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delicioussshame · 3 years

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I remembered this fic only a few days ago. Sorry. Have the second part.

At least he wrote to Luo Binghe before his little stunt.

He hangs onto this small bright spot like a lifeline as he stares at his phone, back in his apartment. Once his disciple has read the message Shen Yuan sent, he’ll understand that his shizun was just pretending to be a bitch. He’ll probably find it in his heart to forgive the humiliation, especially since Shen Yuan will be suffering from it way more than Tianlang-Jun’s fucking son ever will.

If his parents found out he befriended one of China’s richest moguls’ heir, they might ease up on the forced partying, but alas. He won’t tell them. That would ruin his whole schtick.

Never mind that! How the hell is Luo Binghe’s Tianlang-Jun’s son! That was very much not included in the backstory he was given by him! Single mother, poor upbringing, tiny village! Not uber-rich daddy just waiting for him to join him in the big city, woo just as rich women and inherit his endless conglomerate! Tianlang-Jun wasn’t even known to have children! Or a wife! Luo Binghe kept him in the dark! Or he outright lied to him!

Okay, so maybe Shen Yuan did not tell Luo Binghe he also was a scion of the rich and famous of Beijing. They had shared precious little about their personal lives. There had been too many novels to discuss. Luo Binghe must surely have been just as surprised as Shen Yuan himself.

Shen Yuan holds his phone, typing and deleting another message to Luo Binghe. He doesn’t know how to apologise for the frankly abysmal way he’d treated him.

Just as he’s deleting another string of characters, his phone beeps. Shizun remembers our date tomorrow, right?

…So Luo Binghe isn’t angry, right? He’s not, right? He wouldn’t call it a date if he only wanted to break Shen Yuan’s face with his mighty fists, would he?

(Okay, he’s not sure why Luo Binghe is calling it a date anyway, but whatever.)

I do.

Good! I can’t wait to see him!

…Maybe Binghe has an identical twin brother. That would explain everything.

It makes at least as much sense as Luo Binghe being a pure white lotus and a fan of online literature, while also being a rich playboy standing to inherit one of the country’s biggest conglomerates.

…He’ll find out soon enough. See you tomorrow then.

Just to be on the safe side, he’ll stop by a nice bakery before they meet.

_________________

It is possible it’s the fifth time Shen Yuan checks his watch.

It is also possible his nerves got the better of him and made him arrive forty-five minutes early. Sue him.

“Shizun!”

If their relationship is going to continue, he needs to put a stop to this appellation. It’s terrible for both their image.

Shen Yuan turns toward the call, and almost flinches away from the force of his disciple’s radiance. There’s no way this Binghe, cheeks flushed from having rushed over and wide smile on his face, is anything like the lady-killer Shen Yuan crossed the other day.

Identical twins. Shen Yuan is calling it.

“Shizun must forgive me for the other night! If I had known he would be there, I would have warned him!”

For fuck’s sake what the hell is happening. “Binghe doesn’t need to apologise! If anything, I was the one whose conduct was horrid. I should be the one apologising!” He shoves the pretty pastel paper bag in Binghe’s chest “Here, pastries! You like those, right? Take it as a gesture of good will and repentance. And everything we do today is on me.” Not that Luo Binghe needs his money. If anything, he’s probably richer than Shen Yuan’s whole family combined.

Binghe peeks into the bag and thanks him before setting it aside, obviously uninterested for now. “From what I gathered, I suspect we were using similar strategies, since what I’ve heard about you cannot possibly be true. There must be more to this.”

Shen Yuan can imagine what the people he has systematically alienated for years must have told him, and feel dread pooling in his stomach. “What did they say.”

Luo Binghe waves it away. “Nothing important. I don’t believe a word of it. I know Shizun better than they ever will, I’m sure of it.”

Well, okay. Shen Yuan will definitely take it. “How about you, then? Binghe was…” terrifyingly seductive, “another person yesterday.”

“My father’s idea. He said that if I were to integrate his world, it was his duty as a father to make sure I’m not eaten alive. I took acting lessons.”

Acting lessons! Seriously? “And have you considered making that your profession?” Because with that persona, Luo Binghe would become China’s number one heartthrob seconds following his first apparition on a small, or big, screen.

“I’m going to take it as a compliment, especially from you. Your performance was quite notable. It gave me chills.”

Yeah, chills born out of awkwardness. “I’m nothing compared to him. Just to be certain: Binghe pretends to be a smooth socialite to fit in, right?”

Luo Binghe nods.

“How do you stand it? I could never manage to pretend that I appreciate Xiao Gongzhu or Sha Hualing. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that their diet is mainly composed of human flesh, with a preference for young men.”

“Surely Shizun is exaggerating? They were nothing but nice to me.”

“With your looks and your status, of course they were.”

“If that was what they were after, wouldn’t they get along with Shizun just fine? He’s also got both those things.”

Shen Yuan tries not to let his befuddlement appears on his face. “I have status, but not anywhere near as high as yours? That’s all that matters to those girls. If he tried to prepare you, your father must have warned you about people like them.” He’s not even going to abase himself by addressing the looks issue. They both have eyes. Only one of them looks like he could grace the cover of Vogue China, and it sure isn’t Shen Yuan.

“He did warn me of enterprising women in general, before going on a tangent about enterprising women who are too independent to agree to marriage and instead run away to give birth in lost villages without informing their partner, which I have gathered must be about my birth mother. It’s nothing I couldn’t have thought of myself. Anyway, Shizun shouldn’t worry. I have no plans to choose either of them as a partner.”

Shen Yuan lets out a relieved sigh. “Good. Binghe deserves better. He should look for someone he cares for to share his life with.” It’s not like he’ll need their money.

“That’s what I’m doing.”

Already? He didn’t even start class yet. “Good for you. I’m wishing you luck.”

“Thank you, but I will make my own luck.” With a lack of shame Shen Yuan can only envy, Luo Binghe grabs his hand and drags him toward the nearby street. “Let’s go! There is so much to see here! We can’t afford to waste time!”

Shen Yuan smiles, charmed by Luo Binghe’s childish enthusiasm. “Let’s.”

________________________

Shen Yuan returns to his apartment with a peace of mind only one who has buried his terrible mistake down deep in the ground can attain. He explained to Luo Binghe why he acts as he acts, and Luo Binghe accepted it. Luo Binghe explained to him the same, and it made sense to Shen Yuan. They had spent the whole day wandering around the city, eating delicious food and visiting anything that attracted Luo Binghe’s varied interests.

Had Shen Yuan expected to spend an hour comparing cooking utensils? Why, no, he hadn’t. Was it boring? Miraculously, no. Was it worth it, considering he ended up getting invited over to dinner? If the pastries Luo Binghe had made him before were an indication of his general abilities in the kitchen, Shen Yuan would have easily spent three more hours in that shop, listening to Binghe rave about the selection he could have never gotten in his tiny village that was apparently so remote that even ordering online wasn’t always possible, for such an invite.

Reality, sadly, is eager to unbury the mistake he had just set aside.

It does so via an email bearing his mother’s address, reminding him that his presence to Qin Wanyue’s birthday party was very much expected.

Shen Yuan is going to have to prepare his most cutting insults and, fuck, have to double down on ruining Luo Binghe’s reputation, isn’t he? He can’t admit his error. It would leave him open to attacks. He can only act even worse, treating Luo Binghe as if the revelation of his true parentage did not improve his status in Shen Yuan’s eyes.

Fuuuuck. How is he going to manage being meaner than he previously was to such a gentle soul? If Binghe looked hurt for even a second, Shen Yuan’s years of masquerade would burn down in an instant as he exploded in apologies.

He needs a plan.

“Shizun?”

“Binghe! Sorry to bother you so soon after I left, but do you have a minute? It’s important.”

“Shizun could never be a bother. What is he calling about?”

“Are you invited to Qin Wanyue’s party?”

“Yes. So is Shizun? It’s good that we’ll see each other again so soon!”

“No it’s not! I can’t be nice to you! I’m sorry, but you’ll thank me later. I just wanted Binghe to know that I don’t mean anything I tell him. He can’t take it to heart, okay? That’s just something that needs to be done.

“About that, I had an idea. It’ll be fun!”

Shen Yuan blinks. How could anything related to polite society be fun? He’s convinced that if fun and formal parties ever happened in the same space, a singularity would form and swallow the place whole.

And nothing of value would be lost. “What is Binghe’s idea?”

“We’re both acting, aren’t we? How about we flesh out our characters…”

________________________

Face impassive but heart beating so fast it’s about to jump out of his chest, Shen Yuan steps into the perfectly arranged garden party.

Whispers instantly rise. Smothered but mocking laughter can be heard. Eyes rove over him, anticipating the explosion they feel coming.

Luckily for them, they’re about to get their money’s worth.

Shen Yuan, as is his habitude, settles down somewhere unoccupied and pulls out his phone, trying to forget Binghe’s impending arrival within the pages of a terrible novel he usually loves to rage at. Very good source of inspiration for his current demeanor.

“Oh, it’s you. You dared to show your face here. I can’t believe your gall.”

Shen Yuan doesn’t look up. Xiao Gongzhu doesn’t deserve his attention.

Until she tries to slap him. “So arrogant! I’ll teach you your place!”

Her hand is caught by Luo Binghe, his long fingers curling around her wrist in a way that looks more caress than impediment. “A beautiful lady like you shouldn’t waste your time on the likes of him.”

Shen Yuan lifts his eyes from his phone and gives Luo Binghe his most disdainful glare. “I’d ask you to keep your pet on its leash, but if anyone here is a beast, it must be you, bastard.”

The silence around them is complete.

Tianlang-Jun had never been married. He wasn’t even known to maintain a mistress or two.

The family resemblance wasn’t striking, but present enough that Luo Binghe being an adopted child was unlikely.

Ergo, Luo Binghe is an illegitimate child, probably only brought into the family when the existence of legitimate heirs became unlikely. What a scandal, really.

No one had dared bring this up yet, but if anything would, it would be that asshole Shen Yuan, wouldn’t it?

Luo Binghe’s eyes focus on him, righteous anger on his face. “At least someone wants me. From what I understand, it’s never been your case, was it?”

Shen Yuan shoves his phone in his pocket with a swift gesture conveying fury. “Who would want someone here to want there? Each one more worthless than the other. You’ve really found your place, haven’t you?”

“If this world is so unpleasant to you, how about you leave and never come back? I assure you no one would miss you.” Luo Binghe turns toward the captivated audience. “Would you?”

Again, muffled laughter and cruel eyes, but few open responses. Too dangerous, really. Even if it didn’t compare to Tianlang-Jun’s empire, the Shen family was far from powerless.

Luo Binghe continues as if nothing had happened. “No one to defend you, I see. You didn’t give me a chance to demonstrate it, but I’m usually a kind man. If you had been able to control your nature for a few minutes, we might have become close, you and I. You’ve got so much more experience navigating these troubled seas. I would have welcomed the lessons.” Luo Binghe shakes his head in exaggerated sorrow. “Alas, it wasn’t to be. You have chosen otherwise, so by all means, let’s travel the road you’ve picked, shall we? For all that you’ve called me beast, you’re the raging dog chained to a post, unable to join in no matter how much he rages.” Luo Binghe waves at the air invitingly.” Go on, rage uselessly. It certainly is of no concern to me.”

“Can a head as empty as yours even be concerned with anything? Nothing you’ve said have proved otherwise. As for that taunt you tried to wield against me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. I have no interest in responding to you in any way. In fact,” Shen Yuan pulls his phone out of his pocket and goes back to his book, “you’re already wasted too much of my time. Go have fun with your equals. I’m sure they’ll soothe your fragile ego, in-between throwing daggers at your back.”

Shen Yuan stubbornly refuses to react to Luo Binghe’s sightly disbelieving laughter, or to the insults thrown to his face by others. He just lets Luo Binghe shake his head again, as if appalled, and guide his cronies away from Shen Yuan, leaving him in blessed peace.

Just as planned.

________________________

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how one of Beijing’s elite most infamous rivalry was born.

As far as said elite knew.

#The Scum Villain Self Serving System #Scum Villain #BingQiu #the AU where SY and LBH are both online friends and fellow socialites #I hope to finish this in one or two other parts #because I cannot let this one drag on #LBH pov next maybe

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starthornisscratching · 2 years

Text

You Look Good In Red/Hematolagnia

Tags:

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Ghost Rome (Hetalia), Dark fic, Self-Harm, Author Is Working Things Out, light guro, gurotalia, Whump, Ambiguous/Open Ending, i just don’t have the strength to keep questioning my own issues so I had to wrap it up :(, messy end too- sorry, Self-Indulgent

Pairing:

China/Rome (Hetalia)

Fandom:

Hetalia

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Tw: self harm, blood kink, blood, and sadism/masochism

Read on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38120008

Or below, I guess. :/

China wasn’t like an average person in a lot of regards. The biggest reason, of course, was that he wasn’t even human.

Beyond that, though, there were still other things about him that weren’t normal. The way that one piece of hair in his ponytail would just not uncurl (it was the only curly section of hair that he had, actually), the bright golden eyes, the oddly high pain endurance. But it felt like there was one thing that set him apart from most people even more than those, even if the reason it felt that way was just shame.

The thing that made him bitterly different, in a way he couldn’t call good, was the fascination with blood.

It wasn’t even just a fascination… it was more. And he felt bad about it too, as someone who had seen so many horrible things having to do with it in the past. Still, no matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of the thoughts- the urges.

To scratch open his arm, to rip apart the scar on Russia’s neck, to tear out his own hair or maybe even France’s. Just to get off. Ugh, just thinking about it…

Just the thought of blood. To smell it, to touch it, to- mmhg- taste it.

It was a guilty desire, to say the least.

What would the people he knew think if they were aware of these ideas in his mind? Would they be scared? Excited? Angry? Who was to say. (Perhaps other nations might understand, it wasn’t exactly unheard of for them to- over time- develop very odd and out of the way fetishes, but he didn’t want to find out. Mostly the thought of people knowing scared him. God, what the American government would use it for in their propaganda. How furious his own boss would be- or maybe not. Maybe he would think it suited him.)

China didn’t want it to suit him.

He didn’t want to have to think about it, to have the thoughts invade his mind when he just wanted to have a regular day or (at the very least) a day without sexual pleasure derived from some sort of imagined violence. …But it would be a lie to say the violence was all in his head.

For the longest time, before he knew how to deal with it, the actions had been real. Though he had never hurt anyone else, except Rome the one time he let China do so (he still fantasized about that night). The scars were faded by the modern day, too old to make out what they had once been, but many many years in the past, he had made them himself.

It had started as a shameful way to be in control of the pain in his life, for once, but it had spread from there, after a few horrible realizations. The only way he managed to pull out of it was by imagining the actions instead, and getting rid of all his knives. (Even the ones he used for cooking, for a while- he just ate in restaurants instead.)

But he still took horrid pleasure in those memories.

He loved the feeling of the blood rushing down his skin, just watching it try to cling to him- pulling away from the injury and creeping along. He could almost smell it then, the bitter-sweet iron that belonged to that beautiful, red liquid.

Mmh- it made him feel all hot, sweaty, even sticky. Like he was going to peel out of his skin and explode. Nothing else really did that to him, at least not like other people described it. How France talked about the human men and women that he courted, how Rome described, well- anyone. There hadn’t been a time where the feeling of “regular” attraction outweighed the type of hot he felt when seeing that sweet, sweet, blood.

God, the sight of Rome with it all over him, chest heaving, sprawled weakly against the headboard. His face flushed and muscles flexing as the pain pounded over him. How when China looked down at his hands the red was smeared there too, dripping down onto his fellow empire’s abused abdomen and-

Blood was good enough on its own, but in a sexual situation? Man. Nothing better than that, ever.

The memory was decades old, hell, a thousand years old. Still, it was fresher in his mind than most of the other things he had experienced in… well, ever. So clear, every sound, every feeling, every thing . And Rome loved it too. The only reason they hadn’t done it again was that- wait.

Actually, he had no idea why they hadn’t tried it again, or even the other way around (with Rome scraping into some of China’s flesh). He would have loved that just as much as Rome getting cut up. Rome was a gladiator in life, he should have been fine with all that. Should have known that China was as well, given that he was the original instigator of the situation.

In bed, China sat up.

His heart was beating fast. So fast. Like if it got any quicker it would rip straight out of his chest and hit the wall across the room, with a splat of blood and flesh. It hurt a little bit to think, but the idea was just a little bit… attractive. Hot, even.

What he would do to have Rome in his room, right then. Just to drag him into his bed and fuck him into it- with a knife held hard against his chest. Just barely cutting into him (or maybe just a little bit more than ‘barely’). Man. What a thought.

His eyes rolled closed and he flopped back down onto the bed, knees up and chest feeling hollow as he exhaled. Mm. What he would give to have Rome back, just for that moment.

Rome was beautiful. Muscular too- which happened to be one of the best surfaces to cut into (in China’s opinion). That was exactly the reason his own calves and biceps were covered in the old scars from arguably worse times. But in a few different ways that it didn’t really concern China, Rome had his… issues. He was a little bit stuck up, overzealous, too smart for his own good- and he knew it.

Personality wise, the pair had never really gotten along. They traded goods like the merchants they were, they fucked like the young adults they physically were, but that was about it. They were times when China missed Rome for purely friendly reasons. Or for romantic ones. Mostly though, they had only gotten along for trade or for sex.

And when he thought about it, China only wanted to see Rome so badly at that moment for sexual reasons, even if they delved into his unhealthy interest in the other’s blood.

Oh fuck-

He bit back a huffing groan at the image in his mind. Rome wriggling under him, moaning in agony and pleasure. The blood making them stick to the sheets, soaking under the top layers of the bed. China’s hand began to reach downwards…

In all regards, the situation between Rome and himself had been fully consensual. It hadn’t been safe, and any modern BDSM fans and exacerbators would’ve been beyond horrified at how dangerous the interaction had been. But for a pair of nations who couldn’t really die, at least not forever from injuries alone, it had been nothing short of a thrill. The possibility of temporary death made it all the better.

How he wished that he could have that again. Just one more time.

His hand moved faster.

Rome’s chest heaving, his own chest splattered and stained with blood and sweat (the sweat washing at the redder substance). How they moved together, as if it were a normal sexual encounter. The way, when he was close, he handed Rome the knife and let him have a go at the whole sadism half of the deal. Just for a moment.

From an outsider's perspective, it was horrible. Death defying or worse. Torturous and even inhumane. Beyond alien and yet…

Exhilarating .

With a series of gasps and one last shout China finally came.

The next night, he experienced a similar set of events. And the night after that. And again, the night after that. He just couldn’t get the fucking thought out of his head, no matter what he did. Eating dinner? Suddenly thinking about shoving his face into Rome’s bloodied stomach and rubbing his nose into the cuts. Signing government documents? Unable to get the image of his ancient trade partner shivering under him to leave him alone. It just went on and on.

He couldn’t get away from it.

Since when had all of his interest been focused so randomly on the long-dead empire? It was those memories. Real images that undermined all other possible attraction, swept aside all his previous fantasies regarding Russia or Japan or anyone else. He was obsessed.

He scraped his mind over and over, trying to think of anything else he remembered. Maybe a ‘scene’ his mind skipped over when he thought about his bloodied encounter with Rome. Maybe a more clear recollection of one of those sweet, sweet yelps or groans.

It was during one of these frantic brainstorming sessions that he remembered. Hadn’t Germany once, at a meeting, mentioned Rome visiting him? In the modern day, as a ghost? Yes, he did believe that had happened. (He believed Germany, mostly because the guy didn’t exactly lie very often, but also because he had once run into ancient Egypt and her son at a supermarket in Switzerland. She was supposed to be dead! If that was possible, anything was possible.)

But what could have Rome choose to go to Germany? And, more importantly, what could China do to make Rome want to visit him?

Maybe he could ask Germany, or Italy even. Germany said that Rome was there because of Italy anyway…

Wait.

Hadn’t Germany also mentioned that Rome tended to just… watch the people he knew in life? Or if using darker terms- stalk them? Rome had known China in life, oh fuck he had. So maybe, he was being watched right then?

The thought sent shivers up his spine that weren’t entirely pleasant. Mostly though. They were mostly good. Hopeful, generally. Maybe just a little bit of those exhibitionistic tendencies he had picked up a couple years back. (After a very short-lasting but very uhh… intense , fling with America, that was.)

It felt like he had been waiting for Rome for years, even if the obsession had really just come back a few weeks before. Technically though- he had been waiting years, hundreds of years. Over a thousand years, even. What he would give for some of that blood right then, after having been kept from it for so, so long.

Oh what he would give for that fulfilling comfort of release after so long.

Too long.

And still, Rome did not show up, even though China woke up at odd hours of the night to check if he was there. (He was losing sleep over it, so the obsession had officially become unhealthy in his mind, not that his blood-lusting, sex depraved mind gave this so much as a second thought.) He checked over his shoulder whenever he was alone, and peered around him even more agitatedly than normal when he was in public. He got some strange looks for that one, but who could blame him? He was becoming a little bit desperate.

Weeks later, he still couldn’t get the images out of his mind. But they weren’t enough anymore.

He needed something. Someone. Fuck- he needed Rome.

Rome and his blood, particularly. Or Rome with a knife. China could make due with his own blood, that was good too. It was that thought that made him realize it. He had knives, he had blood within him.

It wasn't a good thought. It wasn’t a safe thought or a sane thought either. In fact, it was rather unhealthy. Very unhealthy. That was why he had left it behind in the past, why he tried so hard to ignore the urges, to push them down.

But he was too far gone at that point to really care. Not like he used to care. It was just going to be that once, anyway. Right? Just that once. He wouldn’t do it again.

It was just that the simple mastrabation or reminiscing wasn’t enough anymore. He needed something real, something substantial. (It was almost like he had grown out of one pair of boots and needed another- if the boots were sexual fantasies instead.)

He would just do it once.

His hand reached for a knife that laid on the kitchen counter and gripped it tightly, knuckles turning white.

Just this once, he had enough self control to stop the next time he got the urges.

His pupils dilated and his breath quickened. The blade lowered towards his arm. He was excited and scared, at the same time. Horrified with himself and yet so happy he was about to do what he was about to do.

The blade sunk deep into the rough skin of his arm.

His eyes rolled back and he moaned out in pain. Oh, it felt good to be back.

And yet, contrary to his reassuring thoughts, China didn’t really have the willpower to stop once more. Not after he had opened the floodgates. Not after he reminded those deep recesses of himself what could be, if he gave in. Not after he made the discovery of imagining he was cutting into someone else- or that someone else was cutting him to him. Not after he watched that bitter-sweet maroon dripping onto the tile floor and splattering there. Not after he got some of it on his face and tasted it, for the first time in ages.

It was an addiction that he couldn’t, for the life of him, stop.

Some other nations might have had an unhealthy addiction to compulsive exercise or to cigarettes or wine. Some humans might have to. But not him. No, it had to be the cutting. Just for the sake of the blood, just the sight of it. The tanginess that large quantities of the stuff tended to leave in the air, how well it stained his carpet and his sheets and his clothing.

He didn’t even hate himself. Didn’t even dislike his life all that much, at the moment.

Mentally, he felt fine. Really.

Maybe that was what made it feel so unnatural. So unacceptable and so unattractively wrong . It felt like no one else would ever get it . That no one else could see where he was coming from, where the attraction stemmed from or how it gave him such pleasure to watch the blood flow out of him. Or someone else. Just as it was present and he could see it.

Even he didn’t understand.

For a very long time, longer even than he had been able to put a finger on what felt so different about his attraction, he had hated it about himself. He had hated the niche nature of his paraphilia, had hated the fact that he just couldn’t stop it- no matter what he tried or how many times he beat himself up over it. Figuratively of course, because beating himself up literally would likely do the exact opposite of the intended goal.

But Rome would get it, right?

If he ever visited China again, he would. He had to. That was all that China was banking on at the moment and more. All that he could hope for. All that he could think about when he didn’t have a knife stuck in his arm.

He woke up one morning, and saw a face hovering over him. He jumped in surprise, not even recognizing the person at first. The man had brown hair- nicely curly. Tanned skin with a scraggly beard and an off-green tunic. He had nice green-brown eyes too- hazel if you were stretching it. And-

“Rome?!” China exclaimed, all the exhaustion and bleariness wiping itself away from him in an instant. He sat up, nearly hitting hits with the ghost, and reached out a hand to see if he was real.

Rome backed away in shock at the sudden movement, China’s hand missed his cheek and brushed his collarbone instead. China felt a shiver of excitement pounding in his chest, but there was something else too- something he hadn’t expected. He felt… well. He wasn’t sure if he could describe it as sad , really. But it wasn’t a happy emotion. It was like all that time of missing his fellow nation (which had been bottled up for so long) was choking him, stuck in his throat. All of the ways he had missed Rome other than the sexual ones- wrapped up into one huge bundle of mess .

And then he felt himself crying.

Rome didn’t say anything. He looked guilty.

China didn’t know what was happening, or why he was crying. He was better than that! He could keep it down, right? So he frantically wiped his eyes and tried to swallow down the big hulking glop of bad emotions, trying to replace it with something else. With relief maybe? But that didn’t make him feel any better. “I-'' he tried, but his words failed him. Frustrated with himself, he shook his head. “God, Rome…” he tried again, but his voice died in his throat.

Then Rome spoke up.

“Are you… feeling alright?”

It was like that one question was what he had been really waiting for all that time, not the blood, not the sex. It was like someone else bringing it up made it all seem not okay again, that none of what had recently happened was really alright. And he didn’t even question why the ghost was there, or why he hadn’t appeared ever before, or why he was so sad instead of whatever he had expected.

China’s head was in his hands. “No,” he responded.

“It’s gotten worse?” Rome asked.

“Way worse,” was China’s quiet response.

The real weight of everything came crashing down as he looked at his arm. His vision was spotty and distant due to the loss of blood, but even through that he could see the messily bandaged, mangled flesh of his arm. He could see the dried blood that wasn’t quite washed away and the torn skin that went with it. All of a sudden he could feel the pulsing pain without any of the blurred mask from the pain tolerance or the rose-tint of the masochism.

It hurt .

“A-Ow…” he squeezed his eyes shut, free hand gripping his mutilated arm, which made things a lot worse (though he couldn’t force himself to let go).

“Hey…!” Rome went towards him, pulling China’s hand off his arm, only to accidentally replace it with his own vice-like grip.

China choked out in pain and ripped the injured limb away. Feeling horrible and blank at the same time, like he was trying to block it out. He was embarrassed. Rome wasn’t supposed to act like he was worried! He was supposed to think it was hot, maybe laugh at how pathetic he was being (like he would have in the old days).

“The world’s different now Yao,” Rome pleaded with him, “You can’t just-”

Then China felt angry. “Why do you care?” he barked back, trying to keep eye contact with the former empire- but couldn’t maintain it as Rome looked away. “You wouldn’t have cared before!” He tried to catch Rome’s eyes again, but was unsuccessful. All the staring made him feel dizzy and he collapsed back a little bit, catching himself with his good arm. Rome jolted forward to catch him (though he didn’t have to), which just made China feel worse. More angry words began to bubble up, but Rome interrupted before any of them could leave his mouth.

“I’ve… been watching,”

A hole seemed to open up in China’s stomach. Like the bottom was dropping out. Gone were any good emotions that might have stayed past the anger. “It’s- no. It’s not-” he looked up desperately, his voice cracking once more.

“I don’t think that you’re…” Rome trailed off again. “I mean,” he tried again, “I heard you say my name,”

If he had more blood in his body China probably would have flushed an unpleasantly warm amount. Instead, he just shook his head. “Rome, oh- I didn’t,” he tried to explain himself, but there was nothing to explain with . Nothing he could use to make even a moderate sense of it all, nothing that would seem okay . “Shit,” he swore, and then swore some more. “Shit- damn it,”

He felt horrible, but some part of him was satisfied. Happy that at the very least, Rome knew. A tiny little bead of hope falling into the lake that was the negative emotions, even as he continued to curse himself out.

“No, you can’t just-” Rome went forward again to try and stop the self-deprecation, grabbing China’s non-injured wrist and pulling it up. He knocked China off balance a little bit and had to grab him around his back so he wouldn’t fall. At least it shut the living nation up.

Their faces were dangerously close together.

China felt sick- they were so close to what his subconscious was still begging for. Rome seemed to notice too, because he pulled his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. They sat there, silently, neither willing to look up into the others' faces.

Rome still wasn’t looking at him when he spoke. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I should have been there for you,”

It was a funny statement because they both knew China didn’t need him. It was certainly nice to have him there, just as it was nice to have Japan or Russia or Vietnam. But really- he didn’t need any of them. According to history, they would all leave him eventually anyway, no matter what he did to stop it or to speed it up. Still, what little comfort it was proved to be enough to make China feel heard, if just a little more than before.

“Why didn’t you show up sooner?”

Rome’s response came slowly, with a jolting start, followed by a short pause (like he didn’t know what to say, or how China would respond). “I-” he choked off, “...was scared,”

China didn’t have to use any words to convey his question. ‘Of what? ’

Luckily, Rome managed his answer. “Of you,”

They were silent for a beat. Rome repeated himself. “I was scared of you ,” his voice was as if he were pleading again.

China didn’t know what he was pleading for. The hole in his stomach seemed to erode up to his heart. One big emptiness inside him- tearing into itself like quicksand. A sort of desperation filled it, different than before. Like he had to say something or that he had to know what Rome was thinking, how the inner mechanisms of his mind worked. So he blurted out the only words that could think of. “I don’t want you to be scared of me,”

“Then you have to stop,” Rome stuttered, “You have to stop all…”

“What do you know,” China buried his face into his arms, trying to block out the continuing spots in his vision. “How would you know anything about this?”

“I’ve been watching-”

“But do you know what it’s like for me?” China snapped at him, making Rome jump as he whipped his head back up and stared into his eyes with that unwavering glare.

Rome didn’t know what to say to that and just swallowed nervously, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from China’s that time. They were distracting, hypnotic even. Bright golden- a far more unnatural than even most other nations. It was an eye grabbing color, and tended to glow a bit in dim light. But mostly, the power of the stare came from how intimidating the person behind those eyes was. (Even if he were slightly incapacitated at the moment due to self-inflicted injuries.)

When you looked into those eyes it was almost like the rest of the room was suddenly thrown into darkness. So bright, with such infinite memories behind them, that nothing else could stand up and overpower it.

Nations were complicated creatures.

On one hand, they were just like a person in their emotions and their problems. They too got upset over stupid little things like dropping and ice cream cone on the ground. They too got way too over-excited to see their current favorite band on tour, even if they knew their interest in the band would dwindle out in the span of a few years. On the other hand, they were anything but human. Physically parts of their bodies referred to different areas of land, the hundreds of years of trauma and suffering behind their words. The connection to a land that really shouldn’t have been alive, what with the whole explainability of their existences.

They represented thousands if not millions of people’s wishes and wants and the political influence of their own wishes ebbed and flowed not unlike the tide.

And somehow the wishes of these thousands of already infinite humans, along with the music and the past and everyone who had ever spoken to them, wove themselves into a functioning being with their own personal interests. It was impossible to make sense of and impossible to wrap one’s mind around. Rome didn’t like being reminded of that, especially not through China- because it seemed the older a nation got, the more apparent these thousands of years were when face to face with their emotions.

So Rome tried to back away.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. “I shouldn’t be…”

China reached up and grabbed his hand, a surprising amount of strength behind it. “No!” he exclaimed, eyes flashing a more panicked light. Not all traces of the anger were gone, but he was already visibly forgetting about that emotion. “No, please,” he readjusted his speech, softer this time, feeling Rome jump in surprise at the touch on his arm.

There was a short silence. “...Don’t leave me,” China whispered, his voice sounding tired. Like five thousand years of emotional exhaustion had just caught up with him.

Rome started.

He hated being put in this position. Choosing between staying with someone to comfort them and having his own wishes held. (Plus, it really played into his hero complex, if one could call it that.) They both knew that China didn’t need him, but they also both knew the vulnerability of a nation asking another for help- even if Rome was dead and debatably not a nation anymore. That type of vulnerability was oddly… respectable.

Even if Rome tried to pull away any further, China’s grip on his arm was so strong that they probably wouldn’t be separated. So he slowly leant down again from his rigid kneeling. Their faces were close again, but Rome didn’t feel anything. He had grown as a person, or at least he liked to think so. He didn’t want to see the suffering of his friends, probably never really had… but it had been hundreds of years since he was so numb to that violence and the wish to help was back in full force.

The best way he could explain the bloodlust from back in the day, was some sort of leftover trauma from his years as a gladiator. Some sort of normalization that he hadn’t been aware of because he never would have thought it existed. After all, he hated the life of a gladiator- it had been punishment as sometimes he couldn't fight back against his boss’ judgment. He hated watching his own people die, or hurting them himself (as often happened), even if the sport was admittedly thrilling. (Weren’t most games of death that way, though? It wasn’t just his own problem.)

He didn’t want to identify any trauma with China, because he frankly didn’t know him very well after all those years of being dead, but he wondered if there was anything like that there. At least to make it ‘worse’, if it was already there. Something forgotten or blocked out, maybe.

Or perhaps he really had always been like that. That was possible too, Rome supposed, as he laid down next to his fellow nation’s heavily breathing form.

Shit, was China crying? The world felt fuzzy, like Rome was watching from somewhere else. He couldn’t tell if it was the whole ghost thing or some weird dissociation, that time. He couldn’t hear the words China was saying, too caught up in things he couldn’t identify. Maybe he wasn’t saying words, maybe nothing that Rome wanted to hear. Nothing that either of them wanted to hear. An apology possibly- nations rarely enjoyed apologies. It felt odd to fault oneself in an existence where such a thing could mean the loss of a battle or respect of their people.

It was risky in the presence of another living nation- but Rome was dead. That made the situation different, though it didn’t really make it all that much less brave.

Nations were afraid to admit weakness.

Rome wasn’t afraid to admit that he was scared of China, but somehow he was still scared to really say outright that he cared.

#dead dove: do not eat #gurotalia #tw self harm #tw blood #this is the the 4000 words of romechu shit I was vaugeing about a couple weeks ago btw #romechu #hetalia

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funknrolll · 4 years

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Michael Jackson's They Don't Care About Us: The relevancy of the unmatched protest-masterpiece still actual today.

They Don't Care About Us, was perhaps the most monumental and relevant form of audiovisual protest, which force was specifically to draw the attention to social and political issues such as hate, racism, prejudice, police brutality. The form of art is cultivating an ideological allegiance with the greater social plight for minorities. With his art, Michael became the voice of the voiceless, of the oppressed, of the neglected, of the abused. Yes, Michael Jackson was THE voice.

Hi music lovers, today's topic is Michael Jackson's They Don't Care About Us the song and the music video.

It was from September 1994 to March 1995 that Michael recorded and released HIStory, his 5th studio album. The work was one of the artist's most personal artistic outputs, where music turned into a mirror reflecting Michael's deepest sorrows, fears, anger, and frustrations. It was then when Michael let his music speak louder, providing a perfect clap back to all those who questioned and speculated. The album was a double-disc of greatest hits, HIStory Begins, and new material HIStory Continues.

Speaking of They Don't Care About Us, it is the second track on HIStory Continues, following Scream and precedent to Stranger In Moscow. The song is a straightforward response to the ruthless and ubiquitous injustices perpetrated upon him and more in general upon black people by the racist forces of the white cultural hegemony. Extremely compelling is the aura of pure rage and frustration articulated in They Don't Care About Us, both in the record and in the two poignant and groundbreaking music videos (The Prison version and the clip shot in Brazil), released to accompany the track as a single.

Personally, when I began to approach Michael's music, I did not quite understand the real deep meaning and message the song was delivering. However, as I grew up, I developed interest and curiosity regarding the significance of this timeless masterpiece. Particularly the visual interpretation caught my attention. Hence, this article will entail the information I found through my research. The two videoclips released, were, and still are, wildly exhaustive pieces of art, expressly crafted to challenge our very seldom corrupt societies, people's beliefs and mindsets.

Moreover, in these short movies, the artist did not miss the chance to channel his frustrations and rage through his distinct blueprint that turned everything he did into pure gold. There is a broad range of aspects that compose the audiovisual endeavors that are worth discussing. These elements comprehend the lyrics, the human rights violation, racism, and social injustices; all these perspectives are the fulcrum of the whole work. The acute and fierce language contributed to making the artistic output more impactful.

It is now interesting to also analyze They Don't Care About Us from a Post-Colonialism theoretical standpoint. Firstly, for those not familiar with the Post-Colonialism theories, it is a study of all the effects colonialism had on cultures and societies, concerning both European countries, that brutally conquered other nations, and how the lands and populations won responded and most importantly resisted those invasions and trespasses. Furthermore, the study of Post-Colonialism as a body of theory has and is still going through three major stages. The initial one entails the first phase of awareness of the social, psychological, and cultural unjust condition of inequality and exploitation, enforced by being in a colonized state. Secondly, a struggle for ethnic, cultural, political, and economic autonomy begins. As a consequence, there will be a growing awareness of cultural overlap. Eventually, I would say that some of the post-Colonial elements are quite evident in the two music videos.

The song and the two music videos are eloquent protests against racism. Michael speaking in the first person gives a platform to all the voiceless minorities, offering an accurate and poignant depiction of their conditions of merciless oppression, that stripped minorities of their humanity, pride, and most importantly their rights. Related to the concept of racism, with a simple yet efficacious line, Michael addresses the still hugely relevant and actual issue of police abuse and brutality, which is the central theme of the Prison Version short movie. The artistic output was magistrally filmed by the genius Spike Lee, in a real prison in Queens, New York. The opening sequence shows black schoolchildren standing behind a wire fence in the snow, chanting the chorus of the song, providing a visual accompaniment to the introduction we hear on the record. As the beat kicks in, the scene displayed is quite impressive and provocative, because it employs a poignant and immaculate montage of explicit documentary footage.

The clips complementing the short film are retrieved from the footage of the Rodney King beating and subsequent LA riots and the brutal police beatings of African American people. We then witness the swell of an atomic mushroom cloud, followed swiftly by footage of a Japanese child sitting alone and crying amid a devastated Hiroshima. Alongside, we see a close-up image of an African boy face swarming with flies, then the assassination attempt on George Wallace. Subsequently, come on the screen, some pictures of the student rebellion on Tiananmen Square in China, and finally some footage from the Vietnam War. All these footages contribute to making the video so harsh to the point of getting the audience uncomfortable. In the scenes taken in the cell, Michael appears to be haunted by the ghosts of beaten people.

his film stands out for its immediacy and accuracy, yet these clips do not incite destruction nor hatred, but rather the opposite. Indeed, those footages are stressing compassion, a peaceful reaction to a hurtful and horrible situation, and political reunification. Thus, this is another reason why there is not even a trace of violence or sign incitement to hatred or aggressive reactions. Those were not merely television images, but real-life pictures of a horrid reality of human humiliation, abuse, and suffering that sadly surround us everywhere, that break into our everyday lives through television, social media and computer screens. In the video, the tension is palpable yet, the revolt is peaceful and not suppressed by the guards. However, Michael openly expresses his anger with demonstrative insolence. For instance, he sweeps tableware off, hits a guard's baton right in front of his face. Interestingly, the artist is the only prisoner who moves freely and around the dining room, demonstrating against the disregard for human rights and laws by authorities. During the whole short film, Michael tries to convince people to fight for their rights, raising the spirit of protest against oppression and humiliation.

However, in reality, prison riots never end with prisoners slamming fists against the tables or dancing on top of them and, Michael was very well aware of it. The last scene of the video shows the artist free and running up the stairs, glancing back, running away from the penitentiary in a Brazilian favela (might this be the red thread that connects the first short movie with the second video?) while his scream still lingers in the air … Leaving eventually an open question which is asked through ASL American Sign Language: "I don't know what lies ahead… Where will this spirit of struggle lead me, where will it further manifest?" This part honestly gave me chills!

The second version of They Don't Care About Us was shot in Brazil in February 1997, precisely some parts were filmed in the central district of Salvador de Bahia. The footage where Michael is wearing the iconic Olodum t-shirt and dances with Brazilian people was taken in a favela in Rio. However, for the artist, it was quite a struggle to manage to shoot the short movie in Brazil because the local authorities intended to prohibit the filming, expressing their dislike for the project, given that it would have shown the country in an unfavorable light. Yet other authorities approved the project because it would have been an influential means to draw the world's attention to the condition of poverty. Thus, the region might have benefitted from having such a big platform offered by one of the most prominent artists on earth. However, after the Brazilian government allowed to film the video for 20 days, it changed its mind abruptly and reduced, vastly, the filming period to 5 days only. The Brazilian version opens with a girl speaking in Portuguese saying: “Michael, eles nao ligam pra gente.” which means “they don’t care about us.”, then showing the whole favela with an aerial shot. Eventually, Michael gets out of a door and starts performing.

Although this version is still impactful and manages to deliver the message impeccably, I would say that it presents some fundamental differences from the so-called prison version. Indeed, even though some policemen who look stern and indifferent are part of the short movie, in the Brazilian clip, the atmosphere is quite different from the previous one. As a matter of fact, the festive whirlwind of colors, rhythms, and dances are what reminds the audience of the social meaning of the song.

Furthermore, the vivacious and colorful performance is backed by members of the local cultural and musical group: Olodum. The organization was and still is of particular importance as one of its primary purposes was to combat racism and help cultivate a sense of self-pride and affirmed identity among the Afro-Brazilian community in the region. The organization as well provides a springboard for the promotion of civil rights on behalf of all marginalized groups. Hence, it was not a mystery the reason why Michael was aligned with Olodum, to the point that he supported the organization by wearing their merchandise in his short movie. The display of solidarity was reciprocated, through the act of the collective performance of the group’s musicians who contributed with an additional layer of live percussions and vocals, over Michael’s original studio recording.

Moreover, the language as well plays a fundamental role in this creative output. Indeed, the lyrics and the whole message delivered with this piece were not exuding revenge or aggressiveness, which were typically used to fuel accusations and rage. Au contraire, the song is the manifestation of the indignation and the energy of resistance, empowering self-control and fortitude against repressions. Hence, I would say that the song does not contain a single trace of aggressiveness, and its content and energy stay perfectly within boundaries. The language and expressions employed to address the issues are particularly relevant to explain the horrid effects colonialism and post-colonialism have had on the populations affected and thus to protest against the neglect of fundamental human rights.

Furthermore, it is interesting to point out that the element of the language expresses the manifestation of spiritual endurance and disobedience against the oppressors and lying accusers immaculately and, therefore, the dualism between the artist singing in the first person and the "Us" contained in the title and refrain of the song. Although TDCAU is addressing some social and political injustices, it may as well be true that Michael has attempted to convey his frustrations and anger in this piece, turning them into a timeless audiovisual work of art. Arguably, this could as well be the reason why the artist decided to release two variants of the short movie, the prison video featuring a crude and powerful documentary and the flamboyant, colorful Brazilian clip.

Furthermore, another element related to the Post-Colonialism discourse is how the artist and more in general black people and minorities are very seldom victims of unjust and appalling stereotypes that are addressed in the line “Don’t You Black Or White Me". This brief but straightforward segment of the song could be subjected to double interpretation. On the one hand, there is Michael Jackson, a man, a human being, a son, a brother, a father, a friend, who from the day he was born was put under the magnifying lenses of the whole world, his audience and tabloids. Most of the times he was judged, wrongly, bullied I would say, to the point that he could not even enjoy his life anymore without the anxiety of being abused, ridiculed and humiliated by people who did not take a second of their lives to do their research on his works, life, and what he stood for. Therefore, this line, specifically, is how the artist expressed his frustration towards those utterly racist reactions towards him. On the other hand, Michael decided to extend this statement to a broader scale, becoming the brave advocate who gave voice to all the voiceless people who were victims of racism, prejudice, ignorance in all their nuances and degrees.

Moreover, as Michael responded to the critiques received for the straightforward and sharp lyrics during a press release for the New York Times in 1996 " The song, in fact, is about the pain of prejudice and hate and is a way to draw attention to social and political problems. I am the voice of the accused and the attacked. I am the voice of everyone. I am the skinhead, I am the Jew, I am the black man, I am the white man. I am not the one who was attacking. It is about the injustices to young people and how the system can wrongfully accuse them. I am angry and outraged that I could be so misinterpreted." He was the voice of the angry and outraged voiceless.

To conclude, They Don’t Care About Us with its first-person narration, the refrain, and the two iconic music videos, the socially and politically challenging lyrics and message, relates to the problems minorities face every day. They don’t really care about us means they, the society, privileged white people, the governments, do not care about the minorities, about the voiceless who have been abused, oppressed, robbed of their rights. They don’t really care about the people. The challenging lyrics and footages in the prison version offer us a chance to reflect on the importance of these topics. Not to mention the actuality of the song, which is remarkably accurate and relatable to the modern world and times we are living in. This artistic output is the greatest, most compelling and influential statement against every injustice perpetrated against all human mankind, and will forever be part of Michael's and the world's legacy. Therefore, the questions my reflection generated are: is this the world we want to live in? Are these the world and the society we want our children to grow up into? Is this the world without prejudice, ignorance, abuse, oppression, no equality, and equity we want for ourselves? And for the white folks like me: are we using our privilege wisely, to uplift, amplify the voices, the needs and wants of our brothers and sisters who are part of minorities and are facing some serious major struggles and discomforts? As Michael asked at the end of the short movie: “ I don’t know what lies ahead… Where will this spirit of struggle further manifest?”

Reflect deeply.

Thank you for your attention💜 Peace. G✨

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adonis-koo · 4 years

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Lust • pjm

↳ Summary: The village of Incúrsio has always said to be plagued by a demon, to keep its evil at bay they must sacrifice a young virgin to its hunger every year. You assumed that was a certain death, by what means? You didn’t know. Becoming the the mate of the Prince of Hell to keep his brother away from you? That was never apart of the folktale.

↳ Genre: demon!au, supernatural, smut, strangers to lovers

↳ Word Count: 11k

↳ Pairing: Jimin/Reader

↳ Tags: MC is thirsty as hell, thigh riding, multiple orgasms and I mean a LOT, eating out, overstimulation, virginal sex, mutual masturbation, sub/dom overtones, finger fucking, creamiepie, unprotected sex, jimin has a big dong

Last installment

Note: Second installment to Halloween!verse !! I this is technically edited but I’m probably still gonna go back and tweak a few things, just a heads up. You don’t have to read the last installment for this series but there is a loosely followed plot :)

Incúrsio was right in the middle of the most used trading route in the whole realm. You’d often met people from many walks of life and there was never a dull day with so much life flooding your village. Incúrsio however, did come with its faults. And now laying in bed sleepless over the past twelve hours, you briefly wondered if those faults were even justifiable.

You see, Incúrsio, was home to the demons curse. An old folktale in your opinion to scare children. Your village, however, took the curse as serious as they came which opened the door to the ceremony held each year to pick the unfortunate virgin girl who’d be used as the Offering.

The virgin girl, had become you.

You believed in a lot of things. But demons were not one of them. At least not until today. Not until you were chosen from the bowl of many names, what would happen to you? You had grown up your whole life watching them drag girls kicking and screaming into the woods only to disappear and never be seen again. Would they just kill you right there?

Thoughts rolled throughout your head as you stared at the ceiling, the wood had begun rotting last year and you were surprised by the last bad storm that had rolled through the village hadn’t caused the roof to cave in on you. Maybe it would right now, you’d prefer it over whatever fate laid ahead.

The door to your room opened wide causing the early morning light to stream inside as your caretaker Grelda opened the door. Twenty two years all to be thrown away on one single piece of note with your name written down. Anger flooded your veins but your mind was numb as you wordlessly rose to your feet as followed her down the small crooked hall.

Most mornings were spent through banter while helping her make breakfast, she had been so kind to take you in when you were nothing but a small helpless child, you filled one another's lives with joy. And yet it was all absent today, the last you’d ever spend together.

Grelda had prepared you a bath, it was the first time all year you had sat down in warm water and she had even helped clean your hair. It was all in name of the celebration of the demon not destroying your village another year. The village would even throw a whole celebration that night after your death. You knew because you had always gone in previous years.

Only now did you realize just how sickening it was.

Your hair had been scrubbed near clean and the dirt from under your nails had been picked, the skin you had long since was used to have a layer of dirt covering it was polished like fine china and standing still in the dainty long white dress. The one you swore you’d wear on your wedding day- you felt as if you didn’t even know who you were any longer.

Hearing the loud knock wrap against the old unsteady door of the entrance made your heart drop into your stomach, it was time.

Grelda quickly finished the long braid in your hair before leading you to the door, stopping in front of it only to turn around and pull you into a tight hug, “I love you, my child, no matter what,” Your eyes were already stinging at the choke in her voice, her own quiet anger quivering before forcing it back, to stay strong for the both of you, “You will be okay.” She pulled away and pressed a chaste kiss on your forehead as a louder, more demanding knock rapped once more.

You could only muster a single nod as your eyes threatened to water before glancing down at your feet.

Grelda quickly opened the door to reveal the head townsmen and a few other volunteers stood stoically, as if anticipating you’d put up a fight as most girls did in the last few minutes of their life. Being sleep deprived and emotionally exhausted from your long night, some hours spent in rage while others spent in tears. You couldn’t muster anymore emotion as you stepped forward. Letting them clasp your upperarms tightly, a man on either side of you as you began to walk forwards.

Incúrsio really was a quaint place, most wouldn’t suspect it of being under such a horrid curse. The fog in the early morning gave it a haunted but enchanted feeling and a single candle stood outside of everyone’s homes, a silent mourning of the one who would be lost today. Your eyes set on the road ahead where you noticed guards were on rotation.

They must’ve arrived last night from the Kingdom up north. The Jeon Dynasty had always been too kind for their own good and you felt a brief surprise fill your face at the sight of them. Hysteria had been setting in with the Offering so close and talk of the town was the Blood Moon pack had been spotted scouting your village not too long ago.

Werewolves, were a fickle kind and often temperamental by nature but the Jeons had just signed a peace treaty with them. Surely they wouldn’t break it, right? Regardless and for whatever reason they had went ahead and sent guards anyways.

Biting against your lip you could only wonder what went through the royals heads.

You were quickly forced from your thoughts as the townsmen suddenly yanked you along forcing you to stumble slightly while attempting to keep in line with their steps into the woods where every other girl before you had also went.

Would they kill you now? Or would they just leave you lost in the woods for a blood starved vampire to find? Or a crazed werewolf to eat? Anxiety began to spike through your mind and briefly, it felt as if your life had flashed before your eyes as you began to approach the odditie ahead.

It looked like a pegan altar of sorts, the stone head like a gateway to nothing and the large black burnt circle free of any tree’s sat at it’s entrance, oh my god you were going to be literally sacrificed weren’t you? Your breath had become hitched and unsteady as you passed through the stone hedge and stood in the middle of the circle, the head townsmen forced you to kneel and then silence set in.

One second went by, then another. And another. What was supposed to happen? You could tell this was an unusual sight as the volunteers began to fidget from side to side their eyes darting to one another and you could see the hysteria getting to them as well. Swallowing you forced your eyes shut once more as your exhale came out shaky and timid.

Another minute had to become five eventually and just when you thought perhaps you'd be spared over this year one of the volunteers finally spoke, “This- This isn’t normal! Let’s just kill her and go! The demon can still feed on her afterwards!”

His words was the only spark needed to cause everyone to snap in anxiety as they began to fight among themselves. Someone determined to keep you alive while others agreeing with him and wanting you dead. Before you could blink blood had been spilled and the hysteria was becoming thick and crazed before a sharp knife was suddenly being hurdled at you in the hands of a volunteer.

You scrambled back onto your bottom before harshly closing your eyes with a whimper as defeated tears finally slid down your face. You waited for the sharp, burning puncture to set in only to timidly open your eyes from the odd silence. A tall, dark figure stood in front of you undisturbed and regal before humming, “That won’t be necessary.”

Your lips had parted as you breathlessly gaped at the figure of a human until he turned around. Dark magenta eyes like you had never seen before, too dark to be a vampire and too pink to be a werewolf. A large, almost demented smirk coiled on his lips wrapping you in a spill of darkness making your head light and your body weak as the void filled around you both leaving everyone behind.

“Don’t worry,” He leaned down, grabbing your chin, “You’re safe now darling.”

Your head was light, and briefly you wondered if the hysteria got to you as well. Your vision was beginning to spot and before you could even speak your body finally collapsed.

Groaning your body felt weak and briefly you could feel a bead of sweat trickle down your forehead, god you were so hot. Did you have a fever? Your mind was hazy and had a dull ache as you forced your eyes open, anticipating the old rotting ceiling of your bedroom.

Instead your eyes were met with a the black silk canopy and the plush bed beneath you sunk against your body brought it’s ache a small relief.

Had you the energy you would’ve shot out of the bed with a scream at where the hell were you.

But your movement was sluggish and forced you to lay there, still and in a dazed wonder, “You’re awake,” His voice was like silk, soft as an angel but the magenta eyes were anything but, “Don’t try to move,” He turned to face you, his face slim and cheekbones chiseled and high, the odd silver hair making him look ironically angelic, “You’re body is still in shock from traversing the first time.”

Closing your eyes you swallowed thickly, trying to keep the whimper from escaping your lips before forcing your timid voice to rasp, “Aren’t you going to kill me? Rape me? You’re a demon.” He was in the perfect position to do as such, you weren’t even sure you could muster a scream right now, your body was so dull and it was difficult to even wiggle your fingers.

His lips curled slightly in amusement as he walked to the bedside, pulling out the chair from his desk as he sat down, “Even demons aren’t as bad as they’re made out to be,” He clacked his tongue, a playful myrth in his eyes as he continued, a little more serious, “A demon must have consent, without it we’ll turn to dust.”

“Oh,” You breathed, glancing up at him wearily before back at the silk canopy hanging above you while muttering, “So you’re going to kill me.” If you had the energy, you’d be interrogating the supposed demon already while wielding a pillow for your defense but instead you just decided to dramatically accept your fate.

He clacked his tongue once more causing your gaze to shift back to him as he replied, “Is it so difficult to assume I’m not going to harm you?”

“...Yes.” You replied after a moment of silence making him chuckle as you frowned, “I was dragged out into the woods and almost killed only to be transported to hell with a demon. Is just killing me too much to ask?” His laugh only continued as he shook his head.

The amused smirk pulling on his lips as he leaned back in his seat, setting his foot against his other knee as he answered, “I’m afraid so darling. I’m in need of a mate, you were getting ready to be killed, it’s all very convenient for the both of us. You’re alive, and now I don’t have to search through the whole realm for a mate.”

Your lips parted and closed several times before your voice rasped in defiance though it only came out cracked and half whispered, “I didn’t agree to that!”

“Yes well…” He shrugged, not looking shocked by your resistance as he continued, “I didn’t agree with that either but here I am. I could always send you off to my brother like originally intended.”

You weren’t sure what that was supposed to mean. But going off any indication of his trailed off words, his brother must’ve not as been such a gentlemen as himself. You huffed, glancing back up to the canopy. When you woke up that morning, you had intended anything but this to happen. But he was right, you were alive and you most definitely would’ve met your untimely fate if it weren’t for him, the last thing you were going to do was pick a fight with the man who had saved your life. Demon or not.

Being his mate? Which in human terms was likened to marriage? Outrageous and you weren’t about to let that happen. But you’d cross that bridge when the time came as he didn’t seem set on genuinely mating you and there was always a chance he was just teasing you, as you quickly found out. For a demon, he seemed awfully light hearted.

“What is your name?” You muttered, glancing up at the soft silk. Was this how the royals slept at night you wondered? You had always tried to imagine falling asleep in such luxury at night only to wake up in the grunge of your bedroom.

But now, if there was anything you could appreciate, it was the aesthetic and pleasure of the room.

“Lust.” Your eyes shot back to his figure in mild panic and horror as his smirk curled into a more seductive one, his eyes brighter than before as he introduced himself before he chuckled, his body relaxing once more making a scowl twitch on your lips at his teasing, “Formally, on the surface I’m simply referred to as Jimin. You may call me as such if it’s more comfortable.”

Jimin laughed once more at the constant twitch of your lips as you fought the scold that continuously tried to twist further onto your face, “Y/n.”

He gave a hum as he plucked your hand up from the bed, your arm felt like a heavy weight but his plump soft lips felt like a caress of clouds against your skin as he kissed the knuckle of your hand, “Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Y/n, circumstances aside.” Jimin set your hand down before standing up, “Now get some sleep darling. The effects of the traversing will wear off soon.” Despite your ruffledness you found yourself listening to him as your lashes heavily fluttered closed, you could barely register the blanket being covered over your body as sleep took you once more.

The next time you woke up your head was clear from it’s pain and your body was as light as a feather. The first thing you noticed were the lights of the room had been gone leaving it dark and you wondered if it was supposedly night? You weren’t actually in Hell, right? You had been overdramatic earlier but surely that wasn’t the case. Hell was, well....Hell, endless torture. You established that this definitely was not it as you turned to face the other wall.

Instead you were faced with the sleeping demon, who had stayed respectfully on his side of the bed, but just registering that you were in his room, of course, had you yelping in surprise as you tumbled out of the bed.

Your body instantly throbbing as it hit the ground making you whine out. The bed aboved shifted as you watched him peer above you with furrowed brows and messy hair, expression twisting with amusement as he asked, “Do you enjoy sitting on the floor? You always seem to end up there.”

Anger brittled through your veins as you gave a huffy indignant whine, fumbling as you stood up while stomping your foot, pointing a finger down at him menacingly as he leaned back against his hands, not looking the least bit threatened, “I…! I demand to be let go! I am not staying here!”

Jimin rose his brows before he let a small smirk curl on his face shrugging as he waved his hand, allowing his upper body to collapse against the bed. His silk black sleep shirt only held together by a single button parting to reveal his warm toned skin beneath, “Then leave.” He said it so easily, not even looking as if he truly cared, making you scold further.

Wanting to get a reaction from him, you assumed he’d at least put up a fight or maybe his eyes would go pitch black and his voice would go demonic telling you to never leave the room. Instead the infuriating man looked as if he already won the battle as he dismissively waved a hand to the door.

Stomping your foot once more you huffed before turning around and going for the door, you weren’t going to question his motives and all you needed to figure out was where to find the exit and how to get back home. Maybe the whole village would burn you at the stake for being a witch? Even if you weren’t alive by magic they didn’t know any better and it had been outlawed punishable by death.

But you’d rather take your chances there, then stay here with such an insufferable person.

Opening the door you felt a vague sense of unsurety run through you, the halls were lit in red and darkened by black silhouettes, the large crystal chandelier above head held by black candles that flickered dimly litting the hall as you stepped outside the room hesitantly.

Frowning you gently shut the door as you glanced around, suddenly swallowed by anxiety, you had never seen so much grandiose in your whole life, what was held in these halls? Were there more demons like Jimin.

Surely not all were as nice as him...Groaning you ran a hand through your hair as you tried to muster the courage to just walk down the hall and find the exit. You nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of the door opening not to far down the hall making a gentle whimper escape your lips before fumbling with your own door. Not even realizing what you were doing until you shut it, back into the safety of Jimin’s room.

“That didn’t last long.” He hummed out, eyes still closed with an infuriating smug smile pulling on his lips.

You glared down at his figure with the strong urge to stomp on his pretty throat, you had never met someone so audacious and annoying in your whole life! He sat up finally as he opened his eyes, his smile turning a little more sincere as he raised his brows, “I’ll take you down to the kitchen, I’m sure you’re hungry after everything that’s happened.”

You were demanding to leave and this…! This fiend (literally) was going to act like you hadn't tried to run away and was now going to offer you food!? You were about to snap only to be stopped by the wail of your stomach. You may not have been interested in a late night snack, but your stomach most definitely was.

You could feel the blush began to creep it’s way onto your cheeks as your lips angrily frowned while Jimin laughed, standing up as he walked towards you. Grabbing your hands as he opened the door, “You humans are too cute.”

“I…!” Your nose wrinkled in anger, as you harshly glared at his soft hold on your hand. You would fight this man with your bare fists if he’d only put them up against you, “I don’t want to be here!”

Jimin sighed as he paused, turning to look at you as he raised a brow, “You don’t want to get a snack?” He looked as if he was talking to a toddler making your easily flared temper further as he snickered, always teasing it seemed.

The hallway had only turned into more and Jimin must’ve known his way around here well as he weaved so effortlessly through the...this had to be an estate, or maybe a castle? It was so big, “What is this…? You finally asked, your voice soft and curious as you glanced up towards the ceiling that sat so high up it could surely be mistook for an odd evening sky as the black candles flickered.

Opening the two large doors to the kitchen, Jimin glanced back at you as he encouragingly tugged on your hand, “The palace of course, where else?” His words made you stop in your track as your brows furrowed, parting your lips but now words came out.

This time he tugged you inside before shutting the door and allowing you to sit on the bench at the sturdy wooden table, “You’re in the heart of Hell darling. The Dark Lord resides here in the palace as well as his children. There’s six others but none too pleasant I’m afraid.” He pulled out the roll of leftover bread before cutting into it, “You could try to leave if you’d like but I doubt you’d get anywhere. Except perhaps took by one of my brothers,” Jimin’s shoulders stiffened slightly as he curved a brow, a more annoyed smile twitching on his lips as he finished cutting into the loaf, “Which believe me, for as insufferable as I am, my company is better then there’s.”

You frowned, glancing at the table from his words, still not quite registering the severity of them. Perhaps you assumed hell would be more...hellish. Maybe it was, this was the palace, naturally it took on a regal atmosphere but still, “Can’t you just taking me home…? You didn’t have a problem bringing me here.” You murmured quietly, shoulders sinking slightly as you felt a small quiver in your lips.

Jimin sighed, setting the large chunk of bread in front of you as he pulled out a goblet from the counter, pouring you a cup of water as he replied, “I wish it were that easy darling,” He set it beside the bread before taking a seat across from you, “You’re the yearly sacrifice from Incúrsio. Your kin,” He paused, his brows furrowed and a small odd smile pulled on his lips, “Have an odd perception about us cursing your village. That is not the case. Incúrsio, just so happens to be one of Hell’s transversing portals causing demonic energy to run strong. Virgin sacrifices are, vitally useless given there is no demon interest in destroying your village if they don’t ‘repay’ us once a year.”

Your frown furthered as you tilted your head, now curious more then anything at his words, finally you pulled a piece of bread off as you bit into the soft substance, “But the girls...they never returned afterwards. If a sacrifice isn’t needed, then where do they go?”

Jimin sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, face twisting into mild irritation that wasn’t aimed at you, but more his words, “Well it isn’t needed but it’s still gladly took by one of my brothers. Greed is always looking for another girl to add to his collection, his cardinal nature often gets the better of him. He looks at the yearly sacrifices as his. If I were to take you back, Greed would hunt you down without hesitation given you’ve become- in his mind apart of his harem per say.” He finally concluded as he glanced towards you.

You had parted your lips several times and yet you remained speechless, before ultimately deciding to nibble along the edge of the thick crust of the bread you held. So even if Jimin did take you home, you still wouldn’t be free? Dejection casted over your eyes as your shoulders sank slightly. At least you had a stroke of luck to have Jimin intervene with the Offering when he had then. His brother, Greed, didn’t sound the kindest and while Jimin did annoy you it was nothing more than your childishness coming out. He genuinely wasn’t all that bad of a company.

“So this is it then…” You sighed, finally speaking as you met his gaze, “I’m stuck with you?”

Jimin finally gave you a cheeky smile, tossing a wink your way that forced your lips into an unimpressed quirk, “I make great company after so long I can assure you.”

You clacked your tongue as you curved your brow, “Somehow, I doubt that.” And just as before, he only laughed, never seeming to take your sour words serious.

Jimin’s company, really wasn’t terrible. He teased you constantly and you’d sourly stomp your feet at him while complaining. You had spent most of the day in his bedroom though you’d be lying to say you weren’t curious to go out and explore, Jimin had duties to attend to- as apparently being a Prince of Hell held just as many duties as a regular Prince.

You couldn’t imagine how but you often decided to just not think about it. He promised to take you out and let you explore a little bit of the castle once he returned.

And so you waited, fiddling with the white dress you wore as you’d occasionally pace around the room. You’d poke around his bookshelf and attempted to read- except you never learned how. Furthermore the book must’ve been in latin as none of the wording seemed even familiar.

Eventually you had laid back down on the plush, soft bed of black satin and silks combined, you wrapped your arms around the fairly firm pillow as you sighed.

The smell of cedar and a distinct hint of ash mixed together, but often times this had began to bring you a sense of comfort. You almost jumped out of bed at the door to the room being opened Jimin appearing in the entry as he raised his brows, “You haven’t gotten cabin fever already, have you?”

“A little,” You admitted, feeling a bit sheepish at your words as you glanced away from him. Avoiding his cheeky smile as he gestured you over, laughing at your quick steps as you almost pounced over, excited to finally get out of this stuffy room. You had been a fair bit nervous of a tour. It wasn’t every day you were in the palace of Hell after all.

Jimin offered his arm out to you causing you to pause, glancing at it with a little suspicion as he chuckled, watching your childish weary expression before reluctantly hooking your own arm around him. Jimin instantly tugged you outside the door as he gave you a small smile, “It’s really not as intimidating as it sounds. The palace is beautiful and as long as you stay around it’s realms you’ll be fine. Any further and you’ll start stumbling on the souls here.”

He cringed a little at his words as he guided you through the long hall way that had you sheepish the first time you stepped outside of his room.

It still made you a little fidgety, something about it’s low lit red lights and black candles had your stomach churning, perhaps you’d get used to it eventually.

But this was going to take time, you were already beginning to miss the sun and the smell of the grass after it had just rained. What you’d give to see the blue sky above again rather than the black voidless ceiling of the palace. You’d imagine the outside wasn’t much better, you genuinely were in Hell.

It could be worse, you kept repeating those words to yourself. Because it really could be worse, you could be dead for one. Jimin could’ve killed you with the flick of his wrist, or so you imagined. You had never seen a demon obviously, and therefore had no idea what type of power they held. But you still imagined it was a lot, for a Prince of Hell no less.

You had passed by several people, all with disarrayed facial features and gruesome boils and abnormalities, their skin ashen and horns appeared from their head, just the sight of their black soulless eyes had you almost hiding behind Jimin. It only took one look from him for them to sudden scurry back to whatever they were doing. Jimin had referred to them as mere servants, often times taking their true form here when they were not present on the surface of the earth.

Regardless you weren’t sure you’d ever feel comfortable walking without Jimin by your side as he seemed completely stress free, and you supposed it made sense, he was their Prince after all.

All had been fine until you arrived at the throne room. It was vacant but massive and the large fire roared in its place didn’t need tending too as if it was a natural fire spout, or so Jimin had called it. The large chandelier hung over head in all it’s grandiose, the large iron throne standing on it’s own without a chair beside it. Glancing towards Jimin you could only wonder where his mother was, or if he even had a mother. How could a demon be born?

You had parted your lips, intending to ask instantly gaining Jimin’s attention. The large doors of the throne room however, were shoved open and in a fiery blaze all of the low lit candles roared and the fireplace near exploded sending you into a yelp as Jimin’s arms quickly wrapped around you, pulling you closer.

Contrary to Jimin the man that stalked in was tall and his own magenta eyes were bright and glaring down with hells fury and his black hair wild and dusting over his wrathful gaze, forcing a whimper down your throat as Jimin quickly squeezed against you reassuringly, his eyes as cold as ice in contrast as they stared back.

“You disgusting fiend, why don’t you take something that isn’t already claimed.” The man hissed out, the fire all around you burning darkly and the room at been lit up and the temperature had risen.

Jimin’s brows pressed together as he glared back, not phased at the man before as he replied, “I don’t remember your claim on Incúrsio’s sacrifices, Greed you have several mates, your cardinal sin is showing.”

You swallowed thickly, shrinking closer to him as fear overrode your body. So this was Greed? The man who’d hunt you down personally if you were to ever return to a normal life on the surface of earth unmated. You watched his jaw clench and it’s line sharp enough to cut, his eyes burning dark as he sneered, “And this one will become my mate just as the rest, you can’t hide her forever Lust.”

Jimin’s jaw clenched to match his brothers, his grip on you tightening as they stared one another down. The realization on why it was so important for you to stay with Jimin now finally hitting. It didn’t matter where you went, your soul belonged to Greed now and even if you could go back to normal life he’d still bring you back.

His glare harshened and his eyes suddenly glowed in color matching his brothers as he hissed out, “You can’t mate what’s already mine. Now go before you do something you’ll later regret.” Greed only gave a growl but you watched the flames in the room die down a little as he snarled, “Mark my words Lust, you’ll regret this.” He snapped around and walked out the doors leaving the room a few degrees cooler but it wasn’t the air that was making your body shake.

Jimin’s glare didn’t leave the door until Greed was out of sight, finally he seemed to register your shakiness as his grip on you loosened, thumbs soothing rubbing against your skin as he sighed, “Do you understand why it’s important for us to remain together now?” He asked with a hushed murmur, gently pressing a kiss into your hair, “If I could take you back to your old life I would, and I can. But it will only be a matter of time before Greed finds you there.”

It was silent for a minute and you hadn’t even realized how tight you were gripping his black buttoned shirt until you watched the blood drain from your knuckles, “Do...do we have too?” You could barely manage a whisper, your lips quivering at the thought as you tried to unclench your fists.

“As long as you remain unmated even staying in my room is a danger. Being mated to Greed isn’t necessarily bad,” Jimin sighed, as if realizing perhaps you did want to be someone else's, “But there’s a lot of strife between all of his mates and you’re guaranteed to never leave the lodge of his harem.”

His hands sat on your waist before he murmured, “I’d never do that to you, never to my mate. We could roam the earth together and see it’s every corner, you’d be free to go as you wish as long you returned to me. We’ve only just met now, but I need a mate Y/n, and you need one as well if you value your freedom at all.”

Your lips were quivering as you swallowed once more, you weren’t sure what this meant. But in terms of both Vampires and Werewolves a mate, was the equivalent to marriage and it sounded close to the same for a demon as well. The idea had your head spinning but just the memory of Greed’s fury ridden gaze had you quivering in fear, he was right.

If you wanted your freedom, you’d just have to trust Jimin’s words. They were so soft, and he had given a lot of promise in his words. Could he really take you back to earth, would you truly see the sun and the sky once more?

“Then we shouldn’t wait any longer.” You finally murmured, your gaze still downcast and your lips still quivering until you felt his hand cup your cheek, his fingers tracing along your jawline as he murmured soothingly, “Demon mating isn’t the same as other earthly creatures, it’s an intense but doesn’t require sexuality as most do.” He had already started leading you down the hall and by the familiarity of everything you could tell he was taking you back to his room.

You didn’t understand his reason for needing a mate but you wouldn’t deny him when he was your only option. You had just met Greed but you could tell you didn’t want to be his mate, he had several others and you’d be locked away for eternity.

This was your only option now.

Opening the door to the dark room Jimin seemed to lose his imperative rush as he gently closed it, letting you go to walk further into the room. Your body was still stiff and you were nervous, he said sexuality wasn’t required but...just how would this mating be performed?

You paused as you wearily glanced at Jimin, he had brought a black candle out of his dresser before turning to you, “Go ahead and sit down, this won’t take too long,” His voice was soothing as if noticing how quiet you had become, your banter being replaced by stiffness at the serious situation.

You’d be permanently bonded to him after this, you knew you had a choice. But this was clearly the better one, and he wasn’t terrible company...atleast not completely.

Shuffling you sat down on the edge of the bed, your hands folded meekly as you watched him set down black candles on the floor, forming a circle around the bed. Honestly, you felt like you were about to be sacrificed in a cult ritual, maybe this wasn’t far off…

Seeing Jimin pull out the silver plated knife with what appeared to be a latin incantation on it you couldn’t help the anxiety that shot through your whole body. Holy shit, you were definitely about to die. Was he gonna turn you into a demon? You had to swallow your anxiety as you fiddled with your fingers.

Seeing such a curved, wicked knife in his hands had you nervous though he wielded it so delicately, with a snap of his fingers the candles around the bed suddenly flickered with light, the light however matched the candles with a pure black flame that gave the room an odd silvery glow, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” Jimin offered a tiny smile as he kneeled down in front of you, knife still in hand as he continued, “I just need to put a nick in your body so I can place a blood sigal. It’ll just feel like a little pinch.”

“Wh...where are you gonna place it.” You curled slightly in weariness as you kept your gaze steadily on the silver blade that gleamed so beautifully under the lights. You had heard about both vampire and werewolf mating and it all had to do with biting, you supposed it made sense that demon’s would be different but still.

“Anywhere you’d like,” Jimin replied steadily, “Typically most go for the neck as it’s the most common mating mark, but it’s not necessary.” You watched the way his long slim fingers grazed against the edge of the blade, careful to not apply too much pressure or else he’d cut himself.

You swallowed thickly, your fingers unconsciously grazing over your neck before you shook your head. You always had a fear of possibly being drank dry by a vampire, even if you had never knew one well enough before, anything around your neck made you too squeamish.

Hesitantly you held your wrist, feeling a little more comfortable if you’d be able to watch the process take place, “Would my wrist work…?” Your lips quivered slightly and your shoulders sunk as you let your eyes flick away from his gaze.

He took hold of your wrist delicately, stroking over the skin covering your artiary as he nodded, “Perfect,” kneeling down he let the knife graze over your skin, the chill of the metal causing goosebumps to form over your skin as your breath hitched slightly before giving a small whimper at the nick skillfully cut to avoid your artiary. Setting the knife down on the bed Jimin clasped your wrist delicately before glancing up at you, “Just relax, mating is an intense practice but will be easier if you trust me. Okay?” His thumbs gently rubbed against your skin soothingly as you swallowed back another whimper before nodding.

Letting his eyes flutter shut Jimin placed his tongue over the cut, gently lapping up the blood before a bright glow casted over his eyes just as it did earlier when he spoke to his brother, his eyes flicked from you back down at your skin before you yelped, his tongue suddenly burning like fire on your skin as you tried to pull away.

Jimin kept your arm locked in place as he kept his tongue still, tears were beginning to gloss in your eyes and your vision was beginning to spot and darken as your senses became overwhelmed, fire licking at your skin as it felt like it was being melted, “Ow! It-It hurts!” You cried out weakly, the faint smell of ash and cedar filling your scent until you could smell nothing but those two notes.

Jimin said nothing, letting his tongue move gently over the mark, this thumbs rubbing against your skin soothingly as your breathing had become shallow, your vision of the room nearly dark and you couldn’t tell if you were crying anymore, every breath you took was the woody and light, yet smoky smell of cedar and your lungs choked with the burnt smell of ash.

Your senses were beginning to numb and the burn of his tongue was beginning to subside as your body weakly collapsed onto its side as Jimin closed his eyes. Your vision was beginning to go in phases and faintly the glow of his eyes had become red balls of light and you could feel your body beginning to overheat.

An odd wet pool beginning to set between your legs and your hair was beginning to stick to your neck as you let out a soft whine, your body becoming hypersensitive to every lick of his tongue against the soft skin of your wrist.

Opening his eyes he pulled away from your wrist, only letting go of you for a second before a loud whine suddenly escaped your lips, the sudden need for him to be close to taking over your body as you choked out a whimper, “Shhh,” Jimin murmured, gently sitting up on the bed as he pulled you into his chest, “The after effects are what make the process so intense, you take on the demons cardinal sin so it’s going to be a long few hours.”

Your body was burning up and you were rubbing your thighs together, uncomfortable at the stickiness between your legs as he soothingly stroked through your hair.

You couldn’t focus on the soothing gesture though when you sat in his lap, his thick muscular thighs bulging against his thin pants that had arousal soaking through your panties as you let out a breathy whine, “J..Jimin…” You could hardly stay still and your mind was groggy, then encased in his smell and focus was hazy with only one line thought in mind, “Pl-Please…”

“Shhh, that’s just the lust talking. I’m not going to do anything you’ll later regret,” You nearly cried at his gentle words, your body’s need becoming near unbearable, “We’ve become mated without becoming properly acquainted with one another, we have the rest of eternity Y/n.” Those were the words that made soft tears stream down your face as you shifted in his lap to straddle him.

Just the slightest graze of his pants making you jump with a breathy moan, “Please, you- you can’t just do this to me and then make me suffer.” Your hips instantly grinded down over his thigh, your gorged, hypersensitive clit dragging against the material as you moaned once more, pressing your face into his neck almost too overwhelmed by the sensation.

Jimin sighed, his grip on your tightening as if restraining himself before he replied, “You’re so stubborn.” His hands sat on your waist making you jump as you whined, grinding your hips harder on his thigh, a big wet mark forming over his pants as your slick arousal slipped off your folds, an insatiable desire forming in your body.

Noticing he hadn’t stop you your hips quickly beginning ride against his pants with little stifled whines and moans, your fingers tangling in his hair as your clit pressed down, rubbing into the soft fabric as your breath hitched, your body building it’s release at a fast pace that made your head dizzy and vision begin spotting again.

“Are you going to cum so soon?” Jimin murmured against your ear, his voice like honey but darkened a tone making you whine with a nod, his thigh suddenly bouncing against your soaked folds, rubbing into your little nub as you cried out, your release suddenly washing over your body as you cried softly, the wetness of your tears dripping into the crook of his neck as he soothingly rubbed your back, “Is it not enough darling?”

You rapidly shook your head, your hips already wanting to ride against his thigh once more as your hormones spiked once more your body nearly burning in pain at the need for your next release. Jimin suddenly picked you up making you cry out as you struggled to get out of his grip and back on his body as he gave a soft laugh, “Shhh don’t worry darling, I’ll help you just be patient.”

Your mind was hazy at the idea and you were still kicking about as you whined, “You! You made me like this- please!” Your impatience getting the better of you as Jimin sat you down on the bed unbuttoning his shirt, “Undress.” You didn’t need to be told twice as you fumbled with your dress, pulling it over your head and pushing down your panties.

Jimin had let his shirt fall from his shoulders as he rounded the bed, pulling his pants off nearly made your mouth water at the sight of his girthy length.

You had never seen anything so big, his bulbous head was a pretty pink and precum was beading from it’s slit, the slight curve of his cock had your body clenching around nothing as he sat against the headboard, ignoring his massive swollen cock that rested against his chiseled abdomen, hair messy and looking like pure sin, finally with a smirk and glowing eyes he commanded, “Come on little girl, you asked for this.”

Arousal was sliding down your thighs and your body was burning with need as you quickly crawled over, straddling him once more as he caught your hips, “You wanted my thigh that’s what you’ll get.” His eyes were dark and left no room for debate as you whined, settling against the warm skin of his thigh, your wetness dripping down against him as he let a crooked smirk pull on his lips, “You’re making such a big mess on my thigh doesn’t that little clit need relief?” He cooed out making your hips instantly buck against is thigh, your sticky wet pussy parting against his skin as your nub rubbed down making you moan.

Your body already hypersensitive but your mind was clouded by insatiable pleasure as you continued rocking your hips into his thigh. Jimin’s eyes stayed on your body as he licked his plump lips, finally he grabbed his fat cock as he began to stroke it making you whine, “Mmh! Please! Let me ride it! Please- please Jimin- please!” He said nothing in return but the sadistic smirk twisted on his lips, enjoying you suffer as you continued riding his thigh.

Your gorged, sensitive clit continuously rubbing in just the right spot that had your body stiffening and your words babbled and moaned as your next orgasm quickly spiked through your whole body, your hips tremored and a whine escaped your lips as Jimin kept a steady pace on his cock.

As soon as the euphoric feeling passed your body you were already wanting another, your body burning harshly and fresh arousal dripping from your folds and your inner thighs nearly coated, your cheeks were red in embarrassment as Jimin laughed at the sight, letting go of his members before grabbing your thighs. Forcing your back to hit the bed as he pulled your thighs over his shoulders, “So needy, you really are the mate of Lust huh.” His eyes were so pretty, glowing in the dark of the room in that intense color of magenta, his tongue dragged against your thigh, licking up your arousal as you whined, hips quickly lifting towards him as he forced them in place.

His tongue was hot and his own wetness mixed with yours as he sucked up all of the stray arousal on your thighs, licking his lips as he glanced down at you, his face truly that of angel with such a wicked smirk on his lips, you felt like nothing but prey under his gaze, your eyes lidded and timid as you shifted against his shoulders, “Watch.” Jimin commanded as he let his tongue place at the entrance between your slit making you cry out at the odd sensation, his tongue swirling and delicately pressing against your little hole teasing it as you obediently watched.

Your face burning brighter with each moment as he held your gaze so confidently, his tongue dragging up your wet folds before swiping across your sensitive clit making you throw your head back with another small whine. His hands suddenly gripped your ass tightly as he growled, “I said watch, don’t disobey me.” Whimpering you glanced back up, your cheeks on fire as he ate you alive, tongue lapping up your clit as you left out a breathy moan, trying to keep yourself from collapsing your head back against the bed, “Mmm! Feels so good- please! Please Jimin-”

Your hips rocked against his tongue that he stretched past his lips, letting your hips take over as his tongue flattened over your hypersensitive nub, crying out at the pain of your sensitivity, pleasure continued to wave through your body as you let out another moan.

With one more flick against your sweet spot your toes curled at the orgasm washing through your body, letting out a sob at the pain that washed with it, your head becoming dizzy from the pleasure but Jimin ignored your whimper as he coated his fingers along your folds, “Such a pretty girl,” You whined, squeezing your thighs as you watched his middle finger push inside you.

You had been told a first time was painful and yet you could hardly even feel his finger slide inside as he pushed another snug in your walls, “So wet for me, I could just fit my whole cock in this little hole without any preparation couldn’t I?” The effects of his cardinal sin over your body could probably let him do it with zero trouble, your walls clenched immediately at the thought, squeezing around his fingers making him chuckle, “Lust looks so good on you darling.”

Jimin pushed a third finger inside you before he began to drag them into the spongy little spot that had you crying out, head finally dropping against the bed and your back arching as your body rapidly clenched around him, “F-fuck please! Please!” Your legs were shaking and you weren’t sure if your pleas were for him to stop or to keep going, your body was demanding another fill of pleasure though as your hips obediently rocked in sync with the fingers he pumped into you with such ease.

“My little mate, so needy.” Jimin let his tongue flatten back over your clit making you let out a near scream at the electric shock of pleasure he provided, fingers nearly digging into your g-spot as your little walls rapidly clenched and relaxed around him, his tongue dripping spit mixing with your wetness as he lapped over your abused clit.

The lewd sounds spilled throughout the whole room, your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head as the loud relieved moan escaped your lips, a loud squelch of your body clenching roughly around him fingers as the next orgasm washed over your body.

Your hips nearly spazzed as he kept going, your thighs shaking like leaves as he ruthlessly glanced down at you, tongue still rubbing over your clit making tears fall down your face as you cried, the pleasure your body craved so intensely nearly overwhelming you. You were unable to do anything but take what was being given to you as he took your little clit into his mouth, his fingers slowing down as they pumped inside of you, lewd squelching sounding through the room with every thrust of his fingers inside you.

Your voice was rasped but moans wouldn’t stop flooding your lips as the raw feeling of your gorged nub being ate alive and Jimin continuously prodded his fingers against the soft spongy spot against your walls enough to bring fresh tears to your eyes, “Go on, cum again I know you want too.” Jimin instantly attached his lips back to your clit as you cried out the orgasm that had quickly built up obediently released on his command as you sobbed gently your body still hot and aroused as he pulled his fingers out of you, delicately setting your thighs back down.

Your lower body was completely shaking and yet fresh arousal was already beginning to slide down your legs against the bed making you choke out a quiet sob, you were so aroused and yet unsure if your body could even handle anymore. Jimin gently shushed you as he wiped your tears away, “It’ll be over soon darling, do you need my cock?” You couldn’t even form a proper sentence as you nodded, he cooed once more wiping your tears before pressing a kiss against your forehead, “It’s okay my love, I’ll take good care of you.”

Your hips ached dully as he spread your thighs, the cool air of the room hitting your wet slick folds once more as you let out a breathy whimper, the intense hormones washing over you again as Jimin grabbed ahold of his cock pumping it slowly before letting it’s curve fit against your folds, dragging over your clit as he coated himself in your wetness.

Bucking your hips you let out a raspy moan as repeated the motion again, letting his fat girth drag over your gorged bud once more, “You like that sweetheart?” Jimin purred out, his own eyes lidded with pleasure as he dragged his length back down your folds, grabbing ahold of his bulbous head as he circled it over your clit making you mew out as your back arched, “Please! Please Jimin!” You whined making him lick his lips as he guided his head to your entrance.

Carefully he pushed his head in making you tense up for a moment, the horrid first time you had always heard about wasn’t anything you had anticipated. Your cunt was practically split open by his large head and yet all you felt was a mild discomfort, wetness dripping from your stretched hole as he stroked your hips, “Does it hurt?”

“N-no,” You shook your head with a rasp, needily bucking your hips to get him to push further in, “Just- uncomfortable, a little weird?” You fumbled with your words, your cheeks bright red but he only laughed, for a breath moment he looked endeared at his new mates innocence.

Slowly he eased his cock inside you making you both string out moans, pausing as he let his whole cock sit and stretch inside you, your warm velvety walls tight around him as he purred, lips pressing into your neck, “You feel so good sweetheart, so tight and pure just for me to taint.”

Letting out a small whimper your walls clenched around him, legs quickly wrapping around his waist and his words ignited your horniness once more as you tried to bounce your hips against his, “Don’t tease me! Jimin please start moving…!” You whimpered, cheeks becoming hot again and your body craving another release despite it’s hypersensitivity.

On command Jimin quickly began thrusting, his cock stretching your small walls perfectly, shaft rubbing into that soft spot that had you moaning, back arching and eyes fluttering shut, “You’re just too easy to tease though darling,” He leaned down, hips rolling fluidly and the wet sounds your body made filled the room as he dragged his tongue over your neck, “God you feel so good around my cock.”

Feeling his fingers drag down your body back to your clit forced a cry from your lips, walls clenching around him causing a loud embarrassing wet squelch that had him moaning.

Pleasure was thrumming through your body once more as you breathed out cracked moans, his cock throbbing inside you, hitting into your g-spot with every stroke, fingers deftly rubbing over your swollen abused bud as your body twisted and withered, moaning with a cry as you felt your eyes water up, “One more time kitten,” Jimin nipped at your neck encouragingly, “I know you can do it.”

It was all you needed before you let out a loud cry, moaning with it as your body became wrecked with pleasure, you could barely even notice Jimin throwing his head back with a moan at the way your walls tightened around him, eyes burning magenta as he let his cock cream deep inside you, his release nestling inside you and with it the burning of your body began to cool down, suddenly whimpering at the slightest of touch against your skin.

Jimin pulled him softening members from you as he peppered your neck in kisses, “You did so well darling.”

With each little kiss came a stifled whine from you, the full effect of how sensitive your body was beginning to wash over you, Jimin had fully drained the life force from your body and you hadn’t realized how tired you had become until your eyes closed, letting your consciousness take you at the sound of the praise Jimin gave.

Your body was in pain, your hips were stiff even just laying down and the ache between your legs had you wincing as soon as you opened your eyes, you were without a doubt sore from what had taken place. Your face felt hot at the memory and your mind was throbbing in a dull headache as you groaned, shifting a little at the feeling of the warm body tucked against you.

It was then that you noticed the hand that was stroking your hair with a delicate hum, shifting slightly you winced once more before glancing up at Jimin’s wrecked appearance, his neatly styled hair had been wild and ridden with oil, still just as naked as you were though he didn’t appear to care, “Are you okay?” He gave a small smile, tenderly let his hand run down your back as rested your head back against his chest, listening to quiet beat of his heart, “A demons mating ritual can be very taxing for humans.”

“Everything hurts,” You answered dully, making him give a small laugh, hand still comfortingly running down your body. You couldn’t help but wonder as silence took over the room, why did he need a mate? Remembering his words when you first woke up in this bed made you shifted a little before softly speaking up, “Jimin.”

“Hm?” He hummed out, releasing you from his hold as you struggled to sit up, glancing down at his laid out figure as he raised his brows.

You fidgetted a little, feeling an air of self consciousness you didn’t have before under his cardinal sin at the feeling of your nipples perked, crossing your arms shyly to hide yourself you looked away, “Why did you need a mate?”

It was a valid question you had never thought of until this moment, but since you had met, Jimin made it clear this wasn’t out of pity for you or for some sort of twisted goal, he simply needed a mate though you had never asked and he never offered.

Jimin shifted slightly before sitting up as well, letting his back rest against the headboard as he sighed, running a hand through his hair as he answered, “If a demon isn’t mated before their thousand year mark their cardinal sin becomes amplified to the point of no return. I’d be like a starved incubai for the rest of my life, never sated and constantly rutting into someone or something. It could be worse but my time was running out, I have too many important responsibilities both in Hell and on the surface to let my cardinal sin run me. It just worked out that you were in need of a mate as well.”

It became quiet once more as you shifted against the soft mattress, you supposed it made sense, becoming unsated for the rest of your life did sound miserable and with the way he put it, it sounded as if he’d constantly be in a rut, even if this was an unlikely duo.

You’d make it work, Jimin wasn’t bad company and at the very least you could’ve ended up locked away in Hell for eternity mated to Greed or worse, you could be dead.

Jimin reached out, letting his hand brushed the hair over your shoulder, his touch warm and soft making you shudder slightly at the cold nip of the room, unable to resist you could feel a warm bond in your chest tightening as you felt the urge to coil in closer, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re a lovely mate.” Jimin teases lightly, making your cheeks dust pink as he tugged against your arm.

Without any protest you scooted closer to him, allowing his arms to wrap around you as he set his chin again your shoulder.

You felt weird at this new sensation, aware that it was your mating bond but still odd nonetheless on how innate being close to him at suddenly became, “I don’t have a problem with your reasoning, mine wasn’t any better,” You replied dryly before shrugging a little, ignoring the ache that continued to remind you of the event that had taken place earlier, “I was just curious why it was necessary for you.”

Jimin pressed a kiss into your hair, the odd light bond in your chest thrumming happily as you curled into him closer, “Well you have an answer, I just wish we could’ve had more time to properly form a bond before hand and I could explain what would take place. I’m sure taking on my cardinal sin wasn’t pleasant.”

He soothingly let his hand run down to your thigh, the pads of his fingers brushing over the skin delicately, “But at least down we can properly become acquainted without any looming threats, we can even visit your family on the surface as soon as you can properly walk.”

You slapped his arm making him chuckle as you glared down at the mattress, your gaze however softened after a moment and your chest stirred as you sighed, “That would be nice…I’m sure my guardian would love to host for a demon.”

Jimin seemed to notice the way you attempted to keep your voice level and upbeat as he let his hand run back up to your hair, petting against your hair before murmuring the question you had been expecting, “Guardian? Has your family passed on?”

“I don’t know.” You murmured with a sigh, the room had become quiet once more and Jimin was patiently waiting for you to continue, it wasn’t a pleasant memory by any means but your bond was almost making you feel obligated to go ahead and share it.

“I was young when it happened,” You explained while leaning against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head down before you felt a soft peck against your hair once more, “I don’t even remember much of any of it anymore. But…” You paused for a moment, pressing your brows together, “We were in a carriage and it had come to an abrupt stop, I don’t remember what my father had said but the next thing I knew the door had opened and I was the first to be pulled out.”

The memory was vague and brought you nothing but grief your whole life ripped away from you in just mere seconds, Jimin soothingly curled his arms around you listening patiently, “They were like a cult, black robes and faces hidden behind hoods, one had some sort of dagger in his hands, I thought he was gonna kill me but they ended up throwing me off to the side. I had to have bruised or broken something because it hurt to breathe and I could hardly stand.”

Sighing you let your fingers trace a pattern against his warm skin before you gave a small shrug, “And then they took them, my parents, kicking and screaming trying to fight. My sister was left in the carriage, she was just a newborn at the time and I tried going back to her, but…” you could feel guilt fester in your stomach as you sighed, “I ended up passing out and next thing I knew I woke up at my guardians house, she had been out along the rode searching for what herbs hadn’t withered from the cold when she found me. We went back just along the road outside of Incúrsio where our carriage was to find her but we were too late,”

You sighed, guilt would be useless now but still even as a small child you couldn’t help but take on that burden, she was your younger sister and you couldn’t even remember her name anymore, “She was gone, I don’t know if they came back for her, or if something…” You shuddered at the thought making Jimin give you a little squeeze.

“Perhaps she’s still out there, your parents could be alive as well.” Jimin offered softly, his thumbs rubbing into your skin soothingly, a mates touch relaxing you unlike you had ever known despite not even truly knowing the man that held you, “In fact, Incúrsio is right along one of the largest trading routes, I’m sure someone found her.”

You heart felt a little more at ease at the idea of your sister out there somewhere, perhaps living a more normal life then you, maybe she was living in the luxury she deserved, you could only pray she was, “I just hope she’s happy, wherever she is.”

Laughing softly Jimin pressed a kiss against your neck, “Well I’m sure she is, and the same could be said for you as well. Maybe we can find her in the future, we only have the rest of eternity together.”

You couldn’t help the smile that curled on your lips as your nose wrinkled at his words, pulling away as you raised your brows, “I can’t believe I really agreed to something so...indefinite.”

Snorting his own laugh Jimin let the smile quirk on his lips as he replied, “But you’ll come to love me anyways, I’m absolutely confident.” He sent you a wink making you roll your eyes, the bond between you both once more thrumming happily.

Perhaps he was right, maybe, just maybe, you would come to love him, regardless of what may come you doubt you’d ever admit it to him, even for the rest of eternity you refused to give him the satisfaction.

“We’ll see Lust, we’ll see.” You clacked your tongue, both smiling at each other and though mating was always done out of love but he sure did make one hell of a great friend too.

#bts #bangtan #jimin #park jimin #jimin x reader #jimin x y/n #jimin x reader smut #demon!jimin #demon jimin x reader

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il-papa-patata · 4 years

Text

Not So Scary Mary

You wake up from a nightmare in Mary’s apartment. He’s unexpectedly helpful as you try to fall back asleep.

Mary Goore/gender neutral reader, nightmares, Freshly Washed Mary

T for language

You bolt awake.

The dream tumbles after you, the heat of it dissipating but lingering in the clamminess of your skin, the way your heart pounds. You search for anything – details about the dream, anything to grasp onto, to laugh at – you always laugh at your nightmares after they happen, or at least try to – but this one just lingers, vibrant red and sicking to your skin like sand in all the wrong places.

It's not your bed, and not your apartment, so when you spring awake, you can't reach to the same places you do normally, can't reach beside your bed for the old dog plush you got for your sixth birthday, with its flopsy ears worn down over the years and the nose almost gone. You can't take one of the old-man hard candies from your nightstand and suck it against your teeth until you feel its warm flavor all the way down your throat, some sort of normalcy in the face of terror.

You can, in this place, reach for Mary Goore.

Who is already awake.

He's already half-up, blearily wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. You feel bad – the man barely sleeps as it is, and yet here you are waking him up with something like this-

You forget how pretty he is with all the makeup wiped off.

He looks up at you, hazel eyes almost silver in the darkness, face thin and sharp, lips full and parted. Despite your rude awakening, his expression's clear, face neutral and maybe even a little concerned.

“S-sorry,” you stutter, the heat of the dream clinging to you like spiderwebs, “Just a nightmare-”

“Hey,” he says, resting his long hand on your shoulder, “S'okay. You want some water?”

“Y-yeah.”

He dips over to his side of the bed and hands you a still mostly-full water bottle, crinkled along its edges. He pulls his knees up as you drink, resting his head on one, just watching you drink down some of the cool water. The night's chilled it a bit, and it eases some of the nightmare heat inside you.

You cap it again when you feel you've had enough and try to hand it back, but he just shakes his head, holding up a hand. You put it back on your side.

“You wanna talk about it?” he offers, reaching out and smoothing a hand over your lower back.

You do.

You do- but...

But what would there be to say? You can't even remember the dream – you could talk about how you sometimes just have these nightmares but it strikes you that Mary might think you're being a little bitch about it-

On the other hand, Mary is surprisingly good about this kind of thing. He always has been.

“I just... have nightmares. Sometimes.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, still stroking your lower back, “Anything about?”

“N...no. I don't think so, anyway. It's just... red when I wake up.”

“Red?”

“The color of your eyelids when it's sunny out.”

“Hm,” he hums, reaching his arm around your waist and leaning his head against you. His hair is clean – you washed it yourself – and it's fluffy where it brushes against you, all soft and wiry. “S' a tough one. Are you scared after 'em?”

You swallow.

You don't want to tell him that his mattress is the only thing that feels safe right now, that you had shivered putting down the water bottle, like it was a raft in a great tumultuous sea, as though his hastily thrown-on sheets were going to keep you safe. That even the moonlight outside twists into something horrid, the lamp you've tripped on six hundred times, the display from the old cassette-clock he convinces you still works becoming something else entirely. You don't want to tell him how long it takes you to feel normal back home, how his apartment – no matter how familiar by daylight – is scaring you.

He doesn't say anything when you fall silent. Instead, he just wraps his arms around you and pulls you back down into the sheets, guiding your head down against his chest, your nose against his ribs and your browbone against his collarbone.

“Shh,” he hushes, so softly, “It's okay.”

“Mare-”

“Shh. I've got you. It's okay. Nothing's gonna get you while I'm here.”

...Oh.

How long have you been wanting to hear that?

To not only be soothed but protected. You don't doubt for a second if anything actually tried to hurt you that Mary would launch at it, ready to fight it off or even kill it.

You sag into his hold, worming your arms around his slim waist, pressing your face more fully into his chest. He's warm, and unexpectedly soft despite how bony he is, and he hushes you quietly, stroking your nape slowly.

“You're...” you mumble, “Surprisingly good at this.”

“Eh, yknow.”

“No, really- you're... good at calming people down. And- you're nice.”

Mary laughs. “Well, my reputation gets outta hand sometimes. People don't believe I can be this feral and nasty and still be nice.”

You try to look up at him, face clean, hair fluffy. You knew he was sweet – you wouldn't be dating him or cuddled into his chest in his apartment if you thought otherwise, but-

No. You see it, here in the dark. The warmth of Mary. The little patient smile.

“You like being nice?”

Mary purses his lips, looking up at the window. “Well, who doesn't?”

“A lot of people think you don't.”

“Do you think that?” he asks, burying his fingers in your hair.

“No,” you say, “You love being nice. But-”

“But...”

“...oh. No, I get it now. The feralness is the niceness. It's-”

The desire to protect, to include, to be warm and to laugh – the violence and the trashiness and all that was that. A reflection, a complement to the kindness and the warmth and his barking laughter.

Mary smiles. His eyes glimmer slightly.

“Hmm,” he hums.

You tuck your head into his chest again, suddenly way too shy at that warm expression. It was usually a smile he smiled at you when he thought you weren't looking, but you'd never caught the full brunt of it, not from two inches away, and not with his arms around you and his legs tangled with yours.

“But yeah, I think you'll be okay.” He murmurs. “I had a lot of nightmares at one point too.”

He pulls you a bit closer, cocooning you against him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm. Got out of a shitty life, but all of it chased me. Drank a lot to try and keep all of it away but it didn't really work. Anything I didn't deal with during the day, I dealt with at night.”

You breathe for a moment. You never know whether to ask more or not, when he talks about times before anyone here knew him, before he popped into the city covered in blood and screaming.

You choose to say nothing this time. If he tells you, he'll tell you.

“They'll fade. I make a mean cup of chamomile, though, if you can't get back to sleep.”

“Chamomile? You?”

“Yeh.”

He doesn't elaborate further, although you want to press it a bit.

But you figure you're wired as it is, and the proof's in the... tea, so you nod.

He helps you up, slowly – reaches over the side of his bed for a discarded hoodie which he drapes around your shoulders. It sits a little weird there, but it's comfortable, a nice protection against the chill of the night.

The two of you move into the kitchen, past his second-ish-hand couch. He has a stool obviously pilfered from some bar against his counter, and he perches you there as he goes puttering about.

You breathe deeply.

His house- well, his apartment- smells like him. Something old, something like dark hair warmed by the sun, the smell of smoke, this faint peppery thing. You never thought you'd get used to it – at its worst it's boldly organic, almost gross – but like this, settling around you and into your clothing and skin, it's pleasant.

Mary sets the kettle going – you didn't expect him to have one, and it's tiny, but it's enough for two cups of tea. He pulls down two mugs – one that looks like it's real china, a delicate porcelain thing, and the other a sturdy, obviously corporate mug for a bank.

You aren't sure which confuses you more.

“You worked in a bank?”

“Mhm,” he hums, spooning a bit of honey into it, “Kept the building running.”

“Don't you have an arrest record?”

“Didn't then. Helped pay for my first move.”

“Huh.”

He takes down a canister – it's beautiful, covered in intricate, sparkling cloth, a little thing. He pulls off the lid, and a second lid, and smells the contents. “Still fresh.”

He puts the leaves into two small steepers – both shaped like flowers – and covers them over with the freshly boiled water.

He leans back against the counter, humming quietly. You can't pick out the tune, but it's something kind of familiar. Most people knew his growl, but he had a perfectly nice voice when he sang.

He comes over to you, taking your hands in his and swaying your hands back and forth, humming softly. It's kind of weird – like he's playing with a puppet or trying to get you to dance – but you laugh anyway, bouncing your hands along with whatever he's singing, placid-faced and jaunty in his little galley kitchen.

“You're cute,” you tell him, and he sticks out his chin, frowning deeply while still playing with your hands.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Imma kick your ass.”

“Try me,” you grin up at him, “You're the one singing love songs and dancing with me in your kitchen.”

He flushes, pouting slightly. “Whatever. Can't even hold my sweetheart's hands without someone accusing me of being cute?”

“You really calling me your sweetheart and trying to convince me you're not cute?”

“Shush.”

“Really though,” you say when he lets your hands go, settling your feet up on one of the bars on the stool, “You're such a contradiction sometimes.”

“Con-tro-dik-tee-on? Whazzat?”

“Don't play dumb,” you smirk, “You aren't stupid no matter how much you pretend. You read those academic texts like they're gonna disappear every time your friends bring them over.”

He purses his lips. “Hey, I'm a high-school dropout, you can't be mean to me.”

“What was the title of the last one? A Critique of Foucauldian Governmentality?”

“I'm frankly surprised you remembered that, but yes, and it was a very good article I will have you know.”

“You seemed super into it.”

“I am a slut for Foucault, so.”

You giggle.

He hands you the bank mug, scooping out the steeper with his fingers. He takes up the fine porcelain cup, and even though it's a bit of a contrast – its delicate, blush-pink glaze and gilt handle matching the still-slight flush on his cheeks and the warmth of his eyes in the quiet light of the kitchen – it's not a mismatch. Mary was like that, you think, just a collection of things that didn't seem to go together but felt natural when they were united.

You bump your ankle against his knee, and he shuffles over to you, standing in between your knees. You sip the tea as he does, commenting, “But I like it.”

“Like what?”

“That you're contradictory. Sweet and violent. Depraved but also-” you reach up with your free hand to stroke his jaw, chuckling when he sags into the touch like an eager street cat, “Surprisingly innocent.”

“You want me to show you that depravity?” he growls, grinning and fixing you with a stare that turns your guts to mush.

“Another time, maybe.”

The stare breaks and his expression melts into a little smile. “Aw, okay.”

“I mean, not that I don't want to fuck in your kitchen at 2:54am, and I don't think you're working tomorrow, but...” You shift, sipping more of the tea, “Still feeling kind of fragile.”

“S'okay, you don't gotta qualify why you're not up for it. All I need's the 'no'.”

He dips his head and rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and continuing to hum, the pretty, petal-like cup held close in his hands. You think you might want to lean up, to kiss his plush lips, but you don't. It's too late, and the chamomile is working, and your shoulders are slumping. You'd probably fall asleep kissing him.

Maybe another time for that, though. That sounds really nice.

He notices. Of course he does. And without complaint, he sets your cups on the counter and picks you up, cradling you against his shoulder. You feel like a kid again, passed out in the car, the same comfort of being brought inside and tucked in.

He sets you down again on the mattress, huffing a breath when he loses his grip on you. He gently pries the covers out from under you, settling them over your shoulders, batting away your hands when you try to help.

He climbs under the covers too, tugging his pillow closer and shimmying up alongside you, tucking his ankle against yours. You're drifting now, the chamomile and the quiet of his apartment and that familiar scent of him all lulling you back to sleep, but you still feel it when he gently kisses your forehead, smooths his fingers along your scalp, and murmurs, “No more bad dreams, now.”

#mary goore #repugnant #patata fic #not so scary mary C:

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 9: Follow The Rules]

Hi y’all, I hope you are all doing well 💜

Chapter summary: Veronica has some questions, Roger has a plan, John has a short temper.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

At the wedding, Roger is wearing a cast on his right arm and a dazzling smile...and a white suit that he looks criminally good in.

John is in black, Brian in blue, Freddie in maroon-colored velvet and heavy eyeliner. Veronica’s dress is high-waisted and falls in huge, billowing, shapeless ruffles to hide her silhouette. Her family knows, of course—it’s written all over the tense, grim lines of their mouths and the blades their pale eyes hurl at John—but none of those strict Catholics are going to mention an out-of-wedlock pregnancy in God’s house, nor at the modest reception in the church basement that follows the ceremony.

Veronica’s mother and aunts and sisters are just like her, docile and milky-skinned and small-boned, and you’ve helped them deck the vast room with enough flowers, ribbons, candles, and balloons to make everyone forget this event was thrown together in five weeks and on a shoestring budget. There’s a simple buffet with pot roast and potatoes and vegetables, a live band (some of John’s old friends from high school), and a homemade Polish honey cake baked by Veronica’s grandmother situated regally on a china serving dish. Veronica and John cycle through the tables of guests, smiling and nodding and thanking them for coming, dutifully and yet also seemingly genuinely cheerful.

“The boning is bloody impaling me,” Chrissie murmurs as she tugs at the bodice of her gown. It’s satin and a muted pink, just like yours and Mary’s and Veronica’s sisters’. “If I happen die, wrap me in one of those nice tablecloths I paid for and throw me in a ditch somewhere, will you love?”

“You got it.” You stab a piece of potato with your fork. “This should inspire you to be especially compassionate towards your own bridesmaids! Maybe no horrid shiny green.”

Brian chuckles. “Good luck with that.”

“Are you comfortable?!” Chrissie asks Mary, exasperated, fanning herself with a wedding program.

“I am,” Mary admits cautiously. “But...well...at the moment, I think my dress is a bit...roomier.”

Chrissie moans, dropping her face into her hands. “I always gain when the students go home for summer. My routine is wrecked, all I want to do is read Glamour magazines and listen to records, it’s too damn hot to go walking...and I adore ice cream.”

“I like you just fine,” Brian reassures her.

Freddie snickers as he taps his cigarette against an ashtray. “Yes, we’re all well aware of your anatomical preferences, Bri.”

Chrissie rolls her eyes. “Please do not elaborate.” She’s not offended—she’s far too used to Freddie’s shenanigans to be offended—but she’ll be embarrassed if he makes a scene at a wedding.

“Darling, I don’t care what anyone tries to tell you, plenty of men love a little extra meat on the bones. Particularly the ass bones.”

“We’re in God’s house!” you scold him in a hiss. “You’re going to give Great Aunt Zofia over there an aneurysm if she hears you!”

Roger quips: “Great Aunt Zofia stole the last kielbasa right out of my disabled, ineffectual grasp, so fuck her.”

You all burst into shocked, uncontrollable laughter. Great Aunt Zofia squints judgmentally at the commotion from several tables away, gnawing on her kielbasa; she’s been glaring at John and Veronica—the Tetzlaffs’ very own fallen angel—since she first ambled into the church. Roger rocks back in his chair, smoking with his unbroken left arm, smirking cockily and basking in the distraction from the real world that the wedding has gifted you all tonight. He catches you watching him—marveling at him, truthfully—and winks.

John appears and rests his hands on the back of your chair. “What’s so amusing? I swear, I leave you people alone for two hours and you’re having all sorts of fun without me, I won’t stand for it!”

“It was a lovely ceremony,” you tell him. “I’d forgotten how beautiful Catholic weddings are, all the music and ambiance.”

“And from what I saw, you knew most of the words.”

“We have a lot of Irish people in Boston. Saint Patrick’s Day is bigger than Christmas.”

John points at Roger’s cast. “It’s not paining you too much, is it?”

Roger holds his Dark ‘n Stormy aloft, and ice clinks in the misted glass. “Enough of these, and I can’t feel anything. Numb to the world’s many disappointments. I highly recommend it.”

“Noted,” John replies. Roger has pills for his arm, but they only take the edge off. You don’t know that because he’s told you; Roger never tells you that he’s hurting, that he’s frustrated, that he’s afraid. He wears grins and flippant humor like a second skin, shrouding his wounds—both physical and disembodied, old and new—in darkness. Still...you can see all those words he doesn’t say swimming in the depths of his eyes. “I think I’ll hunt down a Manhattan myself.”

“Dad made an impression!” you tell John enthusiastically. “I’ll have to let him know, he’ll be overjoyed.”

“He mixes a good one, that’s for sure. I doubt Cousin Bartosz will be able to compare.” He casts a glance at a perplexed-looking, flame-haired teenager manning a tiny wet bar.

“Booze won’t help you heal,” Freddie informs Roger, checking his reflection in Mary’s makeup compact and fluffing his lustrous hair. “Eat your vegetables. Get more sleep. When do you start physical therapy, again?” Then, to you: “Darling, when does Roger start his therapy?”

Roger sighs. “I’ve got it handled, Fred.”

“Dear, don’t have a fit, I just want to make sure you’ll be ready—”

“I’ve got it handled,” Roger repeats, his tone a warning.

Brian breaks the tension with a toast, his Vesper jangling against Roger’s Dark ‘n Stormy. “I’m thrilled, honestly. Now I’m not the only one who’s ruined a tour.”

Roger grimaces. “Thanks, Bri.”

“Yes, let’s all have a turn,” Freddie mutters, sipping champagne. “Deaky can electrocute himself while fiddling with his amp, and then I’ll...what? Have my foot chewed off by an alligator in New Orleans? Get gored by a wild boar outside Atlanta? It just can’t be a boring maiming, that’s my only request.”

“Alaska has grizzlies, huge ones,” Brian suggests.

“Darling, in what dimension would my luxurious self ever end up in fucking Alaska?”

You shake your head, frowning down into your wine glass. It’s June now, the dead center of a crestfallen year: the rest of the Sheer Heart Attack Tour is cancelled, the record company is furious, and the band is broker than ever. Queen is supposed to start recording their next album—their last album, the record company insists, unless it happens to be a runaway success—in July, but you don’t know if Roger’s arm will be healed in time. None of you know that. You wonder if this really is God’s house, or at least one of his homes, sanctified piles of bricks and glass scattered across the globe; maybe you could ask Him where Queen’s future lies.

Veronica swoops in and dusts an airy kiss onto Mary’s cheek, and then Chrissie’s, and then yours. “Thank you so much,” she gushes. Her high cheekbones are flushed, her watery eyes sparkling. She’s in heaven, sinner or not. Her massive white dress swishes with every step. “We couldn’t have done it without you. And you’re next, Chris! I can’t wait.”

Chrissie smiles. She and Brian are getting married just before Christmas. “Yes, well, time will tell if we’ll be serving Christmas ham or canned beans.”

“And then Mary...” Veronica’s gaze migrates across the table. Mary’s been wearing a ring on her wedding finger since Queen returned from Japan, a simple gold band that once belonged to Freddie’s mother. “What about you, Y/N? Any plans? Then we’d all be hitched!”

Red wine spurts from your lips and you fumble for a cloth napkin. Roger doesn’t believe in marriage, and neither do you; not after only four months together, anyway. And yet...is there some part of you that can’t help but think of papers and rings when you get lost in his eyes, of promises of forever, of some way to tie yourself to him like vessels to a heart? Sure; and that’s a little wonderful, that’s a little terrifying. “Uh, uh, oh, oh no, definitely no plans whatsoever.”

“What bollocks!” Rog sneers. “Really, what’s the point if you’re not religious? Who needs a bloody piece of paper to prove they love someone?! ‘I care for you so much I need the government to know we’re together and the hassle of divorce fees to make me stay,’ what the fuck. I mean, uh, no offense John, Bri, uh...this is all well and good for you, but...ah...”

“It’s just not your scene. That’s fine, Rog,” Freddie says with a tad too much empathy. Mary doesn’t seem to notice.

“But you’ll want children at some point, won’t you?” Veronica asks you, almost pained. She’s not trying to be cruel, you realize; she genuinely can’t fathom the pinnacle of a woman’s life as anything but being a wife and mother.

“Theoretically, sure. One day. Eventually.” You titter nervously. Roger’s good arm circles your shoulders, his cigarette lofting smoke. Oh, but wouldn’t he make beautiful children? You push that thought away. It’s too soon, it’s too much, it’s not in the cards for an impoverished maybe-drummer and his girlfriend; and a girlfriend—with all the intangibility and impermanence that title entails—is all I’ll ever be. “I think I need to travel the world a bit more first.”

John sighs and pats the back of Veronica’s hand. What is that weight in his voice...impatience? Annoyance? “Ronnie, please, don’t bother her.”

Veronica sulks, scraping the old scuffed linoleum floor with her pointy white heels. “I wasn’t trying to bother anyone...”

Mary comes to the rescue: “No, of course not. You didn’t, dear.” She likes Veronica more than Chrissie does. Isn’t she oppressively vapid? Chrissie has asked you more than once. Isn’t she so miserably naïve? Veronica is sweet, sure, but she has no fucking idea what she’s in for. “Babies are wonderful, but they do make things harder, don’t you think? Especially for the mother. You have to be ready to drop everything for them. All your other interests and aspirations.”

“I suppose,” Veronica mumbles. You can tell she’s thinking: What other aspirations?

“But you must be so excited!” You beam up at Veronica. It’s her wedding day, and John’s; it should be happy, it should be optimistic. And you’re learning to like Veronica—less than Mary, but more than Chris—because you know that’s the best thing for John.

She instinctively rests her hand on the swell of her belly; or, rather, where it must be somewhere beneath all those heaps of satin and tulle. Great Aunt Zofia’s glare intensifies. “I’m scared to death, to tell you the truth.”

“Why?!” Mary cries.

“I’m so afraid something will happen to him.” Veronica’s voice is soft, her blue eyes glassy. She’s certain the baby is a boy, claims she had some sort of dream about it. “There’s a lot of bad luck going around for us, isn’t there? And my mother lost four babies. Any time he stops moving, I worry constantly until my next appointment. I haven’t felt anything in days, and I just...I just...” She trails off, staring vacantly across the crowded church basement. She’s trying not to cry, you realize.

“I can try to check for you,” you offer. “If it would make you feel better.”

“Really?” Veronica sounds hopeful, but guardedly so.

“This is embarrassing, but I carry my nurse kit almost everywhere I go now. That’s why I brought my huge blue purse even though it doesn’t match the dress. You know, you can’t be too careful...”

“Yes, who knows when someone will try something idiotic like jogging backwards down the stairs?” Freddie muses. Roger lobs a pierogi at him. Great Aunt Zofia wheezes out a disgusted huff and crosses her veiny, wrinkled arms over her sagging chest.

“I have a stethoscope,” you continue. “I can’t guarantee I’ll find a heartbeat, but I’ll give it a try if that would help.”

“Would you, Y/N?” Veronica clutches for John’s hand, and he lets her take it without any resistance; but he doesn’t seem to know how to comfort her. He has the same dazed look on his face that he has a lot these days, the same look that Bri and Freddie sometimes get: like they’re on autopilot, like they’re actively filtering through brainwaves to fish out any that wander astray. Roger lands a kiss on your bare shoulder and pitches you a playful smirk, his I’m so proud of my too-fucking-smart girlfriend smirk.

You grab your purse from beneath the table. “Does God’s house have a cozy private spot somewhere?”

Veronica leads you, Mary, and Chrissie to a small unoccupied room that is used (how pertinently) as the church nursery. The pink wallpaper is dotted with waddling ducklings, cloud-shaped sheep leaping over fences, smiling suns and winged cartoonish angels. Veronica settles into a faded blue couch, and Mary and Chris help her shove aside the massive plumes of her wedding dress to reveal the plain shift she’s wearing underneath. She’s over five months along now, and her entirely unremarkable bump seems colossal on her delicate frame.

You pop the headset into your ears and press the chestpiece against Veronica’s unyielding belly, gliding it over the pearly shift as you try different positions.

“Anything?” Mary asks anxiously.

“It’s not bloody instant, Mary!” Chrissie snaps. “Be quiet so she can listen.”

“No need to be cranky—”

“You can’t find a heartbeat, can you?” Veronica says, her voice quivering. “Oh god...”

“Found it,” you announce. You hold the chestpiece in place as you yank the headset off and pass it to Veronica.

She gapes at you. “You’re just saying that so I’ll stop worrying, aren’t you?”

“Hear for yourself.”

Veronica takes the headset and listens, closing her eyes as the rapid-fire and rhythmic swishing of her child’s heartbeat floods through her ears. “Oh,” she breathes, beaming. “There he is.”

“That’s incredible!” Mary trills. “Can I hear too, Veronica? Whenever you’re finished...”

Mary listens, and Chrissie does too, and then you all help touch up Veronica’s hair and makeup before you head back to the reception. The cake is due to be cut in twelve minutes. As you smooth the short train on her dress, Veronica turns back to you.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” she asks timidly, hugging her belly. “You know...for this.”

“That’s something I’ve always liked about nursing. So many jobs require sorting out who’s right and wrong, casting judgment, assigning punishment. There’s no weighing of the moral scales in medicine. It doesn’t matter if a patient is trustworthy, deceitful, good, bad, worthy, undeserving, if they disappoint you, if they’re the ones who hurt themselves. You treat everyone, you heal everyone. And I would like to keep that part of myself for as long as I can.” You smile at Veronica. “But, for the record, no. I don’t think you’re a bad person at all.”

She sighs in relief, untethering an anchor she hadn’t even known she’d been dragging around by her throat. “Thank you,” she whispers, tears snaking down her powdered ivory cheeks.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Come on.”

“How do you feel about marble lion statues? You know, the ones at the end of long, winding driveways. Rich people’s driveways. Mansion driveways. Or do you prefer gargoyles?”

“Roger.”

He groans, grins, presses his right fist into your palm. You measure the force with your mind, with your muscle memory. He’s stronger than he was yesterday, the day before, last week. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Rog teases. “You’ve got a soft spot for damaged people. Helpless people. That’s why you warmed to Brian so quickly. He was lying there all gaunt and jaundiced and terrified, and you just couldn’t resist, you just had to make sure all his wildest dreams came true.”

“I have a soft spot for self-destructive musicians who end up in hospitals, evidently.” Your gaze cruises over the scar on Roger’s forearm where the surgeons popped his bones back into place, stabilized them, stitched the ragged gore closed. You hate looking at it; you hate reminders of how mortal Roger really is.

“I want lions,” Rog decides. “For the driveway of our eventual mansion. I like the Leo connection.”

“And the Queen crest connection.”

His grin widens, toothy and radiant. “See, I knew you were the love of my life.”

“Come on. Again.”

He winces this time. “Doesn’t hurt a bit.”

“Uh huh. I bet.” You’ve slathered his fresh blisters with numbing antiseptic ointment, iced his arm, administered pain medicine, allowed him the constant sips of alcohol necessary for him to work, to drum, to sleep. But he still hurts. You imagine he hurts all the fucking time.

It’s August now, and Queen is recording their fourth album at Rockfield Farm. You and Roger are sitting by the pool as Freddie splashes around in the clear chlorine-smelling water trying to get John’s attention. John, meanwhile, is lounging on an inflatable raft, wearing black sunglasses and most likely asleep. Brian circles the pool snapping photos with your Canon F-1.

“I have a plan,” Roger informs you as he starts his stretches without prompting. He knows the drill, even if he likes to be difficult about it.

“By all means, enlighten me.”

“Fred’s thing, the weird one. It has a name now.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah. Bohemian Rhapsody.”

“Oh, it’s perfect!” You try to stay out of the band’s business decisions as much as possible; it’s not your expertise, and it’s not your place, and there are already a few too many creative chefs in that kitchen. Still, you love when they share their magic with you. “Eccentric, whimsical, exhilarating. Just like the song. Just like Queen.”

“I’m so glad you approve. We’re going to make sure it’s the first single off the album. And I know exactly what song’s going to be on the B-side. Freddie and Bri don’t know yet, but I do.”

“Sounds like they’re going to murder you when they find out.”

“I’ll convince them.” His grin is crafty, daring. “Picture it: you’ve just finished the incomparable experience that is Bohemian Rhapsody. You’re a newly converted Queen enthusiast. What could possibly come next? You flip the record over. And the virile, screeching, pure rock and roll passion of I’m In Love With My Car is there to greet you.”

“Oh my god, Roger.” You shake your head in mock mourning. “They actually are going to murder you.”

“Listen, love, BoRhap is going to be a hit. I can feel it.”

“Sure,” you agree lukewarmly. You want to be supportive, you really do. But disappointment stings more than resignation.

“It will be,” Roger maintains, unmovable. “And it’ll sell mountains and mountains of singles...and with my song on the B-side, I’ll get half the royalties. Which means we’ll get half the royalties.”

“Which is how we end up with the hypothetical mansion.”

“I’m being serious.” Roger picks up his mini barbell weights from the water-splattered concrete and begins his bicep curls, flinching each time he lifts his right fist.

“Rog—”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “I’m going to make this happen. I’m going to get rich so I can provide for my family. You know about that, you know it’s on my list. And my family includes you now.”

“I don’t need a mansion, Roger.” I just need you. You stare at his right arm worriedly. “Are you sure—?”

“I’m fine!” he shouts, and you recoil. Brian peers over from where he’s taking pictures of blooming purple foxgloves. Instantly, Roger regrets it. “I’m sorry,” he says, setting down the barbells and cradling your face with his rough, bandaged hands. “I have to be fine, you know? I don’t have a choice. If I can’t play, I can’t be in the band. If I leave, John will leave too, and that’ll be the end of everything. Or worse, John will break the pact and stay and they’ll find a new drummer and forget all about me. Sail off into some blissful new future. And where will I be? Moping as I drag myself back to dental school? Becoming a freaking lab biologist? Resigning myself to being some excruciatingly ordinary bloke, someone who climbed just far enough out of Cornwall to know everything he’s missing out on?”

You try to imagine who Roger would be without the band, but you can’t. You’ve never known a pre-Queen Roger. “No,” you say, amused. “You’ll never be just some ordinary bloke. You’re too brilliant, too determined. Even if you do have a dodgy arm.”

He kisses you, and you can feel his lips curling into a smile beneath yours. “So you’ll let me buy you a mansion.”

“If you get I’m In Love With My Car on the B-side, and BoRhap is a hit, and Freddie and Bri don’t smother you with a pillow in your sleep...yes, you can buy me a mansion. Buy us a mansion.”

He winks, his sapphire eyes glinting in the late-summer sunlight. “Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s done,” John tells the others as he passes out copies of his new song, the second he’s ever written. There are only four sheets of crisp white paper; as you watch from the studio couch, you wonder what the song is about, why he didn’t mention it to you.

“It’s done?!” Brian yelps. “What do you mean, it’s done?! Nothing’s ever done after the first pass! That’s how it works, that’s how it always works, someone suggests something and then we all dice it and slice it and flip it around and stitch it back together like the world’s most maniacal surgeons, and then, only then, maybe, it’s done.”

You glance up from where you’re sewing an eleventh patch onto Roger’s jeans. “Must we disparage the medical profession?”

“Sorry, love,” Roger tosses to you with a laugh.

“It’s done,” John repeats.

“Deaky, darling,” Freddie ventures gently. “We should endeavor to keep our minds open to collaboration—”

“Oh, should we, Fred?!” Bri exclaims. “How extraordinary, you never seem to encourage collaboration when it’s your song on the cutting floor!”

“Okay space boy, you listen here—”

“‘I’m happy at home’?!” Roger reads, revolted. “We’re not the bloody Bee Gees, Deaks!”

John explains measuredly and patiently, as if to a child: “That’s the way it goes. We record it as it is or not at all.”

“That’s not how we do things,” Brian mutters, deep frown lines chiseled through his face as he scans the lyrics.

“Then just fill the album with your and Fred’s songs like you always do, I’m sure that’ll keep me and Roger loyal.”

Brian glares at John. John stares back stoically, his eyes like steel. Brian looks to Roger for support; Roger lights a cigarette and pretends not to notice.

“Darling, please, you’re not being reasonable!” Freddie pleads.

“I need it.” John turns to Roger now. “I need it to stay the way it is.”

Rog just watches him for a while, exhales smoke, shrugs. “Okay,” he says at last.

“Okay?!” Brian howls. “What do you mean, okay?!”

“He said he needs it,” Roger replies simply.

Bri throws his hands into the air. “Bleeding christ! ‘He needs it.’ What rubbish! Do something, Fred!”

“Oh relax, darling.” Freddie sashays to the microphone and points to Brian’s Red Special. “Let’s try it out.”

“But—!”

Roger claps Brian on the back as he trots by him towards the drum kit. “Come on, Bri. Big smiles. Just picture the nice shiny pounds from all those album sales plinking into your bank account. You’ll have fifty Christmas hams at the wedding, one for every guest.”

You listen passively from the couch as they rehearse, trying not to let on that you’re paying attention, trying not to overstep. But you can’t help being struck by the lyrics, feeling the somberness of Freddie’s voice and John’s tentative notes on the electric piano slink into your bones; because it sounds so familiar, because it echoes so many things that John has told you.

When Queen takes a mid-afternoon break and John slips into the kitchen for a Coke, you follow him.

“Hey John?”

“Yeah.” He rests his hands on the dining room table. They’re sturdy and unmarred and completely unlike Roger’s; and you aren’t sure why you notice this, but you do.

“I completely understand if I’m being intrusive, and if I am please just tell me to shut up and I will.”

He chuckles. “You’re never intrusive. Go ahead.”

“I was just wondering...who is You’re My Best Friend about?”

Now his smile evaporates. “No one in particular,” he says briskly. “It’s just a song. Just something to put on the album. Maybe a single one day. A soulless royalties grab.”

That seems unlikely. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He takes a swig of Coke, peers down at the table, traces swirls of centuries-old oak with his fingertips.

“It’s just...you know...well...it kind of sounded like...maybe it was about me.”

He looks up. And for the first time, John levels some of his infamous, razored words at you: “Don’t be such a fucking narcissist.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, John doesn’t apologize. But he smiles at you over tea, offers to clean off the fingerprints of strawberry jelly that Roger left on the Canon, splashes you from the pool as you sunbathe beneath lapis August skies. And you agree, wordlessly and unconditionally, to forgive him. Because John is your best friend, whether or not you’re still his.

Nine weeks later, Bohemian Rhapsody is released as a single. (And, as promised, Roger ensures that I’m In Love With My Car is on the B-side.)

Twelve weeks later, Bohemian Rhapsody reaches the #1 spot on the UK Singles Chart, and remains there for over two months.

Fifteen weeks later, A Night At The Opera becomes the #1 album in the UK.

Fifteen weeks later, Queen’s future is suddenly crystal clear.

#queen fic #roger taylor fic

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carewyncromwell · 3 years

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POTC AU go time! Pictured above are fresh-faced pirate Charlie Weasley, the mystical witch of Tortuga Chiara Dalma, and so-called “Pirate Dragon” Samantha O’Connell @samshogwarts! Looks like these three are a bit over their heads...let’s see if they can get out of it!

For those of you who appreciate my mini-history lectures surrounding real Caribbean pirates of the 17th and 18th century (please let me know if you do, I will happily geek TF out if it’s something you all like XD) -- Tortuga is an island in modern-day Haiti. It was originally a Spanish colony, settled in the 15th century not long after Mr. Despicable himself Christopher Columbus “discovered” the New World. Despite this, and despite the, er...tempestuous relationship between Spain and its neighboring countries, Tortuga ended up also hosting both English and French settlements, largely made up of buccaneers, in the 17th century. Buccaneers were an ancestor of the more classic “pirates” we think of today -- the biggest differences were that they were privateers, meaning they worked on behalf of a country and only attacked ships from other countries (i.e. a British privateer like Sir Francis Drake would only attack Spanish or French ships), and that buccaneers specifically congregated in that area of the Caribbean (namely, Tortuga and the island of Hispaniola) alone. Historically, however, Tortuga stopped being a great place for buccaneers to gather before the end of the 17th century -- specifically when treaties were passed officially banning those old privateers from attacking foreign vessels during times of peace, circa 1680. This also effectively killed off the buccaneer as a profession, until the War of Spanish Succession turned a lot more privateers who had fought during the War into the more classic 18th century pirates we think of today. During the most famous period of the Golden Age of Piracy -- namely, the third and final wave after the War of Spanish Succession ended in 1714, which hosted all of the best known pirates like Blackbeard and which both the Pirates films and this AU is set in -- it would’ve been far more common to find actual historical pirates in places like St. Mary’s Island off the coast of Madagascar or (I’m not kidding) Port Royal, Jamaica, which was quite frankly NOT the beautiful, upstanding city we see in the films. In truth, it actually prospered under piracy, until Port Royal’s leadership finally decided to crack down hard on pirates circa 1720. In this project, though, for the sake of iconography, I will treat Tortuga very much the way Port Royal would’ve really been historically -- a pirate island which, in this time period, was suddenly barraged by the pirates’ enemies and was immediately no longer a safe place for pirates to hide in. (Of course, historical pirates were much less likable or sympathetic than the pirate characters in this AU are, regardless of how objectively hard their existence was and how frankly horrid the world was in general for anyone who wasn’t upper-class, white, and male back then.)

The so-called “seven seas” have gone through a lot of “shuffling around” over the centuries, as our understanding of the world has grown. The phrase was first used by the Ancient Greeks, but back then of course, they didn’t know about the existence of bodies of water like the Caribbean Sea and the Pacific Ocean. In the Pirates films, there are nine Pirate lords for the Pacific, Indian, and Atlantic Oceans, as well as the South China, Caspian, Adriatic, Black, Mediterranean, and Caribbean Seas. I’ve slimmed down the number to just seven for the sake of referencing the so-called “seven seas,” and also because with the Pirate King, that would then give us eight pieces of eight, which seems like a much more logical number than nine pieces of eight. (Plus, to me, the Caspian and Black Seas are kind of weird choices to have Lords for as the Caspian is land-locked and the Black Sea can only be sailed into through a narrow channel in the Mediterranean...and from what I can tell, there wasn’t much 17th-18th century piracy specifically centered around those two seas either.)

Previous part of the AU is here -- whole tag is here -- and of course Jules Farrier-Weasley belongs to @cursebreakerfarrier and Finn McGarry / Davy Jones belongs to @theguythatdraws. <3

x~x~x~x

In the nearly three weeks since Jules, Bill, and Charlie said goodbye to Carewyn, the three had practically been thrown head-first into what piracy truly meant. Sailing aboard the Artemis hadn’t been as glamorous as the stories Jules grew up with, but trying to steer the Revolution with only three people aboard without enough food or drink to go around, all the while knowing that just about no ships they might come across and very few islands they might land on would be friendly to them, was something that didn’t sink in until one was left sitting up all night thinking it over. Everything the three owned now -- everything they were -- was either on their person or on this ship...and if anything happened to the ship, they wouldn’t just lose the belongings they had on board, but also the only way they could transport themselves out of danger and the only “home” they still had. No one would likely even know anything had happened to them until days, weeks, or even months afterwards. It was like nothing tethered them to the Earth at all -- like they had no gravity and could just fly up into the air at any time, disappearing forever without a trace.

There was a freedom to it, of course, knowing that you didn’t have to be defined by how you were born or what arbitrary value society placed on you...and yet, the freedom came at a cost.

The three Weasleys arrived on the island of Tortuga within four days. Truthfully it wasn’t really a place a lot of people would enjoy visiting -- it was loud, filthy, seedy, and treacherous, and yet, it was a safe place for them to fill their bellies and get their ship repaired and outfitted with new crew members.

There were a few pirates who initially balked at the idea of joining the crew of a ship captained by a woman, but before long, Jules made a name for herself in Tortuga after she was able to out-maneuver two drunken men twice her size in a fight, the first by ducking under his arm and then smashing a bottle of rum over his head to knock him out and the second by stealing his own pistol out of his belt and pointing it right between his eyes until he backed off.

Charlie couldn’t help but grin as the pirate rather cowardly slunk off like a dog with his tail between his legs.

“Bloody hell, Jules!” he laughed. “Reckon you scared him so bad he’ll be running off crying to Mummy...”

Jules crossed her arms, the man’s pistol still in her hand. “Well, he had it coming. Not wanting to be on our crew I can accept, but I am not a thing he can pay for.”

“You can’t be bought, period,” agreed Bill lowly, shooting a rather dirty look at the man’s back as he secured an arm around his wife’s waist. “Least of all by a disgusting cur like him.”

Charlie gave a low whistle.

“Blimey, Bill, a man of the Church, swearing like that?” he teased. “Whatever happened to turning the other cheek?”

“Ecclesiastes 3:8 -- ‘there is a time to love and a time to hate,’” said Bill coolly. “This is not a time to love.”

Jules smiled wryly up at Bill.

“I might have to disagree,” she said amusedly, as she tilted his head down enough to ensnare his lips with her own.

Not long after they arrived, Orion and the crew of Artemis met the Weasleys in Tortuga, as planned. It was good to see some familiar and friendly faces, in a sea of insincere smiles and shady looks. Orion immediately introduced the crew of the Revolution to a few of his “friends” on the island -- Andre Egwu, a rather fashionable pirate who had once been both a tailor and a French privateer; Erika Rath, the rough-and-tough owner of the Faithful Bride tavern, who had been a pirate herself before settling in Tortuga to offer a safe place to those who were too ill, young, old, or otherwise unable to sail anymore; Ethan Parkin, Skye’s father and a retired pirate himself, who, despite being a rather egotistical sort that disdained Orion quite a bit, still was always willing to do the crew of the Artemis and their associates a favor, for the sake of his daughter; and a pirate solely called “Face Paint” who was known on the island for being a master of disguise that could not only look like anyone they wanted, but also make other people look like just about anyone else too.

Andre and Face Paint were able to help out all three Weasleys with their wardrobes, so that they “fit” a bit more with the pirates of the island. Bill picked out a new belt that could better fit a scabbard for his sword, and Jules finally got a hat worthy of a captain -- a forest green tricorn hat trimmed with silver embroidery. Charlie was even able to snatch up a pair of boots made of a black scaly material that reminded him of the pictures of dragons he’d see in books as a kid. Charlie had expected Andre to encourage him to shave too, since both he and Bill were already getting a bit stubbly since they hadn’t shaved since they left Port Royal, but Andre actually discouraged this.

“If people know you better without a beard, then you should grow one,” he advised. “The more different you can look from how you did before, the better the chances you’ll have of not immediately being recognized, if you collide with the wrong person. In general, my advice is to change your look up every four to six months, just to throw off the authorities.”

Bill, Jules, and Charlie also accompanied Orion on his visit to the far corner of Tortuga, over a small lake to an eerie-looking worn-down shack on stilts in the middle of the water, which was the home to the resident “witch” of Tortuga.

“Have you ever met a witch before?” Jules asked Bill and Charlie.

Both Weasley brothers shook their heads, looking a little disconcerted.

“She’s truly not as terrifying as everyone makes her out to be,” said McNully reassuringly. “I’d say there’s only a 63% chance she’ll curse you if you make a wrong move.”

Charlie shot him a flabbergasted look. “Oh, that’s encouraging.”

Skye gave a light “hmph!”

“My best piece of advice? Try not to make eye contact and let Orion do the talking,” she said under her breath. “The witch can do favors for you, if you somehow get on her good side and give her proper payment...but she doesn’t trust easily.”

“And likes anyone even more rarely,” added McNully, though he sounded more thoughtful than Skye. “Orion’s one of the few people I’d say she does favor a bit...though I reckon that’s because they go back a ways, and Orion’s not really like most pirates...”

“It’s pirates especially she doesn’t like,” said Skye.

Charlie frowned. “If she doesn’t like pirates, then why is she here, on an island owned by pirates?”

“I reckon witches probably don’t have a lot of safe places they can live as it is, Charlie,” Bill pointed out somberly. “Even the Bible says you should not suffer a witch to live. She probably lives here because she doesn’t have much choice.”

When they reached the dock under the shack, they tied up their boat, McNully staying behind to watch it while Orion, Skye, Jules, Bill, and Charlie climbed the ladder up into the shack itself. It was a bizarre place with various bottles, model planets, and other such trinkets dangling from the ceiling, and toward the back of the single large room was a table covered in a dirty grayish white tablecloth covered in spots and stains.

The witch called Chia Dalma was almost ethereal in appearance, from her long, flowing white hair to her sea-blue eyes to her bloodless, porcelain skin. She wore a rather worn, clearly second-hand dark red dress and a full-moon-shaped locket around her neck. She also considered all of Orion’s party with considerable distrust in her eyes -- Charlie felt like he was being X-rayed. Orion, however, acted as though he didn’t even notice the scrutiny the others were getting and spoke to Chia very pleasantly after giving her some incense and a jar of candied pineapple.

“How are the stars sounding, to you?” he asked. “From what I’ve seen, Venus is particularly bright, right now -- I would think you’ve heard a lot about love, in your conversations with the night sky.”

Chia finally tore her critical eye off of Charlie to turn to Orion, her posture still noticeably guarded.

“Yes,” she said, “though I believe there’s a reason you noticed Venus’s brightness in particular, as opposed to the rest of the planets’ movements.”

Her voice was very soft and understated, enough to make you freeze where you stood and hold your breath in a subconscious attempt to hear her better. Despite this, her discerning look on Orion was considerably less suspicious: if anything, it looked almost curious.

A flicker of a smile teased at the corners of Orion’s mouth.

“...I suppose I may have.”

Bill and Charlie both shot Orion looks out the side of their eye. They had a feeling they knew exactly why that was.

Bill and Jules had talked to Charlie about their suspicions about Orion and Carewyn, and although Jules had been very supportive of it and even Bill acknowledged that Orion did seem to feel genuine affection for Carewyn, Charlie himself still felt a bit uncomfortable about it. To him, Carewyn was his twin -- although in a lot of ways, she was more like Bill personality-wise and Bill and she were clearly the best of friends, Charlie and Carewyn had still been two peas in a pod for a lot of the War. Because they were seen as twin brothers by the Navy, they were often positioned together and ended up supporting each other whenever Bill -- the person they both loved and trusted more than anyone else -- wasn’t around. This whole experience was the first time he’d really been apart from Carewyn since he’d first joined the Navy...and with Bill now married to Jules and the whole world suddenly being against them...Charlie found himself missing his “twin” more than ever.

‘Orion’s not a bad bloke,’ Charlie thought to himself. ‘If Carey really likes him, I’d understand, but...I just don’t want things to change anymore than they already have...’

Becoming estranged from Percy had been hard enough. Knowing that Bill and he would drift apart as his older brother made a life of his own with Jules, and thinking of Carewyn making a life of her own with Orion, while he himself was left on the sidelines...it was a thought Charlie didn’t like wallowing in.

Chia regarded Orion with a more solemn look as she took a seat at her table.

“It would behoove you to take a more complete look at the planets,” she said lowly. “There’s friction growing between Saturn and Uranus.”

Orion’s eyes narrowed, though his expression remained typically serene. Charlie glanced from Orion to Chia.

“...What does that mean?” he asked.

Skye shot him a look as if to warn him to be quiet -- Chia turned her attention to Charlie, her blue eyes boring into him with such intensity that Charlie flinched back a bit despite himself.

“Saturn represents Law -- a rigid structure,” she answered lowly. “Uranus, his father, represents Disorder -- Unpredictability -- Rebellion and Reformation. It suggests that there is to be great upheaval, very soon -- a large shift, the likes of which none of you have seen in your lifetimes.”

Charlie’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Bigger than the War?”

Chia’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“That was a War fought solely for the advancement of a few,” she said, her voice noticeably cool. “However big it felt to you, Charles Weasley, it merely reinforced what was already there, and so it will ultimately be forgotten. Only the ripples of that War -- the ones we feel, in this moment -- will leave any real impact.”

Charlie wanted to ask how Chia knew his name, but Orion spoke before he could.

“Can you tell which planet is rising, of the two?”

Chia glanced up at the model planets over her head pensively. “Right now, no. They’re on a collision course in the night sky, set to eclipse each other...but I can’t say which will fall first...and what will fall here on Earth, in response.”

Chia’s eyes drifted from Orion to Charlie to Jules, narrowing a bit more critically as she considered each of them in turn.

“One thing is for sure, though -- when two such powerful planets meet, it signals the end of an age. Whatever’s born from the ashes of that end may be up to whomever is fortunate enough to survive.”

The group left Chia Dalma’s feeling considerably less comfortable than when they arrived. Despite this, and despite how weirded out he was that she’d known who he was before he’d even told her his name, Charlie had to admit to himself that she didn’t seem as scary as Skye or McNully had made her out to be. She kind of reminded him of the ocean in a way -- mysterious and intimidating, sure, but ultimately something worthy of respect. Even just the way she spoke seemed to hint to her being much older than her face would suggest.

No one in the group had any idea what Chia Dalma could’ve meant when she discussed “an great upheaval” until over a week later. That was the day that the Flying Dutchman arrived on the shores of Tortuga and, without any warning, opened fire.

It was Hell the likes of which even Bill or Charlie had never seen. Cannonballs blasted through buildings, smashing windows and shattering walls. Before long, whole buildings were coming down and crushing people as they fled. Then the Flying Dutchman’s crew came ashore, undead and rotten and crusted over with barnacles and sea-life, as if they’d been swallowed up and spat back out of the sea itself -- and they killed and captured by the hundreds, with both swords and nets.

Then the Captain of the Dutchman himself, his octopus-like face visibly furious as his lobster-like claw clutched at the front of his chest where his heart should be, turned his ire on the settlement itself.

Cutler Beckett wanted him to send the pirates a message, did he? Well, then...he’d send them a message they’d see for miles.

With a click of his claw, Jones conjured up a large, flaming cinder, which he then chucked at the Faithful Bride. In an instant, it was set ablaze...and all of the pirates trying to hide inside the tavern were soon forced to flee and be captured, or burn to death. The fire spread from roof to roof, and soon all of Tortuga was in flames.

In the midst of the chaos, the crews of the Artemis and the Revolution hurried back to their ships, preparing to retreat. As Charlie ran behind Jules and Bill, however, he stopped abruptly when he caught sight of a white-haired figure being shoved around inside the crowd. It was Chia Dalma. She looked like she was trying to push through, but the horde was quickly devolving around her, trapping her in once spot.

Making up his mind very quickly, Charlie darted back the way he came.

“CHARLIE!” cried Bill.

“SET SAIL!” Charlie bellowed back. “I’LL CATCH UP!”

“CHARLIE!” Jules shouted too.

“Wait -- !”

Was that Orion’s voice? Charlie had never heard him sound tense like that before. Nevertheless, he couldn’t stop. He pressed on, unsheathing his sword as he pushed and shoved the other pirates aside.

“Move! Bugger off!”

Finally he was able to make his way over to Chia Dalma, just in time to block a block a blow from a shark-headed sailor’s sword.

“Oi!” he said angrily. “Leave the lady alone, you toothy maggot!”

The two immediately started to fight, until Charlie managed to get the upper hand by slashing at his flipper-like leg and then shoving him back off his feet through the window of a house.

He turned to Chia Dalma.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

The witch’s gaze was just as piercing and guarded as it had been before as she analyzed Charlie’s face.

“Yes,” she said softly.

Charlie offered her a smile, even as more sailors charged at them.

“Stick close to me, all right?” he told her.

“You can’t win against the crew of the Flying Dutchman,” said Chia very gravely.

“Not with that attitude!” said Charlie almost cheekily. Seeing the severe look on her face, he said a little more seriously, “Look, I get that you don’t trust me -- I don’t know you at all either -- but I’m not just going to sit back and watch someone die if I can help it. And if this is the crew of Davy Jones, you’ll die if you stay here.”

The sentiment seemed to cause Chia visible pain. Her eyes abruptly hardened.

“Do not speak with such certainty about Davy Jones,” she said very sharply. “He may be a heartless being now, but that doesn’t make him devoid of conscience, or of feeling.”

Charlie frowned deeply and was prepared to ask Chia what she meant, but before he could, he soon found himself faced with another crew member from the Dutchman with a face covered in barnacles and starfish and had to immediately go on the attack again.

Charlie fought off three other fishy sailors, beating them back as best he could as she tried to steer himself and Chia back toward the docks. But as more time passed, the flames engulfing the nearby buildings only grew. Soot and ash rained from the air, making it harder to breathe by the second.

Charlie struggled to breathe normally as he fought the sailors away from Chia Dalma, but there were just too many of them, and just like with the cursed crew of the Revenge, they didn’t go down easily. Somehow, he managed to steer Chia to the dock, where the Revolution was still floating close by, their anchor already weighed and a ladder dangling off the edge.

“COME ON, CHARLIE!” cried Bill.

Coughing hard, Charlie brought an arm around Chia Dalma, pushing her slightly forward.

“Go on, climb up -- ”

BAM.

All of a sudden, Chia whirled on Charlie, grabbing hold of him and shoving him backward and to the ground just in time to avoid a giant explosion of flames that collided with the dock. The force of the explosion made the ocean water around the island crash, shoving the Revolution back with the force.

“CHARLIE!”

Charlie could hear both Bill and Jules’s voices as the ship was thrown backward away from the island by a massive, torrential wave. His heart gave a spasm of terror as he stared at the red-hulled ship being tossed like a bath toy in the chaos.

“BILL! JULES!”

Within moments, Charlie and Chia Dalma were surrounded by the Flying Dutchman’s crew. Charlie immediately stood in front of Chia protectively as they were encircled. The witch, for her part, looked disconcerted by the Dutchman’s crew’s appearance, but not in the way that she looked afraid -- if anything, she almost looked deeply troubled.

“There’s reluctance, in their eyes,” she murmured.

Charlie glanced back at her. “Huh?”

Chia’s lips came together seriously. “You know the purpose of the Flying Dutchman?”

“Yeah -- it’s supposed to ferry the dead.”

As Charlie considered this, he realized that this was strange. Why would a crew that was supposed to ferry those lost at sea into the next life be attacking Tortuga?

Chia nodded solemnly. “They’re not here of their own free will. Neither they nor Davy Jones...have come here because they wish to.”

Charlie felt his jaw clench as he stared down the circle of sailors holding up nets and pointing their swords at them as they prepared to capture them.

“Maybe they haven’t, but that doesn’t make them our mates,” he muttered.

Just as it seemed that Charlie was out-numbered, there was a loud rumbling down the street. A whole cart full of barrels were rolling right down the street, right at them.

Chia abruptly grabbed hold of the back of Charlie’s shirt and in an instant, the two had levitated about four feet off the ground, just in time to avoid the throng of barrels knocking over the Dutchman’s crew like nine pins.

As Chia and Charlie slowly returned to the ground, they were joined by another pirate -- a rather striking blonde with emerald-colored eyes. She held a pistol in one hand and her sword in the other as she rolled down the street on one of the barrels, jumping off of it to land on Chia’s other side.

“You both all right?” she asked, as she lifted her leg just enough that she could catch the barrel she’d arrived on with her foot.

“...Aye,” said Charlie after a moment, still a bit in awe about having just been floating in the air like a cloud. “Thanks, uh...?”

“Samantha O’Connell,” she introduced herself quickly.

Charlie blinked. “The Pirate Dragon?”

Both Samantha and he immediately had to duck to avoid a grenade being chucked over at them. It seemed some of the Dutchman’s sailors had recovered from the “barrel attack” and were coming back.

“Look, I’m all for introductions and ‘how-do-you-do’s,’” said Samantha with a wry smile, “but right now, we’d better move!”

Urging Chia in front of her, she then ran down the street away from the dock, Charlie at her heels.

It seemed that the infamous “Pirate Dragon” and Charlie also had a mutual friend in Orion Amari. Despite persuading both crews to “keep to the Pirate Code” (namely, that whoever falls behind is left behind), Samantha nonetheless had enough honor to -- upon seeing Charlie and Chia had been separated from the others -- backtrack enough to make sure they got away too, even if it couldn’t be on the Artemis or Revolution.

“I have my own ketch here at the eastern dock, which I’ll be taking back to my ship,” she explained as they ran. “There are a few others you can choose from, to steer yourself and Ms. Dalma here to Shipwreck Cove -- you’ll be safe there...”

“Shipwreck Cove?” repeated Charlie.

Chia Dalma’s eyes flashed at the name.

“The home of the Brethren Court,” she murmured very icily.

Samantha shot Chia a frown.

“Look, I get it if you don’t like going to another pirate haven, but it’s really the safest place, now. I doubt even Jones himself knows how to get there -- and once all the Pirate Lords assemble, we can come up with a plan to deal with this.”

Samantha immediately boarded the small blue-painted boat, preparing to cast off. Charlie was frowning more deeply than ever in confusion as he jumped aboard a neighboring red-painted ketch.

“There are Pirate Lords?” he asked.

“Of course -- the owners of the seven Pieces of Eight, representing each of the seven seas,” Samantha said logically, as if it were common knowledge. “Or at least six out of the seven -- the Piece of Eight representing the Pacific Ocean was lost after its Lord, Bartholomew Sharp, died...anyway, Orion’s one of the Lords too, so he’ll be able to show your sister-in-law the way and you can meet the rest of your crew there -- ”

Charlie could hear a lot of shouting and pillaging growing louder in the distance. Soon the Flying Dutchman’s crew would be on top of them again --

He quickly threw out a hand, offering it to Chia Dalma. “Come on -- we’d better hurry.”

Chia glanced back in the direction of the flaming city, her blue eyes narrowing. It almost seemed like she was conflicted.

“Listen, Ms. Dalma,” said Samantha sharply, “Jones is under the control of the East India Trading Company and the British Navy.”

Both Charlie and Chia Dalma straightened up abruptly, visibly shocked.

“I overheard Jones say that Beckett’s orders had been to ‘send a message to all pirates.’ That can only mean that Beckett has some leverage over Jones and has impressed him into service. We can’t hope to deal with Jones until we deal with Beckett’s leverage first, and to do that, we have to deal with Beckett.”

Chia once again looked at the flaming buildings, her eyes rippling with emotions Charlie couldn’t read. Then, at last, she closed her eyes, swallowed, and turned to Charlie, taking his hand and boarding the boat.

“See you in Shipwreck Cove!” said Samantha, shooting a bright smile over her shoulder at Charlie. “Good luck!”

Charlie watched her go, before weighing anchor and immediately setting sail with Chia Dalma himself.

The crew of the Flying Dutchman only arrived just in time to see the two ketches already floating off into the distance and out of sight. Chia herself stood at the railing of the boat long after Tortuga had disappeared over the horizon, holding the moon-shaped locket around her neck in her hand. Charlie pulled on the rigging to pull the sail toward the starboard side, glancing over at her with some sympathy.

“You knew Jones...didn’t you?”

Chia glanced back at Charlie, her eyes very unreadable. Then she returned her gaze to the horizon.

Charlie secured the rigging, knotting it tightly.

“...I understand how hard it is, to have to leave someone behind. There’s someone I’ve left behind too -- two people, in fact...who are also probably having to bow to the whims of Cutler Beckett, even if I’m sure they don’t want to...”

The memory of Percy’s pleading face and Carewyn’s stoicism in the face of her heartbreak both rippled over his mind.

“Charlie – don’t do this – think of Mum – think of us – ”

“I want you on a vessel so strong and so fast…that I can never catch up to you again.”

Charlie closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling heavily.

“...Sometimes, though...the only way you can really help them is by leaving them...however hard it is.”

There was a silence. Charlie opened his eyes and headed up to the helm, turning the wheel to help steer the boat through the waves.

While he was piloting the boat, however, he was interrupted by the soft clink. Chia Dalma had placed something on the edge of the deck within Charlie’s reach.

“This is for you, Charles Weasley,” she said.

Charlie blinked and picked it up. It was an old pewter button encrusted with gold and decorated with the icon of an anchor and an intricate cursive “S.”

“Oh, ah...thank you,” said Charlie awkwardly. He turned the button over in his hand. “...What’s the ‘S’ stand for?”

“Sharp,” Chia responded. “Bartholomew Sharp.”

Charlie straightened up. “The Pirate Lord Samantha mentioned?”

Chia inclined her head in a nod. “That is his Piece of Eight. Sharp abandoned his duties as Pirate Lord of the Pacific Ocean long before dying in prison in disgrace, and since then, it has been largely forgotten, by both pirates and honest explorers alike. It’s the last untamed sea, of the seven...”

Her blue eyes bore into Charlie’s face.

“...And now...it will be your responsibility...Pirate Lord Charles Weasley.”

#potc au #au #pirates of the caribbean #my art #my writing #chiara lobosca #charlie weasley #bill weasley #jules farrier #finn mcgarry #samantha o'connell #other people's mcs #orion amari #murphy mcnully #skye parkin #ethan parkin #erika rath #face paint kid #andre egwu #my fanfiction #DUN DUN DUN #my precious charlie a pirate lord!!#i'm so pwoud #X3 #yes I know charlie's not a captain yet which is usually a requirement to be a pirate lord but hey #the pacific ocean interestingly was VERY unaffected by the golden age of piracy #there was the expedition done by privateers like bartholomew sharp as mentioned but that was pretty solidly in the 17th century #sharp even died in prison in 1700 #so around this period there wasn't much happening in the pacific ocean outside of piracy closer to china and singapore #and the south china sea is also one of the 'seven seas' with a lord

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balfecaitriona · 4 years

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CHAPTER UPDATE! Hello! It’s been quite a long time since I last updated this story and I just want to apologise for the long wait, I hope not to take so long again but life happens! I have a good idea where I’m going with the next few chapters and I’m very excited to continue. I just want to thank everyone who’s stuck by me with the story and the lovely words I’ve received about it, I really appreciate it everyone of you and I hope you enjoy this long awaited update!

CHAPTER NINE | END OF THE WAR

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

FANFICTION

CHAPTER SUMMARY:

The war is finally over and Claire's feelings only deepen for Jamie.

PAIRING: Claire x Jamie. RATING: Mature. WORD COUNT: 2832.

CHAPTER NINE

END OF THE WAR

The past few days felt like a dream. Claire had now invited a full, six-foot tall Scotsman to live with her and she didn't give a damn what anyone had to say about it. She was never before so impulsive, but she wondered if in fact it was the war making her behave so, that no one could perceive just how long they had left and it was better to grab life with both hands and enjoy every second of it than spend her time worrying with regret.

Frank was gone, lost to the battlements of war and while that had been a rather difficult pill to swallow, the fact that Jamie remained by her side was not. At first she had felt so terribly guilty, every time she caught a glimpse of the shimmering gold band on her finger. What if Frank had returned? Could she have allowed Jamie to leave her life so easily? Or perhaps she would have never allowed her feelings to deepen so quickly. But every time she had the same horrid thought that made the pit of her stomach feel heavy with guilt, she remembered the night she had taken Jamie to the Craig Na Dunn and what she had felt in the car, the thought of losing him forever to the past and the feeling in her stomach settled. She had never felt that way for Frank, even as he boarded the train for war.

Claire was moved from thought the moment Jamie entered the living room and found her at her writing desk. Her face immediately softened and she grinned at the sight of him, and the warmness that filled her belly knowing he had no intention of leaving her now.

"There ye are sassenach..." Jamie said carefully, trying to juggle two cups of tea. The fine bone china looked so awkward and delicate in his enormous hands.

He set the tea down on the desk, some of the contents swishing from the cup, leaving splatters on the dark mahogany.

"I think I got it right... two sugars?" He raised a brow, and Claire nodded with a toothy grin that turned into a laugh, her eyes warm and besotted with him.

Jamie sat on the edge of the armchair, bringing the cup to his mouth and swallowing half the contents in one sure gulp.

"I dinna ken how ye can drink this stuff, sassenach..." He glanced down at the cup with furrowed brows. "The English always did confuse me..."

Claire let an airy laugh leave her before she brought her own cup to her mouth and almost spat the contents out at the bitter taste that stung her tongue. She made a face akin to a vomiting baby.

"No wonder... What on earth have you put in this?" Claire said with disgust, setting the tea down to go and investigate in the kitchen.

"Well I boiled the water, and let it stew with the tea bag in the pot like ye said..." Jamie was quick to defend, getting up to follow her, his eyes sheepish like a scolded dog.

"Then why does it taste so vile, it's definitely not supposed to taste like that..." Claire said, looking around at the rather messy worktops. Jamie always did have the impression of a bull in a china shop. This kitchen was much too small for him, and even though she didn't mind doing the domesticated things, Jamie insisted that he make the tea today, and she soon realised it was something he had never done before.

"Then I just added the sugar... See?" Jamie said, and Claire realised he was holding a small salt shaker in his hand, to which she began to laugh, much to his dismay.

"That's not sugar!" She made to take the shaker off him. "It's salt!"

"Oh..." Jamie scratched his head, his cheeks flushing a bright pink. "I thought the S stood for sugar."

"No, the sugar's over here..." Claire proceeded to pull a little blue tin from her cupboard, and sure enough, inside where the dazzling sparkles of sugar grains.

"Go and sit down, I'll make us a proper cup of tea." Claire shooed him from the tiny kitchen as Jamie sat down in the chair by the desk and pawed through one of the books that sat there.

"Ah well... I suppose I'll stick to what I know in future." Jamie said, with a defeated sigh, but there was humour in his tone.

"I appreciate the offer!" Claire said, laughing to herself as the kettle boiled. She moved to lean on the door frame, arms folded, looking at Jamie lovingly, as though he were a small child who'd tried their best.

"I don't think tea-"

There was an almighty crash that broke Claire's sentence. The sound of loud cheering and banging outside. Jamie's head turned to look toward the window to see a crowd forming, moving steadily down the hill outside.

"What are earth is going on..." Claire exclaimed, running to open the front door, Jamie right behind her.

On the street there was a great buzz of people chattering and laughing, Claire felt a little relief to understand nothing terrible had obviously happened but she was still curious.

Front doors lay wide up, people where crying, shouting and cheering. Strangers grabbing each other in tight embraces, throwing their heads back in euphoric laughter. Claire and Jamie merely stood at the doorway watching, more confused than ever before.

"It's over!" Shouted a red haired woman, leaning over Claire's gate. Her hair was in rollers, kept in place by a hairnet. She looked as if she might jump over the gate altogether with glee. "The war! It's finally over! The Germans surrendered!" She cried, before she moved along to join the crowd of happy people.

Claire couldn't quite understand what she was hearing. It didn't seem to hit her as violently as she thought it would. All those years, cooped up alone in the wards of the hospital, she imagined a day where all of the fighting might stop and how she might feel.

She gasped loudly, her face breaking out into a smile. It was finally over. She looked up at Jamie, who still seemed confused but smiled back at her nonetheless, catching her infectious happiness.

"Oh Jamie..." She whispered, the words seemed to flutter out of her in an airy laugh. Over five years this war had slogged on, and many began doubting if it would ever end at all. But it had. It was now. It was over.

Claire threw her arms about Jamie's neck, feeling lighter than she had in years. It was like a wash of relief ran through her body, assuring her that now everything would be all right. The dark gloomy clouds that refused to let her look to the future where vanishing and the world seemed lovely again, and for the first time in a long time, she was happy merely to be alive, but most of all to have Jamie here to share it with.

Jamie patted her back, leaning in to smell the sweetness of her hair. Although he had not been here long to see the full affects of war, he had been here long enough to see how awful it was, unlike any war he had ever known. And like any war, the relief and happiness felt when it had ended were the same, no matter the century.

"Aye Claire..." He muttered back into her hair. "The fighting is done." Was all he could manage to say. Jamie understood what this meant to her. He had watched her exhausted form drag out of bed every morning and sludge back home every night. Now, it was done, there was light at the end of the tunnel at last.

Claire pulled herself from him, laughter leaving her lips as she turned to walk up the garden path but not before she made to grab Jamie's hand, taking her with him. They left the little yard and ventured out into the joyous crowds. Immediately someone thrust a bottle of champagne into her hand and she made to gulp it, long and hard before thrusting it into Jamie's chest.

He too took a generous swallow, but not before making a face of bitterness as the fizz stung his nose. "Aye it's no whisky, sassenach..." He remarked, but Claire was too enthralled about what was going on around her to take notice.

People where hanging out of open windows, children skipped around their feet with little Union Jack flags in their hands, waving them and laughing ceremoniously. Someone was blasting the delightful tunes of Glenn Miller's 'In the Mood' on a radio to the crowd. Strangers hugged strangers and people had erected tables with food and drink that seemed to appear from nowhere. And Jamie and Claire where in the middle of it all, a celebration not to be forgotten. The war was finally at an end.

***

Some hours had passed, day had turned to night and the party didn't seem to end. People were growing merrier on the copious amounts of alcohol being supplied. Merchants left their shops to join the celebrations and all in all, the good atmosphere was infectious. Winston Churchill had announced the end of the war in Europe, and for once Claire could feel weightless and happy again, even if deep down her heart did sink for Frank, who had never lived to see this day come to pass.

"Aye... War doesn't seem to change in the passing of the centuries." Jamie seemed to conclude after a long moment of thought, he had spent a great deal of time just watching people. "At least the celebrating a victory is verra much the same." He commented to Claire who had now lost count of the drinks she had consumed.

"I was beginning to think this war would never end." Claire replied, taking a swig of whisky, no longer did she wince at the sour taste and the burn it left in her throat that made her want to gag, she had grown used to it's flavour now.

"I think ye've had enough lass..." Jamie tried to say, moving to attempt to try and pry the glass from her hand, but Claire tugged it away before he could get it.

They had found themselves sitting on bar stools in one of the numerous crowded bars in Edinburgh. The sound of people laughing and singing merry songs was music to Claire's ears, it had been so long since people were so happy and carefree and Claire wanted to revel in it while it lasted.

"Don't start." Claire said, rolling her eyes. Although she couldn't deny the slur in her words and the fact that the room seemed to be spinning. She attempted closing one eye to see Jamie clearly. His red head was fuzzy in her vision but there was no denying it was him.

"Aye I've seen that look before, sassenach and it usually means it's bedtime." Jamie said with a smirk, moving to pull the glass from her grasp this time and downing it's contents himself. The Scottish had a reputation for being able to handle their drink remarkably well, and Jamie was no exception.

"How dare you!" Claire scowled in an exaggerated rage, irked that Jamie thought to do such a thing. "Don't you dare tell me what to do!" She slurred. "If I want to sit here and drink until daylight then I fucking will!"

"Aye, sassenach." Jamie said carelessly, ignoring her words. Every time he made to try and direct Claire from the pub to take her home, she would dart away. That was until Jamie managed to grab her, and he lifted her tall, slender form with ease and slung her over his shoulder.

"Put me down!" Claire started shouting, kicking her legs and wriggling. "Put me down you god damn bloody bastard!"

Jamie merely laughed, as did the many other people he passed along the way as he brought a very drunk Claire home to her bed.

***

"Here we are..." Jamie said finally, slumping Claire down outside her garden gate. He had came to know the area well enough to be able to get to Claire's house and back. "In ye go." He directed her, the front door still wide open from before.

"No!" Claire replied like a defiant child, head spinning from the alcohol but she refused to take orders from Jamie.

"Aye ye will, or I'll lift ye again." Jamie replied calmly, folding his arms and looking at her with a smile at how she was behaving. He had never seen her mad with drink before, her hair seemed to stick out in a fuzz that made her resemble an irked hedgehog.

Claire made to walk away, but staggered and fell. It was then an almighty laugh left her lips. The anger at last had seemed to leave her, and now the infectious giggling set in.

"Come on... Ye bloody fool." Jamie laughed, grabbing her and lifting her up. This time she gave in and held her arms around his neck, like a tired child being carried to bed. Giving in to the defeat, too lethargic to want to argue or fight back. Suddenly, a warm cosy bed seemed to sound heavenly.

Jamie set her down the on the bed and she lay back, hair askew and laughed some more, it was breathy and easy and he knew the tired groans of sleep where not far off.

"I take it ye had a good day then sassenach..." Jamie whispered, a toothy grin on his lips as the answer seemed obvious.

"Wonderful!" Claire replied with a loud sigh, stretching her arms out on the bed. It had been a very long time since she was able to let her hair down and enjoy herself without any fear at the back of her mind or stress from her constant shifts at work. Work hadn't even entered her mind today, but she would deal with the repercussions tomorrow, the thought of now made her head spin again.

"I'll bid ye goodnight then Claire." Jamie said, making Claire sit up in sudden alarm to see him leaving the room.

"Don't be silly..." She groaned, outstretching an arm. "Sleep here." She patted the quilt beside her.

"I'm fine with the sofa, still." Jamie replied, but seen Claire was defiant again. She had rose from the bed to move to grab him in the dark, suddenly being without him seemed truly unthinkable.

Her hands moved to grab his stubbled chin, forcing his lips against hers. For a moment, Jamie gave in and moved his lips against her own, but he soon knew this was a different kind of kiss, and one she had not given before. Without realising, Jamie was being pulled back to the bed. Claire's nimble fingers moved down his shirt, never before did buttons seem to irksome as her hands struggled awkwardly trying to remove his clothes.

A gentle grasp from Jamie made her drunken recklessness stop for a moment, but only to protest. Jamie seemed to know where this was leading, but Claire had a desperate longing for him, as he had all along, but the alcohol had only seemed to heighten it. She had to have him now. The flame within her would not be silence by his honeyed words.

"No sassenach..." Jamie whispered, moving to push her eager hands away.

"But I want you..." She muttered back against his lips with impatience, her forehead touching his.

Jamie smelt the strong stench of whisky on her breath, and although he fought with himself for rejecting her like this, he knew her head would perhaps ache with regret all the more tomorrow if he allowed her to explore her passions. He could not have her like this, until he knew that is what she wanted, with a sober mind.

"Yer drunk out yer mind Claire..." Jamie replied almost sorrowfully. He didn't want her to think he didn't want her, it was quite the opposite.

"I'm not!" She said with a defiance, though there was a rueful whine in her voice that knew it to be true.

"I want ye Claire..." Jamie whispered, wanting her to know how true it was. "But I canna have ye like this..."

Claire seemed to understand then. For a moment the drunkenness seemed to vanish, and she felt open and ashamed. She moved back on the bed, clutching the top of her dress with a shy embarrassment, her face looking as though she might burst into tears at any moment.

Instead of saying anything more, she lay down on the bed, curled up like a kitten and Jamie felt his heart ache for her.

"Sassenach..." Was all he could muster, opening his mouth to say more but nothing would come out.

"Goodnight Jamie." She whispered with a tired sigh, and Jamie took his leave to the cold sofa downstairs.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #claire x jamie #jamie x claire #outlanderedit #the hearts of war #back again! I hope you like it!

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glorifiedsnickersbar · 4 years

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Farthest North

BY: DatFandomGirl1 -| A CountryHumans AU |- \\A few things before we start: 1: The tallest countries are USSR and Third Reich, this is due to the fear of them that grew while they were in power (Or their egos if you want a good laugh) - also for the story’s sake. 2: Provinces, States or Territories are children unless forced to grow up or decide to become a country. 3: The CountryHumans live in their own dimension, but can go between their world and the human world via a ring, which is decorated buy their respective flag. Only the owner of the ring can use it. It can take them anywhere as long as they can think of an adjective that can directly connect to that person/place/thing. 4: Humans can go to the CountryHuman world but only stay for a few minutes before fading back into their own world. 5: There are some historical inaccuracies which will be marked with this symbol (!), the correct information will be given below the chapter. 5: Translations of foreign words (Not English) will be at the bottom of each chapter, please forgive me if some are not accurate, I am only beginning to learn German and am mostly using Google translate for lack of bilingual and/or foreign friends. 6: I describe USSR as a corrupted Russian Empire, considering both were brutal and absolutely horrid. Please enjoy the story! It is by no means meant to make fun of, offend or call out any one race, nationality or government, and does not represent the opinions of any one people.

I will be updating once a week.

--- Chapter 1 -- You Have Mail

Word count: 1063

America, Russia, Japan, China, Poland, Australia - so many countries, a big world it is, out there. Dangerous, sometimes cruel, unruly and painful. America knew it when he separated from his father's hierarchy, but it was better than being treated like an uncared for adopted child. He knew the story of Les Misérables. He declared that he would never treat his children as such, those being the States. He cared for each and every one of them, though what he called "business" often took him away. He wasn't a total flop of a father, he'd visit every single one of his precious kids... at least, that's what he thought.

"Has anyone seen America?" Canada questioned those who were already eating at the table, their current meeting place being chosen by Russia: a bar.

"Someone came by with a letter," announced Japan, her smile showing how oblivious she was at the fact America took the time to answer something like that. Get togethers like this usually made him ignore matters that needed his attention, "Said something about an estate."

Canada nodded, and sat in the empty seat, knowing the star clad patriot would simply steal Russia's.

The happy country came back, dumping Russia from his chair, as Canada predicted, and sat down, the letter no where to be seen.

"How's it popping 'Cans?" He asked with a wide smile, glasses hiding his eyes.

"Not to bad," he answered, "Japan said something about a letter?"

"Oh, yeah," he blew a raspberry, "Some prank, nothing serious."

Oh how wrong he was.

The group, consisting of America, Japan, Canada, Russia and Germany, broke their "meeting" after Russia decided to go for a third bottle of hard liquor, dragging him to Germany's car, who decided he would drive him home. Japan announced that she had some business with another trade partner, so she left the group after another ten minutes of babble. Then the five became two, brothers 'till the end, walking down the sidewalk since they had nothing else to do.

"How are the States?" Canada asked, genuinely curious. America had been spending a bit more time with them lately.

"They're great," he chuckled, "Delaware just celebrated her 232nd birthday! She's so cute. I was able to get Japan to make dolls that resembled the two men on her flag!"

The country was so proud of his first state, glad that she would never grow up, unless she decided to become a country, that is... but that wouldn't happen, he takes care of all of his children, daughters and sons, so they all remained with the size and somewhat the mindset of children.

"How's Arizona? I hear she's had quite the wake up call with the sudden cold snap." Canada inquired, making America laugh.

"Oh dear, it's 90 instead of 190, whatever will she do?" He laughed, the poor girl claimed she was freezing to death in these winter months.

The two walked in a comfortable silence for awhile. The air was clear, a perfect Pennsylvania afternoon. The little tike was probably somewhere playing in the dirt, or helping some of the Amish folk with their work. He loved to help, always eager to get down in the dirt or play with the farm animals. Pennsylvania was an animal lover for sure, not as crazy a lover as Australia, nowhere close, considering these were mostly domesticated animals, but his love for nature showed most definitely. The birds chirped, sending a witty air toward the two countries, who laughed when an orange tabby ran by, trying to catch whatever species of bird its eyes were on. The colder dirt road before them ran for miles, unpaved until it reached the city, several miles away. Amish country was so natural, practically untouched. No electricity, cars, WiFi. Nothing of the sort. So relaxing.

"So... what was the letter about exactly?" Canada dared interrupt the soft sound of breezing silence.

"It was a declaration of independence," he shrugged, "It was from one of my states, I don't think it said which, but I haven't felt anything nagging at me, and my 50 hasn't turned to 49. It's a joke, all my kids love me!"

So sure. Yes, all his children loved him, but he didn't love them equally.

"I think we need to get going..." Canada looked at his phone, finding it to be later than he intended to stay out, "We have a world meeting, remember?"

America groaned. He hated those. Always so boring, they never needed him around anyway.

"Want me to drop you off at your house?" He sighed, bringing out a ring with his flag engraved into it.

"No, thank you," Canada smiled, bringing out a ring with his own flag engraved, "I remembered my key this time."

The two smiled at each other, and America gave a playful salute before throwing the ring on the ground, Canada mimicking the action, and they left through the worm hole, each stepping into their living room.

Yawning, America decided that now would be the time to clean up the party mess. Hats laid strewn around, party poppers littered the floor, and a half eaten birthday cake slice was still on the coffee table. He chuckled, remembering how his little Delaware was so surprised when the lights came on. He was glad that the CountryHumans were able to have their own private world, or else the humans would have complained about noise. His neighbors complained anyway, of course.

If you looked outside you'd see a world like any other, a small city, population: 195 (not including states or territories). America's mansion held all of his children, though they were currently in the human world having the time of their lives. He remembered his father's palace, Britain, a powerful country, in his time anyway. Now all that's ever really talked about is the royal family, nothing that determined the life or death of another country.

Finishing what cleaning he wanted to do, the man looked at his watch. Time to go. America took hold of his ring again, and with one simple thought, threw it on the ground, stepping into the grand meeting room. When the worm hole closed, he picked up his ring, stashing it into his pocket. He dawned a lazy smile below his signature sunglasses, until he saw who stood in the middle of the circular seating area.

"Alaska?"

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danwhobrowses · 4 years

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So, Like Many Others, I have to Self-Isolate

It sucks but we are definitely adhering to the law. It just weighs a bit tougher on my than it does my family and my brother who is showing the symptoms since my job doesn’t allow me to work from home. As a QA Tester there’s a lot of NDA issues to boot, as well as secure servers and devices, so that is leaving me in a bit of limbo. My job is trying to work out a way for my to work from home but it’s likely that it won’t be probable or even able to be implemented during my 2-week isolation. I’m probably gonna use part of this time to take it easy, since I hadn’t taken holiday since Christmas Break, but I am still in contact with my job for anything they need. But I wanna make a note on a few things during this period of uncertainty. First off, do not be idiots. If you or someone you’re living with is showing symptoms please adhere to the laws, self-isolate. I know that there’s a lot of uncertainty about pay but health has to come first, self-isolation isn’t just for you but those most vulnerable to the virus; the elderly, pregnant and those dealing with long-term conditions such as cancer and asthma, the sooner we dissipate the virus the sooner you can resume. Also do your research, if you contract the symptoms yourself it’s 7 days from there, even if you get it on Day 14 of Self Isolation Secondly, do not be racist. Yes, the virus is from China, but what the American President seems to miss is that pointing the finger is inspiring some unruly, illegal and downright horrid behaviour. If you aren’t seeing why naming it a ‘Chinese Virus’ because of 50+ year old viruses being named after forests and rivers, consider how awful it would’ve been to call AIDs the ‘Gay Virus’ and you should see why WHO (remember that the W stands for World) pressed to avoid such labels. Again, it came from China, but the Chinese people are suffering too, every country has failed to contain the virus so we’re all in the same boat, be civil. Thirdly, and probably the most ‘La Revolución’ of the points is to not forget what’s happened during this. Suddenly the world has money to throw, suddenly the world can dedicate resources to medical research and provide sick pay for people with less than stable contracts and allow people to work from home when that never seemed optional, countries that shun the idea of national healthcare are providing national healthcare and the lower class is suddenly becoming much more relied upon. It’s easy to accuse the Government before of holding back, but after COVID-19 has been vaccinated or dissipated we cannot afford to let things revert ‘back to normal’; China’s poor sanitation led to a spread, the world failed to contain a virus and their response was delayed by what was necessary. Scrutiny must be in place, and a re-evaluation of world health, sanitation and response needs to be considered, but we should also take note of other things helpful for people and the environment, lockdown has managed to reduce pollution, trillions of money has came out of the wall when previous requests for funding of healthcare and research has been met with ‘we don’t have the money’, we should also consider the hygiene of our own well-being, not just being super clean because there’s a virus about. So once this is all done it’s time to pull away the veil and if world leaders try to revert things to how they were before then they should not be supported in that. So however it may be for you guys, be safe, be civil and be calm, we’ll get through this and we should take note of why we got through this.

#self care #self isolation #covid-19 #coronavirus

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the-observant-frisbeetarian · 5 years

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Jealousy

By George deValier

Status: Never finished, 1 Chapter

WW2 AU. Insane Russian Commander Ivan Braginski is the terror of his battalion and his enemies alike. He controls the lives of thousands - but it is the memory of one that controls his own. Tie-in to ‘Lily of the Lamplight.’

WARNING: Although this story is part of the Veraverse, please be warned that it is very dark, potentially unsettling, and a very different type of 'love story’ to the others in the series. Warnings for the story include a rather creepy Ivan, age difference, violence, and dubious consent. Please do not read this expecting a fluffy romance – and if the previous themes bother you, then please do not read this at all. You do not need to read this story to understand 'Lily.’

Summer, 1943

The Russian Front

The noise from the wireless radio drifted into Ivan’s mind like droning, senseless whispers: futile and immaterial, lifeless and empty. Strange words in English he could barely understand; sentimental words in Russian he did not want to. Ivan wondered vaguely if he should turn it off, then wondered uncertainly if it mattered, then wondered angrily who had placed this whispering machine in his makeshift quarters to hum and drone and mock him with its bleak, cheerful, vacant lies. Ivan attempted to ignore it as he stared at the papers on the desk before him. The lying sighs from the radio bled into the senseless words on the page. These words were not for him to understand. Ivan was no man of words - he was a commander. He told men who to kill and how to bleed and where to die. He did not draw lines through letters - that was the business of lesser men. These words belonged to others. Belonged to men like…

“Eduard!” Ivan called the name lightly. Officers who shouted did so because they could not control their men; because they were not loved, feared, or honoured. Ivan had no need to shout. So why, now, was he was not being answered? “Eduard!” he called again. Where was his Estonian? Why did he not answer? The tent flap was open. Ivan frowned at the evasive words laughing up at him. His Estonian would understand these words. He would turn them around and put them in order and send them away somewhere they could not confuse and disturb and mock and laugh. But why was that radio still murmuring, still mindless and pointless and grating and endless and…

Jealousy. Was only through jealousy, Our hearts were broken

And angry words were spoken.

Now all I have is memory

To cherish so tenderly…

Ivan clenched his teeth and tasted blood. The chaotic, clamouring wireless whispers twisted into evil words, sung with a deceitful English voice, hammering into his skull and screaming at him accusingly and no, he did not need Eduard, he needed his Lithuanian, he needed… “Toris!” Ivan snapped his head to see the tent opening flapping in the wind. Flapping vacantly, incessantly… no one entering, and no one standing beyond… and why was there nothing but these words and this void and this noise, this ceaseless noise, these rough, shrill, mocking echoes merging with these empty, laughing words that would… not… stop…

Twas all over my jealousy,

My crime was my blind jealousy,

My heart was afire with desire for you

But I never thought that your love was true…

Ivan shook his head. He fought for breath. He felt it all diminish, and collapse, and cease. Then the world turned white; and Ivan remembered.

Autumn, 1930

Leningrad, Russia

Yao belonged to Ivan. He belonged to him from the very second Ivan first beheld him, on a freezing morning in late autumn, standing proud yet wary in the vast, bare, silent entrance hall of Ivan’s vast, bare, silent manor. His hair as long and black as midnight in winter; his eyes as dark and narrow as the slowly collapsing hallways of the crumbling Braginski mansion. So small, so fragile, like a frightened orphaned cub left alone and helpless in hunting season. They said he had come from China: he and his sister, the bland little girl who stood uncertainly in her lovely brother’s shadow. Both pretty teenagers who would work hard, require little, and most importantly, had no family to ask questions. Ivan’s blood burned through his veins, his breath hot and thick in his lungs. His back straightened; his chin rose; his eyes flashed as they drank in his dark, beautiful, proud little orphan cub. Ivan said the words aloud. “He’s mine.”

The boy’s eyes widened at that, fixed rigidly on Ivan’s own, sharp and alarmed. It was a look Ivan recognised - one he knew well. Fear. Ivan returned the stare evenly.

“Vanya, darling, we don’t own people. He is to be a servant, not a slave.”

Ivan ignored his older sister’s words. The boy was his. From that moment, Ivan knew. The boy was his, and always would be. “He is my servant, then. My private servant. No one else’s. Do you understand?” Ivan turned a dark glare on Katyusha. She nodded hastily and looked away.

“Why would you want him anyway, Vanya?” asked Natalia haughtily, sashaying too close to the Chinese siblings and inspecting them disdainfully. Her bright gold, jewelled gown clashed magnificently with the dark remnants of pre-revolutionary décor along the walls. The boy blinked carefully towards her as she smirked. “I doubt this little weakling will last the winter.”

Ivan smiled indulgently. “I will dress him in furs, and lay him before the fire, and he will survive because I wish it.”

Natalia laughed her high, cold laugh. “Like a little doll!” She ran a hand along the boy’s narrow shoulders, touched his hair airily. His delicate features furrowed, insulted and slightly angry.

“Yes,” said Ivan smoothly, his greedy gaze locked on the affronted boy, enjoying the collection of emotions that danced across his face. “My pretty little china doll.”

Natalia stood behind the boy, gently playing with his hair. She smirked again, staring at Ivan through those midnight black locks and her own lowered lashes. “But Vanya, you always broke our dolls, don’t you remember?”

“Natalia!” said Katyusha disapprovingly, warningly. “Leave the poor child alone.”

Natalia groaned, flicked the boy’s hair one last time, and pushed between the siblings, flourishing her wide skirts as she did. “Whine whine, moan moan, Katya. You do little else these days. And just what are you wearing, dear sister? You look like a housemaid. You should give that horrid dress to the little Chinese girl.” Natalia threw the girl a mocking glare. “Though I don’t think the poor thing could fill out the chest.”

Katyusha frowned reproachfully, twisting her hands nervously before her. “Talia, dear…”

“The girl will go to the kitchen,” Ivan interrupted. He had no time for his sisters’ inanity, or for the insignificant girl with the flower in her hair. “The boy stays with me.”

At those words the boy turned red, his hands clenched into fists, and he took a firm step forward. “My name is Yao. I am not a child, I am sixteen years old. And as the lady said earlier, neither am I a slave. My sister’s name is Mei. We are here to work. We expect to be paid, and we expect to be treated with respect.”

A brief silence followed the words, before Natalia broke into high peals of laughter. “Sixteen, Vanya! And the little doll speaks Russian! Is his accent not pretty?”

Ivan smiled in agreement. “Pretty.” As pretty as his soft, bow-shaped lips; as his brave, empty words. Yao’s bold gaze faltered as Ivan’s grew deeper. Immediately, the hall felt too crowded. Ivan wanted the others gone. “Go.”

Ivan merely spoke the order, but his sisters reacted immediately. Natalia rolled her eyes and swept from the room, glowering fiercely at Yao one last time. Katyusha looked concerned as she took the girl’s hand. The girl stared wide-eyed at her brother, clutched at his hands, cried frantic words Ivan did not understand. Yao responded reassuringly, smiled and nodded, even as Katyusha spoke kindly and led the girl from the room. Always kind, always fretful, always obedient Katyusha.

The vast hall fell finally silent, the last of Katyusha’s nonsense words fading to echoes against the barren stone. Yao took a few moments to turn slowly back. His hands were still in fists; his eyes still wary. Ivan took slow, deliberate steps through the heavy air to stand before him, over him, so close Ivan’s coat brushed the tips of Yao’s shoes. Yao did not back away.

“Yao.” Ivan said it slowly, savoured the feeling of the word on his lips for the first time. He liked it. Short and fleeting: a soft yet strong beginning yielding to a gentle, almost lingering finish.

“Mei… my sister…” Yao’s chest rose and fell, an evident attempt to grasp for control. Ivan smiled at the futile effort. “I promised her we would not be separated.”

Ivan lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “You should not make promises you cannot keep, Yao.” Yao placed a hand to his mouth briefly, as though he was holding something back. On some strange impulse - one Ivan did not recognise and did not understand - he continued to speak. “She will be looked after. Katya is often tending to strays.”

Yao creased his smooth brow, parted his lips, drew his arms to his chest. He did not respond, so Ivan let the silence fall between them. There was so much you could tell from someone through silence. Ivan was intrigued to watch Yao thinking, to see him trying to comprehend. It was enthralling: the boy’s initial look of fury, his desperate glance back at the front entrance, the final resigned understanding on his face. The first of the winter snowdrifts were building against the door. The lost little cub had nowhere else to go.

But silence could only tell so much. Ivan reached out a hand, rested it in the air by Yao’s pale cheek. He could sense the warmth pulsing through Yao’s veins. “Why are you here in Saint Petersburg, little Yao?”

Yao’s dark, thin eyebrows drew together. He seemed at a loss for what to say. “I thought this was the old name, Saint Petersburg. Is not the city now called Leningrad?”

The smile fell immediately from Ivan’s lips. His hand closed in a fist. His very bones seemed to seize, a furious surge of anger filling his chest. He refused to call his city by that name. He refused even to acknowledge that name. Ivan gritted his teeth as he asked again, loud and demanding. “Why are you here in Saint Petersburg, little Yao?”

Yao flinched, then quickly blinked it away. He hastened to answer. “The journey is not a tale worth telling. These are desperate times. Men will do what they must when they are desperate.”

Ivan laughed bitterly. He expected such words. “Desperate enough to serve the broken nobility of Russia.” Since the revolution, domestic servitude was an underground practice – never spoken openly, never revealed to the world. But the Braginski mansion was trapped in the days of the Tsars, darkly defiant of a changing country. Tradition still lingered in this place, faded and broken.

Yao stared up at Ivan with a look now less fearful, yet tinged with uncertainty. His pale cheeks were darker now, his chest still rising and falling in that vain attempt for control. “Why do you speak like this?”

Ivan paused at that. Those words he did not expect. His brief anger fell away, his hand falling to rest lightly on Yao’s slight shoulder. “My words upset you?”

Yao looked warily at Ivan’s hand, then back into his eyes. “They confuse me. There is something behind them.”

Yao’s eyes were like fire. They looked too closely; they pierced too deep. For the first time Ivan could remember, he felt unsettled. He tightened his grip on Yao’s shoulder in response. “And do you always speak so plainly, Yao? Do we not all hide behind our words?”

Yao took a sharp breath, but did not shrink from Ivan’s clenching hold. “Only when we have something to hide.” Such remarkable composure. Ivan wondered what it would take to break it. “Truth is told not in word, sir, but in action.”

Ivan was both fascinated and disturbed. This little stranger had angered him, unsettled him, enchanted and surprised him, all in mere minutes. Ivan refused to allow him such control. “From now on, Yao - whether through word or action - there is nothing you can hide from me.”

Yao’s response trailed into silence when Ivan leant down slowly, touched his lips to Yao’s temple, inhaled the smell of him. Something young like newly-picked oranges, yet old like deep-forested trees in winter. Ivan let out a breath like a growl, and heard Yao’s own breathing quicken in response. It made him smile. “Are you afraid of me, Yao?”

Yao’s words came slower when he answered. He again drew his arms to himself, and his burning brow was beaded with sweat. “I… do not know yet.”

Intriguing. Ivan drew back slightly. “Do you think I will hurt you?”

Yao turned his face to Ivan. This close, his cheeks were aflame; his lips humid; his eyes startlingly dark. Ivan could hardly distinguish the pupil from the ink pool around it. Yao replied with defiant honesty. “Yes.”

“No.” Ivan gently released his grasp on Yao’s shoulder, brushed Yao’s hair from his collar. These clothes were too thin and ugly. Ivan would replace them with garments as silken as these black locks. Ivan would brush his hair and stroke his skin and control his insolent, charming words. “No, I do not hurt my things, Yao.”

“Things?” Yao’s features immediately twisted. He blinked alertly, spoke angrily, as though broken from a trance. “Who are you to speak to me so? Who are you to say any of this to me? These words of yours go too far, sir. I am not a thing. I am most certainly not yours, and I…” Yao’s cheeks reddened as his speech tumbled from him, incensed and unchecked and useless. Ivan just smiled and ran his hand lightly down Yao’s arm. “I am here to work,” Yao continued, his voice rising apprehensively at the touch. “I do not know what sort of work you expect from me, but…”

Yao broke off with a gasp when Ivan abruptly gripped his wrist. Ivan tilted his head curiously, amusedly. Such pretty defiance. Such brave, angry words; so easily stifled. “No, Yao. You are not a thing.”

Yao’s dark eyes widened. Ivan could feel his blood throbbing beneath his skin. So thin; so breakable. Carefully yet firmly, Ivan took Yao’s fingers in his own and forced his clenched fist open. Yao parted his lips, but did not speak. Again he looked afraid, but this seemed a different fear than the last. Ivan pressed a kiss to Yao’s burning, open palm, keeping his eyes fixed on the unfathomable, inky darkness of Yao’s own. This defiance was nothing. Ivan had already decided: he wanted this boy. And Ivan always got what he wanted. “But you are mine.”

1943

The memory slowly faded; the world came back, harsh and white and obscure. The wireless whispers still droned, futile and senseless. Ivan drew a very slow, very deep breath of air into his lungs. Then, with a hot rush of fury and a sudden, almost unbidden twitch of his arm, Ivan snatched the radio from his desk and hurled it to the ground. It splintered and shattered, bleeding a last high-pitched whine before finally falling silent. Ivan stared at the lifeless, broken pieces, feeling only brief, hollow satisfaction.

“Polkovnik?”

The word was spoken carefully, barely more than a whisper. Ivan looked up sharply. His Lithuanian stood uncertainly in the tent entrance, clutching a folder to his chest, a familiar look of fearful apprehension on his pretty face.

“Toris.” Ivan lifted his chin and gestured for the private to join him. Toris hesitated before doing so. Another day Ivan might have punished him for such a hesitation. But this pounding rage still boiled his blood, that taunting song still rang in his head, and he needed explanation. “These words.” Ivan gestured over the maddening papers on his desk. “What do they mean?”

Toris glanced at the papers briefly before answering. “Kalova requires reinforcements, sir. The Germans are retreating, and HQ requests that you send a battalion to take the village.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Kalova?” The hot fury began to cool. There would be time enough for that in battle. The blood and the fury; the bitter, roaring chaos of it. Ivan relished his time of deafening, silent madness. “The little fortified village in the forest.”

Toris nodded hastily. “A prison unit will take the Germans’ place – there is only believed to be fifty men or so. It could easily be taken with a company or two.”

Ivan felt he could breathe again, the white haze clearing from the room. War and battle and death - this he knew. This he could understand. “A prison unit? Intriguing. ”

“An easy defeat.” Toris did not sound like he believed his words. “Our presence will hardly be required.” Poor, lost Toris, who felt so strongly and worried so much.

“Perhaps not so easy. No, I think I will handle this personally.” Ivan adjusted his scarf, twisted his lips in a smile, and ran a hand down his Lithuanian’s cold, pale cheek. Toris did not react. Ivan’s Lithuanian was pretty, yes, but his eyes were too light and his defiance long vanquished. “Do not underestimate desperate men, Toris.”

Author’s Note: The rank of 'polkovnik’ is roughly equivalent to a colonel.

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

#veraverse #george devalier #jealousy

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