom door shut, ripped the circlet from his head, and threw it onto the maroon sheets of his bed. The prince's hands instinctively raked through his hair as he paced around the polished wood floor of his bed chambers. He felt antsy, hyper-aware of everything around him as fear started to shred its way from his lungs to his throat, a burning pressure built in his head behind his eyes as he fought to keep everything in; like steam in a pot trying to escape.
Atsumu was supposed to have his life perfectly planned for him—a straight shot towards the throne void of any obstacles—and now it was as though the floor had fallen from under his feet causing him to free-fall into a pit of dark unknown. His father had never doubted his abilities before, so why was Osamu suddenly a better candidate than him?
A few tears fell down his cheeks, ones that he wiped away as quickly as they had been produced. Atsumu refused to cry, he didn't want to give the council that satisfaction—even if nobody would be present to witness such an event.
The prince's head fell heavily against his pillow, his eyes focusing and unfocusing on the balcony windows lying to the right of the bed. The sun had finally set for the day, the moon beginning its silvery reign over the world as night descended over the kingdom. Through the swirling darkness of the evening, Atsumu's eyes flicked from their blank stare to a more curious watch; a warm light was glowing from somewhere beyond the palace grounds, it danced and played in the black air in a taunting manner, as though it were beckoning the prince to look.
Atsumu rose from his bed and crossed over to the door of his balcony, the cold air rushed around him the second the door swung open. From here he could see the light clearer—lanterns, each one bobbing about the sea-like void. If Atsumu strained his ears enough he could make out the faint sounds of music and laughter, the infectious warmth spread through him, chasing out the previous tension and flooding his mind with curiosity.
Presented right in front of him was an opportunity to escape and attempt to forget about the current situations creating so much turmoil inside him. He had to get away from it all—his family, the palace, anything that reminded him of his position.
Atsumu flew back into his room. If he were to do this properly he'd need a change of clothes; as much as he enjoyed his white and gold extravagance, he knew for a fact that it wasn't exactly a typical style choice among the more common folk. He'd need something normal, something that wouldn't make him stand out.
The prince sifted through his clothing and only was able to produce a simple black cloak. He tapped his finger against his chin as he pondered how exactly he'd be able to make a single cloak cover his identity. Muffled voices were heard passing his bedroom—voices who just so happened to be able to solve his problem. Atsumu crept his bedroom door open and smirked triumphantly when he spotted the canvas bag of clean laundry sitting a few doors down. The prince scurried over and snagged a few articles he was familiar with seeing Kita wear; it’s not like Kita would mind that much anyways, Atsumu would have them returned before he even noticed they were missing.
Now that he was completely disguised, Atsumu slipped down his balcony using a makeshift rope of sheets—an idea he had gotten from an old fairytale his mother would read him and Osamu as kids— and started his mad dash across the castle grounds and towards the bustling Inner City.
Tumblr media
The Inner City was even more than Atsumu could ever imagine. Not once had he actually ever left the palace to explore, what was supposed to be, his kingdom; the closest he had come to was reading about the trade markets and political theories related to the city. The cobblestone streets weaved into multiple alleyways and avenues while beautifully crafted stores and homes lined the paths in neat rows, all illuminated by candle-lit street lamps which cast a warm glow over everything. People loomed through the city laughing and talking to one another as they explored what new inventory the night markets had to offer. Inviting smells of foods completely foreign to his refined taste made Atsumu's mouth water as he peeked over the shoulders of the citizens. The deeper he strayed into civilian life the more he hungered to learn and absorb everything this strange new world had to offer.
The farther Atsumu ventured from the Inner City nightlife, the more peculiar his surroundings became. Pure white storefronts and homes with deep oak support beams faded into smaller wooden homes, the beautifully kept cobblestone roads and streets started to crack and become misaligned until they eventually morphed into dirt. It slowly started to dawn on the prince that he was no longer in the safety of the Inner City, a place of Nobles and artisans, but instead had wandered into the sickening realm of the Outer City—an area he had heard many of the bankers and respectable traders working directly with his father call a festering filth hole.
If there was one place a prince would find himself unsafe in this kingdom it would be the Outer City; a place known for crime and as of recently, vicious raids on merchant caravans traveling to the palace.
The young man looked around him frantically; he was completely lost, all the streets looked the same here and he couldn't catch any glimpses of the bustling Inner City. Caught at a fork in the street, Atsumu just had to choose a direction and walk; maybe there was at least one kind soul who'd be willing to help him.
The direction he had chosen opened up to an old town’s center; decaying shops and a smoking bakery sat in an odd scattered pattern around the square. Behind the buildings Atsumu could just make out a hill speckled with what looked like sunflowers. People of all ages loitered around wrapped in ragged, patchy clothes; despite their current states, there seemed to still be a joyous aura about the townsfolk. A bit off from the middle of the square was an ancient traveling puppet theater, it looked like one strong wind would cause the chipped, dull contraption to topple over. Children sat in the dirt around the theater watching with wide eyes as the puppet master played out his show.
Atsumu found himself smiling gently at the childrens' merry laughs and calls to warn the knight of the dragon creeping up behind him. Their energy reminded him so greatly of Mitsuru. The thought of his baby sister caused his heart to sink as pictures of her crying form appeared in his head. Atsumu felt sick when he realized how much he must have scared the poor girl at dinner; he and Osamu rarely yell like that around her to spare her kind heart. He'd make it up to her when he got home, she always loves it when he takes her riding through the gardens.
The little show continued on, creating happy cheers from the children as the knight prevented the dragon from attacking; even Atsumu found himself breathing out laughs with the townsfolk. Who knew a crummy puppet show would be a hundred times more entertaining than the ballets and operas he was forced to watch?
"Excuse me," a voice called out.
The prince turned to find a person in a flour-covered apron with a large basket of bread hanging safely on their arm. The person smiled up at him and reached into the basket retrieving a loaf of bread.
"I'm sorry it's all we have to offer tonight. I'm afraid the shipment of ingredients never got delivered," they said, pressing the bread gently into his hands. "Hopefully the trade supervisor will lighten up on his taxes soon."
The person left Atsumu standing baffled in the square with the fresh bread heating his hands.
What in the world just happened? Why did that person give him bread? And what was that mention of taxes?
The prince watched the person weave around the square handing the food out—each recipient smiled and thanked them greatly as they made their rounds. When they approached the children they cheered and whooped, all of them eagerly lining up to get their share of food.
How odd, Atsumu thought. Some of them act as though they've never seen food before.
With their bread in hand, the townspeople started to break into groups and enter their homes—related or not they welcomed people into the shelters with crinkled smiles and cheery voices. Atsumu took this as a note to head back the way he had come, not wanting to attract any attention to him as the streets cleared.
As he shuffled lost through the Outer City alleys, he absentmindedly took a bite from the bread the mystery Baker had gifted him. The food was light and soft, the inside still heated to a comfortable temperature from the oven. This simple thing was just as good as any of the gourmet delicacies he had been given by the palace kitchens—maybe even better than some. The noble found himself slightly saddened as he popped the last piece into his mouth, disappointed that he could very well never taste such divine baking again.
For such a talented Baker they sure said some strange things. Why had they apologized to him about sparing one loaf of bread? And why did they mention taxes on ingredients? The kingdom didn't have any taxes placed on ingredients. Atsumu had studied every law, and past laws, the kingdom had ever ordered, and not once had a tax on ingredients or food been issued.
Surely the person was turned around a bit. Atsumu had never worked in a kitchen, but he could assume that the hot ovens make your brain a little fuzzy.
Speaking of being turned around, the prince was still very lost at the moment; any thoughts about the baker had to be put on hold as he wandered around trying to find a sliver of direction. He had bumbled his way into an area with messy cobblestone streets—a definite upgrade from the town square he had visited earlier—but he still found himself slipping In and out of the extensive alleyways and streets of the labyrinth-like city.
Atsumu was just about to lose hope when he spotted something turning out from the corner of the street ahead of him—an incognito banking carriage. Joy flared within him as he followed the carriage, being sure to stick a good distance away from the vehicle. Banking carriages—specifically the one in front of him—often travel at night between the Outer and Middle sections of the kingdom directly to the Inner sections. Following this carriage was a straight shot back to his home.
The trip wasn't as long as he initially thought it would be, before the prince knew it he was surrounded by the hectic crowds of the night markets. After weaving through the masses of people and sneaking through the castle grounds, Atsumu found himself back at his window which he craftily scrambled up again with the use of his makeshift rope.
Once in his bedroom, he felt the adrenaline from sneaking back into the palace rush through him. Tonight had been like nothing the young royal had ever experienced—and he was still hungry for more of that euphoric freedom.
Out in the city, he didn't have any responsibility. Nobody knew who he was and he got to observe people living lives so foreign from his own. His curious mind drifted back to the Baker; he still had questions unanswered about them that burned hotly in his consciousness as he tossed and turned in his bed.
Atsumu fell asleep with a final decision on his mind—one more visit to the small Outer City town wouldn't hurt, he'd be there only to get his curiosity quenched and he would come straight home to the palace. He promised himself that.
How exactly could anything go wrong from just talking to someone?
Tumblr media
The next day seemed to drag on slower than ever. Atsumu sat through his lessons and duties, glancing at the clock every 10 minutes—his leg never ceased its insistent bouncing as he waited impatiently for his day to end so he could run off to the city.
The day wasn't a complete waste though, he managed to snag more of Kita's clothing for his trip whenever he passed one of the canvas laundry bags in the halls.
When Atsumu finished his last objective for the day he burst out of the room and hurried through the halls. He didn't want to waste another second in the castle—which had started to feel absurdly stuffy after his taste of freedom last night.
As he skirted around the corner leading to the wing where his and his siblings’ quarters resided, the prince skid to a halt to avoid stepping on the dainty feet of his baby sister. Mitsuru let out a startled squeak as she stumbled back to dodge Atsumu, only for her to bump straight into Osamu who was standing behind her—the younger prince’s hands quickly went to hold her shoulders to make sure she didn’t fall. When Mitsuru looked up to see just who had almost run her over, she let out a happy squeal, wriggled out from Osamu’s cautious hold, and jumped up into Atsumu’s arms; the small girl couldn’t jump particularly high, leaving Atsumu to crouch awkwardly to catch her when she launched herself at him.
“Atsumu!” the small princess cried, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, locking him into a hug. “‘Samu is gonna steal cupcakes fer us! Y’can help me distract Chef Blanchet while he gets 'em!”
“I uh,” Atsumu stuttered, shifting Mitsuru to his hip to have a more secure hold on her. Atsumu locked eyes with his twin; Osamu inclined his head towards the hall that led down to the kitchens. It was like he was saying: “What’s with the hesitation? Let’s go.” Atsumu looked away from Osamu, he gazed briefly out the window on his right; a warm hue was starting to hit the sky as the sun moved across the heavens, the prince could just make out the tops of the buildings of the Inner City from where he was standing. “I’ll have to pass this time, ‘Tsuru. Promise I’ll help ya next time, ok?”
Mitsuru let out a whine and held onto her brother tighter, “But it won’t be as fun without ya!”
“C’mon, Mitsuru,” Osamu drawled. He stepped forward and pried the girl off his brother, as he stepped back he sent Atsumu a questioning look. “‘Tsumu don’t want to be bothered right now.”
The princess muttered out an ok, waving sadly at Atsumu as Osamu carried her down the hall. Osamu must have said something to cheer her up because just as he was turning the corner her eyes lit up and she started giggling.
Atsumu brushed the interaction off and continued his way to his quarters.
The Prince slipped into his bedroom and threw off his circlet. He then poked his head into the hall and informed one of the maids to tell his family that he wouldn't be attending dinner that night due to feeling ill. The maid seemed to buy his little lie and wished him good health as she headed straight into one of the many hidden servants' halls to relay the news.
In seconds Atsumu was dressed in the "commoners clothes" and shimmying down from his window. This time the prince had armed himself with more than just a cloak and the clothes on his back, he had a pouch of coins and a knife strapped to his belt—you could never be too safe.
The streets of the Inner City weren’t as busy as they had been the night before; it was still fairly early in the evening so people were probably just tucking into their suppers.
Atsumu fished some gold pieces from his bag and purchased a pastry from one of the many side vendors as he re-traced his steps from the night earlier. The baked good was flakey and light, but he still preferred the bread gifted to him yesterday.
The prince hoped dearly that he'd be able to find his mystery Baker again, there was something about them that just felt. . .magnetizing. They were an odd character and he couldn't help but have curiosity tug at his stomach the more he thought about them.
The sky had just started to tint a gold color as he stepped back into the dusty town square. The puppet theatre from the night before was gone—its owner had probably already started his travels to another town. With no theatre to entertain, the children kept themselves busy with games of tag or Ring around the Rosie; such games that Atsumu didn't understand nor find that interesting, and yet the gaggles of kids still squealed with delight.
Just as Atsumu passed the little bakery in hopes of catching a glimpse of his mystery Baker, the old doors burst open, the hinges squeaked and moaned at the force of the action. Out from the door stumbled a person holding various boxes which were falling from the neat stack they had once been placed in.
On instinct Atsumu jumped at grabbing the boxes that were tumbling towards the ground. The packages were safely cradled in his arms as the person peeked out from behind the stack of boxes.
"Oh thank you, sir!" You boasted, stepping carefully down from the steps to meet him on the dusty path. "I don't know what I would have done if those fell."
"Yer welcome," Atsumu responded, immediately recognizing you as the Baker from yesterday. He glanced at how you were struggling to balance the many boxes in your arms while also attempting to take the ones he had managed to save. "Perhaps ya'd like some help deliverin' these? It might be a bit easier for you to see where yer headed."
A grateful look broke out on your face, a happy sigh followed close after, "That would be wonderful thank you," you hummed, your relief quickly evaporated as concern replaced its space. "I mean, only if it wouldn't be a bother to you! I'd hate to just force my work onto some poor soul!"
"Yer forcin' no such thing on me," Atsumu said as he reached out to take his share of packages from your arms, "I'm happy to help ya, truly."
You sent him another grateful smile in return and started leading the way towards your destination.
"Are you new to town? I saw you yesterday evening but I don't recall your face—My name’s (y/n) by the way!" You said over your shoulder. You slowed your pace slightly so Atsumu could catch up.
Atsumu didn't really know how to answer your question; technically he was new to the town but definitely not new to the kingdom.
"No, I just stumbled upon this place while on a walk."
"Well," you started, a breathy laugh leading into your words, "Our town might not be as extravagant as the Inner City, but I think it holds much more charm than that stuffy socialite compound."
The prince stifled a laugh at your words; there was a slight bite to them which he enjoyed.
"Forgive me, but I still haven't gotten your name yet. I'd like to thank you properly for helping me with these care packages."
The prince's mind went into a state of panic; he couldn't tell you his real name, it was far too recognizable. In seconds his eyes darted around the town searching for a pseudonym for himself, grasping for the first name that came to his mind.
"Shinsuke," he stuttered. Atsumu cleared his throat and straightened his stance in an attempt to seem a bit more convincing, "My name's Shinsuke."
"Well thank you very much for helping me, Shinsuke."
It felt odd being called anything but his name or some variation of “your highness,” but somewhere in Atsumu's heart, he enjoyed the anonymous feeling the name provided. You were treating him like a normal person and not a future king—although he wasn't sure about the king part anymore.
The two of you stopped at your first destination. A hasty knock on the chipped door revealed an exasperated mother holding a sobbing child. Atsumu watched as the mother thanked you over and over when you handed her the package. Your smiles and soft voice eased her obviously spiked nerves; even the child tucked away in the woman's shoulder peeked at you and sent a teary smile your way when you waved at them.
"(Y/n)?" Atsumu started as he followed you to the next destination. Your hum of acknowledgment queued him to go on, "What exactly are in these packages?"
"Food from my family's bakery!" You chirped, pausing your steps to let a wagon with rusty wheels filled with firewood rumble past the two of you.
"So does your family just sell everything in-store and you deliver?"
"No we give this out for free," you said like it was the most obvious thing.
Free? Your family was just giving people food without charging them? How did that even work—why was your family even doing it in the first place? Giving things to people without charge defeats the entire purpose of having a business, you don't have to be an educated Noble to understand that.
"I can tell you're confused," you said. You matched your steps with his to better explain yourself. "The primary trading corporation that sells our town ingredients and food has been raising taxes for the past few years; the people aren't able to pay for everything individually anymore, so my family buys in bulk and distributes the food."
"It's illegal for corporations to do that," Atsumu frowned, glancing at the dim look on your face. "Have y’tried to report any of this?"
"Trust me," you laughed bitterly, "This entire town could waltz right up to the King and they'd still find a way to twist our words. It's what they've been doing with all those raid reports anyway. It's not hard to gain power when you're born into wealth."
Atsumu followed quietly behind you as you handed the last few packages out—most of them were given to families or elderly people who were in no position to work. The night before Atsumu had only gotten a glimpse of what life was like out here; any prior knowledge was heavily biased by the very nobles destroying your way of life. Now that he's had a closer look, the prince realized that everything he knew, or he thought he knew, about the Outer City was completely wrong. The people weren't crude and violent, scraping any living thing for money to survive, or robbing caravans. Everyone he had watched you interact with was kind—struggling to live, but incredibly welcoming; multiple times the two of you were invited to share what little food the townspeople had to offer as the sun dipped and the air froze, but each time you politely declined.
The last lights of the day were completely gone by the time the two of you had looped back to your bakery; the moon cast its silvery light over the dirt-laden square as the stars winked gleefully at anyone watching. Parents were calling their children in for bed and a group of joyous elderly men playing cards and smoking pipes ushered the children in with warnings of ghosts stealing any stranglers.
"Wait right here please," you called out, hurrying up the cracked steps to the storefront—the little bell jingled happily in welcome as you threw open the door.
In seconds you returned with something wrapped in a white, cotton cloth. You hopped down the stairs and smiled up at the brunette, "A gift to thank you again. It was quite nice to have company this time."
Atsumu accepted the cloth-wrapped item. He unraveled it to find two hot loaves of rye bread.
"Thank you," he whispered, still stunned at how gracious you were; he'd only just met you properly and yet you treated him with such care and respect.
"Well," you awkwardly kicked at the ground, your hands fiddling with the strings of the apron you still wore. "Goodnight, Shinsuke."
The prince watched you turn to leave, your figure was halfway up the stairs when his mouth moved faster than his mind.
"Wait!" He sputtered, cheeks warming at your glittery eyes when you quickly turned back, "Would ya—this sounds so forward, but would y’mind if I helped ya again tomorrow?"
"I would love that."
Your answer came out barely louder than a whisper, but the sentence caught the wind and drifted straight to Atsumu's ears, sending shivers down his spine. A giddy smile spread across his face and he waved goodbye to you as he left the impoverished town for the second time.
Tumblr media
Atsumu has been consistently visiting your town for three weeks now. Every night he would either skip out on dinner and request it be delivered to his quarters where he was "studying," or he would leave immediately after a hasty meal with his family and meet you after your nightly deliveries where the two of you spent hours talking and sharing a loaf of bread from your store.
You had opened him up to a completely different world, talking about every mundane thing that crossed your mind. He was fascinated by your way of living and how you thought; everything was from the heart, not once had you stopped to politically analyze or weigh the financial repercussions of the obstacles presented, you simply acted on how you felt—something so pure and out of the goodness of your heart would have been frowned upon by the stiff nobility.
The early evenings in the Inner City had become more crowded as the nights shifted to that of cool summer. Atsumu had consistently found it difficult to maneuver between the crowds of eager peddlers and pompous artisans; their voices calling out to victims who looked to be easily swayed into purchasing whatever trinket they were selling.
"You sir!" A seller called, shoving handheld cases filled with jewelry into his face, "A handsome lad like yourself must have a special person; perhaps treat them to a gift just as beautiful!"
"No thank you," Atsumu said in the politest voice he could muster, gently pushing the case away. The peddler frowned slightly and sauntered away from the disguised prince, his voice already calling out to a young couple passing by. Atsumu breathed a sigh of relief before hurrying through the crowd; he was already too late to help you deliver food tonight and he didn't want to waste any more time getting stopped by vendors.
The bright, flame-lit street lamps slowly dwindled to none as the brunette followed the familiar path towards your town. The only light cast onto the streets being from candles inside the houses he was passing.
It was funny to think that the first time he had walked this path he'd been terrified of the people inhabiting the area; now he was welcomed with cheery hellos from everyone who lived there—Atsumu had even found himself particularly popular with the village children who often invited him to play games with them.
The tight streets opened up into the dusty town square. Atsumu breathed in the fresh air, the slight scent of sunflowers riding on the wind down from the open fields, and the chirp of crickets mixed in with the happy squeals from the kids playing off to the side created a warm feeling in the air.
Atsumu went to wait for you at your family's bakery. His eyes drifted across the weathered boards and slightly rusted hinges on the door and sign; the building was old and underkept, but was dearly loved by the townspeople. Atsumu had even caught you gazing fondly at the building on multiple accounts. The prince had learned a great amount of history regarding the store and yet he still had yet to actually enter the bakery—perhaps it was out of respect for you and your family as the small store also doubled as your home, or perhaps it was out of fear.
"Shinsuke," a dry and weathered voice called. The name still felt foreign to him, but gradually Atsumu had found himself responding to it more naturally. The Nobel looked over to the small hut of reclaimed wood and straw, a gentle smile graced his lips when he spotted an elderly woman waving him over. When he approached her, the woman's withered, yet soft hands encased one of his own. "Have you eaten supper yet? You look too thin for a man your age."
It felt ironic for someone to call him thin when he had probably been fed more food in a day than most people in the Outer City had seen in their life, but the genuine concern and parental love seeping from the little old lady's voice melted away any humor in the situation.
"Don't worry," a charming laugh broke through his words, "I've been takin' care of m’self."
"Good," she stated, her hands slipped from his and reached up to gently pat his cheek. The moment was tender until her smile slipped into one a bit more devious, "Wouldn't want you getting sick on our dear (y/n), now would we?"
Before Atsumu could even respond—voice thoroughly stopped up with embarrassed stutters—the old lady waved to him, muttering something about it being too late for an old soul like her's to be up, and slipped into her shack. The prince just remained, rooted to the spot he inhabited, staring unblinkingly at where the woman had been moments before.
"Shin? What are you doing?"
"(Y/n)!" He squeaked out pathetically, spinning quickly on his heel to face you. He cleared his throat to try and compose himself before walking over to you. "I was just uh—talking to Ms. Aida."
"Riiight well—," you trailed into your next sentence, an air of suspicion in your voice. "C'mon I want to show you something!"
You didn't really give Atsumu a choice as you reached out for his hand and started pulling the brunette to wherever it was you were leading him. The two of you brushed past the buildings of your town, breaking off to a small path that led up the sunflower-spotted hill. The tall plants brushed against Atsumu's limbs and hands as you dragged him forward; delicate petals tickled his hands and cheeks as the monstrous flowers engulfed the two of you, impairing any view of the town previously had. Your soft laughs floated through the air as your only response to the prince's questioning of where you were taking him.
The jungle of tall flowers dissipated, breaking out to a meadow settled snugly in the middle of the thick garden. It was beautiful—far more beautiful than the rose gardens kept in front of the palace's Great Hall. In comparison to the natural beauty before him, the royal gardens looked almost artificial; everything there was perfect, not a bud out of line, but here nature did as it pleased—growing into something entirely free.
Your hand broke from Atsumu's and you rushed forward, flopping straight onto your back in the middle of the meadow; golden streaks of light danced down from the sunset, caressing your features in an ethereal way. The prince followed hesitantly behind you, unclipping his cloak in the process before spreading it onto the soft grass below and following your lead of lying down.
Joyful laughs burst out from beside him; the prince turned his head to look at you—your faces just inches away from one anothers' as you lay in your floral oasis.
"What's so funny?" He questioned, nose scrunching at the displeasure of being left out of whatever joke you were indulging in.
"You!" Your voice babbled out between breaths, "You have such peculiar habits, Shinsuke." Your hand reached out and tugged lightly on the cloak separating his body from the dewy grass beneath.
He simply rolled his eyes in a playful manner, playing off your obvious amusement. "My peculiar habits won't have ya laughin' when y'sit up and yer clothes are all wet."
Truly Atsumu had placed his cloak down on instinct; his mother and nursemaids had instilled the priority of keeping one's clothing neat and orderly from a young age—of course he and Osamu found it difficult to uphold when they were children, but the rule still found a way to imprint themself into his subconscious.
"Do you like it out here?" You asked, blinking hopefully at him.
"I do," he whispered in return. A smile spread across his face as he spoke, "There's a garden near my home, but it's nothin' like this."
"You don't often speak of your home and family. Would it be too bold of me to ask why?"
Atsumu's face dropped slightly, he turned his attention away from your face, instead, looking up at the clouds slowly crawling over the caramelized sky.
"I'm sorry that was improper of me, I shouldn't hav-"
"No it's alright," Atsumu reassured, "I'm just. . .my family life has been a bit tense lately."
Atsumu turned his head back to the side to look at you. There was a deep sorrow in your eyes, one that was understanding, urging him to end the conversation there if he wanted, but in the depths of your features was the human curiosity to hear more.
Atsumu sighed. His tongue swiped over his lips to wet them slightly before he spoke.
"My father has trained me to take over our family's business my entire life. I barely had a childhood, most of my time was devoted to learnin' everything I needed to run the business." He paused for a second; his hand reached out to the small sliver of grass that separated the pair of you, his hands twisting and twirling the blades. "Then Suddenly, a few weeks ago, my father announced to the family at dinner that my twin brother would be taking over instead. Everythin' in my life up until that point was dedicated to becoming what my father wanted and then instead my twin is given what I was supposed to inherit."
Atsumu continued plucking at the grass as you lay quietly listening to him speak. You hadn't said a word or interrupted him, so Atsumu took the chance to finally express the thoughts that had been eating him inside out for nearly a month.
"I guess to my parents I'm an utter failure of a son if they feel they have to give my brother the job instead."
Tears pricked at Atsumu's eyes as he confronted the fear that had been harbored the moment his mother and father shared the news. Perhaps it was entirely the council that had pushed for Osamu to be king, but the lack of protest from his parents hurt worse than them proposing Osamu's role themselves; it was like they had already been thinking that exact thing, but took pity on him and refrained from taking action.
"Shinsuke," you called out softly. Atsumu felt you move slightly closer to him, his eyes trained on the grass he was terrorizing. "You're not a failure—I highly doubt your own parents would think that."
Your hand laid on top of his, ceasing his movements in tearing at the earth below him. Your thumb caressed his knuckles in a comforting manner as you looked deeply into his hazelnut-hued eyes. "Maybe you're not destined to be the head of your family's business, but you still have beautiful qualities within you."
You inclined your face closer to his, your hand brushed his dark bangs from his eyes as he stared back at you. Your voice was hardly above a whisper now, "You're funny, you always play with the children no matter how late it is, you constantly offer me your cloak on cold nights," you breathed out in a laugh, pushing the prince's shoulder in a teasing manner as he joined in on your jest. "Plus, you've been insistent on helping me deliver food to the town—which I see as far more important than some silly artisan trade."
Atsumu wasn't expecting to cry. He hated the action really, but here he was trying to blink back the tears that slowly dripped down his face as your words processed from his ears to his heart. Your words which were so warm and loving—the exact thing he had been missing for weeks. The prince held onto your hand, which had settled comfortably on his cheek; a broken, but grateful smile graced his features as he gazed at you.
"Thank you," he whispered, leaning his head closer to yours. Your foreheads rested against each other, the space between your lips getting smaller and smaller.
Until, eventually, they connected under the golden-washed sunset.
Tumblr media
His heart was still giddy and light as he scaled up the wall to his room.
He had kissed you—truly kissed you! This felt like a dream, but it certainly wasn't one, the red marks on his collarbone and swollen lips were a distinct sign of the actions that took hold in the hidden meadow.
For the first time, Atsumu felt full; his heart, his mind, his soul—everything had been ignited by your touch. Now that he's had a taste of it, he couldn't imagine the feeling of anyone else's hands or lips embracing him the way you had.
He didn't realize it then, but love was already blooming.
Just as Atsumu reached his balcony—one leg swung over the railing, the other still dangling off the edge—a knock echoed around his room.
Someone was at the door. Someone was at the door and Atsumu was still in clothes that technically didn't belong to him.
"J-just a moment!" He called out, voice cracking slightly as he stumbled over the rail. He rushed forward, tearing off his cloak and reaching down to yank his boots off. The prince hopped around his room on one foot as he pulled hard to try and get the shoe off—it was like the damned thing had been glued on, no matter how hard he pulled it wouldn't budge!
Another knock came from the door.
The shoe came free but with it a wave of excessive force he was using to rip the thing off, causing him to trip and fall hard onto the floor.
"Your highness?" A concerned voice asked as the person clicked the door open and peeked into the room.
Atsumu looked up horrified to find Kita Shinsuke looking down at him sprawled on the ground—one boot on and the other lying beside his head.
The prince had never seen Kita so surprised by something in the almost 13 years of knowing him; the man's eyes were round and googly with his mouth slightly opened in shock. Kita seemed to recover quickly as he slipped into the bedroom and locked the door behind him, his eyes returned to Atsumu—who was still on the floor—and analyzed his figure.
"I guess I know where my missing clothes have been going."
Atsumu groaned, he couldn't tell if his advisor was trying to make a joke or that was really the only thing he got out of the situation. Kita reached out to pull Atsumu up and guided him over to his bed to sit down properly to safely take off his other boot. As the prince worked on the laces, Kita's eyes fell to the makeshift rope tied to the balcony railing.
"You've been sneakin' out of the palace," it came out as more of a statement than a question; Kita's voice was chillingly calm for discovering such a scandalous act.
The light and happy butterflies that were floating in his stomach since the events that took hold in the sunflower meadow, quickly formed into a thick, sticky ball of nerves. Adrenaline started to cloud Atsumu's mind as panic set in, his thoughts racing to patch together an excuse. The longer he tried to find a way to skirt around Kita's accusation, the more he realized there was no way he'd be able to effectively lie to his advisor.
Kita was too sharp for his own good and after spending almost every day with the prince since he was 10, he could read Atsumu's behavior like a book.
"Kita," Atsumu broke the veil blanketing the room. Placing his other boot down, the prince stared at his friend in front of him, his eyes pleading towards his next statement. "Ya can't tell anyone. . .please."
Kita shifted uncomfortably, he studied Atsumu's expression the way the Queen did when looking for imperfections—crooked crowns and wrinkled clothes were quickly sorted with her watchful eyes.
"Whatever could be out there that requires such secrecy?"
His once imploratory look hardened. Flashes of your happy laugh and the soft brush of your lips breezed through his mind and sent a tingling sensation across his skin. You weren't royalty, hell you weren't anything close to nobility, but what you were was a thousand times better than a performative blood status—unfortunately, blood statuses are more valuable than individual qualities in his world.
Your relationship would never be accepted and that was the exact reason Atsumu refused to reveal his precious sanctuary.
"I can't tell you."
Kita squinted down at the prince, watching his face and the way the royal's hands nervously picked at the fabric of his pants. His stoic face lit into one of surprise.
"You've met someone," he breathed out, "Haven't ya?"
"Please don't tell anyone," Atsumu spit out in a broken voice.
"Atsumu-"
"Please!" He shouted cutting off the advisor. His hands balled into fists atop his thighs, drinking in a breath to calm himself before continuing. "Kita, I've been trapped in this luxurious shoebox my entire life and I've finally realized that I can make decisions myself, that I don't need everything pre-planned for me. Please don't take this away from me—take them away from me."
Kita sighed, scrunched his eyes shut, and slumped onto the mattress beside Atsumu, "Do they know who you are?"
Atsumu let out an awkward laugh, his hand went up to rub at the back of his neck.
"No I uh—I actually told them my name was Shinsuke."
Kita let out a groan as his head fell into his hands, muttering something about the prince being smart but incredibly stupid.
"Yeah it's a ‘lil weird hearin' people refer to me using yer name," Kita peeked at Atsumu from where he was hiding in his hands. The advisor watched as his prince's face softened into a look he had never seen before—one of pure bliss and joy. "But they make me incredibly happy."
The ghost of a smile on Atsumu's lips migrated to Kita before it was harshly tugged down into a straight-lipped frown.
"They're not nobility, are they?"
Atsumu's smile was erased in a snap as he sourly shook his head. "That doesn't change my feelings about them."
"That's not what I meant," Kita said, sitting up straight again to look at the Miya next to him. "If ya keep lyin' to them yer only gonna do more harm than good."
Atsumu knew this—he didn't want to be reminded of the stark divide between the two of you. He truly has been trying to find a way to tell you, but it's so much easier hiding behind a different name and empty backstory. Deep down though he was scared, terrified that you would reject him upon discovering his title and more than comfortable life.
“I spent a lot of my youth in the Outer City, and the one thing I learned is: Lyin’ for long periods of time ain’t taken well,” Kita said in a serious tone, “You have to tell them, Atsumu.”
“I know,” the prince whispered back.
"I promise on my life not to tell anyone," Kita said as he stood from the bed. The man slowly walked over to the door, his white hair bouncing with each step. "I will warn ya that there are whispers between the servants that the King is plannin' a betrothal for you—that was the initial reason for my visit tonight."
The prince's heart sank; his friend's words were a painful punch knocking the air out of his body. He felt warm and cold as he processed the new information. In a matter of hours, he had a dream created and cruelly ripped from him.
"Um...thank you, Kita."
Kita whispered goodnight before leaving Atsumu's quarters, but the prince didn't hear a word.
Once again he found himself lying on his bed, lost and broken with angry tears silently slipping down his cheeks.
Tumblr media
The prospect of marriage was supposed to bring vibrance to your life, not completely destroy the functionality of your being.
Atsumu was struggling, drowning, weighed, trapped—whatever other word fit the description. He couldn't stop his mind from wandering towards what Kita had told him the night prior. There was no end to the cycle of worrying, forgetting, and then remembering to worry some more.
The prince dragged himself through the day being hardly responsive to anything around him. It got to the point that his political teacher sent for a doctor thinking the prince had contracted some sort of illness. After many protests and fake smiles assuring he was in good health, Atsumu found himself reluctantly walking towards the event he had been loathing all day—family dinner.
He could already feel it, the emotional storm had been building throughout the day and it was moments away from hitting land. The prince was one wrong word away from unleashing the dangerous turmoil inside him—one that his family was most definitely going to be on the receiving end of.
The circlet he wore sat heavily on his head, a constant reminder of who he was with each step he took down the hall. Previously, wearing the crown had enlisted a sense of pride and honor in him, but now the craft of gold-wrapped rubies felt like an annoying itch you couldn't scratch; no matter how hard you tried it wouldn't go away, constantly taunting your mind in its inescapable discomfort. His white and gold jacket had even started to force a stuffy feeling on him whenever he dawned it; the cloth being the first thing he tore off when he returned to the safety of his quarters.
The halls in the castle seemed far too large and long now that he's had a sample of different classes' culture. It felt a bit silly that his family should have hundreds upon hundreds of rooms hardly ever used in practice when their citizens—the people they were to represent and protect—hardly had more than a single room for their families to take shelter in.
It was sickening at how blind he had once been, but it was even worse to be stuck in this realm of jewels and riches when he had first-hand exposure to how people were living down in the Outer City.
His shoes clicked loudly on the white marble floors as he turned the corner to the Great Hall. He paused in front of the heavy double doors; technically he was already late for dinner, but schedules hadn't seemed important to him as of recently. With a final sigh, the brunette prince pushed the doors open.
You'd think he were a stranger with how his family looked over at him; all the members—excluding the youngest of the bunch—looked over at him with flat expressions. Mitsuru was still too young to fully understand the rift forming between Atsumu and the rest of the family, so at her eldest brother's entrance, she had jumped out of her seat, ignoring the Queens scolds and ran over to hug him hello.
Atsumu instantly scooped his baby sister up and into his arms as she ran to him, spinning the both of them around causing her to laugh gleefully. He felt more at ease having Mitsuru around, her constant smiles and sunny personality were infectious—at least there was one family member he knew would never think ill of him.
Not wanting to give up the welcomed feeling Mitsuru had given him, Atsumu carried the girl back to the long, birch dining table, placing her safely into her seat before going to his and sandwiching himself between his father and twin.
Once Atsumu was seated, the steady dinner time conversation continued, the clinking of utensils joined in the mix of voices as the family ate.
Atsumu hadn't said a word besides a short greeting to his mother and father, instead opting to push around the food on his plate—he was devoid of an appetite anyway.
Atsumu was hardly paying attention to whatever conversation was being thrown about the room but it quickly turned to one that caught his attention.
"That reminds me, the princess from Wisteria will be visitin' next week. I ask that we all be on our best behavior," the King spoke, his gaze lingered on Mitsuru accompanied by a mischievous twinkle in his eyes—a look that the little girl returned in full.
"Is that when ya were going to tell me about our engagement?"
What Atsumu said cast a stilled silence over the hall. All attention had turned to him as the inhabitants blinked surprised at him—partly because of the accusation and partly because he had decided to speak.
"How did ya-"
"Our staff are far more perceptive than ya give them credit for, Father."
The prince held his hard glare at the King. Whether he meant to or not, this look was a challenge, and stubborn personalities ran strong in the Miya bloodline.
The King squared his shoulders and met his eldest son's gaze. "I see news travels fast. But yes, her visit is to solidify a betrothal between the two of ya."
"Of course it is," Atsumu muttered. The prince plastered a sickeningly fake smile on his face, a venomous note tinged his words, "Thank you for tellin' me. Although, it's a shame I had to find out through my advisor first and not directly from my family."
"Miya Atsumu!" His mother gasped, "You apologize for takin' that tone!"
"Why should I?" He questioned, looking between his parents who could only sit astounded at their son's words. "Ya don't seem to have the decency to communicate yer decisions about my life these days. Did ya even think to ask me what I wanted?!"
That was the sentence that seemed to set the evening's fate. Atsumu watched the irritation build behind his father's eyes, like a fire in an Icy blizzard, burning brightly in the dark landscape. A part of him coward at the stern look, but another part—one that had found courage and a voice—stood strong and met the King's refined glare.
"What ya want should be the betterment of our Kingdom. Sometimes that means doin' things y’don't necessarily like."
"Oh right, like breaking an ancient law that's been upheld for centuries until now?"
"'Tsumu, don't-"
"Shut yer trap, Osamu!" Atsumu snapped, turning to glare bitterly at his brother. "Y’don't have to insert yourself into everythin' I do!"
"Be quiet, the both of ya!" The King bellowed, slamming his hand down on the table. The sound made Mitsuru jump in her seat and the princess sat petrified looking at her father. "Atsumu, ya have a role to fulfill, so get over this attitude and do what yer told!"
Atsumu roughly stood from his chair, the wooden legs screeched against the floor from the force. The prince turned to face his father, looking down at him in disdain.
"I refuse to let you force a role on me that strips away my freedom."
He then turned away from his family and stormed towards the exit of the Great Hall. Just before he left, Atsumu ripped the crown from his head and tossed it on the ground—the metal object clattered and clanged against the marble floor before being accompanied by the slam of the wooden doors.
Tumblr media
Atsumu ran faster than he ever had down the corridors, slipping into corners as he hurried to his room.
He wanted out. He wanted to be free. He wanted to be with you.
Just as he reached the door to his room, Atsumu was grabbed by his shoulders and slammed into the wall beside the entrance.
"What the hell is wrong with ya?!"
Osamu's hands kept Atsumu firmly in place, no matter how he squirmed he couldn't break free.
"Don't act like yer not happy!" Atsumu bit back, pushing harshly at Osamu's arms to attempt an escape. "Ya get to sit around and be the golden child, havin' everything' y’want brought to ya on a platter!"
"Ya think I wanted to be the next King?!" Osamu spit, moving his hands to grab Atsumu by the collar of his jacket and slam him back into the wall. "I couldn't care less about which one of us sits on that fuckin' throne! What I do care about is when my thick-headed twin yells at our parents and makes our Ma cry!"
Atsumu pushed Osamu's face away from him, causing the prince to stumble back and lose his grip on Atsumu's collar. Atsumu then shoved Osamu by the shoulders as many times as he could before his hands were grabbed; the two of them attempted to overpower the other resulting in a temporary stalemate.
"They're not innocent either! Ya heard what they did, they took everythin' and gave it to ya!" Atsumu yelled, "They're lettin' people die in the cities because they're too blind to actually care about what those twisted trade companies do!"
"Oh because yer any better?!" Osamu said, forcing Atsumu away from him. The two of them stared at each other as the tension built between them. “Yer an ungrateful brat ignoring yer family! Yer little sister!”
Atsumu tried to scoot away from the conversation, fists clenched tight as he resisted the urge to lash out at Osamu again.
"Maybe if ya weren't so selfish and crude ya'd still be in line for the throne."
Atsumu's eye twitched from irritation. In a split second, he had gone from distancing himself from his brother to landing a solid punch on his nose. Warm liquid spread onto his knuckles and between his fingers when he pulled his hand back, the red contrasting harshly with his skin. Distracted by the blood that now splattered his fist, Osamu took the chance to retaliate, sending a hard punch on the corner of Atsumu's mouth; metallic flavors invaded his taste buds as his lip formed a nasty split.
Those first two hits and blood being drawn opened the gates for their fight to escalate. They shoved and kicked, pulled at each other's hair, whatever hit they could land they took.
After a few moments they broke apart, breath labored and eyes crazed like a pair of wild animals; they watched each other's every move, waiting to see if the other would strike.
"Ya satisfied? Did ya get what y’wanted?"
"What I wanted?" Osamu laughed bitterly as he wiped some of the blood dripping down his face from his nose, "I want my brother back, you dumbass."
Atsumu hesitated for a second, his twin's words hitting harder than he anticipated. Atsumu and Osamu had always been a pair; where one prince goes the other was close behind. Now they stood on opposite sides, battered and bloody, a false hatred overpowering any familial love still harbored in their hearts.
"I'm not comin' back, 'Samu," It came out as more of a plead than a statement. In a short amount of time, his perception of royal life had twisted and darkened, but deep down he still craved the reassurance he was making the correct choice.
Atsumu felt lost and found at the same time, caught between two worlds so different they were like night and day. In the end, his heart was what led him—his heart which had been captivated by fresh bread and sunflower meadows.
"What changed?"
"Ya wouldn't understand if I told ya."
Atsumu opened his quarter's door and entered his room. As he turned to close the door he paused and looked over his brother. Blood stained his hands and face, hair messy, his eyes were dull and broken as unshed tears shimmered in them.
"'Tsumu-"
Whatever plea was cut off from Atsumu pressing the door shut and locking it. The prince leaned his back against the door and breathed in a shaky breath, his hands went up to wipe at his watery eyes.
In seconds Atsumu filled a small bag with the clothing he had taken from Kita and as much gold and valuables he could sell to keep himself financed. With his cloak on and hood up, he slipped down from his balcony and into the night.
Atsumu never saw or spoke to Osamu again.
Tumblr media
The town square was deserted when Atsumu arrived; it was well into the night and everyone had shut themselves into their homes for the evening. Curls of smoke from chimneys and the dim glow of candles in windows were the only indication of life throughout the town.
His steps were hesitant as he climbed the few stairs up to your bakery's storefront; a small sign indicating the business being closed hung innocently on the doorknob, but the warm light reaching out from the store windows inflicted the opposite feeling. Atsumu brought his hand up and knocked gently on the decayed wooden door.
A few seconds later you appeared, a blanket was tightly wrapped around your shoulders as you peeped out from the open door. Upon seeing him a smile formed and then disappeared when you took in his battered form. Without a second thought, you ushered the man into the bakery.
It was incredibly warm inside, the coals from the ovens in the kitchen were just starting to die out and yet were still able to produce adamant heat for the rooms. The store was cozy, a humble counter surrounded with antique glass cases and woven baskets filled the right side of the room. Atsumu didn't get much time to gawk at the storefront as you were already pulling him behind the counter and into the back of the store. The wood floors transitioned into cracked tiles that lined the entirety of the kitchen. You parked the man next to the large wooden workbench in the middle of the room, pulling one of the lone candles over to inspect his face in a better light.
"What happened, Shin?" You whispered, gently caressing his cheek and moving down to lightly brush your fingers over his split lip.
Atsumu flinched at the contact; he had completely forgotten about the injury, but now the spot was throbbing with pain in reminder.
"I got into a fight with my brother," he said. All you did in response was hum sadly. You placed the candle on the bench and started moving around the large kitchen, grabbing a rag and a bowl of water which you filled using a small indoor pump—the leaver on the contraption squeaked pitifully as you forced the water out.
"M'sorry about comin' here," Atsumu paused to let you dab the damp cloth on his lip, the water was cold and made his lip sting more. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."
"Nonsense," you huffed. Your nimble fingers had wiped away all the blood from his face, the evidence now staining the cloth in blots of blotchy orange and bright red. You placed the rag and bowl of water on the bench and grabbed the candle from where it was sitting. Loosely you laced your fingers with Atsumu's and started to lead him out of the kitchen and towards a set of creaky stairs. "You're always welcome here, Shinsuke."
Atsumu tried to smile at what you said, but a sense of guilt weighed on his shoulders. You trusted him so easily and yet you knew virtually nothing about him that wasn't a facade or half-truth.
At the top of the stairs was a small hallway with a single door at the end. The floors groaned under both your feet as you led Atsumu towards the door. When you pushed the ancient thing open Atsumu was met with what he assumed to be your room. A bed covered with handmade blankets sat near a small window and directly across from the foot of the bed was a chair and washstand—though the surface was devoid of its usual basin and pitcher.
You sat Atsumu down on your bed and moved to place the candle on your nightstand. From there you crossed over to your washstand and pulled open the top drawer. Like magic, you produced a round tin from the stand and happily went back to where Atsumu was seated.
Atsumu watched you sit down beside him and swiftly open the tin; inside it was filled with a waxy substance that smelled strongly of herbs. You swiped your finger in the slav and gently spread it over the prince's injured lip.
"There," you muttered softly. You placed the tin on the sheets beside you before turning back to Atsumu. You smiled up at him and pressed a kiss to the uninjured side of his mouth. As you pulled away from his face Atsumu's arms wrapped around you in a tight hug, his face buried into the crook of your neck.
He had been crying a lot more recently and he hated it. Atsumu was never fond of the action but his emotions and stress seemed to get the best of him the past few weeks. He couldn't exactly tell what triggered the wave of tears—your kindness and unfaltering gentle love? Or maybe it was his mind finally catching up with what had happened earlier outside his old bedroom.
Whatever the reason, the Miya clung to your body, arms holding you tight to his chest and face hidden in your shoulder.
"It's alright. . .you're ok," you cooed, running your hands up and down the expanse of the brunette's back. You stayed like that for some time, running your hands against his body and softly rocking the pair of you. A pitiful smile was all Atsumu saw when he pulled away from your neck. Quickly he wiped his damp cheeks to preserve whatever dignity he had left.
"Feel better?"
Atsumu shook his head. With a final sniffle, the man looked you in the eyes, terrified of what would happen when he said what was on his mind.
"I've been lyin' to ya."
He said it so quietly—so quiet that you had to strain your ears to hear every word and yet the impact they had on you was the same as if he had yelled.
"Wha. . .what do you—"
"M'names not Shinsuke," he whispered. Atsumu watched confusion fill your face, a slight hesitancy, and spark of fear. "My real name is Atsumu. Miya Atsumu."
Your eyes widened and your mouth fell open from pure shock, "You're the prince."
"Not anymore."
Your brows furrowed at his statement. Your mind briefly traveled back to your conversation in the sunflower meadow and a sudden realization came over you. "The business you were talking about, that wasn't an artisan trade that was—"
"To be the next king," Atsumu confirmed. He gently grasped your hands and laid them in his lap, "I never wanted to lie to ya—and I promise everythin' else about us was real. Ya taught me so much and made me realize how warped the nobility is—ta the point where I couldn't stay there anymore."
You stayed silent as you listened to him, playing absentmindedly with his fingers. It's not that you didn't believe him—everything made perfect sense now—but something was holding you back.
"Why give your life and family up over some things I told you?"
"Because ya made me see that I don't have to be what my parents want. . .I have my own say In my life," Atsumu breathed out. His hand went up to cup your cheek, "And because I love you."
Tears pricked at your eyes as you beamed at him, your hand went up to the one he had on your cheek.
"I love you too, Atsumu."
A shiver went down his spine upon hearing you say his name for the first time; the electric feeling spread from his fingers to his toes. Atsumu felt like he was finally home in the rickety bakery holding you close. It had taken him nearly 22 years to recognize how misplaced he felt in those crystalline halls—all it took was a fresh loaf of bread.
"Y'know how ya said that takin' my family's business wasn't my destiny?" Atsumu said. He heard your soft “mhm” of confirmation from where you were buried in his chest. "I need to find a new one. . .what d'ya think about me bein' a baker?"
A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you lifted your head away from his chest. "I think that's a great idea," you said, pressing a kiss to his nose.
"Me too."
239 notes · View notes
valwentinefics · 3 years
Text
In the meadow
Jasper Whitlock x reader
REQUESTS ARE OPEN
A/N: I turned this in in grade 11 in school... decided to post because I love Jasper. If I missed a part that says Bella lmk, it was from my twilight rewrite.
Tumblr media
Forks was a blue tinted town. From the moment you step in, to the second you leave, everything was dulled by fog, coated in a washed out blue. That’s not to say its a bad thing. Forks was calming, serene, closed away from the drama of the city. Forks was a desaturated haze, nothing was dramatic, different, or complicated. You could count on it and those in it to stay the same. The smell of fresh bread from the local bakery, the looming threat of the next rain,  the overly kind ladies in the school office.
Jasper changed that though. He was the warm light poking through the clouds, a teasing bit of hope for something more, a life not so simple and predetermined as mine. He gave me the chance to be more than Y/n, the chief's daughter, the new girl. Jasper was the expansive clear sky, a beautiful reminder that there's more to the world. Jasper was the wind blowing through my hair as I drove, a small breath of freedom. Jasper was the sun, and god was I Icarus. 
The grass damp against my back, it would have been uncomfortable in any other moment, if I was with anyone other than him. Jasper sat up behind me, His hands toyed with a gently plucked bunch of baby’s breath, adding it to the the braid he had oh so carefully crafted in my hair. 
Moments like this were ones I savored, the comfortable silence between us, the stray strings of sunlight reflecting on his marble skin. I would give anything to keep myself right here, comfortable, safe, content, and happy. 
“Hey, Y/n?” A cold thumb ran itself across my cheek, treating my skin as an antique. 
I opened my eyes at the sound of Jasper’s heavily southern accented voice he only felt comfortable to let me truly hear, tilting my head to meet his honey amber eyes with my own chocolate brown ones. He looked so pale compared to the dark yet prominent colours surroundings around us, yet they only served to compliment his godlike beauty, along with the small shimmers of light dancing on his skin.
“A penny for your thoughts?” He continued, having my attention.
“I’d rather a kiss instead.” A soft smile escaped his soft pink lips, planting a cold yet meaningful kiss on my forehead.
“So what’s going on in that lil’ head of yours?” I let out a soft laugh at his finger rapping on my temple.
“I was just thinking, about us,” I began, sitting up and facing him, my braid gently placed on my shoulder to not mess up his handiwork. “I don’t want this to end, but you know it will one day. I’m still human Jasper.”
He let out a sigh, knowing where this was headed. “You have so much to experience darlin’, so many things I can’t give you, things you can’t have if you’re like me.”
“I know what I’ll be giving up Jasper, I just don't want you to leave me when I’m old.”
Jasper let out a small laugh. “Don’t expect to get rid of me that easily, but if you’re adamant about turning, marry me.”
I let out a small laugh before realizing he was being serious. “Jas, I’m too young for that!” I swatted at his arm, slightly hurting my hand in the process.
“Then, darling, you’re going to have to wait until graduation when I propose to you next.” he planted a kiss on my cheek. “Now turn back around and let me finish your hair.”
272 notes · View notes
jokertrap-ran · 3 years
Photo
Tumblr media
(光与夜之恋 Light and Night) Osborn’s 5✩ Inspiration: Interdigital Heartbeat [指间心音] Date Translation (END 2 + 3 + 4: Call Out)
“C'mon. It's a choice they've made on their own terms. You don't have to feel sad for them.“
*Light and Night Master-list | Osborn’s Personal Masterlist *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *Join the Light & Night Discord (^▽^)~ ♪ *This 5✩ Inspiration has 6 Endings!! *Osborn’s tag will be #For Night, For Freedom
✥ Choice: Call Out [呼唤] ⊹Speak⊹
Do I want to join the band's celebration?
Tumblr media
⊹ I'd rather not intrude ⊹
Although I was very interested in Seed, we were still outsiders at the end of the day.
Tumblr media
MC: I think we shouldn't intrude on them…
Osborn nodded in assent. He turned to Liyuu.
Osborn: Go on ahead with your get together. I'll send her home early.
Liyuu smiled, giving us a knowing nod in farewell. Osborn pulled me along with him once more, following the crowd that was leaving the venue and exiting the bar.
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
Tumblr media
The roads outside were deserted and silent, much unlike how it was inside the bar. The faint breeze was refreshing as we mutually slowed our footsteps.
Osborn: I saw Liyuu's SNS that day. They're actually going to disband.
MC: Huh? But why…?
Osborn: Maybe they have more important things to focus on.
I froze, stunned, as I slowly digested this shocking piece of news. I suddenly understood why Liyuu had shedded tears earlier atop the stage.
It felt as if I'd just bore witness to the end of someone's youth. My heart filled with an overwhelming sense of loss and regret that I couldn't do anything about.
Then, Osborn ruffled my hair with a vengeance, bringing me out of my regretful musings.
Tumblr media
Osborn: C'mon. It's a choice they've made on their own terms. You don't have to feel sad for them.
I nodded, rubbing at my own wrist in a moment of sadness… only to gradually realize that something wasn't quite right.
MC: Huh? My bracelet's gone.
MC: ...It might have fallen off at the bar.
Osborn: Let's go back and fetch it then.
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
Tumblr media
However, when we got back to the entrance of the bar, we saw that it was pitch-black inside through the unlocked doors. All the lights inside were off.
Osborn: Wait here for a bit, I'll go look for it.
Then, he turned to enter the bar. I hurriedly called out to him, stopping him in his tracks.
MC: Wait, how do you know what my bracelet looks like?
Osborn: I saw it earlier on.
Tumblr media
MC: Is that so…
Never thought that he'd notice even something so tiny on my person...
MC: Um! It'll be faster if we have two people searching for it, so it'll be better if I come along!
Osborn: Sure. Stick close then.
I pushed open the door, the "closed" sign that hung off it swaying at the motion.
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
Tumblr media
The door slowly closed behind me as I entered the bar. The only lights here we're the sporadic lights that shone in from the street outside, passing through the wine bottles and glasses alike.
All I could see was his wide back, standing tall in the dimly-lit environment. I followed closely behind him, almost as if he was the embodiment of my predetermined direction.
After walking for a while, I suddenly caught sight of something glimmering on the ground. I quickly knelt down to see what it was. However, after getting a closer look at it, I realized that it wasn't my bracelet.
Standing up again, I realized that Osborn had vanished before me.
A wave of panic overwhelms me. I decided to call out to him…
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
⊹ E2: If you fail to call him ⊹
Osborn: Calling for me?
A faint voice called out from behind, spooking me.
Tumblr media
MC: AHHH!!!!
I hurriedly whipped around, only to see Osborn frowning with his fingers stuffed into his ears.
Osborn: Hey! Overreacting much?
Tumblr media
MC: Who asked you to suddenly appear behind me like that!?
Osborn: But, you're clearly the one going round in circles.
Osborn: I've found your bracelet. Let's get back outside.
I breathed a sigh of relief, trailing after him as we left the dark bar together.
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
⊹ E3: If you call him OSBORN (萧逸) ⊹
Tumblr media
Osborn: I'm here. Scared? There's a tremor in your voice.
I breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar voice. I turned and ran in the direction of the voice when I bumped right into someone's chest.
MC: Ah!
I'd only gone two steps before a hand shot out to hold my shoulder, steadying me.
A feeling of safety suddenly envelops me, further clarifying the fact that this was really Osborn. I couldn't help but clutch lightly at him.
MC: Where did you go? You scared me there!
Osborn: About two steps away from you. Saw you circling on the spot.
MC: Hey! Meanie!
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
Tumblr media
Even if all I could hear was his voice, I could still imagine the playful look that must be on his face right now. I was beyond pissed, but the ceiling lights had suddenly flickered on.
Footsteps sounded not too far away from us as a staff walked towards us, looking at us with utter suspicion.
Staff: Hey, who are you lot? Event's over.
I only realized in hindsight that I was still completely plastered to Osborn and quickly pushed him away in embarrassment.
Osborn: Do you know that if you have such a big reaction to it, it just makes you look like you're hiding something?
MC: ...Shut up, you.
Osborn raised his head and loudly replied to the staff.
Osborn: Sorry, we came here to find a lost item.
Staff: We're about to lock up, so I'll give you guys another two minutes.
MC: Okay. Sorry about that!
Searching was much easier after the lights came on, but I still turned out empty-handed from the search.
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
Our two minutes soon passed. I walked out of the door together with Osborn, feeling slightly regretful about it as we returned to the brightly lit street outside.
MC: *Sigh* Looks like I really did lose it.
MC: And I bought it when I went for a vacation abroad last year, at the market of a small village last year too…
Osborn: You remember it so clearly? Do you always get something as a souvenir whenever you do something that leaves an impression?
MC: Yeah.
Osborn: Have you got one for today?
MC: Uh… Not yet…
Tumblr media
Osborn raised a hand, waving it before me. A glimmer of light fell from his fingertips just like magic before he brought it before my eyes.
Focusing my eyes, I realized something. Isn’t that my silver daisy bracelet!?
Osborn: Surprise! Now you do.
It was a pleasant surprise. Then, he lifted my wrist, lowering his eyes as he carefully returned the surprise, lost and regained, to its rightful position around my wrist. With the soft light spilling from the street lamps above, I couldn't help but feel that it appeared more exquisite than ever before.
MC: Thank you. It has not changed from being “a bracelet bought from a market overseas”, to “a bracelet that Osborn gave me”.
Osborn: Then don’t go losing it so easily anymore.
MC: Yessir~
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
⊹ E4: If you call him HUBBY (老公) ⊹
Perhaps it was the impenetrable darkness around us that gave me an unusual surge of courage, but I grew thick-skinned and yelled the one title that I’d usually never even dream of uttering.
Alas, the embarrassing name-call echoed, reverberating through the room for a long while; perhaps due to the area being too empty and quiet….
A familiar chuckle sounds from the dark.
Tumblr media
Osborn: Hey, hey. That's a pretty nice manner of address.
Osborn: How about you yell your support to me like this during my competition? Deal? Deal.
MC: You… I'm only looking fun at you! Where'd you go? Come here. I'm scared.
Osborn: Are you? I thought you were plenty brave.
Osborn: Call me that again and I'll come right over.
MC: You—
Osborn: Be good now, dearest~
His purposefully lowered voice sounded enchanting in the dark. It rippled towards me, inciting a pleasant tingle within my being.
MC: You… Shut up, you. Enough of that already…
Osborn: But you were the one who called me that first!
Osborn quietly waited for the call to come. He didn’t seem like he was going to let up on this matter. However, the impenetrable darkness only increasingly unnerved me. I hesitated for a good three seconds before I gathered my courage and called out once more...
??: Are you guys quite done yet?
An unfamiliar voice suddenly cut in, making me freeze dead on the spot. Then, the lights above us flickered to life.
A member of the staff stood atop the stage, glaring vehemently at us with his hands on his hips.
Staff: I’m sick of seeing all you couples! Are you that bored that you’ve gotta come here just to be all lovey-dovey for kicks!?
Wha… There was a 3rd party here all along? He heard everything…
My eyes immensely darkened as I felt utterly embarrassed, wanting to disappear on the spot if I could.
I could hear the sound of Osborn’s footsteps come from behind. So he hadn’t been all that far away from me after all. Unfazed, he calmly walked up to the stage to explain the situation to the staff.
Staff: Huh. A bracelet? Is it this one?
It was only at the mention of a bracelet that I snapped back to my senses. I buried my face in my hands as I slowly made my way over, peering through the gap between my fingers.
MC: Uh… Yes. Thank you.
Staff: Take it and go; stop being all lovey-dovey in here!
Flushed red, I lowered my head in embarrassment. I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t even make out a word. Osborn only smiled as he placed his hand around my shoulders and led me out of the bar.
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
Tumblr media
Another two weeks passed after that.
One night, Osborn and I were having dinner at a place near Warson when his phone suddenly lit up with a message.
He took one look at it, his face gradually morphing into one of suspicion.
Tumblr media
Osborn: It’s a number I’ve never seen before, telling me to go to “Chimes Piano Shop”. They say I have something there.
MC: Oh? How curious.
MC: But, Chime’s Piano Shop? That’s just nearby. Won’t you know if it’s a scam or not if you just drop by and pay them a visit?
Osborn: Okay, Miss Directionless. How about you lead the way this time?
Tumblr media
MC: Hey! This place is around my workplace! Don’t you underestimate me!
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
Tumblr media
After we’d finished our meal, I easily led Osborn to Chime’s Piano Shop, a place that was located deep inside an alley.
Peering through the glass windows of the shop, we could see that it was brightly lit inside. Its interiors were tastefully furnished with a mix of retro and trendy, and there were a variety of brand-new instruments scattered around, being displayed out on the floor.
No matter how we looked at it, it was nothing more than an ordinary piano shop. Hence, we pushed open the doors and stepped inside.
The bell hanging from the door made a pleasant jingle, alerting the clerk to our presence. The uniformed clerk raised his head, smiling as he made his way towards us.
Clerk: Oh. You must be Mr. Osborn, right? I was the one who sent you the message earlier. I’m a friend of Liyuu’s.
Clerk: He left Guangqi City a couple of days ago and placed his electronic keyboard here before he left. He said that he hopes to entrust it to your care.
Tumblr media
Osborn: ...An electronic keyboard?
Clerk: Over here.
Following the clerk, we stopped before an electric keyboard that was placed in a corner.
It was clean, but old, considering its slightly outdated style. It stuck out like a sore thumb despite having been placed in a corner, like an old man that possessed a good many stories.
Tumblr media
Osborn: He wants to put something this huge in MY house? Gee, he sure knows how to trouble someone.
Clerk: He’d also said that you can give it to someone else or even leave it here for sale if it’s inconvenient for you to take it.
Osborn wearily rubbed his temples before he turned to question me.
Osborn: Do you know how to play?
Tumblr media
MC: Oh… Just a little.
Osborn: How about I give it to you then? It's your idol's beloved keyboard.
MC: Don't want it.
He was teasing. I glared at him in dissatisfaction, taking a serious tone with him.
MC: This is the keyboard that Liyuu has used for many years, it must mean an awful lot to him.
MC: I think maybe he doesn’t intend to give up on music.
MC: You’re the one who gave him the motivation to do it, so I think that he’s hoping that you can take it under your wing. To protect and take care of this important dream of his.
MC: Who knows, maybe he’ll come back one day to reclaim it from you!
Osborn: That guy… He’s still as whimsical as ever even after all these years, huh.
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
Tumblr media
Osborn glanced at the keyboard, helplessly shaking his head, as if what stood before him wasn’t his friend’s keyboard, but rather, his friend himself.
After a while, he sat down on the sofa before the electronic keyboard, slowly lifting the heavy black cover that had hidden the keys of the keyboard from view.
The keyboard had been maintained well, but the keys all shone brightly from years of wear and tear, inflicted by years of practising.
His slender, yet strong, fingers slid across the keys, gently pressing on a few.
The black and white keys played a series of pleasant-sounding notes. He lowered his eyes in thought as the sound reverberated in the air.
Osborn: "Take care of his dream for him"? ... I'm not all that noble.
His tone was reminiscent of a sigh. I shook my head and walked up, standing before him.
MC: You don’t have to bear any responsibility for this, Osborn.
MC: You might not understand, but…
MC: Some people just have to exist and do whatever it is that they wish to do. That in itself is something that those who do matter will find solace in.
You fixed your gaze firmly onto him as the thought ran past your mind.
And you, Osborn; you are that existence.
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
Tumblr media
After a while, Osborn sighed, seemingly having come to a compromise about it. He covered the keyboard and stood back up once more.
Osborn: Alright. I'll take it for your sake.
He looked me up and down playfully, his dashing eyes slowly curving upwards in joy.
Osborn: But, you've got something wrong here.
MC: Huh?
Osborn: How could I ever "not understand"?
Osborn: I’ve already long since found the one who’ll safeguard my dreams and aspirations for me.
I froze. I was just about to ask just who this person was when he bent down slightly, his piercing pale green eyes staring deeply at me.
Just as I took notice of the little figure being reflected within his orbs, I heard the notes of a keyboard ringing out in the air, resonating with my heart.
It was then, at that moment, that the answer to the underlying question hanging in the air was self-evident.
⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹
✥ Choose your Ending:
END 1 | Choice: Do Nothing [都不做]
END 2 + 3 + 4 | Choice: Call Out [呼唤] ⊹Speak⊹
END 5 | Choice: Listen [倾听] ❖ASMR
END 6 | Choice: Heart-throb [心动] ★Night★
❖☆————— ⊹ For Night, For Freedom⊹ —————★❖
Previous Part: Prologue
38 notes · View notes
Text
Destiny is a book you write yourself, but some Moonshadows are read-only
In the novelization of Book One: Moon, Runaan finds himself on Harrows' balcony, inches from death at Soren's hands, and he accepts this as his destiny. Something that has always been in store for him, a fate unavoidable. It's a logical conclusion for an assassin. He has spent his life training to kill humans.
Tumblr media
Runaan may believe in predetermination. It seems a very Moonshadow thing. A set path, a lifelong dance, every step just so. Less to question, fewer options to choose among. Easier, when your life is so stressful, to believe that you never had any choice at all, that you didn't mess up by ending up in bad circumstances. That you were always going to do the bad things you've done, that you couldn't have avoided their consequences, that it's all just your part in the greater timepiece of destiny, ticking onward, churning through everyone's lives.
But Callum doesn't believe this! He realized during his fever dream that he genuinely believes he has the power to change his fate. I think this is a very important theme in the show--we aren't bound to repeat the mistakes of our parents' generation. We can choose anything we want to. And like Harrow said, a child is freer than a king. It really is easier to change your mind when you're a kid, because you don't have as many years of reinforcing your own choices to undo if you choose differently.
Tumblr media
You know who else I think doesn't believe in this predetermination nonsense? Ethari. And it could've been something that he and Runaan fought over before the mission to Katolis. I came to this thought while I was mulling over what we might see in Bloodmoon Huntress in regard to who might have an angsty birthday during the days it covers! So here's a guess that's based on a whole stack of headcanons and guesses:
Rayla's birthday is July 31. The 31st of any month can be a blue moon, which is the second full moon in a month. And lunar eclipses only happen during full moons, when the sun and the moon are opposite each other and the earth's shadow gets in the way. So you can have an eclipse during a blue moon. And a lunar eclipse shades the moon dark red, not black. Sometimes they're called blood moons. January 2018 had a "Super Blue Blood Moon." That's a whole lot of things happening at once!
And these things could've happened on Rayla's birthday. She could've been born during a blue moon that got eclipsed. Born to an assassin family, the unsuspecting little elfling might've entered the world and immediately been dubbed a "bloodmoon huntress."
And, back to that predetermination thing, a child born during such a momentous Moonshadow occasion might have gotten saddled with--dare I say it--quite a lot of destiny at once.
I'm talking about prophecies. I love a good prophecy. The more ways it can be misinterpreted, misused, and turned inside out, the better! Always a fan of the Barnum Effect, me.
Moonshadows and their cycles and drama seem like they might occasionally go in for an actual prophecy now and again, especially if there's reason to need more certainty in an uncertain world. If Rayla was the recipient of a nice big prophecy that sounded great but was actually kind of vague, like "She will bring freedom to Xadia" or somesuch, I can see her assassin parents clinging to that with rather a lot of hope and focus. Especially if there's something about their lives, and their service to the Dragon Throne, that doesn't really qualify as "free."
Tumblr media
Maybe Rayla was given into Runaan's hands for training because he does believe in prophecies. Maybe Tiadrin and Lain genuinely hoped that he could help Rayla achieve her promised destiny, and maybe Runaan genuinely believed that he could. Maybe we're about to fall into angsty territory, too.
Because maybe Runaan believed that taking Rayla on his mission to Katolis with him was the clearest path to her unlocking her great destiny.
And maybe Ethari thought that was a load of crap. If there's any Moonshadow who doesn't believe in destiny, it's Ethari. He's already changed his life. He used to be a jewelcrafter, and now he's the Master Craftsman of the Silvergrove, making trick weapons for the best assassins in the village. He knows that destiny isn't set.
Tumblr media
But he couldn't convince Runaan of that, not enough, not under the very specific circumstances of that Katolis mission. And so he lost the argument, and Rayla went with Runaan. Not to meet her destiny, though. Not the one Runaan may have expected her to meet, anyway.
Long speculation long, Bloodmoon Huntress might have Rayla's birthday in it, and if it does, maybe we'll learn about her being born on an eclipsed blue moon!
And I worry already that something really bad will also happen on her birthday, because, well... *gestures to all of TDP*
But listen. The best prophecies are the ones that get inverted, twisted, misunderstood, misapplied... and in the end, set right by the character's own terms. And I want nothing more or less than Rayla finding her own destiny in the way that fits her best.
32 notes · View notes
sepublic · 3 years
Text
I just want to mention that Lilith and Eda had actually met Belos back when they were kids, according to Eda’s anecdote at the Covention. We don’t know if Lilith and Belos interacted directly, face-to-face... But given how Lilith thought about what Belos would do in her situation (wanting to join the Emperor’s Coven yet being unable to compete with Eda), and thus decided to curse Eda... I think this makes Belos even MORE responsible for Eda and Lilith’s broken relationship, and not just in the indirect way he always had with his Coven System.
Lilith is obviously still to blame too... But if Belos deliberately took the moment to teach her some toxic ideas at such a young and impressionable age, then it’s all the more eerie the impact he has on entire generations of witches- Like how in the show’s ending, we see a pair of kids building his castle out of sand, because at such a formative age they’re taught that Belos and his home is a wonderful place to fantasize about! Something fun and normalized, just a part of everyday life... And it’s so much more messed up and understandable that kids would really dedicate their dreams and lives towards joining Belos, and basically look to him as a mentor- Potentially in the absence of parents. And the worst part is that Belos knows this and it’s EXACTLY how he wants it to be... It’s so difficult for kids to unlearn that kind of thing because all of society around them is brought up under the idea that THIS is the status quo! It’s so hard to get away from this sort of thing, it’s like an abusive relationship...
So again, Lilith is still at fault- But it’s like she was almost directly manipulated and misguided in this scenario by her role model, and it’s kind of terrifying... Especially since Eda used to look up to Belos, too. Belos knows he’s a role model and thus a teacher to kids in a lot of ways, so it’s all the more terrible how he violates the sacred responsibility behind this role, and is so neglectful and disregarding of the impact he has, and/or deliberate about it... And so he’s abusing that power and influence to indoctrinate generations of witches into his control, it’s insidious. It’s a cultural impact that will be so hard to cleanse society of, to distance itself from that; Propaganda that came underneath such an innocent and innocuous disguise... It’s a moral dissonance that’s just normalized and arguably cult-like, grooming society to join the Emperor’s Coven or at least serve it. All of it is just downright predatory.
There’s a trust there that Belos is betraying and exploiting, and it’s such a contrast to how Eda avoids imprinting and projecting her beliefs onto Luz, encouraging her to form her own opinions and always be critical of what adults tell her- Eda doesn’t want to indoctrinate like Belos does, possibly after seeing how it harmed her sister... Yet at the same time, we have Odalia, Alador, and Boscha’s mother enforcing onto their kids toxic ideas of hierarchy and elitism, as well as vicariously living out old grudges through them- Using then more as tools to pass on their own ideas and agendas, rather than actual kids to carefully nurture and teach, and enable to grow healthy and independent.
It’s so heartlessly thoughtless about the kind of power they have and are abusing, the imbalance there is in the dynamic, and just how dependent and vulnerable these children are to them... It’s a blatant disregard towards letting these kids become their own people, and these people either leave children alone to figure this out, without consideration to the kind of horrible effect their influence is causing... or even intentionally keeping it this way. Careless neglect or calculated abuse, it’s still awful.
There is no consideration for a positive impact or how a kid will operate when alone, how one’s influence can have an indirect presence even when this child is by themselves and making their own decisions... That someone is going to use you as an example on what to do, they’re going to become like you- And do you want more people like yourself out in this world? Do you want to make a kid become yourself, and not their own person separate from that? They might be out of sight, out of mind to you- But for those kids, you’re always on their mind for better or worse... So you’d best be a good thing for them to think about, or else you WILL screw someone up.
Kids still make their own decisions, especially when they become adults- But there’s a reason why the choice of a child is always taken with a grain of salt, as they lack the permanence, wisdom, and independence to really account for who they are. They’re so liable to influence that you can’t quite trust if this is what they really choose, or just what someone else has imprinted upon them either intentionally or by accident... Yeah, people are always the product of their external influences, but still. Kids can’t exactly consent for a reason, and you should always seek to protect them from something they can’t take back, because they’re too young to fully consider and accept the consequences, nor deal with them if they come about.
So don’t encourage them to go down a harsh path, or at least don’t recklessly hasten them down towards it, when there’s still so much time and thus potential for other possibilities... You want to open such opportunities to someone, not cut them off and restrict them to a path predetermined by someone else, because then they’ll never be themselves. They’ll always be defined by something or someone else and never get to choose for themselves, never get to know themselves as JUST themselves...
And it’s an utter travesty to basically cripple someone like that, much less a child who has an entire life ahead of them that you cut off and destroy, a life they can’t so easily take back because they’re a kid and might not even realize what they’re losing. It’s a destruction of diversity and clipping of exploration, of new ideas and growth and possibilities. It kills off any chance of something else and thus sets in stone what is there, it’s bleak and so much more difficult to break free... You’ll never find out if they can grow or not if they don’t even have the room to do so.
You’ll never know for sure and just like the kid, you’re keeping yourself dumb and limited. You don’t just fail to pave the road for the future, you’re actively salting its earth and killing off what should’ve come to pass, preventing what should naturally occur on its own. And that in itself is a death- To mourn the happiness this kid could’ve had, the freedom and care they were entitled towards but then had taken away from them, just to further service someone with so much more power and control anyway.
It’s... a waste, really, taking away from others what they need for something pointless and unnecessary- Such as the propagation of a dictatorship or the pride of abusive parents. People like Belos or the Blight Parents didn’t just fail to provide, they kept kids from receiving and gaining in the first place, blocked this off from anyone else kinder and better and more thoughtfully responsible. They didn’t just give nothing, they added genuine ruin as well and made things worse instead of leaving them as they initially were- Because for a kid, without careful support and care to constantly uplift them, they WILL naturally get worse, it’s why you have to be so diligent to nurture, because they’re not independent yet and will collapse without care- They can’t stand on their own yet, and maybe never will if not properly taken care of.
53 notes · View notes
weepylucifer · 4 years
Text
Mairon is working on a circlet when the Dark Vala first makes his offer.
“What is it you’re crafting?” he asks, hovering over Mairon’s shoulder, casting a jealous, covetous gaze at his work. “Who is it for?”
“It is a gift intended for Lord Aule,” Mairon replies, abandoning all pretense of activity, tilting his body backwards from the fire of the forge, disgruntled as the Dark One grabs his project and lifts it, white-hot and just beginning to cool, to inspect it up close. The heated metal does not singe him. It seems that the most unforgiving of elements cannot harm the Dark Vala, the biting ice does not sting him, the unremitting flame does not burn him. His large, dark hands darken further upon contact with the heat, the veins beneath the skin pulsing and lighting as though filled with molten lava. Mairon admonishes himself not to stare.
(Oh, they will find out what it takes to harm Melkor’s hands. They will find out in time.)
“It is a nice trinket,” the Dark One says, his dismissive tone setting Mairon’s teeth on edge. “I have never seen Aule wear jewelry,” he adds.
“That as may be,” Mairon says, keeping his voice blandly emotionless. It is true. All precious gems and metals are at Lord Aule’s purview, and yet, when clothed in physical form, he goes in his simple, robust leather apron, adorned with a few occasional beads in his hair and beard and no jewelry besides. Aule is constantly at work, and cannot afford forging accidents caused by finery getting caught or snagging somewhere.
“It does not suit you toiling away at producing trinkets nobody will have use for,” the Dark One states.
Mairon shrugs. “My Lord will appreciate a token of his Maia’s devotion, whether he wears it or not.”
“How many Maiar does Aule have? How many tokens of devotion?” The Dark One looks at Mairon down his nose. “There are grander things to be crafted,” he adds without waiting for Mairon’s answer.
“In time,” Mairon says.
“Now,” the Dark One corrects. “If you were to come to my kingdom, you and I could begin the shaping of the world in earnest.”
“Lord Aule would hardly permit such a thing,” Mairon says dryly.
“Forget Lord Aule,” says the Dark One. “Come with me, learn from me, aid me and see your craft soaring to heights you can now scarcely even imagine.”
He goes on a rather lengthy, rambling tangent on all the things he means to build, extolling the excitements of his machinations, the pleasure of freedom to work as one wills without direction from anybody, the satisfaction of the Dark One upon getting what he perceives to be his due. To Mairon, his words sing of love of himself, and little besides. To his mind, the Dark Vala needs a speechwriter rather more urgently than a smith, but he holds his tongue and does not say so.
“I must decline,” he says.
The Dark Vala’s eyes go wide and round. He had not expected being denied.
“I am no lost and stumbling spirit you may entice to your side,” Mairon continues. “I am in good standing here. I serve my Vala well, and see no need to forsake him and the life I know for another.”
The Dark Vala looms suddenly much closer, one hand setting the circlet down, the other reaching, touching, winding a lock of Mairon’s hair around his index finger. Mairon holds himself still. Maiar do not usually disallow touches from any Vala, for who would decline the loving caress of their gods? But surely the Dark One is an exception, surely here it may be permitted to resist.
“But I have observed you,” the Dark One says. “I have seen your potential, and you are easy on the eyes as well... do you not yearn, as I do, for something more than this predetermined path, laid out for us by small minds of limited imagination?”
His voice is a dark, deep murmur in Mairon’s ear, husky and rich. Mairon remembers when he heard it first, reverberating with the Discord. He rears away before he can fluster, yanking his hair out of the Vala’s grip. “I yearn for nothing of yours,” he snaps.
---
“You are still observing me,” Mairon says, his mouth drawn into a tight frown. The Dark Vala is at his forge again, leaning faux-casually against the anvil, and Mairon has not bowed upon entering and seeing him there, has not tacked any honorific onto his statement. The Dark Vala doesn’t request it.
“’Tis so,” Melkor admits unabashedly, in a tone of voice as if he’s talking about the weather. “What am I to say? You fascinate me. Aule has many Maiar, but you... I see a fire within you that’s unique to yourself.”
Mairon crosses his arms. “I am not different from anybody else,” he says, his voice as frigid as the gales Melkor will conjure on occasion.
“Ah, but isn’t that the problem?” the Dark Vala asks.
Not wishing to look at him, Mairon busies himself donning his protective gear for the work ahead. “I do not see any problem apart from you pestering me.”
It should have earned him rage and rebuke, this open disrespect towards a Vala. What he gets is a huff of laughter.
“But you are not happy here,” Melkor then says, sobering.
“What would you know about my happiness?” Mairon asks, perhaps more sharply than he had intended.
“I watch. I listen. You keep apart from the others, you stay in the forge all day and late into the night. And you have a look about you of one driven.”
Driven, is he? Well, perhaps. “I wish to excel at my work. This is not abnormal nor unusual.”
“You strive for greatness, and they have you tinkering with jewelry. Shiny little baubles, made to be pretty and useless.”
“I like my craft,” Mairon almost snarls. Why does he feel like he’s being put on the defensive? What must he justify to the Dark One? He turns his back on Melkor and pretends to be immersed in selecting tools from his kit.
“Oh, aye,” Melkor says dismissively. “But don’t tell me you have never wished to expand your repertoire? To shape the very bones of Arda to your liking? To be instrumental to that grand undertaking? Do you not wish to be unfettered?”
Safely with his back to the Dark Vala, Mairon rolls his eyes. Is this the kind of talk that has led other Maiar to abandon Aman to stand by Melkor’s side? “’Tis no use wishing for what cannot be.”
“But it can,” Melkor husks, so clearly in love with the sound of his own voice. “If you come to my realm with me, you will taste of freedom - ah, bah, taste? You will drink deeply of it, yet never slake your thirst. It’s impossible to get one’s fill of true independence, once enjoyed, but oh, how heady...”
Mairon’s hands are gripping the edge of his workbench, fingers clenching tightly. Why is this empty prattle getting to him? “You have no idea of what you speak,” he grits out.
He turns around to see Melkor raise an eyebrow. “Oh, indeed?”
“How can you possibly? You’re a Vala.”
Melkor straightens from his affected nonchalant slouch. “That... was quite a lot of venom.”
Mairon sighs. “You cannot know what it is like. You were put upon Arda to rule it. You cannot know what it is to be created from nothing and immediately be told to serve. To get assigned a master, and a duty, and what you will learn, and what you are to devote your existence to, for eternity and beyond. They say it is a blessing, a privilege, that the Valar in their grace and Eru in his wisdom have put all Maiar in their places, adorned us with these powers... it doesn’t occur to the others to yearn for anything beyond what they were given... but all I see are shackles. Shackles the likes of which you and your ilk have never worn.”
“If you--” Melkor begins.
“You ask me to forsake Lord Aule and join your court? Why? To exchange one slavedriver for another? Here at least I get to subsist and carry out my servitude in comfort, and Lord Aule is nice to me when he remembers I exist. You wish me to forsake my standing here and join you in the wild? What can you offer me but the life of an outcast, despised by all? And what would you use me for, if you had me? Wanton destruction, or so I hear? Oh, that would certainly render me more useful than my current work. Nay,” Mairon cried, “there is nothing you may tempt me with. I will abide here, and hopefully get a chance to contribute to the shaping of Arda in some small, insignificant manner, if nothing else. So do not speak to me of freedom, when all you offer is more servitude.”
Melkor has grown quite still. He blinks. “I... had never considered this.”
“Of course not.��� Mairon feels quite out of breath. A distant part of him is panicking, he realizes, his head abuzz, his chest tight, as if an iron vice is clamping down on it. He has never told anyone these deepest, most heretical thoughts of his. Why then, with the Dark One, did it seem so easy?
“Remove thyself from my workplace,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Do not approach me with thine offer again.”
Melkor steps back from the anvil, inclines his head in acknowledgement, and sweeps out of the room. Mairon sags against his workbench, his knees as rubber.
---
“Mairon.”
Mairon wonders where the Dark Vala goes, when he’s not here in the forge harangueing him. Does he have a place to stay? He hinted at some realm of his own existing on Arda. Mairon is not privy to the knowledge of its whereabouts.
He doesn’t ask. He crosses his arms, the solid and comforting weight of the anvil at his back. “I thought I made my reception of your offer quite clear. I will alert the guards if you persist.” He resorts back to a more formal mode of address. He is determined not to slip up and proclaim overfamiliarity with the Dark Vala again.
“I understood you well,” says Melkor. “You wish to remain here. Yet, my fortress will still need a smith.”
“Lord Aule has many Maiar,” Mairon reminds them once more.
“Ah, but I want the best,” Melkor replies. “I want excellence. I want that flame in you, undimmed by whatever chains you here.”
“You are going to take me by force?” Mairon asks.
Melkor snorts, as if Mairon had made a joke in poor taste. “Certainly not, no. But if you are not to be mine, at least your artifice must be. Oh, simmer down, little flame, I will not repeat my offer. I only ask to let me linger, for a short while, and observe your work. To learn from you, so as to pass the ways of your craft on to other, more willing souls.”
Mairon must admit, he had not expected this. He is taken aback. “Teach a Vala? That is... unheard of.”
Melkor shrugs. “Why does that matter?”
Now Mairon rolls his eyes openly. He is beginning to take the measure of Melkor, and suspects that he will not be punished for such impudence. “You wish your presence in my space to build familiarity. You are counting on me growing attached to you and more receptive to your offer, provided you stay around long enough. This will not succeed.”
Melkor is not deterred in the slightest. One corner of his mouth quirks upwards in a crooked grin. “Perhaps it will, perhaps it won’t. Either way,” he repeats, “my fortress will attain a smith.”
So Melkor hovers as Mairon finishes the circlet, asking questions about the process, about how Mairon would go about making other things. It takes several days, in which they meet. Melkor learns the name of every tool in Mairon’s toolbox, their feel in his hands and their multiple uses. He attempts to resist it at first, but Mairon feels himself growing bolder in Melkor’s presence, and soon entrusts the Dark Vala with little tasks: stoking the fire, compressing the bellows, fetching red-hot iron from the forge with his bare hands. Melkor should by rights complain about the menial work that is so beneath him; he never does. He watches, grows absentminded, fiddles with his fingers or the hem of his robe, hums snatches of songs, and apologizes - a Vala, apologizing to a Maia! - for his flighty attention.
The circlet is soon finished, and Mairon contemplates giving it to Aule, this work that has become of his and Melkor’s hands, and it feels wrong. For a moment, he considers giving it to Melkor, and banishes that thought.
---
Once the circlet is finished, Melkor stays away.
Days turn to weeks and Mairon wonders if it is true, if the Dark Vala has given up and rescinded his offer, if he has taken Mairon at his word and will not appear again. He feels content in that thought. He feels relieved. He feels, perhaps, lonesome. He feels as though an opportunity has passed him by. Opportunity for nothing much, he tells himself sternly, and crushes those foolish thoughts.
One night, Mairon is the last one in the forge and considering turning in for a few hours, Melkor reappears. He is carrying an object wrapped in cloth, and looks preoccupied.
“I have given thought to what you have told me,” he says, no greeting, no preamble.
“It is nice to see you too,” Mairon replies.
It actually gives the Dark Vala pause. “Is it? Nice to see me?” he asks, genuinely baffled. “Well, now. Ahem. Indeed. I was about to impart to you the thoughts I had.”
“I’m sure they will be riveting.” And not at all go on at length, Mairon adds mentally.
“I should hope so,” Melkor says. “You should sit.”
For lack of a chair, Mairon sits on the anvil. Melkor, meanwhile, takes up pacing.
“You were right,” says he. “I was wholly unprepared to see things in the way you see them. Yes, my siblings and I were instilled upon Arda with the knowledge that it is ours to rule by right. An existence for the purpose of servitude to another is different from anything I know.”
He releases a deep breath. “I can see why you chafe at it. Merely contemplating such an existence for a few brief moments rendered me disgusted.”
Oh, splendid, Mairon remarks to himself. He thinks I’m disgusting.
“Mairon, if you came with me, you would not have to live thus.”
What?
“I would see you instated in Utumno to rule by my side. Free to work and think and speak as you see fit, in servitude to no one.”
“Except for you.”
“No!” Melkor shakes his head. “I have servants enough, and I will have more. You, however, are different. For you I would have a different purpose. You see, I can sing a fortress out of the ground but I haven’t the mind to maintain it. I can persuade people to my cause, but can I see them situated, organize the many needs of a court, build and craft and make law? My kingdom needs more than a smith, it needs someone to maintain order, and I feel it might be you. Take your place by my side and rule with me whatever realms we shall have, and be elevated above all Maiar who would cower in subservience to my brethren. Be my Prince Regent, my Lieutenant, and we shall be in eternal covenant, and make our every choice together.”
Mairon had never thought to find... this anywhere, least of all with the Dark One. It is too good to be true.
He shakes his head. “Y-you lie.”
Of course. The Dark Vala has found what makes him tick, and is now looking to exploit it. He will lure Mairon to his keep with honeyed false promises, and then Mairon will be trapped. He should not have bared himself emotionally as he has. He should have been more cautious.
Melkor ceases his pacing. “Look into my mind and see that I speak true.”
Mairon rears upright to abruptly he almost topples off the anvil. “You mean... initiate osanwe? A Maia to approach a Vala? That... is against the natural order.”
Melkor shrugs. “What of the natural order? It needs reworking anyway. Look around you and tell me Eru didn’t do a rather shoddy job of it.”
A blasphemy. The arrogance of it. Mairon finds he isn’t too bothered.
He has never opened his mind to anyone, preferring to keep his own heretical thoughts closely guarded. He opens it now.
The mind of a Vala feels... different, and yet the same. There is more power there than Mairon could dream to possess, but at the same time... in some ways, it is not much vaster than his. In power, they may be unequal. In thought, in wisdom, in foresight or sagacity, they are not. Their basic make is similar, Ainur both of them. Something in Mairon settles.
There can be, for them, a meeting point. They can grow to understand one another. Know one another fully.
Yes, there is arrogance, plain in Melkor’s mind, a potent strain of self-worship, a kind of jilted entitlement towards his siblings and the realm of Arda, an inclination towards petty malice. There is chaos there aplenty, swirling maelstrom depths of thought and intuition and emotion that Melkor himself probably cannot hope to gauge, much less master.
But, in his offer to Mairon, there is no deceit.
I believe you, Mairon thinks, beyond astonished at finding this.
Melkor’s mind reacts with a sudden blinding flare of reliefhopeglee. In this mental space, he seems less guarded, because he blurts, This fills me with joy.
Mairon laughs and withdraws.
“I believe you,” he says again out loud.
Melkor nods, appearing to try not to smile. Finally, he unwraps whatever he has been carrying wrapped in his dark cloak. It is a chest sung from dark wood. He flicks the clasps open, removes the lid and lowers himself to one knee.
He kneels, and Mairon is bewildered all over again.
From the chest, Melkor takes a circlet not unlike the one they have been making together, made from dark metal, inlaid with obsidian. Clearly it is the work of a beginner, one who has not yet had time to hone his smithing, but it is charming in its crudeness. It is obvious that some thought went into it, if not (yet) the height of artifice.
This Melkor sets on Mairon’s brow.
“My Prince Regent, steward of all my realms, ought to have a crown of his own,” Melkor says. “It does not come close to what you could create, but it is a start.”
The weight of it feels unusual, but not unpleasant.
Then Melkor removes from the chest a second object, wrought from the same material. It is a hammer fit for a master smith, simplistic but elegant designs adorning the hilt. It is not gem-encrusted and ostentatious, but something he could actually work with. This he proffers to Mairon also, who hefts it in his hands. The grip is decent, the weight and balance of the head about right. This then is why Melkor was so interested in examining Mairon’s tools.
“I knew you would want something of practical use,” Melkor says. “I hope that if you come with me, I will get to see wonders wrought with it. Not in my service, but to our mutual benefit and that of those that may follow us.”
Something practical.
Mairon is not inclined to romanticism. He prefers life neat and ordered, he prefers facts, figures and useful deeds to great, gushing avalances of emotion. He prefers to take life on and mold it - smelt it down and beat it, if necessary - into a favorable shape. Melkor must have seen this, and decided to gift him a tool to do the shaping with.
That and a crown, to win his freedom.
This is what Melkor has been doing while he was away: crafting a gift in a way Mairon would, to meet Mairon on his level.
And Mairon starts to believe, Maybe I’ll be alright with him.
180 notes · View notes
otomes-world · 4 years
Text
Madness and Sin
Another weird idea! I just think about “Hm… what if Malleus go insaine\if Malleus would be deadly sin…” I have decided that it`s envy but… who knows… maybe I write oneshot for him being pride o/
Tumblr media
Madness is a strange thing. It defies understanding or explanation. It may not appear in a lifetime, or it may bless you as suddenly as a thunderstorm gathers in spring on a sunny day. It weaves a cobweb like a spider that cannot be noticed. Like skillful manipulator deftly leads you into a trap. It is a pity that you realize it very late. When It’s too late to run away.
After all, your fate is already predetermined.
It all started so innocently. So much so that even Lilia cannot understand what had happened, where it will lead. The centuries of loneliness in the Valley of Thorns didn’t feel so painfully, didn’t weigh on the soul. Perhaps because Malleus was alone. However at Night Raven College he began to hope for something more.
Stupidly.
Loneliness have different kinds. Realizing that you are alone, when there are many people around, is much more painful. You always want to grab throat, as if someone had blocked access to oxygen.
At first, you don’t attach much importance to this. You prefer to ignore it. You realize that by pretending that the problem doesn’t exist, you will only make it worse, but you cannot stop. It will not disappear. It will hide, It will gain strength and wait in the wings.
Draconia lived by suppressing negative emotions: anger, resentment, envy. Nobody knew about their existence - not even Lilia. No doubt he guessed, or at least the immortal hoped for. He expected the closest Fae to notice disgusting feelings, help him get out of their abyss, into which he was slowly sinking. However, the best friend was too busy with the newly opened school life. After all, he wasn’t afraid or avoided, unlike certain someone…
Some new feeling blossomed in the chest of the descendant of the Great Fairy. Draconia couldn’t find words to describe it. One thing was clear: he liked the unfamiliar emotion. Perhaps he lived his entire long life to meet a new friend. Maybe his existence is not as meaningless as it seemed to him.
The constant presence of Sebek and Silver stifled, Malleus wanted to breathe at least a semblance of freedom, at least for one night to calm the storm in his soul. And today, guided by the same thoughts, Malleus strolled through the Onboro dorm. He didn’t notice that the atmosphere in this place had changed. He didn’t notice a human child, looking at him with interest.
Night walks and conversations became an outlet, calmness, a sense of normality, which was so lacking in Malleus’s life. He held on to them like a drowning man holding a straw. Probably, even then the man understood that the straw was “the last” in the literal sense.
“Tsunotaro, look! This is for you,” a human child, beaming with a smile, holds out blue licorices. The flowers seemed to glow from within, casting a dim blue light into the darkness.
It is possible that fate hinted at a sad outcome awaiting him, but Draconia was too happy about a rare, but at the same time so valuable, gift from a friend to pay attention. Flowers flaunted in a vase on the table. Looking at the plants, the man recalled a strange prefect from another world.
Everything was fine until the Yuu began to forget about him. Of course, her life was richer, brighter in events. These thoughts woke up the snake again, coiled on Malleus’s chest.
Even though he understood that his friend didn’t deserve all this, the resentment took up, overshadowing everything. What is it like to be friends with everyone’s favorite? Know that everyone is whispering around? Listen to rumors … and gradually start believing them?
“The prefect just felt sorry for the head of Diasomnia.”
“Surely, she spoke to him, but now she doesn`t know how to get rid of him.”
“She is clearly threatened" 
Is it not fair? It’s not fair. It’s not fair!
The man is increasingly consumed with envy. Why is he worse than others? What do they have that the Draconia doesn’t? He asked himself these questions over and over again, knowing the answer in secret, but not wanting to admit it. He closed himself off from everyone - from Lilia, from Sebek and Silver, from a new friend. Locked himself in to regain its former peace.
However, instead of the long-awaited calmness, voices came. Voices that no one else heard but him. They supported him, said: “If others don’t understand … all that remains is to convince them.” Is that so?
Like a proud dragon, Malleus gets up and walks slowly toward the door. Every step is an answer.
“Can I blame the others?” - “Yes.”
“Do I deserve the same as everyone else?” - “Yes.”
Moments and the man opens the door, a wang appears in his hand by itself. Green lights flare up all around, absorbing expensive fabric, wooden furniture. The first lightning flashes in the sky. Night Raven College won’t sleep tonight.
“Is my position unenviable?” - “Yes.”
“Was I treated unfairly?” - “Yes.”
“How to get what I want?” - “By force”.
Has he lost his mind? Maybe. However, it doesn’t matter anymore. The dragon will take what it considers its own. Voices in his head echo and encourage action. There is no turning back.
Propelled forward, driven by dark feelings, Malleus didn’t notice that the flowers on the table had changed from gentle blue color to bloody red one.
“Am I doing the right thing?” - “Yes.”
150 notes · View notes
tiaragqueen · 4 years
Text
Alien
Tumblr media
✂ Pairing: Yandere! Prince! Rengoku Kyōjurō x Reader
✂ Word Count: 2,8k+
✂ Trigger Warnings: Possessiveness, implied abuse
[Edited]
***
I've seen a lot of people wrote Cinderella au, so I want to try my hands on it.
If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!
Tumblr media
“I've never had clouds follow me each day. Years of sun that never went away. I lie here awake but I'm not one to pray. Everything's changed and now I'm not okay.” - Bring Me Home [G Flip]
Tumblr media
Compared to some people down the streets, your living situation was much better than they could ever wish for. You still had a roof over your head, clothes – regardless of how dirty and rugged they were – to cover your body, food to sate your hunger, and a room to sleep in. You knew that, and that’s why you endeavored to seek a silver lining in your life. Anything to give you hope that miracles did exist, and everything you’d done all this time wasn’t meaningless.
But there were some days where gratitude was hard to practice, and you felt as if the agony you experienced would never end. You wanted to give up, and at the same time, you couldn’t afford to allow pessimism to dominate your life. Today was one of those days, unfortunately, where your stepmother seemed to act crueler and more sadistic than you could handle. Perhaps it was the stress of picking the right dresses for her daughters or the excitement at the prospect of the prince noticing them and the luxury they’d get to experience in the palace.
Nevertheless, your ‘family’ was overjoyed with the invitation despite the – honestly unnecessary – agitation they displayed over the preparation.
“Ma, it’s too tight!”
“Hush, now.” Your stepmother scowled as she proceeded to tighten the corset on Junko's back. “A sacrifice has to be made if you want to attract the prince.”
The younger sister whined again, while the older one, Ryōka, admired her polished appearance in the mirror.
“My, I certainly look ravishing tonight.” she puffed, caressing her sides sensually. “I’m sure I’ll be the one the prince chooses later. I mean, who doesn’t want this kind of body?”
“No! It’ll be me, instead!” Junko interjected vehemently, clenching her fists.
“Be quiet, both of you!” Your stepmother growled as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “If I see any of you causing a ruckus at the party, I swear I’ll spank you.” The sisters fell quiet from the threat, but the older woman ignored their blanched faces and snapped her head towards you. “[Name], don’t just stand there like an idiot. Make yourself useful and clean this mess!”
You hurriedly nodded and scampered to grab the broom. As disheartening as it was to watch them fussing with themselves and chatting excitedly about the party, you still had work to attend to. Work that never ceased and always piled up on an invisible desk. On one hand, you were happy with their departure. You finally had some time left for yourself at home!
On the other hand, however, you wanted to join them, too. You wanted to see the palace from up close. You wanted to see what the prince and his family looked like. You wanted to wear a gorgeous dress and meet new people.
You wanted to… you wanted to be free, for once.
“What’s wrong, dear? You look disgruntled.” A playful voice asked. Looking up, your eyes widened when they landed on a beautiful yet tiny woman with wings fluttering on her back. Black locks that faded to purple flowed behind her, tied into some kind of a unique style. Large, pupil-less eyes that reminded you of an insect's stared down at you patiently. Occasionally, long eyelashes would caress her pale features when she blinked. Despite her overall cute looks, you sensed mischief in her aura. “Hello!”
You blinked in surprise, and hesitantly returned her hearty greeting. “H-hello…” you murmured and glanced around as if hoping someone would explain to you who the heck this woman was and how did she get here without your knowledge. Maybe she managed to slip inside when your stepmother opened the door earlier? But, shouldn’t any of your sisters notice her? It wasn’t every day you got to witness a fairy in person, after all. “Um, who are you? And how did you come here? All the windows are locked, you know?”
The diminutive woman clasped a hand over her rosy lips and chortled. “Worry not, sweetheart, I’m not here to hurt you.” she chirped, effortlessly dodging the questions. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know her answers, either. Her presence was already hard to swallow, anyway. “Believe it or not, I’m here to help you!”
You frowned in bewilderment. “Help me?”
She nodded merrily, beaming. “Yes, I’m here to help you go to the palace and get the prince!”
You sputtered and frantically flailed your hands as though it could change her opinion. “N-no, you got it all wrong! I’m not–” Your cheeks heated up when she leaned forward and hummed in mock questioning, urging you to continue with your nonsensical rambling. “I-I don’t like him that way, alright? I don’t… I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“And that’s why I’m here to realize your dream.” She finally glided back once she had enough teasing you with her knowing stare. “To start it all, you need a beautiful attire to complement your features and body!”
She waved her wand, and immediately, sparkles surrounded your body and changed the rags into the prettiest gown you’d ever seen. The straps hung loosely on your arms, while the bodice hugged your body perfectly and revealed the right amount of cleavage. A silver necklace dangled on your neck, glittering in the dim moonlight that passed through the windows. The color of the dress darkened from bright yellow to fiery orange, whereas your gloves were pearly white. The fairy merely smiled at the confused glance you shot her. It wasn’t as if you disliked the color, but you suspected a hidden motive somewhere.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she inquired, hands clasped behind her.
You opened your mouth to question her singular choice before sighing. “Yes, it is. Thank you very much… fairy.”
Her amiable smile widened as her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re welcome~!”
The next few minutes, she completed your looks with a pair of glass shoes and transformed a mere pumpkin into a magnificent carriage. She explained to you that the magic would disappear once the clock struck twelve, and you needed to leave before the predetermined time. Despite the crushing realization that your ‘freedom’ was only temporary, you still heeded her warnings nonetheless. There was no reason for you to disregard the consequences just because she’d helped you. At least, you could try to appreciate her assistance, even if it came out of thin air. And because a simple thank you just wasn’t enough to describe your gratitude.
“Bye, [Name]! I hope you have a delightful night!”
You chose to bite your tongue from asking about how did she know your name when you didn’t remember giving her and waved instead. Slowly, her figure grew smaller and smaller with each distance the carriage took until she was merely a sparkle among the fireflies. You smiled sadly as you rested against the plush couch, musing about how lucky you were to meet such a kind woman. Maybe God finally took pity on you for once? Whatever it was, you thanked her from the bottom of your heart and hoped you could talk to her again.
Hopefully, as a friend.
Unfortunately, your little praying session was cut short when the horse suddenly stopped in front of a humongous building. The coach opened the door to your left and extended a hand. You tentatively accepted his help, unaccustomed with the gentlemanly gesture, and climbed out of the carriage. You gawked at the extravagance, the guards that stationed in every door, and the elegant guests. Gripping the skirt of your dress, you wondered if it wasn’t too late for you to return to your home. You felt so out of place, like an alien. What if someone noticed your ineptitude and kicked you out?
But going home meant wasting the fairy’s hard work, and although you doubted the probability of your second meeting, you refused to disappoint her.
Swallowing the ball of nerves that clogged your throat, you steeled yourself and shakily entered the palace. You thought you caught a couple of guards sending suspicious glances in your direction, but you quickly shook your head to dispel the image. Don’t think about unpleasant things, and you should be fine.
At least, that was what you hoped until someone approached you.
“Hello, hello!” Your heart nearly leaped out of its cage when a trenchant voice boomed. Was it just your suspicion or were you being jumpier and more airheaded today? A tall man with yellow hair and red streaks stood in front of you, smiling widely. “You have a unique dress there, Miss. I like it! It reminds me of my hair color.”
His hair…
Did that meant this person was–?
“T-thank you...!” Almost instinctively, you bowed to hide your flaming cheeks. That cheeky fairy…! She should’ve told you earlier! How would you suppose to act now?! “I’m… I’m glad you like it, Your Highness.”
Oh, great. Now you acted as if you were trying to grab his attention. At this rate, you wouldn’t be much different than your sisters.
The princess laughed exuberantly, but you detected no mockery of your apparent nervousness. Only genuine amusement and… interest? You shook your head and clenched the dress. He must be interested due to your striking garment, not because of who you were. The thought both dismayed and relieved you.
“You’re quite an entertaining one, Miss.” Extending a hand, he beamed. “May I have this dance?”
Dance?! Oh, no. How could you forget about this important detail? Don’t accept, don’t accept, don’t accept –
“… S-sure.”
Darn it. Now you were going to embarrass yourself in front of him, you just knew it. How could you expect an ordinary girl, whose job was housekeeping, to suddenly be able to dance flawlessly?
But it wasn’t too late. You just… you just needed to follow his lead. You were going to make a lot of mistakes, but as long as you appeared to focus on his movements, he’d surely overlook your clumsiness. Hopefully.
The prince ushered you to the center of the ballroom, and only now did you realize that the guests had long stopped doing their activities and were staring at you. The sheer intensity, ranging from envy to curiosity, encumbered you. However, he squeezed your hand gently as a sign of reassurance and smiled cordially.
“Just focus on me,” he whispered as he wrapped an arm around your waist and brought you close to him. You knew it was part of the dance, and yet, you couldn’t help the way your heart thundered at the seemingly intimate gesture. “and you’ll soon forget them.”
You weren’t sure if it was that easy to disregard the plethora of guests standing on the sidelines – you weren’t him who was used to the attention – but you nodded anyway. The fact that the prince of Rengoku had gone out of his way to invite you to dance was flattering enough, so you just had to humor him in return.
“May I know the name of my partner?” he inquired after a short period of adjustment. He chuckled when you accidentally stepped on his foot and dismissed your flustered apologies.
“[N-Name], Your Highness.” you murmured bashfully, the minor flaw mortified you beyond belief.
“Now, now, no need to be so formal. Just call me Kyōjurō.”
You stared into his dilated eyes, mentally inquiring the reason behind the abrupt informality. Wouldn’t it be rude of you to call a prince by his first name? But he didn’t seem to mind, so that should be fine… right?
“Ah, alright… Kyōjurō.”
His already wide smile expanded as he squeezed your hand, satisfied with your immediate albeit reluctant compliance. Kyōjurō knew, the moment he laid his eyes on your skittish figure – so foreign yet precious – you were quite the meek one. The way you constantly looked around, alert at the slightest hint of disturbance, suggested that this was the first time you attended a party. And, probably, his home itself.
Kyōjurō wasn’t a fool. He’d studied too many books about body language to know that you didn’t belong here, that you acted far too nervous for the typical noble. You were probably a peasant that somehow got invited, and regretted coming once you saw the environment.
Though, it didn’t mean that you couldn’t familiarize yourself. Given enough time, he was certain that you’d be accustomed to the royal life and its benefits.
The rest of the night was spent with an impromptu dance lesson, laughter, and small talks. Due to his easy nature, you almost forgot that he was still a prince underneath; someone that you wouldn’t have the courage to talk to otherwise. And, for a moment, you were led to believe that he was some kind of a long-lost friend. The kind of friend that you always wished to have.
Until the clock struck, shattering your fairy tale that he silently weaved with his persona.
“I-I’m sorry, Kyōjurō, but I need to go.” You tried to release your hand from his grasp, but shockingly, he refused to budge. “Kyōjurō, my mother is waiting for me at home.”
No, she didn’t. But a tiny voice told you that something was wrong with him, and of course, your stepmother would definitely blow a fuse once she learned about your disappearance.
“I can send a guard to relay her a message that her daughter has been chosen as my future wife.”
You faltered, and Kyōjurō took this as an opportunity to pull you towards him and hug you as tightly as he could.
“W-what are you talking about, Your Highness?” Perturbed, you’d unknowingly reverted to the formal title, much to his displeasure. “I don’t… I don’t understand! What do you mean by ‘chosen’? I’m not… I’m not going to marry you, am I? That’s just impossible.”
“[Name],” For the first time in his life, Kyōjurō faked a smile. Not that you’d be able to differentiate it from his usual demeanor, though. “don’t you know what the purpose of this party is?” When you shook your head, he grinned knowingly. Every guest knew, except you. And that just proved his theory right. “It’s to find a perfect candidate for my future spouse. And I’ve picked you, among these women.”
You balked at him and attempted to claw his hand had he didn’t catch your wrist.
“No, I refuse! You can’t just… decide something without my permission!” Despite your ardent rejection, your voice wavered as desperate tears gathered in the corner of your eyes. You wondered why nobody rescued you from him, or if his status intimidated them too much. “Your Highness, please…! Let me go. I want to go home, please! Just search someone else instead, please!”
“So you could return to your ordinary life?”
You gaped at him, and you both watched as the dress that flattered your body reverted to its normal rugs. Somewhere in the outside, you could hear the guards shouting about ‘a carriage that turned into a pumpkin’ and ‘a rat’. The events that occurred were too much for you to bear, and for the first time in your life, you broke down publicly.
In the balcony of Rengoku palace, you collapsed right before his eyes and bawled. Your hair was a mess, bruises discolored your body, and your eyes were bloodshot, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about anything anymore. Why should you, when you’d revealed to him that you were merely an imposter? An alien that could never fit in this stately environment. A peasant whose skills were only housekeeping and surviving.
No, you sobbed. You really didn’t fit anywhere, did you? Not even your closest family, who instantly rejected you once your father died. Why did he have to die? Why did your parents have to leave you alone at their vicious hands? This was unfair. You wanted to go with them, too.
“Sssh… it’s okay, it’s okay.” Kyōjurō crouched beside you and patted your back as though it’d magically fix everything that ruined you. “Everything’s going to be alright, now.” No, it didn’t, but you couldn’t utter that. The tears had yet to run out, after all. “I’ll ensure that you live comfortably with me.”
You didn’t respond, but the fact that you no longer opposed him and accepted his affection was enough for him. Caging you in his tender embrace, Kyōjurō closed his eyes and relished the proximity.
Searching the culprit to your abuse should be the first step to establish your new life, but he could do that later. For now, he needed to bring you to your shared room so you could have a proper rest. He knew just how exhausting crying could be to your body, and he didn’t want you to fall asleep during your ‘heart-to-heart’ conversation later.
Tumblr media
Junko: 順子
Ryōka: 良華
334 notes · View notes
stelliferia · 3 years
Text
Tumblr media
So yknow my kobold arcane trickster rogue, Kitt? She has a familiar now! His name is Mugwump (after the Canadian cryptid) and he is the best familiar I could ever ask for. What a beautiful good boy.
The process for this little boi was probably the best way I’ve seen find familiar done. The DM’s an absolute legend. I keep thinking about it, and it just make me cry.  Process/backstory dump under the cut. It’s a little long, be warned
I’m so sorry in advance, this became something of a writing exercise for me - if you read it, I really appreciate it, and feel free to send me a PM  if you want to chat!
So in addition to the usual components for the spell (10 gp worth of charcoal, incense, and herbs, and a bronze brazier) Kitt was required to collect a few other things. As someone who casts through her mind (intelligence) she needed to find three objects that represented mastery over three parts of her mind, in order to to have a familiar that represented it.
First was what does she want. Second was what would she do to get what she wanted. And the third was what does she fear will happen if she doesn’t get what she wants.
After much deliberating (on both hers and my parts), Kitt settled on the following things. A feather, some rope, and a set of charred wooden dice.
The feather represented freedom. Freedom from the slumbering ancient red dragon she used to collect shinies, and the threat of the terrible things it is capable of if it wakes. She wants for the rest of the kobolds to be free too. To explore the world and see the wonders it has to offer, no longer bound to endless servitude, just like she is now. The feather itself came from a hawk that used to belong to a very unpleasant man who had since been drowned, freeing it - something Kitt would want for herself and the other kobolds.
The rope represented Kitt’s willingness to explore to the ends of the earth(?) to find the Great Blade that is said to be capable of slaying the dragon for good. If the Blade isn’t the answer, she intends to keep on looking. Her dragonborn companion once told her rope was the most important thing an adventurer could have. So if she’ll be travelling a lot, Kitt figures she’s going to need quite a significant amount.
The charred dice represented everything she’s come to know and love being destroyed. This expansive, scary, beautiful world that she still has so much to learn about, would be ripped away from her if something wasn’t done about the dragon. She’d never see them again - her beloved Priestess telling stories with the shimmery pictures, or her friends and weasel running about, calling her to play. And while she hasn’t known them for quite as long, the crew, no, friends she’s made, she wouldn’t want them taken from her either. They still have stories to write write, quests to complete, and she wants to help see them through to the end. The dice, before they were charred, had delicate gold lettering etched onto each of the faces, and finished with a rich mahogany varnish. They were the first shinies she had ever found, and her first exposure to the outside world. She has fond memories with these dice, of her and her friend sneaking off during rituals to admire and play with the pretty shinies, delighting in the clickity-clackity noise they’d make as they hit the ground. As she went to put them in the fire place, her eyes started welling up, watching her precious reminder of home going up in flames. She quickly wiped them away, as the dice burned and blackened beyond recognition, and she started the ritual.
Falling into a meditative trance, visions surrounded her. She’s standing on the ship deck, nothing and no one else around, except the hawk, soaring above her. She blinked, and suddenly, she was seeing through the hawk’s eyes. It flew over the various islands, some of which she had visited, some of them soon to be. The scene shifts again, and she’s standing again, but this time, its somewhere hot, ashy, and dark. She’s home again. As her eyes adjust, her heart sinks to the floor. All of her friends. Dead. Reluctantly, she looks around. And it’s not just them, but all of the crew, the people she’s met along the way, and her clan, scattered like ragdolls. Looking away from the bodies, she comes snout to snout with a familiar face. A face she spent her life fearing, and hoped never to see again, and not like this. The Great Dragon Viskelaer was awake. 
Waking with a gasp, she found herself back in her quarters. Her heart was pounding, and her face was wet with tears. She curled into a ball, shaken by what she saw. There was a tug at her scarf, and when she looked, bright blue eyes looked back at her. The small mahogany creature pawed its way into Kitt’s lap, and its rope-like tail curling around as it settles in for a nap. Tentatively, the kobold reached out her claws to pet it, like she did the weasels back home. This one felt a little different though. The fur was more like soft feathers, somewhat reminiscent of the hawk. Realizing what had happened, Kitt’s cracked the tiniest grin. This weasel, Mugwump, is her precious shiny, and she was going to make sure she worked to protect it.
RIGHT SO THAT WAs BASICLALY WHAT HAPPENED for Kitt to get her familiar, and nearly everything about it I attribute to my incredible DM. I think he’s the first DM I’ve had who’s given me a world I absolutely adore, and he handles my character (monster race) so incredibly well. He’s very much all about the creative reflavouring, and I live for it. Gahh I have so much to say about this DM. They also handle Mugwump (in-game) very well, and it makes me so unbelievably happy. (i’m going to start a tag for myself for things Mugwump does/things I headcannon he does, called Mugwump Ventures)
So because of Kitt’s love of shinies, Mugwump has an inherent need for them as well. He doesn’t quite understand why though, so his natural response is to bite shinies he finds. He’s always actively seeking them out, eyes glittering whenever he sees one. He melts my heart. The forge cleric (one of my good friends in the group) had just gotten an upgrade to his armour, and didn’t know what to do with his old chain mail, so he ended up giving it to Kitt/Mugwump as a gift. Mugwump was overjoyed, and it’s his new toy now. It was so so sweet, and we are all crying. 
Tangent, but everyone in the party has gifted Kitt with something at some point. I mean, makes sense, you want to appease the captain >:). The druid gave her little daisies whenever he went to get her, the carpenter made her a little boat model, and the forge cleric not only gave her the armour, but he also forged her a proper rapier to replace her pointy stick. It’s just so sweet and wholesome. The crewjust wants to keep this little Kobold child happy
Gosh, another thing, when i first thought about casting Find Familiar, I just assumed it would be a regular weasel, but when the DM began describing Mugwump’s appearance, I began squealing from joy. Every aspect of the familiar’s appearance reflects the items, and what they mean to Kitt. So the eyes were meant to be the seas they were sailing, the rope tail was... the rope, the colouring was supposed to  be the dice and the charring, the feathers for freedom/the hawk, and the form (though predetermined) was home. I was legit so happy about it. I love this DM. It’s been a great time.
Anyways, long post over thanks for reading, hope you stay tuned for more wholesome content!
29 notes · View notes
misc-headcanons · 4 years
Note
I hope I'm not too late!! Could I get HCs on how Sanji, Ace, and Crocodile would react to finding out their girlfriend used to be a slave under the celestial dragons before they met after he saw the branded scar on her back for the first time but she's never mentioned it to him before?
TW: trauma and some discussion of triggers
Sanji
Sanji had started to get a nosebleed when he realized he'd walked in on her without a shirt; but the instant he saw the brand on her back, he'd immediately feel an icy, unpleasant feeling in his chest. He'd apologize immediately for not knocking, and he legitimately felt bad for invading their privacy like that (even unknowingly).
Sanji would want to know about their past, but he'd keep himself from asking her about it unless/until she approached him first. He knows what it's like to not want to talk about more traumatic parts of your life, and just as she respects his boundaries, he wants to respect hers. If anyone else on the crew noticed her brand after this, he'd immediately take them aside and firmly tell them not to ask about it (though most of them have enough tact not to do that anyway). He tries to be a good partner to her and wants to show her that whenever/if she was ready to talk about it, he'd be there.
He already treated her like a princess before, but after seeing her brand, he pampered her even more: making all of her meals first, serving her favorite snacks even when she didn't make any requests, carrying everything she got at various islands (and buying a ton of gifts for her as well), etc. He just wants her to get the love and care she should have had her entire life, but was denied. 
One of the names he has for himself when gushing over her USED to be her "slave of love". But after discovering her past as a slave, he never uses that term ever again. He's a lot more protective and attentive to her body language after thus as well, and he starts to pick up on certain things that (after talking with her and Chopper) seemed to trigger her/remind her of traumatic experiences: the smell of something burning, glowing hot metal, hearing the sound of bracelets or cuffs jingling, etc. He does what he can to ensure she isn't exposed to them, and is usually the first to notice if she's having any sort of panic attack or dissociation. He's always very quiet and asks before he comes closer to touch/comfort her, and is hypersensitive to her boundaries as well.
Tumblr media
Ace
Ace would be upset with himself for not noticing it sooner, and part of him would be anxious/self-conscious about why she might not have told him that she used to be a slave. Did she not trust him to tell her? Of course she didn't trust him, nobody should trust him, why is she even with him in the first place if he's the Devil's Son...He'd go down that spiral of negative thoughts, but he'd try his best to internalize all of those feelings and not talk about them with her; he doesn't want to be a burden to her with his own emotional baggage (even though he ISN'T a burden, gdi Ace you need to learn you deserve love)
Eventually his s/o would be able to tell he's hiding something and if she finally asked him, he'd tentatively open up and say it's because he felt like he was a bad partner/person and that's why she didn't trust him to talk about her past. In reality, s/o would explain her own reasons for not saying anything (ie. Never talking about it to anyone before, simply wanting to put the past behind her, being ashamed of her former slave status). They'd spend an entire night talking to each other and even if it's a difficult, sometimes painful conversation, they grow a lot closer because of it.
Ace would offer to try and find a way to have her mark removed if she wanted to, either by asking if Marco could heal the scarring of the brand itself or maybe by getting something tattooed over it. He'd only want her to tattoo something on her back if she said she was okay with it; he knows that tattoo needles are a bit painful on regular skin, but getting something inked over a burn mark seems like it would hurt even more. 
He would do his best to avoid talking about her past unless she brought it up first. He knows firsthand how someone offhandedly asking about your past (especially when it's traumatic) can sting out of nowhere and bring up old wounds, so he doesn't want to put his s/o through that. It's not like he and the rest of Whitebeard's crew are the type to talk much about their past anyway, though--no matter what happened to them then, they're family now and they have people who care about them.
He'd also subconsciously ask them what they want to do every time they go out, as a way to let them be more independent. I mean, he never told them what to do before learning about her prior past as a slave, but he wants her to exercise as much freedom as possible now that she's free to do what she wishes. So instead of asking "Do you want to do (x)?", he'd unknowingly reword it as "What do you want to do?" 
Tumblr media
Crocodile
For a brief moment, Crocodile might be upset with his s/o. I wouldn't say "angry", but he doesn't like it at all when the people closest to him (there aren't that many) hide something from him about themselves. He'd also be annoyed that he didn't figure this out sooner, and would think about previous moments that make a bit more sense now that he knows his s/o used to be a slave (eg. Stiffening up for an instant whenever his hand touched her back, completely avoiding the necklace and bracelet areas of jewelry stores whenever they went shopping together)
He'd be a bit blunt when he talks to her about it, but he's not as rude as that may sound at first. He'd simply tell them that her past doesn't define her, and that he admired her strength even more--she threw her predetermined fate aside and forged her own path in life, and he knows firsthand how liberating and satisfying it is to claw your way to success when you started with almost nothing. 
Like Ace, he'd start to speak to his s/o a bit differently without realizing it. He's usually a bit possessive of his partners, but when he sees how uncomfortable it makes her, he wouldn't act as possessive anymore. He'll still shower her with gifts, but it's less about treating her almost like an object/"pet" now and more about wanting to give her the things she deserves and earned in his mind. Over time (and it would take a while, just because he thinks so highly of himself), he'd think of her completely as his equal in terms of status and respect; she doesn't deserve respect from his employees and associates because she's "his", but because she's ____.
Speaking of gifts, he'd ask his s/o if she'd like more clothing/accessories that cover her back, or for things that emphasize it and show it. He personally thinks that her brand isn't a point of shame, but a point of pride in how far she's come ever since she cast off her chains. But in the end, he leaves it up to her to decide; he's trying not to be as possessive anymore, after all. If she DID start to display her brand more often, he'd feel a stirring sense of warmth and pride when she wears a backless dress or similar bold clothing. She was beautiful before, but her confidence is truly something else.
If he discovers this prior to showing up at Marineford, he'd be extra hostile towards Doflamingo when he gets propositioned into joining forces with him. And since he's no longer a Warlord at that point, he also makes finding/planning a way to assassinate your former "master" a side project of his. It'd take a LOT of planning and risk to take out a Celestial Dragon, but for his s/o, it's more than worth it.
Tumblr media
85 notes · View notes
Text
TTS Parent Analysis Part 1: King Frederic: The Controlling Parent
I’m doing a short series, analyzing each of the significant Tangled parents (Frederic, Arianna, Edmund, Quirin, and Captain) (sorry I couldn’t do Lance-he doesn’t get much screen time as a parent and there’s not enough to analyze between him and the girls :( ).
Tangled the Series has a wide range of interesting parents, all with different qualities, skills, flaws, backstories and relationships with their respective children. I’m briefly looking into the behaviors/personalities of each, what they represent about a specific type of parent, and what they could do better.
This is more of an analysis than a salt, but it may contain negative content and maybe some inaccuracy. It may also be a bit disorganized as I go back and forth between actions, personalities, and behaviors. Also, this is just what I found and thought-anyone else is free to think differently. I won’t be name-dropping or referencing formally any psychological studies in this one...mostly because I don’t have the time but also because I went on a whim with this.
First up is King Frederic: The Controlling Parent
Before I get on with the analysis I will say that if anyone, even your parent, is being controlling to the point that they limit your basic freedoms and manipulate/re-traumatize you, you do not have to forgive or understand them. Leave a situation if you can when it feels abusive or stifling, or makes you uncomfortable/unsafe.
Frederic is the most powerful person in the show-and for some time, in Rapunzel’s life. His motives and actions are largely understandable in the first half of S1-his long-lost daughter has just returned home after being kidnapped by a witch at birth. Said witch emotionally abused and manipulated her to the point that when Rapunzel does come back home, she struggles with trying to balance enjoying her newfound family’s company (and the time they’ve lost together) with wanting to explore a world she’ never known and a freedom she’s been constantly denied. 
Frederic is not manipulative or even that controlling by nature. His lies are easily found out by Rapunzel-either because he’s simply not good at lying to begin with or because Rapunzel has spent her whole life being raised by a liar and knows the signs when she sees it. He's bad at lying and sneaking around people, and he's not really a mastermind for strategy-he needed Eugene's help to get into Trevor Junior's tower at Equis. 
 Frederic does exercise control, however, if things don't go his way and he believes he knows what's best . He uses his position as king to implement that control and thereby abuses his power, in a way. But his abuse reaches out to far more than his child. We see this mindset of Frederic's in how readily he jumps to brute force, militaristic control, and retributive justice (mostly shown when he locks up every criminal in the kingdom without a fair trial and doesn't provide compensation for the fact that he starved, indirectly killed, and orphaned many people in the process). The line he says to Arianna to justify his lockdown on Rapunzel after BEA says everything about him, actually: "just because it was a difficult decision doesn't mean it wasn't the right one."
The controlling parent may coddle, love, and still support their child. They can even give their child the selective amounts of freedom and others things they want-not to satiate their pestering or shut them up, as Gothel did, but because they can and might genuinely care about their child succeeding. Frederic is not adverse to the idea of Rapunzel becoming queen, and taking a powerful position she is guaranteed by birthright. He just wants to be sure that she becomes a queen he is comfortable with, and doesn’t jump into dangerous situations.
But at the same time, the controlling parent is most prone/most likely to cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed in the name of love and support, and these moments of love and support are often brought up by the victims/children in a way to curate some kind of sympathy or forgiveness on their part. This is best seen when Rapunzel was walking down the hall ready to confront her father in the end of The Wrath of Ruthless Ruth, only to find him upset. She is unwilling to confront him because she sees a small amount of humanity in him that she didn’t in Gothel (that doesn’t make it alright but still). She is willing to try and excuse some of his actions because she does genuinely believe that his heart is in the right place.
But then again, she’s only thinking this because the only other abusive person in her life didn’t show her these genuine moments.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
She stops short of what she is saying. Because 1) she has trouble considering her father's side of things despite how she really wants to, and 2) because she's been taught all her life to feel guilty for making her abuser upset. She instinctively does the emotional labour for Frederic even when Frederic isn't bringing her into this. I’ll get back to this later but...onto the controlling parent as a person.
Frederic was a grieving father who happened to be responsible for an entire kingdom and who was given limitless power to do whatever he wanted. His grief took questionable and even sadistic tolls on his actions regarding other people…because no one could stop him and he knew it. Again, he did not do half of the things he did, even to his own subjects, to be malicious-but it is still abuse, and it had permanent effects on many people. Lady Caine and Varian, for example-both people against whom he took unnecessary and excessive action without thinking things through. 
To put it simply, pain and trauma often makes people feel helpless. Frederic seems to console himself about the helplessness he feels regarding his own trauma and conflict by actively abusing the power he does have (which is inexcusable). He justifies this by putting on a savior complex when he can use that power, but using an inferiority complex when he has to face the consequences for it or knows he might get questionable looks for it or just generally feels less inclined to do it. He uses power, but denies he has it when he has to deal with its aftermath. Interestingly, this is something Rapunzel does too.
And that does come off manipulative to the people that get stuck in the whirlwind of their messy decisions. In Frederic’s case, to Lady Caine and Varian. And in Rapunzel’s case, to Varian and Cassandra. 
The biggest part of all of this is that Rapunzel takes after both Frederic’s and Gothel’s controlling behaviors. She primarily re-iterates from Frederic’s behavior throughout the rest of the series but she only has the capacity for it because of a lifetime under Gothel, who was a passive-aggressive self-centered, manipulative narcissist and the only human being Rapunzel really had contact with. (This isn’t going to be salt, I won’t delve on this too much but) Look at these two pictures:
Tumblr media Tumblr media
They don't own up to the power they have when they see people trying to call them out for making a questionable decision. They play the savior when they need to get their way (and sometimes that's not bad. In Rapunzel's situation, playing the savior was arguably necessary for that particular time, just not pretending to be one afterwards)...but they play the victim when they can't. This is an unconscious manipulative tactic, even if neither Rapunzel nor Frederic are actually malicious people at heart.
It's easy to see that Rapunzel largely got her manipulative tactics from Gothel....but it is only encouraged by Frederic, however indirectly. She only continues to use them because the lack of consequences makes her feel justified in believing she's in the right. Even when circumstances make it nearly impossible for her to believe. Which is largely the same dilemma Frederic has. Or, well, had. 
Tumblr media Tumblr media
(Rapunzel does this exact same thing with Varian and Cass in both S1 and S2...and some of S3. Although the difference is that Rapunzel had relatively little to do with Cass’ dilemma directly)
I guess that could, in part, be misinterpreted by Rapunzel as consolation for her to keep doing what she's doing until S2 comes around and slams everyone including her because she is supposed to eventually realize that her father's method is not an ideal method, which means that she does have to look at her own flaws (reflected in and mirrored by her father) and make a change. (Considering what happens in S3 probably not, but they could have taken a direction).
For Rapunzel's case, it may generally feel easier to continue using passive narcissistic, controlling behavior when it doesn't look controlling to others as a maladaptive coping mechanism to her own control issues and the moments she herself has been constantly denied/put down all her life rather than actively changing, although Rapunzel does try sometimes. Which is why the concept of flawed Rapunzel learning, or even antagonist Rapunzel, is very intriguing. She was dumped from one abusive situation to another....but the other now indirectly justifies her own lowkey abusive behaviors
I once did an analysis on how she manipulated and accidentally mistreated Varian and Cassandra but that's another long story so I'm just going to keep this to Frederic.
Frederic, like most controlling parents who don't want to be as controlling or become abusive, and who do want to do right by their kids, needed to learn a healthy balance between being involved with Rapunzel's life and interests while being able to step back and let her have her needed freedoms. They need to learn how to trust their children while also being able to offer advice and support from a comfortable and predetermined distance that is mutually accepted by themselves and their child.
There’s much more I can say about this, but I’m going to move on because I might come back to this while comparing the other parents.
Wotso Videos also does a good job of dissecting Frederic:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u_adAYebvw8
28 notes · View notes
adsari · 3 years
Text
On his lips
Litlle note
The second part no one ask for, but i had to write it. You like the first part, so maybe you will like it too. It is very similiar, but this time I let Neji to speak.  I am so greatfull for every good word you left on my first post. One again I apologize for every mistake I made writing it. (tranlating take me longer that actually write it). I hope you will enjoy it.
Neji always thought he would have no life outside of the clan. He believed that his entire history had been written from the time of his birth. He was to live and die for the clan's core. This was the main goal of his life, his and many others before him. Nobody asked him for his opinion. Nobody considered his feelings or opinion. That was the tradition. This is how it supposed to be.
Neji always thought he would have no life outside of the clan. He became even more convinced of this on the day when a seal was made on his forehead, a sign of his submission. He was still a child, he didn't know much about the world or life, and yet he was given a role that he hadn't asked for. He supposed to fight and die for the family, not because of his own choice, but from a top-down order. His will was restrained, his choice was taken away. He couldn't argue, he couldn't rebel. On the day he was sealed, his life ceased to belong to him.
Neji always thought he would have no life outside of the clan. Even on the day he hated his family with all his heart, he couldn't walk away and say no. On the day of his father's death, when his whole world fell, his right to rebel was taken from him. He had to accept a decision he didn't understand. He had to live with a pain he couldn't relieve.It was a decision he couldn't accept to sacrifice a person he loved so much for the good of the clan. He transformed all the love he had for his father into hate for the people who took him away.
Neji always thought that he would have no life outside of the clan, and each day, when he was looking at himself, those thoughts grew stronger. Every morning, when he put the protector on his forehead, he saw a seal that commanded him to obey. He hated to look at himself. He hated to look at the green marks burned into his skin that kept him from any rebellion.
Neji always thought that his skills would be used in the defense of the clan's main family. From an early age at the academy, he was considered a genius. Each of his movements, each new technique was carefully rehearsed. He trained with all his might. Every day he gave his best because the trainings filled him with joy. He had control over what he did, how much of himself he gave. The training sessions were his moments of freedom, although he knew deep down that he wasn't fighting for himself. He had to become the best he could to defend those family members who were unable to protect themselves.
Neji always believed he was born a genius. His skills were above average. He even stood out among the members of his own clan. Though he came only from a side branch, he was superior to those he supposed to die for. It is the core that should be strong, so why did he gain skills that the elite could not. He would like to say that it did not satisfy him, but he would be lying. He was proud of how strong he had become. He wanted to make people jealous for whom he was worthless.
Neji always believed that he would not have a life outside of the clan, so he never paid much attention to other people. When he started attending academy, it was his skill that mattered the most, not making friends. He supposed to become the best to prove that he can''t fool the destiny. He was born to fight, not to love. It was obvious to him that the classes were only an opportunity for training, not for conversations or games.  His connections were purely practical, not friendly. It didn't make sense for him to have friends since he couldn't fight for them anyway.
Neji always believed that everyone was doomed to their fate in advance, which is why he didn't understand the members of the team he belonged . Average, unremarkable in any aspect, yet motivated to change their fate. For him, they were just naive, pathetic children who didnt know the true rules of the world. A boy who could not use ninjutsu, and yet he trained beyond his own strength to make his dreams come true. And the girl, this completely ordinary girl. It was  something about her that Neji didn't understand.
Neji had always believed that the main family of Hyuga clan was responsible for his fate. Over the years he had accumulated hatred for his own family. Darkness and pain grew within him, which he couldn't release it. He was angry, he was pissed.The anger he felt was burning him from within. Day after day, he plunged more and more into the abyss of despair caused by his doomed fate. He had no hope for a change. He didn't believe that the rules of the world he was dragged into by force would ever change.
Neji always believed that the main family of Hyuga clan was responsible for his fate, so fighting with a person who was the embodiment of everything he hated was for him an expression of opposition. He wanted to kill her. It supposed to be his act of rebellion against the role that was assigned to him. The role he played in this fight was in complete opposition to what he should be. He was supposed to be a protector, not an avenger. He should die for the clone's core, not to murder its members. She became the epicenter of his hatred, though he had nothing to blame her for. She was just a victim like him.
Neji always believed that he was born a genius, so winning a fight with a weaker member of his own clan was not a surprise to him. On the other hand, he was surprised to lose a fight to someone who had little to offer besides the annoying attitude that his teammates represented. Naruto, Hinata, Lee, Tenten all believed that thanks to determination and hard work, they could change their fate. They had something that Neji didn't have. Hopes for change and strength to implement this change. Unlike him, they did not give up, they did not accept their  predetermined losing position. This lost fight became a turning point for him.
Neji always believed that he was doomed to his fate, so changing his own beliefs was not easy for him. He didn't understand and forgive immediately. Even learning the truth about the fate of his father didn't speed up the process. He needed time for the change to finally come to him. It all started with believing in one person and his world began to grow beyond the realm of hatred. He opened up to people whom he always kept close to, but never noticed. His team, although full of defeat, always determined. He began to look at his teammates differently. No longer with pity, but with admiration for their strength and fighting spirit. He wanted to become like them, gain this hope for change.
Neji always felt that he would have no life outside of the Hyuga clan, which is why having so many friends was bewildering to him. Not only did he begin to improve relations with his clan members, but he also made friends for whom he was willing to fight. The people who initially bothered him became important to him. His master became a support and motivation for him, his teammate became a rival and friend, and on top of that, there was this brave girl with kunai.
Neji always believed that he would not have a life outside of the clan, so he never expected to be able to choose whom to love. Though he had her with him from an early age in the academy, it took him years to realize how unique she was to other girls. She was different. She was funny, she was fearless. She became his support at times when he doubted the most. She became his sweet secret, fearing that the piercing eyes of his family would decide to take this choice away from him. She became a breath of freedom for him. A choice he could make. A choice that was only and exclusively his.
Neji always believed that he would not have a life outside of the clan, so he did not expect to love a girl so ordinary compared to the clan members. It was true only for people who didn't know her. She was amazing. Her determination was unequaled. The fighting strength she possessed was as great as the amount of weapons she kept. She became his signpost at times when he lost his way. She was his light. She was his hope for a change, because only with her he could change the world. He wanted to choose her every time and for the short period of time he could.
Neji always thought he was going to die for the Hyuga clan, so when the war came, he knew what would happen. Being in charge of his clan on the battlefield prepared him for the possibility of death, though he had so many things for which he wanted to live. In the last moments, Neji was sure of his choice. He didn't want to die of compulsion, so when he could choose he did so. He did not feel any regret dying in defense of the boy who changed his life. He wasn't sad. He wasn't angry. There was no darkness in him. At that moment, his heart was moving in a completely different direction. It rushed towards that brave girl with kunai fighting nearby.
Neji had always believed that he would have no life outside of the clan, so he never expected to die with his beloved girl's name on his lips.
16 notes · View notes
lixiefe · 4 years
Text
Can’t Touch - k.sm
Chapter Fourteen: Enough
Words: 2k
Disclaimer: ocd people (or anyone with something in general) actually make more out of a situation than normal people would and react strongly. For example: if they hurt someone unintentionally or intentionally, no matter how trivial that is, it will eat them up. And they’d stress over it for the longest time. 
Warning: angst (?)
~.~
You didn’t know what the reason was behind your husband’s uncanny behavior. Everything seemed fine since the start. Your greetings were filled with sweet talks and fluttering eyes, yet, your husband seemed to have a total switch in the span of six hours. You were drowning in apprehension, in a constant worry. Did I do something wrong? Did he not want to see me?
Your lift ride to his house was nothing but sheer silence. Silence that stretched too long until the both of you were eating on the table. Even the food seemed to depict Seungmin’s rather angry demeanor and unbearable silence. Even though he was the demure type, this was pretty unnatural.
“Did I uh..” you began courageously, fiddling with your fork. You looked towards your moody husband, who hadn’t paid you any heed as he continued to focus on his unfinished platter. “Do something wrong?”
Your husband paused, gently keeping the fork down. You saw him lift up his head with an apologetic look. He stayed quiet for a few moments, staring into your doubtful eyes. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Seungmin replied, placidly. Your eyes widened at his sudden apology and you rapidly shook you head.
“No, no. That’s not what I meant,” you reasoned. Seungmin looked at you in confusion, hands returning back to his fork as he looked down. You didn’t know why he avoided your gaze but you paid it no mind.
But in reality, Seungmin felt so stupid. The latching feeling in his chest was persistent and he knew it was irrational. Yet he couldn’t seem to avoid it, he couldn’t help but feel envious of his long-time friend. And he felt like you weren’t happy with him. You deserved so much better, and he was not your worldly prince charming. Surely, you weren’t in to be jumbled into an arranged relation, much less fall in love with your husband.
“Then what did you mean?”
You were startled at his rather harsh tone. He had always spoken to you with such tenderness, that it unexpectedly hurt you when he transited a punitive intonation. You ignored the little ache you felt in your heart as you tried formulating an answer.
“I mean, umm, you’ve been a bit different. Since, uh, we came back.” That came out as more of a question than a statement. You knew you seemed dubious of yourself. However, you were highly disappointed when your husband swiftly ignored your words. He continued to eat his supper as if he had heard nothing at all.
Undoubtedly, it hurt you. Much more than you anticipated.
You quietly resumed eating with the aching feeling in your chest. Unknowingly, your lips turned down and eyes fell back. You didn’t like the feeling at all, but you had no intention of asking your husband anything further. You felt like it would only sadden you.
You’d left your husband to wash the dishes, with guilt, forcing yourself to believe that he preferred it. However, you stood there in the living room, motionless and deep into thoughts. You didn’t know what, or who, you were waiting for. But you had no control as your feet remained glued to the tiled floor, heart wavering in anticipation of what you did not know.
Your ears perked up as soon as you heard the faint footsteps of your husband; and you looked up, only to see the said man staring at you with hard eyes. You felt intimidated under his gaze, suddenly coming to the realization that you stood here for nothing. You shuffled your feet, trying to find the route to your room which had left your mind long ago.
“You must not be happy with something like this.” Your husband uttered. You paused in your actions, a frown covering your face as you looked up at him. He looked like a guilty prisoner, face struck with remorse of something you didn’t know. A million questions flooded your brain and you desperately tried to look for a reason, anything, for his sudden assumption.
“What?” you whispered, but that remained unnoticed, yet again.
“I mean, it’s arranged. I understand.” He said, sullen yet his tone was coarse. Your mouth hung open. You couldn’t recall any moment that’d have given him the impression that you’re unhappy- because this is arranged. If anything, you talked with him like a lovesick teenager. Was he that dense, that oblivious, of your growing feeling?
“Just to remind you, I’m no one for you. You’re free to your wishes,” he hesitated, licking his lips in the meantime. “You have freedom for anything. Have a love-life, roam around. If you’d think I cared, I don’t.”
A lie. A whole painful lie.            
His statement was not vague, yet so indicative of things that not once crossed your mind. And you repeatedly thought to yourself, what initiated this? You wondered what he took for your wishes, or the anything you wanted to do. Your love-life? Sure, you didn’t tell him that none of your firsts were fulfilled, you were intact to the point that it was embarrassing. But why would he think that you’d want to have extra-marital relationship with someone, that too, giving you full freedom for that. Did he think you’d cheat? That you’d get so fed up with your needs that you’d seek others?
He said he didn’t care.
You had your dignity, self-pride and principals. You didn’t have many boyfriends, or fictional lover-boys when you wanted but you weren’t one to cheat when you were married.  His every word seemed like a knife to your conscience, a dagger to your heart. All you wanted to do was point your finger to chest and tell him he was so so wrong, and that he was a jerk for not acknowledging your feelings. But you didn’t. You only looked at him in disbelief drawn all over your face.
He said he didn’t care, why should you?
“Neither of us wanted this. You were forced into this anyways--”
“Enough, Kim Seungmin.” You said, stern. You didn’t realize that your voice was quavering, you didn’t realize that you were shaking. Your hands formed a tight fist and you felt your energy leaving you all at once. You were wordless, mind blank with only his daring words circulating around.
With the limited energy you had, you ran away. You couldn’t hear any more, you were petrified. Your hands shook as you slammed the door with a loud after-noise, hands tightly wrapped around the knob as you shut your eyes. You took heavy breaths to calm your raging heart that screamed at you to throw a fit on your husband. You were fuming, yet your heart ached with an unknown pain.
And a lone tear left your eyes.
Back in the silence of the living quarters, Seungmin stood with remorse engulfing his heart. His let out a small shriek of frustration, fisting his hair in his hands. The only thing in his mind was you, and the possibilities that you’d gotten enraged, that you’d went farther away. He didn’t know what irked him to say stuff he did not mean. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t his conscious mind that spoke, it was his envy; his insecurities.
They say nothing is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity. And that’s exactly what he was doing. He was weak, who couldn’t fight against both his irrational emotions and neurotic fears.
And he knew, he fucked up.
---
He didn’t know if it was your innocent smile that stretched farther to your eyes. Or your crinkling crescent eyes, that sparkled in the fluorescent yet illuminating moonlight – and constantly changed colors, wondrously. Or your effervescent charms that lured him into a bottomless pit. Or if it was your every little thing, that sought to be the cynosure in his naked eye.
He didn’t know exactly what entranced him but he was so infinitely intoxicated, with you. Wordlessly, he was captivated into an inebriate daze, which tempted his very mind with your luscious lips and his dire desire to engulf them in his mundane ones- and pull you into a passionate kiss. One that illuminated all his senses, with the underlying love and infatuation he harbored.
Yet, that wasn’t enough. It was never enough, because, he never knew if his reveries were realistic. There was no predetermined presentiment that could ensure that- his fantasies were however, not impractical. That his unsaid desires were not quixotic.
And he was proved wrong.
Because you were his salvation and he could do anything, and everything, for you. That included conquering his terminal fears. And if it was for you, clouds and skies, he was more than ready.
And again, he found himself creepily staring at your beauty in the middle of the night, with his unheard apologies. He was too much of a coward, to be talking to you in your sound sleep. Even though his apologies, his guilt and self-loathe remained unheard by you, he wished you’d listen to his sincere heart; wished you’d look past his mistakes, inside himself. But that was so selfish of him.
He sat there, admiring your unconscious state. You still had a small crinkle in the middle of your forehead. Seungmin thought to himself; was it because of him? Was it because of the hurt he caused you? Of course it was, you were upset and it was even visible to blind eye.
The overpowering urge to kiss you seemed to grow ten-folds, expanding by mere seconds. Seungmin’s eyes cast down, a struggling frown covering his face. He contemplated with himself whether he should just try; try to touch you, try to calm this stubborn desire. But that was hard.
If he decided on his heart, he could find himself trying to scruff traces of you, when all he wanted was to engulf himself in your scent. It was a confrontation between his heart and his mind. And he didn’t know which to follow. Because both came with an advantage and a fatality.
Choose your heart.  
Yet, just moments ago he was willing to do anything for you. So why not? Why not test out just how ‘ready’ he was?
And with that thought in his mind, for the first time, he was voluntarily leaning in towards you. He didn’t care about that damn disorder anymore. He didn’t care what side-effects it brought. And he didn’t care about the boundaries it set for him. Right now, all he wanted was you.
You who stole his heart.
He pressed his lips against your forehead, closing his eyes in relish. One of his hands held your cheek, touch feathery. He stilled there for a few moments. It was a kiss of longing; the longing that will only build up more. He didn’t know when again he could gain courage to kiss you like this. And now that he’d tasted the pleasure of such a measly act of affection, he wanted more.
He pulled away after giving a chaste kiss on your forehead, releasing with a smooching sound. He kept his hands on your cheek, face still close as a satisfied smile crept up his lips. His eyes grazed over your face again, as if memorizing every details he could see; drinking in the sight of your effortless beauty in the glowing moonlight.
He leaned away as his hands slid away from your face, already reminiscing the velvety texture of your skin. He heaved a contented breathe, one of his hands lifting up to touch his own lips. The ones that came in contact with you. And he smile broadened.
He wanted to go back to admiring you, ravished by his own feelings. But it was his time to return to the parameters of his room. Except this time, he would close his eyes with a smile on his face, and sleep with the satisfaction of his achievement. Heart thumping and cheeks warming up with a buoyant tingle spreading across his chest.
“I’m sorry, my love.”
And it was in that night that he realized, he was so irrevocably in love with you. And it was more pleasant than anything he’s ever felt.
Tumblr media
a/n: alright so i became poetic writing this. :’) the unveil tracks are killing me. 
68 notes · View notes
theholycovenantrpg · 3 years
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media
In the beginning was MICHAEL, an ANGEL loyal to the cause of the ANGELS. He is said to be IMMORTAL and uses HE/THEY pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as a KING of the KINGDOM OF CAELUM. Blessed be his name.
THE INDELIBLE MARK.
Michael is widely regarded as the elite among the angels - though they move fast, he moves faster. Though they are intelligent and clever, he is cutting and far quicker with his wit. What makes him a true force, though, is his ability to predict his opponent’s moves and strategy in battle. Once they have an established pattern that he is able to discern, defeating them becomes rather easy - and this is something that he is able to apply in other spheres of life as well, such as negotiation and debate. Although, he finds this rather difficult to apply as of late. There are a number of demons that are aware of this ability and have learned to abate it somewhat, and mortals are far more difficult to gauge  due to their unpredictable nature (and newfound abilities)  since the dawn of this age.  
THE HISTORY.
He remembers what it was to be beloved. To be favored by both God and Man, lauded as the savior of the kingdom of heaven and the children on earth. At the first flicker of his existence, Michael knew what his duty was - to be the protector and the sword that God would wield against the world, whether it be as protection or punishment, it did not matter. So long as he did his duty and did it well; it is a difficult thing, though, to fulfill one’s duty when bearing a heart that it is aflame, one that aches and trembles at the gentlest of touches. And yet he had to learn how to brutalize it, how to do so in order to steel it against the notion of mercy.  What good was mercy when chasing the foolish humans from the garden of Eden - though they wept and bemoaned the loss of the only place they had known to be their home? What use was it when he cast his own brother, Lucifer, from heaven and watched him fall to the decrepit realm of hell? He had led the soldiers of heaven against the rebels that were condemned. With his flaming bled he slaughtered those he had once called his brethren, and he did so at God’s bidding and in His name. One would think that, since it was his duty, his sole reason for creation, it might have been easier for him to bear; he waited for his heart to quiet, perhaps it might even revel in the righteousness of his duty. After all, for these acts he was lauded and venerated, rendered and depicted in paintings, scraps of metal, and marble stones. But decades turned into centuries, and centuries into millennia and this suffering of his never seemed to wane.
And God, his father, never seemed intent on lessening his suffering. Michael never uttered a word against his father, and his father never thanked him - but still all saw him as the only beloved, as the only angel worthy enough to be wielded as God’s sword. Imagine, then, their surprise when his rageful heart could no longer be quelled by his haphazard attempts at soothing it, could no longer be caged by the steel that he had meticulously built and reinforced millennia after millennia. It had been one, single request that he had finally uttered - have mercy upon the soul of this girl, Father, he had begged. A single girl, taken too young - perhaps no one in the grand scheme of things, a blinking, flickering star that was fading in the vastness of the cosmos. But she had been kind, she had been good, and God had let her be taken aware far too young, had allowed her to feel the flicker of flames simply because it had been predetermined. But Michael knew the truth as well as his Father - if He had so wished, the girl might have been saved. The only request he had ever made since the waking of his existence and still his Father denied him. No one could blame him when, after that, he had felt his heart truly break. And from it burst forth a torrent of unfettered rage and pain.
There are times where he thinks that he might have drowned his own brethren with his seething anger, forcing them to drink it in until they were poisoned with it as well. Other times he thinks that he blinded himself to the resentment that tied the angels in their coup against God. But he knows that to ruminate on the events of the past can only lead to madness - regardless, he still held his sword to his Father’s throat, watched the ichor pour from His divine wounds and cast Him from the heaven that He had so long hidden Himself in. What an odd thing it was to feel the steady beat of his heart and to know, as he watched his Father fall to the earth that he was finally at peace. What an odd thing it was to realize that death and peace were one in the same. Though, with this dead heart he found that it was easier to wear a crown upon his head and take the burden of this new world upon his winged shoulders. With his bloodied hands he built a kingdom that allowed his people the freedom that they were never given by the divinity that they had once called God and Father. He ushered them into a new era in a world that could be theirs - and what better turn of fate could there be than if the world was theirs alone?
He sees how the dawn of this new age has made them stronger - and he has felt how it is making them weak. Each day he awakes and feels the beating of his dead heart push him closer to the edge of greed, to the edge of hunger and he is beginning to find it difficult to smother it, to stop himself from giving in. But he looks at the lands that await them, thinks of the promise of peace should all bend their knee and fall under his rule. How could they deny him the crown and kingship when it is so clear that he, who has known true suffering and true pain, is the only one that can stop it from consuming them all? Fate has thwarted him, the obstinacy of the demons and humans prodding at him like the bites of gnats. They think they know better than he, the celestial that rallied the entirety of the heavens against God? They think they know better than the angel that has witnessed the true danger of natures of demons and the fickle, beguiling morals of humans? Michael, he is named. He Who Is Like God - and when has God ever been satiated unless he dictates all things?
THE CONNECTIONS.
GABRIEL & RAPHAEL: The Archangels. They were known as the three Archangels in the old world - famed and venerated (though Michael above all). They are brothers in every sense of the word: bickering over the smallest of things, needling one another, but loving one another all the same. Though, as of late, Michael has become worried that his new status as their liege and lord has caused something of a rift between them. Perhaps chasm is a more accurate word to describe it. Before, their arguments would end in jest, but now he can only recall the biting words that seem to dig deeper each time they dare to broach any sort of conversation. What worries him more is the fact that, since the dawn of time, they have been at his side - have been the wards against his own pride and paranoia. The further he drifts from them, the more he begins to wonder if he is well and truly sane.
ZADKIEL: Pawn. They were close once, despite the disparity in their positions - one an Archangel and the other a Cherubim. They were both treasured by God, beloved by Him especially when Lucifer was cast out from Heaven. They had both thought of the fallen angel as a brother and had found comradery in the face of misery and disappointment. But then Michael became more prominent among the Mortals, revered and uplifted while Zadkiel receded into the background, all too glad to remain beneath the shadow of God’s hand. Michael knew that, without a doubt, even if it warred with Zadkiel’s obstinate sense of duty, he would fall into line if asked. And he would do it again and again and again, no matter what the Cherubim might forsake along the way. Call it morbid curiosity, but Michael cannot wait to find out what will push him to the edge.
VIKTORIA: Muse. There is something unnameable about them that calls to him like a moth to a flame, like a mortal to sin. Since the dawn of time he has kept his gaze upon them, watching them from afar, fascinated by every utterance that echoes from their lips, or every weary wave of their lithe fingers. Whenever they speak, he bends an ear to listen, though it seems that they have no interest in ever speaking directly to him. Or, when they deign to, it is in short clipped words that are rarely ever complimentary or kind. No matter, he tells himself, because regardless they are hired to protect him and ensure his safety - to be his eyes and ears in the places where he is unable to reach. It costs him a pretty penny, but it's worth it, so long as it keeps them coming at his beck and call again and again.
SALOME: Headache. He really does loathe how she looks at him whenever they are forced to regard one another. Her words always seem saccharine, laced with falsities and only ever contemptuous when he bothers to read between the lines. Why she loathes him, he can’t seem to fathom, but whatever the reasons be they seem to be founded on nothing more than a gut feeling. Perhaps she remembers how his blade had kept her from heaven and how he had watched her be casted into health, as she had rightfully deserved to be. Or perhaps she sees in him everything she is denied -- and Salome has been refused so little in the world that to deny her every request fills him with delectable satisfaction. Perhaps, he thinks, that if he wears away at her enough then she might be rendered utterly useless to the Vices in her quest to fulfill her needs above all else.
Michael is portrayed by Adonis Bosso* and was written by ROSEY. He is currently TAKEN by CAROLINE.
2 notes · View notes