jacqueline & maixent
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Posted: Apr 6 2015, 02:21 PM
i made this as an elizabeth jennings feels mix, but it works for jaq, too, so have her first playlist
Posted: Apr 15 2015, 08:54 PM
official jaq playlist with a lot of maixent feels. idk what it even is anymore.
Posted: May 16 2015, 09:13 PM
Posted: Sep 1 2015, 01:38 AM
jacqueline, age four
“Come on, Jaq, you can do it. If I can do it, you can do it. Stop being such a baby.”
You look up to her, literally, your older sister, with her golden hair like a halo and her words dripping in annoyance. You’re four years old. You’re not a baby. You’re a big girl. Mother told you so just the other day.
You look up at to the shelf. She’s half a foot taller than you, a couple years older. If you had any idea of what was going on, you’d be able to tell right away that she’s goading you, using you to get what she wants because you don’t have as much experience as her, can’t tell that what you’re doing should really be done by an adult.
You’re not even supposed to be in there anyway. It’s your father’s study; your sister wants some book off a shelf even she can’t reach — but you’ve made the mistake of climbing one too many trees around her and so she’s pitting you against the bookshelf. You don’t know why she wants this book or why she needs it right now. She’s taunting you into going for it though, and you have to — no need to — prove it to her that you’re not a baby.
It’s a shame you’re not old enough to know that she doesn’t think you’re a baby; she’s just using all the right words to hurt you enough to do what she wants.
“I’m not a baby,” you insist rather loudly and then give an even louder huff before beginning to scale the front of the bookshelf, dress and improper shoes and all.
It’s about seven shelves up. You make it to five before the wood collapses under your weight. You don’t understand physics, didn’t know the shelf that fell out from underneath you was old and needed to be replaced. You fall with an avalanche of books, a shriek of pain as books land on you as the whole thing falls, landing on the heel of your hand and taking the brunt of your weight through your wrist. It hurts, badly, when you finish falling.
“What in all of Wonderland is going on in here?” you hear a voice roar and you know it’s all over.
Your father, the King of Wonderland, has found you in a place you aren’t allowed clearly in the middle of something you weren’t supposed to be doing.
Your sister looks victorious.
“Jacqueline Victoria,” he snarls, stalking across the expansive room, several servants behind him. He picks you up by your broken wrist, tightens his hold on it, and gives you a shake when you begin to cry from the pain. “No,” he growls, “You don’t get to cry, not when you’ve done such a horrible thing.”
Your sister fucking giggles, her eyes wide with delight. Your father fixes her a glare and waves a servant in her general direction. “Don’t think this gets you out of your own mess,” he snaps, grip still ever tight on your wrist. Your hand is beginning to purple, his tight grip limiting blood flow to your hand. Your arm is on fire but you don’t move because trying to twist out of his grip is both impossible and will only make it hurt more. Panic wells up as you try to figure out an escape, anything to get away from the pain searing through your shoulder. Your sister is whisked away, this gleam in her eye, and your father turns back to you.
“This was a very bad thing to do,” he hisses, fury twisting his features. “You understand that don’t you?”
You frantically nod, the pain reaching a new level of unbearable.
He tightens his grip even further and you cry out at the pain. Your body can’t handle it. You’re too small, the pain spreads too quickly for you to make sense of what’s going on.
“I don’t think you do.” He looks so angry and you don’t know why. “This is why you’re second-born, you know. Second means you weren’t the first, and the first is always absolute best. Your sister wouldn’t have done this. She wouldn’t have been so stupid. I find it hard to believe you’re my daughter. No child of mine would do something that so clearly defies me.”
You’re full on sobbing, have been for a while, the words making a harsher impact on you than you thought they would. He shakes you by your wrist and you will swear for the rest of your life that you heard something snap.
“You will clean this up, right now, under my supervision. But not with your left hand.” His blue eyes burn with the same gleam you saw in your sister’s not two minutes prior. You look down. You’re still figuring out your lefts and rights, but you know enough to pick up on what your father is saying. “The pain will serve as reminder enough for your mistakes. Get to work.”
He shoves you away, causing you to land on your destroyed wrist again, and you let out a cry of pain. “Hurry up,” he barks, arms crossed over his chest, “I haven’t got all day. I’ve a kingdom to run and you’re keeping me from it.”
Slowly, you start picking up books with the bad wrist, pain all you can focus on. It takes you a while — your father orders you to stop crying so much, only the weak show this much emotion, no daughter of mine shows her weakness so openly several times — but finally, finally, after a solid half hour of slow work, you get it all put back as much as you can manage. Your wrist is numb from the pain, your body having gone into shock to cope with the task, and you want to curl up in a corner somewhere and cry until you gives out.
“Your sister would’ve done a better job. Pathetic,” he spits, shaking his head. Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks out, anger still tight in his shoulders. His entourage leaves with him, pitiful looks sent your way, and you can do nothing but curl up like you wanted to and sob as pain you can’t understand wracks your whole body. You’re there for hours until one of your ladies-in-waiting finds you, clucks quietly over your now purpled and swollen wrist, and picks you up and readies you for dinner.
You’re four years old and your heart is already beginning to harden just to survive living with your family.
and I've been sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool for a while now drowning my thoughts out the sounds and they're running running running but do you feel like a young god and we'll be flying through the streets - - - - - - - - -