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mandoinevarro · 4 years

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WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1

Words: 8.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?

a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun.

……………

Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose. Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.

Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”

“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”

“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”

“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.

“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.

“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”

Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”

“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.

“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.

“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”

“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.

“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.

Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.

It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.

“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.

“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.

Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”

“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.

You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.

You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.

Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”

Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”

“The cards,” Greef urges.

“You’ll be rich.”

You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”

“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”

Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”

“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”

The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”

Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…

Maker’s fucking mercy.

You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.

You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.

The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.

And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.

You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.

You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”

“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”

Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.

She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”

You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.

Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”

“On the ship. I need to get back.”

“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”

“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”

Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”

“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”

The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga. “Who’s they?”

“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”

Silence.

You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…

“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.

≈

The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.

“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”

He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.

“Business.”

You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?

“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.

“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”

“He told I did that?”

“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”

“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”

“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.

You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”

“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”

That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.

“I was, actually.”

He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”

You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.

“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”

Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”

“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”

“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.

Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you. You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.

“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”

“Then why?”

You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”

He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”

You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”

And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.

“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…

“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.

With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.

But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.

Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”

You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.

“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.

“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames your knees with his legs “—armchair.” Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.

A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.

“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.

Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.

The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”

Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.

“That’s cheating,” you gasp.

He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.

“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—

The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.

Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”

Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.

“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.

“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.

“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.

You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done—he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.

“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”

Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.

Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.

The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”

The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.

“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.

Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.

Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.

The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—

A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.

“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”

“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”

No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.

Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.

“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.

He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—

The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.

Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.

But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.

You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”

“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.

He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.

“Mmmando,” you sob.

Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.

“Mando, I…”

“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.

Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.

“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”

There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you? Fuck.

You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—

Zium!

It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #star wars smut

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captainsimagines · 3 years

Text

Titanic || H.S

Part Six || “The Heart of the Ocean”

Disclaimer: I do not own the pictures I use for title cards. Obviously.

Warnings: This book contains mature themes and discussions, such as gun violence, emotional and physical abuse, attempted suicide, mentions of blood, character deaths, heavy sexual content, and reference to the real maritime disaster of the 1912 cruise liner Titanic.

A/N: Sorry for a late update. I do plan on finishing this series lmao, enjoy!

“Did you… did you break something on the ship? ‘Cause if you did I’m sorry but I’m for sure going to pretend that I don’t know you.”

The cold wind seemed to nip at your skin harsher than when you were standing over the railing, and perhaps it was because a major red blush was currently tainting your cheeks. A negative one - not pleasurable.

Either you could brush this whole incident off like it hadn’t happened, or you could come up with your best excuse as to why you were so flustered. You knew what the crew was currently wondering, as was your disturbed fiance and his friendly detective, George. For the slightest instant you imagined what Cal would do or say if you revealed the truth of your midnight endeavor, but you quickly erased the images as they were all so tempting to make you climb back over the railing.

All this time your savior was being dragged onto his two feet, being thrown from crew member to crew member in such a rough manner that it made you uncomfortable. The air was causing a sort of fogginess to your hearing, but you quickly snapped out of it when Cal began insulting him.

“What makes you think you could put your hands on my fiance?” Cal questioned, stepping towards Harry and grabbing his chin to raise his face. You held the itchy blanket tighter against your shoulders as you stepped forward. “Answer me, you filth!”

“Cal, stop! Stop it!” you begged, quickly transitioning from a tone of hysteria to one of more confidence. “It was an accident!”

Cal stumbled a bit on his heels, wondering if he had processed your proclamation correctly. As did Harry.

Harry had not spoken during this entire ordeal for the simple truth that if he did, he would be entirely ignored. There was no way to reason with these people, he thought, as it was your word against his. And he had almost wholeheartedly believed you would go along with the ‘assault mishap’, but your sudden intrusion between his body and Cal’s made him rethink this entire night. Harry remembered your expression of pain and loneliness from when you were contemplating jumping - how wretched and unhappy you seemed to be. And for someone to have that look on their face in what could have been their last moments of life, then they had to be good at heart as well.

Cal cleared his throat, “An accident?”

You forced yourself to giggle as you looked between both confused men. “Yes! Oh my, it’s stupid really.”

Harry waited patiently, hands handcuffed behind him and with a smug expression on his face. Anything you could possibly invent at this very moment was sure to be impressive.

“I wasn’t very hungry earlier so I decided to take a stroll on deck. The night was so beautiful and the stars were reflecting off the water! So, I leaned over and I slipped!”

Cal blinked somewhat rapidly, looking between you and Harry.

“I leaned far over to see the stars and those- uh-uh-”

You knew the word. Of course, you knew the word. But you still milked the lie and mimed the movement of the propellers - this way Cal would honestly believe you were stupid enough to lean over the railing.

Cal looked up to the sky, annoyed by your ignorance. “Propellers?”

Your voice raised an octave, “Yes!”

Cal shut his eyes at your sudden high voice but maintained his perfect posture.

Your savior was watching you this whole time, that smirk growing and growing as you continued talking. He was enjoying every second of this, even with a prospective charge of attempted sexual assault in his future. But with your toying of vocabulary and puppy-dog facial expressions, that charge might definitely be removed from the table now.

“I was leaning far over to see the propellers and I slipped! I would have gone overboard but Mr. Styles here saved me. He was only a few feet away enjoying a nightly cigarette.”

Harry wanted to click his tongue and walk away, but the officer was still squeezing his hands together. It was as if everyone was waiting for Cal’s approval.

“She wanted to see the propellers! Oh my, she wanted to see the propellers!” Cal laughed, an approval to your story that prompted everyone else to agree with it, too.

The officer pulled Harry back to whisper in his ear. “Was that the way of it?”

Everyone turned their heads to Harry, who immediately looked to you. You practically pleaded with your eyes for him to agree.

Harry sighed and slightly smiled, “Yeah. That was pretty much it.”

The officer released Harry hands from the handcuffs and made his way over to George for his compensation. Cal’s drinking buddies all rejoiced in the happy accident, patting him on the back as if to say, ‘See! No nonsense was committed! Nothing to worry about!’

“The boy is a hero, then!” one exclaimed, walking over to Harry and shaking his hand. Cal paid no mind, and instead grabbed you by your shoulders and began rubbing your arms up and down.

“Look at you! You must be freezing! Let’s get you inside.”

Cal turned you around to leave, but you gave one last look over your shoulder at Harry, thanking him quietly under your breath.

The officer chuckled towards Cal, stopping him with a look of amusement. “Perhaps a little something for the boy?”

Cal raised an eyebrow, looking from the officer, to you, to Harry. “Right, George. I think a twenty should do it.”

Although it confused you to admit any form of love connection between you and Cal, you still pulled him back for such an absurd number. “Oh, is that the going rate for saving the woman you love?”

Cal pursed his lips and smiled at you, enjoying your attitude for once. “My fiance is displeased.”

Everyone shared a round of chuckles.

“What to do?” Cal pondered. “Oh, I know.”

Cal shoved his thumbs into the tiny pockets of his vest, slowly walking up to Harry while looking at him from top to bottom. He was enjoying this, Harry could tell. Although he somewhat believed the wild story you told, Cal was not one to be taken as a fool. He had heard you speak freely before on a variety of topics, with such an advanced vocabulary and lovely hardened look of determination to always get your word in. Cal knew you weren’t stupid, no, but he would not have made sense of a possible meet-cute situation with a third-class passenger. He believed he knew you better than that - you would not dare stoop so low. And at this moment, with a frightened young man’s future practically in Cal’s hands, he decided to flip a switch and have a little fun for once.

“Perhaps, you would enjoy joining us for dinner tomorrow night? To regale our group with your heroic tale!”

Harry squinted his eyes at Cal. Everyone remained quiet, no silent laughs were heard, and Harry realized that he may actually be serious. He looked over at you, watching as you trembled underneath that sad excuse of a blanket, skin blotchy from dry tears but still so elegant. Your hair moved ever so slightly with the tiny burst of winds, and your lips were murmuring quick pleas.

“Sure, I would love to.”

Cal lightly nodded, turning back to you and guiding you away from your temporary guardian angel.

Harry watched as you slightly recoiled from the hugs Cal tried to give, but then watched the instance of submission, and wanted to run up to you and guide you instead. As your midnight savior, it only seemed right to pursue that role. But the third class would not be suitable for you, and Harry’s wild hero fantasies were quickly squashed.

Instead, Harry motioned toward George. “Could you lend me a smoke?”

George looked from Cal to Harry, debating on whether to engage with him or not. But he took out his own pack of smokes anyway, lifting the box for Harry. Harry took one and left it dangling between his incisors for a few seconds, watching George watch him.

“I find it interesting,” George spoke, tucking his smokes back into his coat pocket. “That you were so quick to remove your jacket as the young lady slipped so suddenly.”

Harry shifted his weight, “I had removed it before she slipped.”

“And where were you standing?” George asked, walking to the railing. “Here?”

Harry only stared as George walked over to the other side of the railing. “Or here?”

George grinned, almost as if a lightbulb came on above his balding head. “Or…”

And he walked over to the lonely bench that had Harry’s drawing book, pencil pouch, and solitary pack of smokes. “Here.”

Harry shifted his weight once again, trying to seem more confident in his face than in his worried body. “Like I said, I removed the coat before she slipped and made my way over as she yelled for help.”

George raised his chin up high, judging Harry with every sudden movement.

“Perhaps,” George said. “But a sudden slip from leaning would have resulted in her flipping over the railing, and her arms would have been backwards so how could she grab-”

“I would really love to stay and chat and ponder all kinds of possibilities but the rats in third-class need feeding,” Harry announced, grabbing his stuff and giving George a short wave goodbye.

It wasn’t until he was around the corner and down the stairs that Harry could choke out the sob that was scratching at his throat this whole time.

He really saved you.

He really fucking succeeded in doing that.

He stumbled down to third-class swallowing the massive lump in his throat and blinking away the stinging tears, ready to scarf down whatever food was left at the buffet.

“What have you done!?”

You flinched from the volume of your mother’s voice, practically cowering at the edge of your bed as she, Cal, and George walked through your messy stay room. Flower vases shattered, jewelry pinched and pulled from their stands, buttons from your evening gown on the floor, and perfume bottles shattered, their smell intermingling with the expensive fabric of the carpet and wallpaper.

“Look at me! What have you done?”

Before you could speak, Cal shushed your own mother and held his own hand up. Your mother blinked rapidly, looking from Cal and back to you, a look of absolute astonishment tainting her pale face. But was she going to respond to that disrespect? She never did and you didn’t count on her starting any time soon.

“This night has been…” Cal muttered, loud enough for only the four of you to hear. “Peculiar.”

He picked up the tossed chair by your make-up table, gently turning it back up and messed around with whatever trinkets were in his immediate reach.

“I’m sure she has a valid explanation for such…” he paused. “Clutter.”

All you wanted to do was open the blankets and hoped they swallowed you whole. This whole situation was beyond embarrassing. Yes, you destroyed parts of your stay room and had no reasonable explanation for it other than ‘jumping into the ocean and ultimately not having to worry about it’. But all eyes were eating away at your awkward demeanor. You sat with your hands intertwined in your shaking lap, staring at little diamond designs in the soiled carpet.

Cal’s voice rang through your ears again, “Well?”

You looked up and decided to look at George first, the least threatening one of the group. He seemed to be giving you a wholesome look of sympathy, as if he knew Cal was going to handle this whole situation in the worst way possible later.

“I’ve been really anxious lately.”

“Oh, well, we haven’t noticed!” Your mother’s voice dripped with heavy sarcasm. Instead of collapsing deeper within yourself, you quickly turned your head in her direction, a look of solid outrage etched across your face. You had had such a difficult night, what with wanting to commit suicide and almost falling into the freezing ocean all within the last hour, that a look of pure anger toward your mother was enough to tell her non-verbally that you would indeed fight her if provoked.

“No, I haven’t. Excuse me for having a breakdown.”

“Yes, excuse you. Now we’ll have to bring the waiting staff up here to clean up your little breakdown, and God knows they’ll gossip about it until the end of time,” Cal groaned, rubbing his temples.

You shook your heavy head, wanting to say anything to have them leave you in peace. “I’ll clean it. I will simply ask for more towels and an empty box to put the broken items.”

Your mother scoffed, “You? Clean it? How absurd of a-”

“Would you rather I ask four or five servants to help and rant about my day to them?”

Cal stuttered in his stance, surprised by such an outburst. George, poor George, was used to this but still had a tiny smirk on this face. He decided to take his exit and slip out of the room.

“I will clean it.”

Your mother simply marched from your room. Cal stood silent for a moment, looked at you, and gave you a small smile.

“Don’t forget to scrub the carpets.”

And with that, he exited as well. Once the door shut and it was quiet for more than ten seconds, you collapsed onto the rug beneath you, your breath unsteady and chest tight.

It was as if he walked through the hallways completely lightheaded, still bouncing on the adrenaline spike from almost falling off the ship earlier. The combination of slipping, catching you, and watching your face contort with such a frightened expression was enough to increase the pressure in the middle of his chest. All he could do now was travel through his third-class lounging and take his mind elsewhere.

Through the happy commotion and drunk third-class passengers, Harry could faintly hear the sound of the band underneath his feet. Dreamy eyes watched him pass by, hungry for a word or two with the confused boy, and drunk pushes from side to side to accompany such a late night. Harry didn’t know if he was heading to his own room or down the stairs for his snack, the music now beginning to become hazy in his ears.

Without even comprehending the movement of his quick feet, he found himself in line for the last of the dinner soup and freshly baked bread. Once he got his meal, he sat at one of the empty tables and drank his soup, watching everyone lean on each other in sleepy states and finishing their own meals. There were families of all sizes, singles enjoying their time alone, and couples leaning over the railing outside watching the waves swim by. A part of Harry wanted to warn them about leaning over too far, that it was so simple for a sweaty palm to lose its grip, that the water was just so cold that it may just be better to be shot point blank.

Harry ran a hand through his hair and quickly finished his meal, grabbing his untouched piece of bread and picking at it as he walked back to his cabin. He shoved his sketchbook underneath his armpit like he always did, walking slowly and absentmindedly back to his cabin, small pieces of bread in between his teeth every once in a while. His mind wasn’t entirely absent, obviously, but he still only saw flashes of the dark abyss below your dangling body. A shiver ran up his spine and he was hit was the sudden need to see you - you couldn’t be around the ship’s railings without him.

Stop. You’re being ridiculous. She’s probably all cozied up with her rich fiance in that massive bed and far, far away from the water-

“Woah, where have you been all night? I had to eat dinner with our roommates, who have no manners by the way-”

Harry just now registered that Drake was steadying his shoulders and speaking to him. He snapped out of his dazed state, wondering just how many of his third-class mates he had ignored as he walked.

“Drake, I gotta talk to someone. Now.”

“Did you… did you break something on the ship? ‘Cause if you did, I’m sorry but I’m for sure going to pretend that I don’t know you.”

Harry rolled his eyes and continued walking to their cabin, glancing over his shoulder once in a while to make sure his only confidant was still following him. Once they entered their room, Harry locked the door and checked if their roommates weren’t hidden in any crevice of their very tiny room.

“Spill. I’m curious now.”

Harry breathed slowly, holding in his large breaths and exhaling deeply. This intrigued Drake, who was leaning on the bed post of his roommate with his arms crossed, an amused expression painted across his face. Harry sat on his own bed, hands covering his mouth. But once he could control his rapid breathing, Harry set his hands in his lap and looked up at Drake.

“I did something good.”

“Oh, thank God! You had me there-”

“And I did something bad.”

“- Fucking Christ, man.”

Drake lowered his head as if to protect against the bad blow, but nonetheless curious to what horrible act Harry committed.

“I saved a woman from falling over the side of the ship.”

“Man that’s-!”

“She was trying to commit suicide.”

“...Man, that’s-”

“I convinced her to come back over the railing-”

Drake interrupted yet again, “She was already over the railing?”

“And then she slipped and I almost went over, too.”

This time Drake let Harry finish.

“I saw her face. I had convinced her to come over the railing, and she was just this broken soul who didn’t want help. It’s like she didn’t even know the concept of receiving help.”

Harry sighed, running his hand through his hair repeatedly. “Then it was like we were joking with each other, only for a second. She wanted to come back over. Then she slipped and I swear Drake, I saw the regret in her face.”

Drake shifted uncomfortably. The subject matter was too intense, but Drake would have done the same thing. An opportunity to be there for someone else - well, that was Drake’s perfect cup of tea.

“But you saved her. And saved yourself, luckily, in the process.”

“That’s not the worst part, Drake.”

“You gotta tell me, because right now I’m blank.”

Harry groaned and lay back onto his pillow. “Pretty sure she was fucking royalty.”

Drake’s eyes widened and he puckered his lips in silent astonishment. He didn’t say anything, opting to let Harry continue talking.

“She had the clothes for it. She was wearing make-up, this dark and glossy red lipstick. And although I could smell the sea below us, I could still smell her fruity perfume.”

Neither man knew what to make of this encounter. For Drake, he was the listener and was to provide some form of broken advice. Because from what he heard so far, there wasn’t any worry unless the woman complained about Harry to someone else. For Harry, all he wanted to do was tell someone about this - he wasn’t craving advice or words of encouragement. He simply needed to tell someone that he saved a life and almost lost his own in the process. At this moment, no matter how much he respected Drake, he really wanted to speak to his mother.

“After I pulled her back over, we tumbled onto the dock. It was like my ears didn’t register her loud screams as I was pulling her back up because next thing I know, I’m being pulled from on top of her.”

“Fuck, Harry please tell me-”

“She wasn’t wearing a night coat and I wasn’t wearing one either. By pulling her up, her dress had ripped to the middle of her thigh.”

Drake now groaned non-stop and he climbed to his top bunk, slamming himself face first into his own pillow.

“Then her fiance came out.”

By now, Drake was involuntarily laughing. Loud laughs that shook his whole body, a response to the amazing events that transpired. The pure lack of luck Harry had was too much not to ‘involuntarily’ laugh at it.

“But she lied. She told them she was leaning over and I simply caught her. She made herself look stupid just to save my ass.”

“Obviously she didn’t want to just announce she almost killed herself,” Drake replied. But still, Drake stared at the ceiling, fingers tapping the top of his other hand. A first-class passenger taking the blame for something major? Unlikely. Unheard of. Unbelievable.

“Why do you think she saved your ass?”

Harry sighed softly, a small smile forming on his face. “I think it’s because I’m the only one who wanted to pull her back over. No one else came. No one else was around.”

Drake nodded even though Harry couldn’t see him, “I don’t really know what to say, Harry.”

So Harry ranted the rest of the night, subconsciously thinking about possibly seeing you again. Would you look happy and well recovered? Would you nod to him in silent agreement, like a nonverbal statement of truce? Or would ignore him entirely, thank him for what he did, uninviting him from that dinner your fiance mentioned?

“Oh my God!” Harry yelled, hands accidentally tugging some of his hair from their roots.

Drake’s sleepy eyes flew open and he sat up straight, watching as Harry began pacing around the small room. “Wha-What?”

“Her fiance invited me to dinner tomorrow night. First-class dinner. I don’t- I said ‘yes’!”

“Why in the world would you say ‘yes’?”

“I panicked! What was I supposed to say to an offer like that after what just happened?”

“Uh, ‘no’!”

Harry collapsed on his bed, pulling the blanket over his head and shutting his eyes tightly. Drake was somewhat wide awake now, completely amazed at both Harry’s bravery and stupidity combined.

“We’ll deal with this tomorrow,” Drake started. “For now, we sleep and hope she doesn’t change her story.”

Harry agreed with that logic, no matter how much his mind told him to think of a backup plan. But now wasn’t the time, not when his thoughts were scattered. All he knew for sure was that he would see you again, and he had no idea what he would ultimately say.

You absentmindedly pulled stray hair from your hairbrush, rolling the strands and tossing them into the can beside your make-up table. You had cleaned the room the best you could and used so many towels that the staff would definitely wonder what happened this night, but you couldn’t care less. The floor was clean, your bed was made, and only the smell of the perfume you broke lingered in the air.

You didn’t hear the door to your stay room open as you continued to get ready for bed. You gasped at the sight of Cal, hand instinctively clutching your chest. He chuckled at your reaction, walking slowly to where you were seated.

“I did not think tonight was going to have so much excitement.”

You gave him a small smile, eyes trained on him through your mirror. “It’s late, Cal. Perhaps we should go to bed.”

“Are you inviting me?”

You cringed inwardly but still kept a steady posture. You shook your head and chuckled nicely at his statement, hands going back to work on your hairbrush.

“I was hoping to save this for the engagement galla next week,” Cal continued, sweeping the jewelry on your desk to the side and taking the hairbrush from your hand. You accepted the small defeat, hands now resting on your thighs.

“But I think now is the proper time.”

Cal opened a velvet blue box in front of you, a heart-shaped diamond that could fill the palm of your hand inside.

“Oh my,” you gasped, looking up toward Cal for an explanation. “Cal, this is too much.”

“Nonsense,” he chuckled and picked up the necklace, unclipping the back and bringing it toward your neck. You pulled your hair back and let him clip it on.

“Look at you.”

And you did. It was heavy, the dark blue tint looking more like a horrid bruise in the middle of your sternum, and you wanted it off immediately. It was beautiful, you thought, but it was not yours.

“Cal, it’s overwhelming,” you said, somehow trying to convey the very uncomfortable feeling you were being drowned by. But Cal just smiled behind you, kneeling down beside you and looking into your eyes and back to the necklace. You cupped the heart in your hand.

“It was worn by Louis the XVI, his crown. It was made for royalty,” Cal spoke, now watching you as you held it tightly. “We are royalty. ‘Au coeur de l'océan’, they call it.”

“The heart of the ocean,” you translated at the same time Cal did, a look of shock on his face. You wanted to roll your eyes, disbelief overriding your senses at the fact he assumed you didn’t know French. As if you hadn’t studied it since the age of three.

“It’s yours now.”

You looked at Cal without the help of the mirror, staring at his dark eyes and trying to read them. He leaned his cheek on his left hand and he gave you a small smile.

“Oh, open your heart to me, Sweetpea,” he practically begged, waiting only a few more seconds before sighing and unclipping the necklace from your neck. You actually pondered his request, wondering if opening your heart for this man would truly be as bad as you assumed it would be. But all you could do was give him a gentle nod - not one of acceptance, but a promise to at least think about it. He left you alone after saying goodnight, still sitting in front of the mirror, furrowed eyebrows straining your forehead and giving you a headache.

Because as you thought about succumbing to a possibly loveless marriage with Cal, the soft face of the boy from earlier crept back into your mind, poking and prodding at any common sense left inside the padded confines of your skull.

- xxMoni

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

Text

Witcher of the Night (Chapter 12)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

CHAPTER 11

WITCHER OF THE NIGHT MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Protectiveness for his child of surprise may be the only thing that could get a witcher confessing to a midget with all of his pent up aggression and kept up feelings that he has been dealing since day one because he knew he wasn’t just protecting Cirilla. Deep inside, he was also protecting you from the wicked that lurks throughout the continent; trying hard to wipe you out of their dimension by hook or by crook. One kiss is all it takes for all the frustration to stop...or maybe not?

Warnings: Slight angst? MEAN Geralt. Sweet Geralt too. Soft Geralt too. (It’s kind of a tough contrast don’t you think? HAHAHA!) Jaskier feeling...things that shouldn’t be felt. Uh-oh. Reader being frustrated and infuriated. Cirilla being a sweetheart! Modern references included!

Words: 7,1k

A/N: Smut will come in Chapter 14 and 15. Yes, two chapters for the filth! Because...Why not?! (*frustrated potato*) I THINK TUMBLR IS ACTING UP. I SEE FICS WHERE I’M TAGGED BUT I AM NOT INFORMED. ALSO, I CAN’T INCLUDE PICS OR GIFS FROM MY LAPTOP! *angry growls* I’m lucky because i’ve had my banners and other gifs in my drafts last night and Tumblr is acting up today!

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE!

Disclaimer: PNG’s used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren’t from moi as well. GIF’s INCLUDED ARE CREDITED TO THOSE WHO MADE THEM! I DO NOT OWN THEM!

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

Your days have been quite a torture. A mix of embarrassment and full blown flusters when Geralt was around. It was simply a slip of the moment as you were too enamored by the witcher and his succulent lips that you oh-so-idiotically swerved when you could've went straight for the target instead.

Yet, here you were. Torturing yourself by taunting the witcher the day after the time you've began your self-assuring tease by telling Geralt what you've been feeling since the day you've arrived.

Now, you were being punished? Or probably suffering from a serious case of insomnia and the idea of missing his presence because the witcher wasn't around and it has already been days.

What if he gets hurt? You mindlessly talked to your alter ego, receiving a response that he's a tough one and a pretty skillful swordsman, so worrying about it like a wife does to her husband who was a soldier can be toned down to the slightest.

God, those lips. You were an idiotic potato for even doing the first move and eventually failing as you do so; like a five year old giving her crush a kiss. Well, pretty much five year old were more confident than you in this condition.

Warm palms spread through your shoulder, giving you a fright as you sat back and your tushie fell to the ground with a soft thud; with Kolby giving you those scary smile of his that made you want to pat his head but today, it seems like you weren't in the mood and that there was something bothering you with your thoughts wandering about Geralt. The witcher himself and only him.

You were acting like a clingy girlfriend when you both weren't lovers at all. Maybe, being delusional and creating fan-fics about your celebrity crushes back at your apartment wasn't enough that you even had to think that Geralt would want to be with you forever like how such happy endings in stories must have been.

What if he was just one horny man who wanted to hulk-smash because you were different than his flock of felines?

Well, it wasn't like you weren't acting the same way like a toey teenager when he hauled you closer to his chest; giving him the heart eyes.

Why must he be a white-haired hunk of a man who knew how to fight and knew magic? Even skillful with his sword?

"Oh---Geralt!" you shrieked out of the blue, the body heat of Jaskier's presence radiating beside you as he sat crouched with a crooked smile, "I must say, you're quite obsessed with the witcher since that awfully intimate moment you've had in the bathing room,"

You ignored the teasing tone he omitted and went on to shooting a question you've been bothering him since the day Geralt was out and about, "Where's Geralt?" hence, the bard could already hear the tiny whines for the presence of the witcher and he couldn't help but scoff.

"You're hurting my poor heart for asking Geralt when it's actually a pretty handsome bard in front of you,"

Your lips instantaneously jutted out in a sad pout, exhaling a long sigh as you shifted your legs into a criss-cross position; staring into space, "I need Geralt," pause and another sigh, "---I miss Geralt,"

The sudden strong yearning was becoming worse each day without Geralt around. It felt incomplete, unsatisfying and utterly frustrating that he wasn't with you, nor can you even sleep without feeling those fingers of his raking your hair even though it was only done one time.

Heck, you were worried that maybe Geralt used magic within you when you've taken your slumber because the feelings you have for him was turning insufferable, irksome when you want something but has never been given and utmost round the bend.

All you wanted and ever asked for was Geralt. Geralt. Geralt. Geralt. In which, confused the bard because you've become too attached after the Djinn incident.

"This is certainly a huge relationship development if you're finding him that miserably all the time," Jaskier stated the obvious, his laugh sounding disturbed because of your new personality that he'd noticed; or maybe you were one of those types of women?

Though, what baffles him the most is that there are days where you actually don't try to find him; like you were being just you and not one needy lady whom asks for only the witcher when he'll be coming home. Just the timid, naive small rat he knew.

There were also strange instances whenever you sleep back in Geralt's chambers; as he was writing another new epic he'd ought to create, the bard heard you whimpering and sobbing like you were in pain when it was already two in the morning.

He'd wanted to check up on you. Though, he was quite doubtful because a woman deserves whatever space and respect; thinking that maybe you were spending some wonderful time with yourself and had the pleasant time to take it while Geralt wasn't around. But, your whimpers were something else. It was a mixture of pain and distress.

Therefore, Jaskier tried to ignore your hushed outcries, although he could technically hear it from the other side of the room. The draft of his epic now forgotten as he fidgeted; he went on with dipping the tip of his feather on the ink and write nothing on his piece of parchment.

After hearing those nightly weeps of yours, the bard never left your side. Especially when you were alone in the morning, thinking that you were having a mental breakdown and actually just missing the witcher.

He could do just that. Distract you with his talkative self and so he did.

"A witcher needs to do what he always does," the bard reassured, waving off Kolby who tried sniffing his ear.

You've snapped out of your stupor, giving the bard a stink eye as he was wailing his arms around to wave Kolby away from assaulting his face, "I thought you were his travel companion? Why are you here? Shouldn't you be protecting him as well?"

Jaskier continued his bellyaching, "You naughty Hirikka!" he scolded the doe-eyed Hirikka; the creature abruptly planting his tushie on the ground as he growled at the bard as the toubadour mockingly growled back as well, a sharp bark coming from the Hirikka, "---What? With a lute? Kill beasts with my singing?"

"Then, what are you even here for?" you deadpanned. Voice all nonplussed as you apathetically gave the bard your gaze.

Jaskier made a fuss, shifting on his crouched position and turned to completely give you his full attention, giving you back a stinky lour, "How rude of you! I wonder why the djinn has never sent you home!"

You had your cheeks hollowed looking like a chipmunk as you ignored his whingeing, "What if he dies?"

Jaskier was fighting off the feeling of rolling his eyes for your worry. Geralt has dealt with lots of beasts already and his current hunt wouldn't earn him a sweat as he'd already killed a lot of its kind, "He never does. Cease the worry. He can kill beasts even when he sleeps," the bard gave an abrupt pause, gesturing with his finger as he pointed it to you to add more effect as you tried to understand his point, "---Unless, if its you he's sleeping with then we all die from the beast! Cirilla and I know how his senses are disappointing because you're like the silver to his...his...monster?"

"He isn't a monster, Jaskier." you blankly pressed.

"Who even said he was?" he gave you a guileless shrug of his shoulders. Jaskier clicked his tongue, pretty blue eyes fixated on you as it twinkled along the sunny day while you sat in the middle of their living room, "---Besides, he's hunting down a bruxa for the whole week. My dagger won't be useful for the darn beast,"

A Bruxa. You hummed to yourself in understanding; remembering that Geralt has told stories about the monster. It was a type of vampire that takes on the appearance of a dark-haired, young woman whose natural form is that of a large black bat, with sharp fangs and claws. Technically, their form of vampires weren't all glitz and glimmer that they glitter against the sunlight nor are they rich dudes that were bloody pale, attractive and screams like a banshee.

"You have a dagger?" you grilled the bard. He gave you a nod and a laid-back answer, "Well, Geralt has given me one; taught me how to use it too,"

Jaskier hasn't left your side from the moment you woke up. He had been keeping you company like an injured person. It kept you cynical because it even got to the point of following you where ever you may go; which made you skeptical about his whole tailing the midget while Geralt wasn't around.

But, you were thankful. It got you distracted by not noticing that heavy, rattling feeling inside your chest.

"Smile!" you aimed the camera of your cellphone at the appalled trouvère who had his eyeballs popping out of his eye sockets as he was struck dumb, arms crossed in front of him, shielding himself from your digital phone.

Stifling titters wanted to come out of your lips when you've received a scared bard by aiming your camera at him. Jaskier tried peeking to see your guffawing self treating him as a laughing stock. He cocked his head to the side in suspicion as he heard a loud 'click', dropping his arms to the side as he gave a frown because you were giggling back at him.

"What's that?" you've both sat on the dining table; close to each other. He'd scooted closer, trying to see what were you doing as you continued to tap on your phone that still had no time nor date listed. "A phone," you simply said; focused on the phone at hand as Jaskier's curiosity got the best of him, grasping nothing but the idea that your so called phone was out of this world and utterly magnificent when you've showed him the picture you've taken. The kaleidoscope of colors complimenting each picture which fascinated him.

"Is it a weapon?" he asked out of the blue, too absorbed by the phone on your hand as you've felt Jaskier lean in close, his hair touching yours as you were too concentrated with the thing you had in your hand.

Jaskier coincidentally raised his line of vision to look at your face. It was thoroughly unintentional especially when he'd seem to never break his eyes away from you; like he'd seen something worth to be stared at.

He didn't mean to outstare all of a sudden.

"I can throw it at your head, though my phone might be the one breaking rather than your head," you sent a harmless bon mot, being all smiles as you've sent a teasing jest.

Tranquil silence. Totally impossible for the bard to achieve with his chatty mouth. You've given him a look which was entirely a flicker of pure impeccability when you've lately realized that he was staring at you with a twinkle of his pretty ocean blue eyes.

The bard awkwardly cleared his throat, his face suddenly feeling warm when you've taken the time to look into his eyes. "Jaskier," he clicked his tongue and swallowed the ticklish feeling down his throat and avoided those eyes of yours while he'd pulled back from how the proximity was enough to remember Geralt who would tell him to 'fuck off.' for at least a thousand times, "Would you mind if I record your songs?"

He blinked back in curiosity. Record. Jaskier didn't know what it meant, "What? I cannot fathom whatever it is you're saying, rat---"

You've given him a wide grin, beaming before him with a twinkle of your eyes. "Just play your lute for me, will ya'?"

Thus, Jaskier did in a fraction of a second; like a demand from the queen. He did, surprisingly.

A distraction was best at the weird pain that spreads through your chest; along the valley of your breasts because of the realization that Geralt wasn't around. Your nightly weeps needed to have explanations because feeling the scorching pain that radiates off the symbol wasn't normal.

Including the thirst you had for the witcher himself; craving for his touches and existence. Alarming you that what you wanted from him wasn't just profound affection but also his virility as well and even a part of his soul.

The princess of Cintra was bored to tears. She'd pleaded and gave you the puppy eyes; thoroughly begging to wander through the woods and catching fireflies. Hearing something familiar that actually existed just like the same ones in earth amazed you because it was something that you've never get to see ever because of pollution and its habitat being endangered with the year you were in.

Apparently, you've followed her orders. Cirilla didn't want Jaskier to come because it's a bonding that only you and Cirilla should experience. Despite of how pushy he was, worried that Geralt would get mad at him for even letting you wander in the woods all by yourselves. He eventually agreed with a sigh and a bothered expression; telling you both that when the frog croaks in chorus, it was time to go home.

You've wondered, imagining how their frogs actually croak in chorus. Yet, having to experience it was rather much different than imagining as you've seen the whole scene unfold before you. A captivating sigh that had you cooing in the middle of the woods as there were balls of light that blinked within the thone ground like Christmas lights twinkling in the 25th of December.

It was beautiful.

Cirilla seemed to be rather used to it as she explained how it was already the croak of the night, her feet never leaving the ground as she was joyously catching a firefly that glowed with the frogs, swinging her jar till one was captured, "Is everything okay, Y/N? Oh! A firefly!" she excitedly mussed, giving you a glance and noticed that your expressions were twisted in a way that says you weren't comfortable.

You've given your symbol a caress; trying to relieve the utter worry and fury that was spreading through your chest with no reason. Why were you mad? At whom? on what? Also, the uncomfortable feeling came with knowing that Geralt already came home. He was finally home.

Howbeit, you didn't know why your intuitions tell you that he was finally home.

"Yes. It's just that...Geralt's home," you hesitatingly spoke, shaking your head to wash away the sensations as you honestly told the beaming Ashen child, "---and I feel worried even though I should be excited that he's already home,"

Cirilla was unaware of your worried face as she went on with the jests, "Told you he likes you---!" the princess teased, laughing when she'd caught a glimpse of your flustered face; remembering the awful kiss you've done back in the bath room when you were with Geralt, "---Midget."

"Not you too, Cirilla." your face was burning in a trail of blush. You've quietly shrieked as she'd gave a teasing poke on your side; making you jump, "I was just playing with you!"

All was done and everyone was left satisfied. For the princess, that was what she felt. Great elation by having what she wanted all the time. Except for you, who appeared to be in a discordance when you took your trek back home.

The witcher was back earlier than he expected to. Unexpectedly running into some of the royal guards of Kaedwen and creating a skirmish with the knights who disturbed his peace after killing the bruxa he'd been hunting.

They had reasons for their disturbance. Conniving reasons just for him to agree for the favors that he has been asked to do; or wishes from a royal command that Geralt never accedes.

Bargains of giving enough coins that would last him for half a year, the cost of token higher than the previous deal which included women, coins and ale.

He was done with that lifestyle. Well, before you came around; that is.

The witcher was as stubborn as how the townspeople have been saying. They've came to the point of calling him a monster for butchering their fellow men in which Geralt never gave a damn about it because they were destined to die anyway by what evil they've chose to have.

He didn't need people giving him another moniker. He wouldn't let it live down if he'll have one but with just another city he'd tried to save. Some of the children and women they've abducted were homeless, taken in force or had slave contracts; saying they were owned by noblemen paying for their life despite of how they didn't want to agree in the first place.

The Butcher of Kaedwen? Blaviken? What else did he needed to do and have all those infamous monikers created for him?

Until, the men mentioned and threatened to kidnap a small woman who Tybalt had stabbed on the hip that made Geralt jump on his horse because he'd also heard them draw their swords; ought to bring bloodshed when the witcher never complies.

Hence, which is why he was now in the base of their home. All exhausted, droopy, worried and furious because you and Cirilla weren't home when he'd arrived. His temper rising off the roof.

Jaskier has received a sharp cuss from him and an intense rebuke from the witcher who came fully in Bruxa blood and a little bit splashes of human blood which answered the bard's question that a Bruxa hasn't been the only thing he'd encountered on the way home.

You promised Jaskier that you'll be back as soon as possible. However, it took you both an hour after the frogs have croaked in the night and a scary witcher who wore his all black armor and had a peevish expression on his face which explains the heavy feeling dropped on your chest; doubling more when you'd seen the impetuosity radiating off the brawny man.

Geralt heavily marched to meet you midway along the meadow; with Jaskier motioning something behind the witcher with his hands like a cat clawing and slicing his throat with his thumb when you couldn't understand what he wanted to say.

"Geralt---" the princess started, reading his rigid posture and instantly knowing what his current thoughts were. But, she was cut-off by a seething, curt query start of his interrogation.

This wasn't what you expected from him. Your imagination was that you'll try and get a hug out from the witcher himself, thankful that he'd arrived safely and with complete limbs; not this. Not an angered, bloody Geralt who had his nose flaring.

You were rooted on the ground; your mouth closing once he'd started to act volatile after a week of not seeing him.

"Where have you wandered in the forest in this wild hour of the night, Ciri? Y/N?"

Ah. Y/N. Not midget, but Y/N. You were now Y/N to him. Well, that kind of hurt. You didn't know that hearing him say your name in such fiery stung your heart; such sudden frustration riling your patience. The concern and melancholic desire to see him changing into ire.

You've shut your mouth, a forced small tremble of your lips turning into a guileless smile. Tilting your chin and realizing he was pretty much taller and utterly intimidating when mad. Those amber eyes of his that swirl in unfamiliar ferocity for wandering around the woods.

The witcher couldn't help it. After meeting some of the royal guards, his protectiveness took over as he traveled all the way home in haste to check his family if they were safe.

Especially you as he'd heard one of the cavaliers threaten to abduct you soon.

The naive pretense you've wanted to use through his anger wavered when you've heard your voice faintly quiver, "She's--She's with me, she's safe, Geralt. We were just catching fireflies or whatever this is called in your world---"

Albeit, it seemed like the witcher had a closed mind and didn't want to hear your explanations as he cut you off with a seething truth; his amber eyes blazing as his jaw was clenched so tight, "You think you can protect her?"

You swallowed the hurt for the truth that was sent out in the open, catching you off-guard by the harsh statement that was bound to be told because you were saved twice; like a princess who needed rescuing all the darn time.

Thus, it added more stones to the weight dragging your heart to the ground.

"I--I--" a pathetic stutter has been uttered before the angered witcher seemed to have lost his temper and lashed out on you. He was chirlish and brusque as he does so; like how everyone pointed him out to be and this was the first time you've seen the witcher acting the way he is now, "You can't because you also need saving," pause. "---Your rash behavior can get the both of you dying!"

The latter shook his head in thwart, his gaze burning you in a way that made you want to turn into dust.

"It was fucking dangerous out there!"

The more he gnarled felt like he was blaming you on whatever caused his life to turn the way it is; even the desire for Cirilla to wander in the woods to catch fireflies was all on you to be brought on your shoulders. You huffed out a shaky breath, disbelieving the way he was throwing his surly attitude towards you made you puff your cheeks in utter vexation; wanting nothing but to scream back at the witcher.

Jaskier has managed to saunter towards where Cirilla is, her eyes completely panic-stricken by Geralt's rage; watching between the both of you and seeming to want to step in between but it seems like there were also other issues as well that made you both angry at each other. Matters that should be truly said and not be kept on the inside.

"Ciri, come with me." the bard hushed, catching the princess by the arm and dragging her away till he brought her to the door way, around a hundred meters away from the pair as the both of you tried to withstand each other's glares.

She struggled against his hold, "But, Jaskier! It was my fault! It's not Y/N's fault. Why is she being scolded when I should be the one who must be? Geralt shouldn't be mad at her! What if he---"

"He won't hurt her physically, Princess. He never does. When did he ever hurt us no matter how irking we are? You know Geralt more than anyone in this world,"

Kolby was howling inside their home, his instincts knowing that there was something happening which added more noise to the argument you had with the butcher of Blaviken; shaking the night with your kept frustrations against each other.

"---He just knows how to ruin everything with his teetering, strong feelings. He isn't the best at expressing it but you know the lout knows how to care," he went on, trying to dispel her fears for the both of you, thinking that you would eventually hurt each other with heart-breaking words, "---He'll deal with it. Come on now,"

Jaskier ushered the princess to come inside. She was hesitant at first, giving you both glances before he pulled her in; giving you both the space that is needed. The bard knew that Geralt won't start talking in a sensible manner when they're around. He wouldn't try and open his heart with people hearing what he wanted to truly say.

Your eyes started to cloud, the sensitivity of yourself beginning to take over. One fact about you was that you didn't like people yelling like you were an idiot; as well as people who were mad at you for something you've done which adds more regret to the grief, "I know I'm useless. You didn't need to yell it out loud." you deadpanned, biting the insides of your lips; trying hard not to start sobbing because you've already felt the familiar tremble.

"---You know I would spare my life just for hers because she's a princess, Geralt." your voice got the best of you, quaking in a way that got the witcher knowing that you were in the midst of crying; but somehow reluctant to break down because of his doing, "---Is this how badly you want to kick me out of your house?"

You've blinked and try to ignore the warmth pooling around your eyes, never giving him the opportunity to see right through you before you've snapped your eyes back up to the witcher who had a grimace as he stared you down. The twinkle of your eyes that was an epitome of stars in the night was now loosing its gleam and it was because of him. He'd done something wrong again; like how he was used to. Mistakes that seem to go along with his name.

Geralt had his nose scrunched; having another set of his internal battles within himself as he watched you pour out your anger at him like he'd done to you. Sharing each other's frustration since the days prior that you weren't there for each other.

Your weeping at night. He'd knew. The witcher felt what you were feeling every damn night even though he wasn't with you and he didn't know why.

"I've had Ciri close to me! You know I wouldn't let her get hurt by anyone especially from the people of Nilfgaard!" Your raving was ceaseless; impulsively bringing out pasts you heard from Cirilla and Jaskier as they've tried to tell you important things that should be avoided or was evident of danger. They were the only ones who were openly alarming you about them and never the witcher.

"How did you know about that?" Geralt's scowl grew tighter, his question sounding like a vibrating snarl that warned you he was utterly vexed.

"Because your surprise child and Jaskier had the respect to tell me what's happening in this world you're in!"

You've felt yourself choking from the hysteria raging in your veins, angrily snapping at the witcher who also appeared to be in total dismay as his scowl turned into a frown; his gaze solely on you alone, never leaving your sight. Fists were tightened on either side of you, wanting to throw things out of madness for how rude he was when you remembered how he'd wanted to kiss you back at that certain day.

He was confusing you by how he was acting tonight which also left you enraged for his complicated hot and cold demeanor.

"I don't even know where I am! What this dimension is called! Nor do I know people! Who's bad or who's good! I don't know your map or any of your kingdom!"

"You don't need to know any of that!" because the more you knew about the continent, the more it can bring darkness to you. He'd thought that keeping some things within the family was better because he didn't want you to get involved by whatever problems they may bring.

The witcher wanted you to himself. He wants to protect you from any cruelty that the continent may offer because you were his little secret.

You were his midget. His.

You've roughly bit your lips, fighting the urge for the first tear to fall; howbeit, it was a traitor as you rolled your eyes and avoided his amber peepers searching through the emotions that you oh-so wanted to convey. But, all that was evident was disappointment, anger, sadness and grief because of expecting something that wasn't supposed to be expected from a monster-slayer.

Perhaps, hoping to see through what his good heart could offer was too delusional for you.

"---Don't worry, witcher. The princess comes first before I do. I know that and it should be as well. Thanks for making me come to my senses that I'm useless and a burden for you! I'll leave tomorrow morning so your baggage of having someone needed protecting would lessen on your shoulders," you kept a straight face, blankly looking away as inscrutable as possible; not giving him the benefit of seeing you mourning for the stab of your heart.

Mayhaps, wishing for the fondness to be reciprocated by a witcher was too much of a dream for you. Definitely too high to achieve nor hoped for.

Geralt deeply growled, his forehead creased like he was hurting. You've never seen the pain that spread through his face, letting the emotion he's been keeping to himself burst like he was showing vulnerability.

He didn't like it when you've deadpanned and called him a witcher. It sounded too cold and distant, like he was made to only be seen as a witcher to you, a stranger, a mutated human who slaughters beasts and nothing else.

"Don't call me that!" he snarled, invading the space you've had and your forehead was now in line with his massive chest. You peered up at him with the same ire pooling through your peepers, your gaze hostile as you spoke with thick sarcasm.

"Aren't you a witcher? What do you want me to call you, then? Your job description changed now?"

Geralt roughly breathed out of his nose, his broad shoulders going up and down as he was controlling those emotions that he had which always seemed to be stronger and uncontrollable. He narrowed his blazing amber eyes, genuinely staring into you as he kept his hands to himself; on either side of him. Wanting nothing but to grab onto your face and make you believe that he was earnest about not wanting to be called that when it came to you.

"Don't...Don't make it sound like I'm just a trifling matter to you,"

You scoffed out of the blue for his wishes that he suddenly seem to want, "But, aren't I also just a trifling matter to you, witcher? Or do you want to be called in full name? Geralt of Rivia? Is that your full name? Oh! Maybe, the butcher of Blaviken, then?"

The sound of you calling him witcher felt so distant because he knew that, for you; he was Geralt and not a witcher who people see him as a mutant who kills beasts. To you, he was more than human and less than a witcher. In your mind, he was Geralt. Only Geralt and nothing else because he was a man whom you see that had a good heart and hearing you call him with his monikers was shattering his stronghold.

"No!" he suddenly groaned out of the blue. You gave him the death stare, stepping a foot away from the man himself as his presence was too bewitching in the rage of fire that you both cast upon each other tonight, "What do you mean no?!"

"No," the witcher hoarsely repeated, snapping his head to the side as he gravelly spat out profanities out of those mouth that you've been dying to kiss.

"---Fuck! Don't."

You shook your head in utter disappointment. Your face in a baffling twist, "Are you a broken record or something? no? don't, what?"

He had his share of breaths; seeming to be straightening his thoughts before lowly muttering out his next words, his jaw still clenched as he turned his head to see those eyes waving the white flag like he was submitting and wanted all the anger to just vanish.

"Don't spare your life for anyone, midget." it was straight to the point, giving you what he wanted you to hear.

Yet, because of his unstable attitude; you've chose to weigh down the options as to what his words meant. Choosing the platonic sense of a thought before you even smash your heart into pieces by praying that he meant something more.

"But, she's a princess---"

"---Because you are also important,"

You could see the anger dissipating from his glowing eyes; shifting into such ire that also had a hint of dithering and abrupt acquiescence. Your heart skipped a beat when his words echoed inside your heated head.

'Because you are also important,' Howbeit, your assertion for the truth had you turning his words into the chaste part of options.

"Cirilla is more important than me, Geralt. She's your child of surprise. You know I would risk my life for her. No one would really care for my death anyway. I'm probably already dead for my family back in earth," you scorned, huffing out a breath that hitched when he started giving you the doubts again.

The witcher appeared to be more frustrated as time goes by, your denial making it all too difficult for him to explain, "I.....care!" he prolonged the simplicity in his words, his teeth showing as he gritted and deeply snarled, "I do care, midget. I care about you!"

"Ah." you impassively muttered, eyes vacant as there was a void hidden behind those peepers of yours, "---you mean that because I'm your responsibility. Noted." and a simple shrug of your shoulders was enough to draw a stressed-out growl from the man who kept your heart on the line, always.

"Fuck--no! Not that!"

A simple shake of your head and a chance to leave his presence was all it could take for Geralt to grab onto your wrists, surprising you to say the least. His hold on you was tight, never letting go as you tried and uselessly battled with his strength.

You skeptically sent him a sharp look as he appeared to be groaning out deep within those sturdy chest of his that was still clothed in armor, "Let go, Geralt. I swear to God, if you don't let go and use magic or your Harry Potter slash witcher styled---Wingardium Levi-O-sa on me---!"

"You know I will never do that!" he fumed, his expressions telling you that he was offended by even thinking he would hurt you in any way, disregarding your modern references that he simply couldn't understand. Therefore, Geralt carried on with his kept feelings and raved.

"You...You are important to me! I care because you're you..."

You've exhaled a huff of frustration, never believing his words that was always been said whenever he was caught up in a moment.

"You're speaking in riddles that I couldn't comprehend, my lord." a mock of his accent made you done for. The deathless struggle you've tried to escape in his hold; both hands prying him away but he was utterly stronger than you imagined him to be.

You were utmost naive that it was making him want to just kiss you hard for you to understand his feelings.

The witcher breathed fire. Features thoroughly livid for your naivity and denial, "You're too fucking blind and too naive!" he barked, completely infuriated for your nonsense.

You loudly whined as you tried wrenching his hand away. It was better to escape his presence because you could sense that the more you stayed, the more you would forgive this man in a heartbeat with his words that seem to confuse you.

It took one more struggle and a stumble of your own foot for how forcibly you were trying to get away his hold that Geralt swiftly hung that arm he holds; slipping it around his broad shoulders, catching you completely off-guard as he leaned down entirely to your height; your eyes bulging out of your eye sockets for his surprising gesture.

"Witcher---!!!"

However, those flamed words were forgotten as you've felt those pillowy, succulent lips of his fall onto yours in a feathery touch that got your insides growing wild.

Your eyes were all open, soul flying out of its chambers when you've felt his warm lips falling in between yours. A fluttering connection of both bodies that got your body turning rigid before he'd tried to snap you out of your shock and softly kissed tips of your lower lip, his fingers gently grabbing onto the side of your face; thumb falling into the tip of your chin to chide you into kissing him back.

He hoped he wasn't just imagining things; thoroughly thinking that what he felt about you can somehow also be reciprocated and that it wasn't just him.

You've eventually given a satisfied sigh and fluttered your eyes closed, entirely giving into what your heart desires; molding your vermillion to his with a soft pucker of your lips and your other hand falling onto the side of his chiseled face that got a low grumble of his chest out of him from the tender touch of your fingers he'd anticipated to feel.

You were finally kissing Geralt and your heart seemed to be flying out of its cage.

The kiss was how you imagined it to be. Soft and candied like a precised choreography dance that was satisfying for both of your beings; yet aching for more. Your breath hitched when you've felt the tip of his luscious tongue caress your lips in a way that got the warmth pooling in your stomach turn wild.

You've snapped your eyes open and broke the kiss before it escalated further; hardly pulling away with a faint smooch that got you wanting another.

It was definitely difficult to believe. Before the witcher could even flutter his eyes open, you've timidly puckered; your face boiling in such a high temperature as you reach for his lips, planting another chaste kiss that got Geralt in a small beam that you were blinded with; finding your actions adorable as if you were timid of kissing him.

So, it was real. You've kissed him again and he let you. The feelings were actually true.

He was met with those ingenuous flicker inside your eyes as you stared back at him, a sheepish smile and a coy twinkle of your eyes got him sighing; breathing in your delectable scent and never believing you actually felt the same way, "I am...done leaving people," Geralt breathed through his nose, whispering sweet and soft nothings that got your heart twerking inside your chest.

The latter tenderly leaned his forehead against yours; eyelids shut closed as he deeply murmured. The anger simmering out of the way once he'd gotten to kiss those lips that he wanted to have a taste since the day he'd felt something for you, "---Nor am I done being left by people who are important to me,"

You felt his gentle fingers graze your chin, the dimples of his nose tickling yours; urging for just another harmless kiss that tells you it all isn't a dream you've forged to create.

"Forgive me," he gravelly whispered, hearing your thoughts as to how you wanted to be kissed; though, it was just Geralt and his self that couldn't get enough of you.

The witcher planted another uncluttered kiss to the tips of your vermillion, catching your breath away as you blinked repeatedly to get a hold of yourself when he'd pulled away with a mischievous grin, "I...didn't mean to yell,"

You've bit your lips; trying to fight yourself from squealing hard at what just happened, feeling your toes tickling your bashful heart. You took a glimpse of those amber eyes that held a roguish gaze to it, "You're...You're mean!" was all you managed to say, eyes downcast and your nose scrunched from being utterly cringe; feeling his soft lips still lingering.

Oh dear, you weren't going to sleep without squealing for the next couple of hours.

"I know," his dashing face was filled of remorse. You've given him a blink of surprise, astounded by his sheer admission towards being a big meanie for yelling at you.

A soft narrow of your eyes was the only thing he'd receive and he did the same way, his amber eyes bright and free from pique as he cocked his head to the side, a dubious impression from how you were still giving him that hostile but shy gaze of yours.

"You're still mad," the ivory-haired witcher straightened his back as he stated as a matter of fact with that rough baritone timbre of his voice. You ungracefully cleared your throat for the second time; his gaze heavy on you and it was making your heart turn wild.

"And the night is dark, Geralt." was enough for Geralt of Rivia to trail behind you like a guilty puppy as you hurriedly jogged back to their house; your nose scrunched to the extent as you delicately held onto your lips in which the witcher has kissed; your face burning from the blush that wanted you squealing out loud.

"---Utterly mad." he scoffed to himself as he groaned in regret, rolling his eyes from how you were brushing him aside.

Geralt tailed behind with a frown on his face, "Forgive me, midget." he repeated in a stern but clearer tone, utterly bothered by how you were disregarding him after all he confessed.

The door to their house were sprightly shut closed when Jaskier and Cirilla left the hatch ajar. It was Jaskier's idea to eavesdrop over the both of you and much to say, he'd already awaited for this moment to happen because of the tension that seemed palpable by everyone who surrounded you both.

"That's character development right out there, Cirilla." the bard peeked out of the small opening, watching how Geralt has leaned down to give you the kiss that was bound to happen.

Cirilla moved away from the doorway, an incredulous haze of her eyes as she had her hands on her hips, "I thought Geralt didn't know romance, Bard?"

Jaskier didn't back down from her sassy gestures and also did the same as he began to reason out, standing away from the door way when he'd heard Geralt asking you for forgiveness. The princess of Cintra has a smug look on her face, teasing the bard, "Some people improve when it's been a long time since his heartbreak---Stop judging me like that!"

He'd seen you walk back to the house, a fathomless cringe carving your features which looked like you were constipated as the witcher jogged up from behind, calling you out in the middle of the night. Jaskier was quick to shut the door closed for the second time, hauling an arm around Cirilla as he pulled her wrists till she was crouching with the bard and Kolby, acting like they were playing Knucklebones and not snooping over you and Geralt, "---Also, act like you didn't see them kiss!"

Y’ALL ARE PROLLY WAITING FOR CHAPTER 14 AND 15 NOW. 😂😂 (Strikethrough means I couldn’t tag you, bb. Please do check your settings. 🥰 Thank you!)

Taglist: @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @vania-marie @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernatural @missjenniferb @dance-dreamer @marvelousell @kingniazx @angelias134 @tapismyforte @chook007 @covid-donotenter @winter-moons @cheesecakeisapie @silverkitten547 @angelofthorr @carrieannewaywardson

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morwenna-crows · 3 years

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Apocalypse Kings - Two Preview Chapters

HarperCollins just released a new preview for Apocalypse Kings. It’s slightly longer than the earlier preview released by World Book Day, and elaborates on what the ‘three ancient gods’ mentioned in the summary are. Also, a chapter count for the whole book. Under the cut.

Adedayo was fourteen when he discovered that he was magic.

Up until then, he’d lived what he reckoned to be a normal life. He was on the school football team, which he enjoyed. He was on the school debating team, which he didn’t. He had his family, he had his friends, he liked dogs but was wary of cats, he didn’t like spiders, he hated rats and he ran away from wasps. All pretty normal. All pretty standard.

The magic thing happened over the course of a few weeks, when things started to come to him. Not answers, or knowledge, or insight, or anything like that – but actual things. Lamps, and bottles of water and big, heavy books. They’d fly at him as soon as he looked at them and he’d have to duck or jump back or run screaming from the room.

At first, Adedayo thought he was being haunted. Then he thought that he must have annoyed an invisible man at some point. One afternoon, after a teapot had collided with his face, he covered the kitchen floor in flour and waited for a footprint to appear. His mother appeared first, of course, and yelled at him, told him to clean it up. Adedayo was more scared of his mum than he was of an invisible man, so he did what he was told and wondered why he was being singled out for torment by this invisible gentleman when his two younger sisters were way more annoying than he ever managed to be.

Then his grandmother came to stay. She was a small Nigerian woman who didn’t speak much English, but her health wasn’t the best and she couldn’t stay on her own any more. Adedayo’s sisters were told they had to share a room and their grandmother – their beloved ìyá agba – moved in.

It took some time to adjust to a new person in the house, but she was lovely, so nobody minded, and a few weeks later she knocked on Adedayo’s door.

Adedayo didn’t speak much Yoruba, his grandmother’s language. His parents were both English speakers and, once they’d moved to Ireland to start a family, that’s how they’d raised him and his sisters. They’d tried to teach him a few words over the years, but he didn’t have much interest in learning, so, when his grandmother sat beside him on the bed, he prepared himself for a few long, long minutes of hesitations and the slow searching for words in English that always accompanied the rather pointless stories of her childhood. But she was his ìyá agba, and he loved her, so Adedayo smiled and pretended with all his heart to be interested in whatever she had to say.

She surprised him, then, by telling him something so brain-punchingly interesting that it changed his life forever.

She told him, in that hesitant way of hers, that magic was real, and that she was magic, and so was he.

At first, he thought she was just telling him a story to entertain him, but when she clicked her fingers and conjured a fireball into her hand it all started to make sense. The odd occurrences, the weird coincidences, the objects that moved on their own – that was magic. His grandmother explained that there were rules for people like them; there were styles of magic he could specialise in, other magical people – sorcerers, or mages – he could meet. She told him about the Sanctuaries around the world, and the wars that had been fought between the sorcerers who wanted to enslave ordinary people and the sorcerers who wanted to protect them.

He had such a life ahead of him, she said. Such wonders to uncover.

She taught him some things – how to move objects by manipulating the air around them; how to make strands of energy dance in the palms of his hands; how to click his fingers and generate sparks. She told him about the three names that sorcerers have – the name they’re given, the name they take, and their true name, the source of all their power.

But she was an old, old woman, and, a few weeks after his fifteenth birthday, her health deteriorated so much she had to be taken to hospital. Her energy dipped so that she lost all of her English and could only speak the language of her childhood. When Adedayo went in to sit with her, she woke, took his hand and said weakly, “Má şi àpótí.” Then she smiled, and closed her eyes.

Má şi àpótí, he repeated in his head. Má şi àpótí. He made a note to ask his folks what that meant, but it slipped his mind, and his grandmother passed away later that night, and Adedayo was left with a lifetime of questions, a heart full of grief and a polished wooden box.

His grandmother had insisted that it had to go to him, apparently. That only he would know what to do with it.

The box was the size of a biscuit tin. It had carvings across the lid and along the sides – carvings that looked like letters, that looked like words, but weren’t. There was no lock, no latch, no way to open it. There was nothing inside, though. Or there didn’t seem to be when Adedayo’s mum shook it. His dad tried prising the lid off with a screwdriver. Didn’t work.

The wooden box had been sitting on Adedayo’s desk, under a pile of pristine textbooks and dog-eared graphic novels, for weeks when Adedayo woke in the middle of the night, suddenly knowing how to open it.

He got out of bed, crossed the dark room and cleared the junk off the lid. He tapped the carvings on the box’s left and right sides, then pressed, then tapped again and moved his fingers in a swirling motion.

A dim blue light shone from between the carvings, travelling across the box in strange, swirling patterns. There were sounds from inside, like wooden cogs turning.

And then there was a click.

Suddenly apprehensive, and not a little nervous, Adedayo ever so slowly lifted the lid. Inside was dark. Inside was empty.

But something in that emptiness reached out and Adedayo went rigid, his fingers splayed, his legs locked straight, his head back and the muscles in his neck standing out. He felt a consciousness, more than one, poking through his mind, picking out his language, sorting through what he knew of the world, and then his knees wobbled and he went floppy and staggered back a few steps before collapsing.

A hand emerged from the box.

The hand became a forearm and then there was an elbow, and the elbow pressed down on the table for leverage and a shoulder appeared and then a head, a head with a black veil and horns poking out, a head far too big to be squeezing through a box the size of a biscuit tin.

This thing, this being, was called the Sathariel. Adedayo didn’t know how he knew that – he just did. It was like there was a swimming pool full of weird knowledge and he’d just cannonballed into it. He watched the Sathariel climb out of the box and stand by the table, his black robes long and ragged, his breathing heavy, his horns sharp.

He had mottled green hands tipped with black nails, and from his robes he drew a gnarled staff as tall as he was. The smell he brought with him was pungent and made Adedayo think of people screaming.

Something else came out of the box: a tentacle, wet and dripping. It probed the air, then found the table, and a second one came out to join it, then another. Then there were a dozen tentacles, some as thin as a cat’s tongue, some as thick as an elephant’s trunk, and once they’d gained purchase they lifted the Cythraul straight up out of the box.

The Cythraul, the Many-Tentacled One, hid most of his body beneath a robe of soiled crimson, but Adedayo caught a flash of pale, squirming flesh that made his stomach roil. The Cythraul had a wide, gaping mouth lined with small, sharp teeth, like a lamprey eel, and a single black, blinking eye. He looked down at Adedayo and then, thankfully, away.

There was another creature in the box. The last of the Apocalypse Kings unfurled himself from his confinement and stepped into the bedroom. Tall and thin, black-haired and pale, long-faced and red-eyed, the Deathless wore a robe of rags and filth that fitted him like kingly vestments.

He looked round Adedayo’s bedroom and breathed in, then smiled.

“Smells like feet,” he said, and all three of them vanished.

Adedayo got home and apologised for being so late. He told his parents he’d been out walking, thinking about his ìyá agba. They seemed to accept that, and let the matter drop.

His sisters arrived in the kitchen and announced that, even though Ìyá Agba was gone, and so a bedroom was suddenly available, they wanted to keep sharing. They announced this like they expected their request to be denied – his youngest sister’s eyes were already brimming with tears. When they were told that was fine, they shrieked and hugged and hugged their parents and even hugged Adedayo, and ran back to their room.

Adedayo’s dad chuckled and went into the living room.

“Mum,” said Adedayo.

She was making herself a cup of tea. “Yes, sweetie?”

“What was Ìyá Agba’s life like? Back in Nigeria?”

His mum paused. “I’m not too sure, actually. She never talked about it all that much. She was happy, though. I know that.” She smiled. “She used to tell me stories, when I was your youngest sister’s age. All kinds of stories she’d make up about people with amazing names all over Africa. People with magical powers. And in the stories she was always in the middle of the adventure. Always having fun. I miss her.”

“I miss her too.”

His mother’s smile turned sad, and she took a packet of biscuits down from the cupboard and held it out. “Take two,” she said, “and don’t tell your sisters.”

He took two, and she winked and carried her tea to the doorway.

“Mum,” said Adedayo, “what does má şi àpótí mean?”

She frowned. “What?”

“It’s just something Ìyá Agba said to me in hospital. What does it mean?”

“Are you sure that’s what she said?”

“I mean … I might not be remembering it exactly right, but I think so.”

His mum shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just it’s an odd thing to say, that’s all. It means don’t open the box.”

Adedayo looked at her, then nodded. “Yep,” he said. “Makes sense.”

#apocalypse kings #preview #spoilers #skulduggery pleasant

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thegreatestofheck · 4 years

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The Girl with No Heartbeat Pt.6 ⊰JJ Maybank⊱

(gif not mine. credit to kaipurge)

word count - 6.2k warnings - none other than the fact that it is completely unedited. I hope no one minds synopsis - It’s movie night! Mera and the gang watch the first three Pirates of the Caribbean movies. It’s all fun and games until something is triggered within Mera that sends her spiraling. a/n - So, this has got spoilers for the first three pirates movies, but only slightly, not much. It won’t be too bad if you haven’t seen it, it’s pretty vague. Also, I’m kind of deciding that there will be some love triangle action going on, so yay for that. Also, I’m sorry it took so long for this chapter to happen. Anyway, enjoy this chapter!!

***

When Mera stepped into the pod the next day, her shoulders sagged and she let out a deep sigh. She had thought that the pod had been full yesterday, yet somehow, overnight, Ward had managed to fill the pod even more. There had already been enough dread of coming back to work as it was, Mera couldn’t believe there was more in this room she would have to clean.

“As long as he keeps paying me for it,” she grumbled to herself. Just as she started to clamber her way less than delicately through the mass of stuff toward the bathtub with her ammonia filled bag, the door squeaked open.

“Hey,” Rafe said from behind her.

“Hello,” she replied as she tiptoed around a dishwasher.

“Um, how are you?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good, good.”

Mera glanced behind her to see Rafe still standing by the door with a bag in his hand. His lips were pressed into a fine line and he was staring at his shoes.

“What do you have there?” Mera asked once she reached the tub. Rafe lifted the bag.

“Oh, I just bought, uh, donuts,” he said. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Why would I be hungry?” she laughed, hoisting the bag out of the tub. Rafe rolled and for a moment he looked like that arrogant boy she remembered the first time they met.

“Those pogues you live with barely have food to feed themselves. I doubt they have the supply to feed you too,” he said. Mera scowled at him even as she lugged her bag back toward him.

“And you wonder why I punched you in the mouth when we first met,” she scoffed. Rafe scowled at her as she dropped the bag onto the ground. The metal stove tops inside clattered to the ground, but she didn’t flinch as she kept Rafe’s gaze.

“If you have a lecture for me, save it,” he snapped suddenly, crossing his arms.

“I don’t lecture, Rafe,” she said and broke eye contact. She leaned down to pick the bag off the ground again.

“Right, you just hit people you don’t agree with.”

“No, I hit entitled, arrogant assholes who think they’re better than everyone else because their daddy has money,” she snapped, sending him a hard glare. Rafe’s mouth parted as he thought up something to say, but then he looked away from her, glaring at the ground. “You don’t want a lecture? Fine, you won’t get one from me. But don’t expect to be making friends any time soon if you keep acting like you own the world.”

“Who said I needed friends?” He asked as Mera pushed past him toward the door. Mera rolled her eyes, settling back into a scowl.

“Hmm, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you keep following me around like a lost kitten,” she said. She stepped outside and started toward the house, looking for a faucet of some kind.

“I don’t follow you around!” he said as he followed her outside.

“Admit it. You’re either madly in love with me or you just really, desperately need a friend. I’d prefer the latter.”

Rafe spluttered for a bit, crossing and uncrossing his arms as he struggled to find something decent to say. Mera found a hose and set the bag down in the grass beside it.

“You wanna make yourself useful?” Mera snapped. “Find me a bucket or a tub or something I can use.”

Rafe stormed away and Mera looked down at her trash bag.

“Hey, Mera!” Someone called from above. She looked up to see Sarah hanging out a window. “How’s it going?”

“Your brother’s a bilge rat.”

“I don’t know what that means, but if it’s West Coast for ‘asshole’ then yeah, pretty much” Sarah said. “Anything I can do to help you?”

Mera shook her head and let out a sigh.

“No, I don’t think so, Sarah. It’s appreciated though,” Mera said.

“So, uh, how’s Kiara?” Sarah asked, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “And the others? Kiara and the others. You know, because you live with them you would know. At least, you live with John B and sometimes JJ so, of course.”

Mera felt herself smile as she tore open the trash bag. She gagged momentarily at the smell of the ammonia, but then she looked back up at Sarah.

“They’re all good.”

“Good is good. Good is good.” Sarah let out a sigh and Mera’s smile grew.

“You and Kiara, are you-”

“No!” Sarah said quickly. “God, no. I like men. Men only. Only men. Kiara and I were...friends back in the day.”

“Why aren’t you friends now?”

“Hold on a sec,” Sarah said before leaning back into the house. “Yeah, Dad?”

Mera waited patiently as she heard Ward and Sarah’s muffled voices.

“Hey, Mera?” Sarah called down from above once again. “I’ve gotta go real quick, but I’ll be back soon and maybe we can chat then, yeah?”

Mera smiled up and nodded her head.

“Catch ya later,” the blonde said before ducking back inside. Despite how angry Mera had just been, Sarah had somehow managed to make her smile. That smile faltered when a tub was thrown at her feet.

“I’m not in love with you,” Rafe said, standing behind Mera. She sighed and lowered her hands.

“I’ll be your friend, Rafe, on one condition,” she said, turning and standing. Rafe almost seemed to flinch at her. “Don’t make jabs at my family.”

Rafe cleared his throat.

“Right. No more jabs.”

Mera gave her head a stiff nod.

“Also, one more thing,” she said, holding up a finger.

“I thought you said only one condition.”

“This isn’t a condition. Just a favor.”

“I bought you a donut, isn’t that favor enough?”

“Listen, all I need is something to scrub these metal things down with. I’m not asking you to murder anyone or anything,” Mera said, growing slightly more irritated.

“I think there’s one in the kitchen,” he said finally. Mera raised an eyebrow.

“You think?”

Rafe simply rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on his face as he walked toward the front of the house.

~~~

“You may not want to touch me,” Mera said with a laugh, holding her hands out as Kie threw her arms around Mera’s shoulders. “I’m gross.”

“We’re all gross,” Kie laughed. Mera held up her hands, covered in grime and black muck. Kie grimaced and Mera gave her head a little nod.

“That’s what I thought.”

Mera started toward the house, Kie strolling along beside her.

“So, where are the boys?” Mera asked.

“They’re getting snacks for movie night,” Kie said, a smile on her face. “I’m so excited. We’ve gotta start with the Pirates movies, of course, but I think you’re really gonna like Cinderella, so we’re doing that one next, no matter what JJ says.”

“So, no vampires in Santa Cruz?”

“No vampires, period. Not until you watch Cinderella, of course.”

Mera laughed to herself, giving her head a little shake.

“I was given a movie suggestion today that we should add to the list,” Mera said as she walked into the bathroom. Kie settled herself onto the toilet seat, watching Mera with a wide smile.

“Sure, what movie?”

“Pulp Fiction, I think it was called?” Kie rolled her eyes at the suggestion.

“That’s John B’s favorite movie,” she said with a quiet huff. “Who suggested it?”

“Oh, uh, Sarah.”

Kie was too immediately frazzled by the mention of Sarah’s name to see the way Mera’s eyes flicked back and forth at her own lie.

“Why were you talking to Sarah?” Kie asked, a scowl pinching her eyebrows. Mera shrugged, turning on the water and beginning to scrub at her hands.

“She’s nice to me.”

“She’s a two faced bitch is what she is,” Kie grumbled, pulling her knees up to her chest and scowling even harder. Mera glanced over and raised an eyebrow.

“I feel like I am missing a vital piece of information. What happened between the two of you?” Mera continued to scrub at her hands, remembering the way Sarah blushed and stuttered after asking about Kie. There was definitely something going on.

“She was my best friend.” There was a deep sadness in Kie’s voice that made Mera turn the water down and put more of her attention on her. “We did everything together. She was everything…. But she wasn’t who I thought she was.”

“What did she do?” Mera tried to remember the way her father used to talk to her when she was upset, how he would lower his voice and reach out to grab her hand to keep her from shaking, how sometimes he would pretend to be distracted with something else so she didn’t feel like she was burdening him with all her troubles. Now, Mera tried to emulate that same feeling for her friend, for Kie.

Kie scoffed, but her eyes were full of tears.

“It sounds stupid,” the girl grumbled. Mera was tempted to put a hand on Kie’s shoulder and give her a reassuring squeeze, but her hands were still covered in filth.

“Your pain is anything but stupid.”

Kie looked up at Mera, her deep brown eyes still full of tears, but there was a small smile on the girl’s lips.

“It’s movie night,” Kie said suddenly, straightening her back and blinking away her tears. “There’s no crying on movie night.”

Mera watched as Kie shoved her feelings back down into the box she kept them in. It was a familiar sight. Mera had seen it in the mirror a million times before.

“Right. I just have to get this uck off of my hands and then I’ll be ready.”

~~~

Mera thought that movie night would have been at the Chateau, since it was where they had spent all of their time already. She was surprised when the boys pulled up in the van, the back stocked full of snacks that Mera had never seen before in her lives, but none of the boys got out.

“You sea lassies ready to go?” JJ asked from the back with a horrible pirate accent, holding the sliding door open with a smile. Mera was caught somewhere between mentioning the accent and asking where exactly they were going.

“Aren’t we staying?” She asked finally while Kie climbed into the seat beside John B.

“Kie’s the only one with a TV,” John B said. Mera barely had time to scowl at the unusual name before Pope started to explain it.

“TV. It’s short for television. It’s like a flat box that displays the movie onto it,” Pope said, popping a red fish-like food into his mouth. JJ offered Mera a hand to help her into the van, which she took even though she really didn’t need to. When she felt her face flush, she pulled her hand from his and settled down across from him, beside Pope, who continued to prattle on about the long and exciting history of television.

“JJ, hand me the notebook,” Kie said from the front seat. Mera, who had been watching Pope as he talked to her, glanced over at JJ when he didn’t respond to his friend, only to find that his blue eyes were fixed on her. “JJ!”

The boy startled and seemed to snap back into reality. He pulled a notebook from one of his many pockets and handed it to Kie, not looking at Mera. Instead, he started to fiddle with the ring on his pointer finger. An unholy array of thoughts passed through Mera’s mind before Pope elbowed her lightly in the arm and nodded toward John B.

“Kie says you’re adding Pulp Fiction to the list?” John B said, looking in the rearview mirror with a large smile. Mera nodded her head.

“It was recommended.”

“By who?”

“Um, Sarah,” Mera said as she glanced at Kie, who had taken to picking aimlessly at her nails.

“Sarah Cameron suggested you watch Pulp Fiction?” Pope asked with a tone of disbelief. All Mera could do was smile and nod and pray that they wouldn’t push her any further. Of course Sarah hadn’t recommended Pulp Fiction. Rafe did, but there was no way that Mera was going to tell them that, especially when John B’s smile was so big.

“What are these?” Mera asked, looking at all the different bags laying in front of her. JJ suddenly reentered the conversation as it turned onto food, a glimmer in his eyes.

“These are hot cheetos. They didn’t have any takis, so we had to get these. Those over by Pope are Swedish Fish. They’re disgusting-”

“No they aren’t!” Pope protested, tossing two more of the red fish into his mouth.

“You’re the only one who likes them. Anyway-” Mera reached over and put her hand in the Swedish fish bag, pulling out one of the oblong candies. Pope nodded his head enthusiastically for her to try it. “We got some Pringles and some Skittles and some chocolates for JB and some gummy worms and some raspberries for Kie.”

“Really?” Kie turned around in her chair again, a huge smile on her face. “I didn’t think they were in season.”

“They aren’t but Pope over here wanted to buy some for you anyway,” JJ said with a huff. Mera still held the Swedish Fish in her hand, not sure if she was actually willing to try it.

“Thanks, Pope,” Kie said, turning her smile to the boy sitting next to Mera. Instead of saying anything to Kie, Pope tried to hide his sheepish smile by turning and talking to Mera.

“Try it!” He said, motioning for the fish in her hand. “I promise it’s good. JJ just has jacked up taste buds from all the weed he smokes.”

JJ stuck out his tongue, but the joke was enough motivation for Mera to finally take a bite out of the candy. The outside was almost hard, but the inside was soft and gooey. Mera scowled, unsure of what to make of the sweet flavor at first.

“See?” JJ said, crossing his arms. “Disgusting.”

“She hasn’t said anything yet!” Pope protested.

“It’s all over her face, Poe. She hates it.”

“It’s actually not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten,” Mera said once she had chewed enough to swallow, which felt like forever.

“See?” Pope sneered at his blond friend in a mocking tone.

“She said not the worst, which doesn’t mean it’s any good.”

“Well,” Mera said with a smile. “When you’ve eaten gull legs, gruel, and barnacles, there isn’t a lot that doesn’t taste good.”

“There, Pope, you happy?” Kie said from the front, her leg propped up on the dash. “Swedish Fish aren’t as disgusting as seagull legs.”

Pope scowled and threw another fish in his mouth as Mera chewed quietly on her own. Mera sat back and let them all talk to each other, passing insults and jokes that Mera didn’t quite understand. But she laughed anyway because one day she would understand and one day those jokes would be funny to her too.

She wasn’t sure what she expected Kie’s house to be like, but the grandiose mansion was not it. For a moment, she felt her heart plummet. But when she glanced over at Kie and saw the same look of disappointment, Mera felt a warm feeling return.

“Your parents know we’re coming, right Kie?” Pope asked as he looked up at the large, white house, carrying a bag of snacks in his arms.

“Of course they do,” Kie said with a roll of her eyes. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because last time you didn’t tell them,” JJ said. “And we got a nearly three hour lecture.”

“Right. Well, I did tell them this time.” Kie turned to Mera. “And they are so excited to meet you.”

Kie’s mom wasn’t there when the five showed up, but her dad was more than happy to welcome them inside.

“Hey, Big Mike!” JJ said as they all walked inside, Kie taking the lead. Mike, Kie’s dad, did not seem impressed by JJ or his toothy grin. Pope shook his hand, which made Mr. Carrera almost smile, but he ignored John B completely.

“You must be Mera,” Mike said when he finally came to her. Mera forced herself to smile and she nodded. She shook his outstretched hand.

“That I am.”

“And you’re…John B’s cousin?” Mike looked between Mera and John B for a few moments, eyebrow raised just like his daughter did.

“Why does no one believe that she’s my cousin?” John B grumbled, crossing his arms. Mera simply laughed.

“Yes. He’s my cousin.”

“Well, I’m glad to finally meet you. You’re always welcome here,” he said, still smiling.

“I didn’t get an always welcome invite,” said JJ, to which Kie rolled her eyes.

“There’s a very good reason for that, JJ.”

~~~

There was only mild interrogation before Mike decided it was okay to leave them alone and lock himself away in his room. With the lights shut off, the popcorn popped, and candies in a wild array around them, all five teens wrapped themselves in blankets and settled down in front of the TV.

It took some getting used to for Mera. A lot of getting used to. At first, the lights from the screen hurt her eyes and the music was so loud. But by the time the movie actually started, she stopped cringing. Mera was settled near the edge of the couch between Kie and Pope so she could steal Swedish Fish from his bag but still reach the popcorn (which, she discovered, was heaven sent. Way better than gull feet).

She let her mind stop wondering how hard it must have been to invent the thing before, stop trying to figure out how it worked, stop lamenting over her lost centuries, and let herself just enjoy the movie placed before her.

It was part romance, part sea-faring adventure. Inaccurate as it was, Mera found herself enjoying it. She laughed with the jokes, shoved her face full of popcorn when things got tense, and exclaimed more than once about how cool Jack Sparrow was.

“Just wait till the next movies,” Kie gushed. “You’ll love them all even more.”

There was no question as to whether they would put in the next movie. In the brief time it took Kie to slide out of her spot and put the next disk in, the boys were berating Mera with questions.

“How accurate was it?”

“Did you like it?”

“Did you notice when-”

“Did you ever meet Jack Sparrow?”

“Jack Sparrow’s fake, you idiot.”

“I’m pretty sure it was Captain Jack Sparrow.”

“Right, right.”

The second movie started and everyone went silent. Again, Mera was enthralled. There was no turning her head from the screen. If someone even opened their mouth to speak, she was shushing them instantly. She didn’t want to miss a single second.

By half way through the third movie, Kie had fallen asleep on Mera’s shoulder. Pope didn’t last much longer before he too fell asleep, his empty bag of Swedish Fish fallen on the floor. John B stayed awake until the big battle started. Mera had no idea how he slept through all the cannon fire. She flinched almost every time one went off and every time, Kie would squeeze her hand in her sleep.

“He’s not dead,” Mera whispered into the darkness, the first time she had spoken since the post-second movie interrogation. She looked across the couch toward JJ, who was the only one left awake. He was shocked to see the light of the television illuminated the glimmer of a tear on her face. “He can’t be.”

JJ wished he was closer, just so he could reassure her that everything would be alright. Even though her worries were relieved just seconds later, he couldn’t help but wish he was closer. He barely looked back at the screen the entire rest of the movie, watching the way her eyes lit up near the end with the scene at the beach, watching the way another tear slid down her cheek at the painful departure of the two lovers. He watched her smile at the final scenes with Jack and Barbossa and Gibbs, watched as her mouth fell open with shock when the credits started to roll.

“There’s a little scene at the end,” JJ whispered to her. She finally looked over at him and nodded, trusting that he was telling the truth. She read through all of the names, mentally thanking everyone of them for their contribution until, just like JJ said, there was a small scene at the end.

It was simple and it was short, but by the end of it, Mera had more than one tear rolling from her eyes. The movie ended completely and JJ shut the TV off, but Mera still stared at the now blank screen.

“What did you think?” He asked, giving her a few moments to process. At first, all she could do was nod her head.

“That was….” Mera let out a long sigh as she struggled to find the word that suited it best. “Epic.”

“You really liked it?”

At the near giddiness in JJ’s voice, Mera finally tore her eyes from the screen to look at him and nod.

“I’ll probably have to watch it a million more times.”

“We have to watch Lost Boys first,” JJ said, slouching down farther in his chair. “And Interview With a Vampire.”

Mera laughed quietly and Kie stirred beside her, groaning quietly in her sleep.

“Kie said that we have to watch Cinderella first,” Mera told JJ as she looked down at the sleeping girl. JJ made a fake vomiting sound.

“That’s a princess movie,” he said with a disgusted look on his face.

“So?”

“Princesses are for girl’s, Mera!”

“From my experience,” Mera told him, crossing her arms gently. “Boys have been more infatuated with princesses than any other breed since the title was even thought up. More boys would give their right arm and leg to marry a princess than, say, a pirate.”

“I’d marry a pirate,” JJ said confidently. Mera felt her face grow hot and she was suddenly grateful for the darkness to cover her. “I, uh, I just mean that not every guy is looking for a princess to fall in love with. That’s all.”

“Right, of course.”

The mood fell flat. JJ cleared his throat twice like he was going to say something else, but never did. Eventually, Mera gave up on the awkward silence.

“Goodnight, JJ,” she said suddenly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night, Mera.”

They fell silent again. Mera tried to squeeze her eyes shut and pray for sleep, but her mind was still racing at a thousand miles a minute. Not only were the movie scenes still bouncing around her head, but she was actively trying to convince herself that JJ hadn’t just said he would marry a pirate...in the presence of a literal pirate.

Of course he didn’t mean me, she thought to herself. I’m not really a pirate anymore, now am I?

Mera didn’t realize that the movie scenes in her mindseye had shifted from what she had actually seen on the television, to something more fantastical until she was already asleep. Fiction morphed with reality until she was back on the sea once more, the taste of salt in the air as sea mist sprayed through the air.

She was on top of the Black Pearl, with two captains at the helm. At first, she thought it was Jack and Barbossa, like it was in the movies, but when they both turned around, she realized that they were strangers. She didn’t recognize their faces because their features were blurred beyond comprehension. Despite not knowing what they looked like, Mera felt like she...knew them both.

Two captains of one ship. She couldn’t tell who they were, but the feeling of familiarity was too real to pass up.

And then things got even weirder.

She heard her father call her name, but it wasn’t the name she was used to hearing from his lips.

“Mera,” he whispered to her from somewhere behind. When she turned, he wasn’t there. “Mera.”

From behind again. She spun, this time hoping to catch him standing there, but there was nothing but the sea mist. She scowled, confused as the two captains shouted contradictory orders. The boat tugged and it pulled, trying to obey the commands of both of her captains at once.

“Mera!” This was a different voice. The voice of a song, but strict and stern. This time, when Mera turned, she found herself standing face to face with her siren sister, Ira. Her deep brown skin glittered in the sunlight as water dripped down her nude body. Her lips were pursed, expertly covering the fangs that hid beneath. Her brown eyes sparkled, but in every way that made Mera shiver.

“You left us,” Ira hissed. Mera heard her words inside her head, but her mouth did not move. “You abandoned your own family.”

“No.” Mera shook her head and took a step backward.

“Yes, Mera.”

“Mera!” A third voice called. Mera spun around and the ship changed. No longer was she on the Black Pearl with it’s two captains, but she was back on the Iron Anchor, her mother standing by the stern. Ira was gone.

“Mera!” Her mother cried out. “Look out!”

Mera spun around, ducking under the swing of a sword with milliseconds to spare. As she stumbled backward, still wearing the pajamas Kie had leant her, Mera realized what was happening.

Cannon fire echoed through the air, the smell of sea salt air replaced by gunpowder and burning wood. The mast of the Anchor lay toppled over, creating a wonderful walkway for the British ship that bobbed a few yards beside them. They were being attacked.

She fell back into the flow of fighting almost instantly. Without any protection and no weapon, Mera needed to think smart. She ducked and evaded until she could get a clean shot at a gut or the groin, waiting for the right moment to grab a weapon.

“Mera!” Her mother’s voice called again, but from much closer. There was no time to look for her though. All Mera could do was fight to stay alive. It suddenly felt as if Mera was the only one left fighting the British, that they were all ganging up on her and she was nearly defenseless to stop them.

“Mera,” her mother said from somewhere that she couldn’t see. “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t left me.”

“I’m right here, Mother,” Mera said, grinding her teeth as she fought to keep the sword of her opponent from running her through.

“You left us.” Her mother’s voice was weepy. “I lost your father and then I lost you. I am so alone.”

“No!” Mera cried, shoving her opponent off of her and into another British soldier. “I’m right here.”

She heard her mother scream, the same ear splitting cry Mera had heard the day her father had been run through. Turning slowly to face the other side of the boat, Mera saw the Commander of the British ship holding a sword that was deep in Amarylis Briarheart’s gut. The same Commander that had killed her father.

“No!” Mera screamed. She ran across the suddenly empty deck, with no opposition in her path. She didn’t hesitate to grab the Commander and pull him away from her mother. They fought, just as they had done once long, long before. And just like before, the Commander sunk his sword into Mera’s side. For half a second, she felt the sting of metal tear through her flesh, and then she just felt numb. Clenching her jaw, Mera didn’t even look back at her dying mother before wrapping her arms around the Commander’s neck and leaning over the edge of the boat, toppling down deep, deep into the darkness below.

“Mera,” a voice whispered like a lullaby. She wasn’t sure if it was Ira or her mother or Kie, but the voice was quiet and calm, like a wave lapping against a quiet shore.

“Mera.”

The ocean was cold and it was dark, but Mera could barely feel anything. She recognized the numbness. It faded quickly as her lungs began to burn and the salt of the water began to stab at her wound.

And Mera waited. She waited for Ira to come like she did before. She waited for the offer that she would accept so she wouldn’t have to die. But Ira never came.

“You took immortality from me once,” Ira’s voice said, though she was nowhere to be seen. “And you gave it up for some boy!”

“He didn’t deserve to die,” Mera replied.

“Maybe not.” There was a pause. “Then again, maybe you did.”

In one swift motion, Mera felt something tug harshly against her neck, dragging her down, down, down, away from the light of the sun and into the depths of the sea. Mera screamed, or she tried to, at least. One arm around her neck became a dozen hands across her entire body, pulling at her flesh, tearing out her hair, yanking her down to the sea floor.

“You have blood on your hands,” an unfamiliar voice boomed throughout the ocean. “It’s time for you to pay for it, Mera.”

Her screams never stopped as the sirens she once called her brothers and sisters tore into her skin as she had done so many times, shrieking her new name as they did so as if it was an insult on their lips.

“Mera! Mera!” They cried.

“Mera!” The booming voice echoed.

“Mera!” Ira hissed in her ear.

“Mera!” Her mother shrieked for her as she fell over the side of the boat.

“Mera!” Her dad breathed as he died.

“Mera!” the two mysterious captains yelled, both vying for her attention.

“Mera!”

With a gasp, she shot upward, her eyes snapping open.

“Mera, are you okay?” Mike Carrera knelt in front of her, holding her wrists in his strong grip. Beside him sat Kie, eyes full of worry and fear. She looked around. To Pope, who was sitting next to her still, a hand on her shoulder. To John B, who was standing behind Mike and Kie with a fist pressed to his lips. To JJ, who sat on his knees beside her, fear etched into every feature.

“What…?” She gasped for breath, noticing how hoarse her voice was. “What happened?”

“You were screaming,” Kie told her quietly. “And shaking.”

“It must have been a nightmare,” Mike said, dropping his hands from her wrist back to his side. Once his grip was gone from her, Mera realized how badly she was shaking. Sweat beaded down her neck and spine, her muscles refused to relax as she tried not to look at the worried faces that surrounded her.

“Yeah,” Mera murmured. “A nightmare.”

“Are you okay?” Pope asked, his hand not leaving her shoulder despite how damp it was. Mera nodded her head slowly, not really trusting herself to speak.

“I’ll get you some water,” John B said. Mera didn’t even have the strength to thank him.

“Why don’t you sleep in my bed?” Kie asked, leaning forward and putting a hand on Mera’s knee. She just shook her head.

“I would rather stay out here,” she said. “If that’s okay with you guys.”

She glanced at Pope and JJ, almost worried they would kick her out for waking them up.

“Of course that’s okay,” Pope said and gave her his best reassuring smile. John B returned with a cup of water that Mera took with trembling hands.

“K, can I talk to you?” Mike asked, pushing himself to his feet. Kie nodded, following after him once she had given Mera’s hand a tight squeeze.

“Here,” John B said, “We can sleep on the floor. You and Kie take the couch. It will be more comfortable that way.”

Mera couldn’t find the strength to protest. Pope and JJ almost silently moved off of the couch, dragging their blankets and pillows with them onto the floor. She flattened herself just as quietly, straining to her ears to hear what Mike and Kie were talking about. Being a siren had left her with three unchanged physical characteristics; the unnaturally sea green eyes, an unbeating heart, and ears that were very tuned in for hushed conversations. This was one of the rare moments that Mera was grateful for it.

“...anything happen at home?” Mike asked Kie.

“Not...not that I know of. She’s had a tough life, though,” Kie replied. Mera felt the all too familiar weight of embarrassment press down against her. She wanted nothing more than to sink into the holes of this far too comfortable couch and stay there forever.

“I might not know much, but I know those kinds of nightmares aren’t good for a kid,” Mike said. Mera could imagine him with his hands on his hips, a concerned dad look on his face. In the brief moments Mera had met him, he almost reminded her of her own father. It made her sad.

“She’ll be fine, Dad,” Kie said. The confidence in her voice gave Mera a little bit of hope.

“You don’t need to fix her, K.” These words were spoken even quieter than the other ones. The silence was deafening. “I know you want to fix that boy and you can’t, but that doesn’t mean you should take on another charity case.”

“That’s not what this is, Dad!” Kie’s anger was evident even through her hushed tone. “JJ and Mera don’t need to be fixed. They’re not broken. They’re people who are hurt and they just need something stable and safe.”

“And that has to be you?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But it is.” Kie was silent. “Look, baby, I know why you want to help them, but you have to take care of yourself too. They have to take care of you too.”

“They do! I-”

Mera couldn’t stand to listen to any more. She rolled off the couch and tiptoed toward the sliding glass door that led to an outdoor patio. She didn’t even care to look and see if the boys were asleep yet.

The fresh air felt good against her hot face and skin. Out in the open, she felt like she could breathe again. Lifting her head and she breathed deeply through her nose, Mera looked out toward the horizon, gazing at the glittering ocean set before her. The moon shone bright in the sky, reflecting off of the surface of the water. The stars twinkled above and shimmered below. If Mera could look past the trees and the buildings and the streetlamps, she could almost convince herself that she was back on the sea, with the wind in her hair, and the smell of the salt covering the musk of the men.

But her moment of bliss was interrupted by the ever present ocean call. Her brothers and sisters sang to her from under the wave, luring her back to the water so she could pay the price for her sins. She had gotten a taste of what that might look like tonight in her dream and the thought scared her more than anything. The lullaby made her knees weak and she felt her breath go ragged again. It was too hot to go back inside, but she couldn’t stand being out here much longer.

Luckily, her break came when the sliding glass door opened again.

“Hey.”

It was JJ.

Mera brushed away a stray tear or two that managed to squeeze it’s way out of her eyes before half turning her head toward him.

“Hey.”

He walked forward, joining her at the railing. He leaned up against it just like she did, looking out over the water. For a moment he was silent and she wasn’t sure he was going to say anything else. His presence was enough to drown out the siren call a little, but she knew that if he spoke, she wouldn’t be able to hear it at all. She just wanted to be rid of it.

“What were you dreaming about?” He asked finally.

“Nothing pleasant,” she told him with a sigh.

“Mmm.” He looked down at his hands. “We triggered something, didn’t we? Watching those movies?”

Mera shrugged her shoulders. It was possible. Probable, actually. But she had enjoyed herself. It was fun, until she fell asleep.

“We’ll take a break from pirates and the undead for our next movie night,” JJ told her. “We’ll watch Cinderella.”

Mera felt herself smile.

“That sounds good to me.”

When she looked over at JJ and saw the deep blue of the sea in his eyes, she felt the ocean call once again. But this was different. This wasn’t luring her to her death, but pulling her closer to something else, to him. And it wasn’t just a quiet song in the back of her mind. It was a roaring choir, a thousand times louder and a thousand times stronger.

And a thousand times harder to resist.

~~~

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volkswagonblues · 4 years

Text

(part 3/?) deleted scene from firebender’s guide: life in ba sing se + zuko’s petty feud with his 80yo neighbour

[note: going through my old drafts and realized i have a LOT of deleted scenes and materials from firebenders’s guide that got cut for pacing/plot reasons. Here’s a scene that was cut because it got WAY too long, and also i realised what I really want to do was write a weird slice-of-life social drama about a ba sing se ghetto]

Back in the Lower Ring of Ba Sing Se, in the tenement where Zuko and Iroh had lived, they had an elderly neighbour who ran a fruit-and-vegetable stall on the street corner. On days when her normal grocery boy failed to show – mornings after festival nights, usually, when he stayed late in bed nursing a sore head from drinking – on those days Mrs. Seung hired Zuko as a replacement. His job was to haul in the crates of produce in from the farmers’ wagons. She’d come knock on their door on early mornings before the tea shop opened, and Zuko would come out and carry and stack boxes for her, in the small space behind the wooden counter of her stand.

He made five copper pieces for this, six if Mrs. Seung judged he did a good job fitting the monstrous amount of crates into the impossibly tiny space. It was surreal, watching the old woman carefully count out each piece from her wooden money box, the coins rattling in her shaking hands. Can’t you tell that I’m a prince? Zuko wanted to say sometimes. I was born swaddled in silk. I had a teething ring made of gold and amber. I could recite the names of my great grandfather’s great grandfathers. A single one of my toys could have bought your stand a thousands times over.

But of course he never did.

[rest under cut]

He took the five copper pieces the same way he did everything at the time, mute and sullen. Grateful for the extra money and resentful that he needed it in the first place. The hard-bitten gratitude of a refugee, nothing like a prince at all.

Still. It was something to do, at least, in the long hour between waking up at dawn and the opening of the tea ship. Everyone woke up so late in Ba Sing Se, because they all went to bed so late. It was unlike his regimented childhood in the palace and it was unlike his regimented existence on the ship, when he was still chasing the Avatar. Ba Sing Se came alive at night. There were noodle shops whose pots only start billowing steam after sundown; there were street performers and puppet shows and poetry clubs and cheap dance halls whose lanterns only lit up after the daytime labourers were done their regular work. Zuko had never seen any place with such concentrated filth and squalor as the Lower Rings, but he had also never seen any place whose people came so alive. That was the essence of city life, he concluded. Everyone had to find some way to enjoy themselves at night, if only to make the next day bearable.

Iroh had gone out a few times; he liked the music and the late night markets. Zuko had gone to the noodle shops exactly once, on a disastrous date that he’d rather forget about. But sometimes, in the dark hours of the night, when Zuko was too anxious or angry or plain homesick to fall asleep, he would open a window and just listen to the noises of the city below. The strange medley lulled him: the sounds of street brawls, lovers’ arguments, babies crying, stray cats chasing rat-pigeons through the alleys. Along with the noise, the breeze carried in the odours of strange foods and lye soap from their neighbours’ clothesline; it carried in the evidence of a million other lives stacked on top of each other. Some nights it carried in the sounds of Mrs. Seung’s two-stringed fiddle. Her hands never shook when they were holding a bow, and she played beautiful melodies in keys Zuko couldn’t recognise. Some old Earth Kingdom folk songs, maybe, sad and lamenting.

“She’s very good,” Iroh said once, without any preamble. “A real master with rare talent. You should ask her how she learned, or what she’s playing.”

Zuko only shrugged. He never did ask Mrs. Seung about her playing; at that point in his life the only person Zuko had been interested in was Zuko himself.

Besides, he was feuding with her at the time. He’d just learned that Mrs. Seung’s regular grocery boy made ten copper pieces for the same work that Zuko filled in for, and he had gone in and demanded a raise only for the old lady to laugh at him for his presumptuousness.

“Be grateful you’re getting any work at all,” she had sniffed. “This used to be a nice neighbourhood before people like you started crowding in here, demanding everyone accommodate you just because you think city life is easier than whatever backwater field you crawled out of. Five copper pieces is more than enough.”

Zuko, his pride bruised, decided he was no longer speaking to her. He very carefully looked the other way when he passed her in the tenement hallway, and once when it was raining reeled her clothesline out further into the yard, so her fresh laundry got drenched and she’d have to wash them again.

The last time he saw here was right after Iroh’s Jasmine Dragon contract came through. As a celebration, Zuko had bought a box of imported Fire Nation figs from the fruit-seller across the street from Mrs. Seung. He loitered long enough that he was sure Mrs. Seung had seen him, and then plunked down a whole silver piece and loudly told the other seller – her name was Mrs. Yang, she was Mrs. Seung worst enemy and bitterest rival – to keep the change, Zuko and his uncle were moving away tomorrow, they wanted to leave a gift for their kind neighbours.

The figs were overripe and slightly bruised, but after months of living off tea and plain millet, the figs were the best thing Zuko had tasted. Their skins were green and pungent, their flesh milky sweet flesh. After he and his uncle was done, he left the discarded pile of skins outside Mrs. Seung’s door, so they’d be the first thing she stepped on the next morning.

It was petty and unbecoming for a prince, but then again, Zuko was no longer one. And Lee – Lee the refugee got his petty revenge wherever he could, and Lee didn’t regret a thing.

deleted scene 1: in which Zuko meets another firebender in the South Pole (here)

deleted scene 2: in which the boys discuss PTSD and therapy, and also Sokka is a stuff-gremlin (here)

deleted scene 4: Sokka and Toph invent proto-braille (here)

#Avatar The Last Airbender #my fic #thefirebendersguidetolivingLAD

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meetthetank · 3 years

Text

Cruciamen Chapter 8: In the Shadow of the Primordial Lords

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M, Other Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata), A2/A4 (NieR: Automata) Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), A2 (NieR: Automata), A4 (NieR: Automata), Emil (NieR: Automata), Kainé (Nier) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, genre typical violence, On the Run, Monster of the Week, 9S is a half demon, 2B and A2 are shapeshifter Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut in the future, inaccurate depictions of medical procedures, Fantasy Biology, A2 is Nonbinary Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25104214/chapters/7522249

A2 wakes to a searing pain in their wrists and ankles and a disorienting sinking sensation, as if their stomach is about to drop through their back. Their body sways back and forth, dangling from whatever holds their arms and legs in place. They slowly open their eyes, fighting past exhaustion and caked mud, and see a mangrove canopy come into focus, along with their hands and feet bound to a thick branch with rough, hempen rope. Panic shoots through their body and they try to tug at the ropes with what strength they can muster in this position. All they succeed in is digging the coarse rope into their skin further.

They hiss quietly as they become more aware of their pain and the world around them. There’s multiple sets of footsteps that break through the din of nature, the clattering of wood and bone against each other, and whatever language their captors are speaking. Some of the women, clad in bone and hide armor, glare at A2 as they struggle but make no move to stop them yet.

Despite the hopelessness of the situation, a desperate escape plan begins to brew in A2’s head. If they can at least break through the ropes around their wrists then they could twist themselves around enough to undo the ones on their legs. They’d have to be quick; the witches are watching every so often, but seem to be confident that their prey can’t escape. Maybe A2 can use that to their advantage.

Straining their chest and arms, A2 pulls themself up to their tied wrists and bites at the ropes. Whatever the material is tastes horrific, like mud and rotten bone, but it’s brittle and easily sheared apart. With their mouth full of rope, they gnaw at their restraints like a desperate rat. Each bite makes the rope’s grip looser and looser, their teeth easily pulling it to pieces. The more success they find the more anxious they get, caution being replaced by frantic desperation.

Suddenly, one of the large warrior women shouts something in her harsh tongue. A2 hisses a curse in their own native tongue, before the witch slams her club into A2’s skull. They don’t even get to finish their insult before their world slips into darkness.

This time, A2 awakens to a vile stench and an ache in their whole body.

There isn’t one source they can place the smell at. It is an acrid melding of mud, stagnant water, feces, and corpses. The sting of smoke lingers in the air as well, but it’s different than a typical campfire, more harsh. The witches aren’t burning wood.

A2 cracks their eyes open once more, this time to the sight of a strange village settled in a rare firm stretch of mud. A well-worn path of soft mud and stone twists through the mangroves into a clearing; a barren pit of sludge dotted with structures constructed of gnarled branches and uncut boulders and decorated with grim trophies; skulls, horns, skins, and dried organs. Animal hides cover the roofs and hang above doors; bones and skulls provide support for long leather pelts. In fact, whatever isn’t made of wood or stone is made from bones and hides. Crude benches and stools stand above piles of corpses freshly picked, bare of all meat and skin, leaving bloodied skeletons to dry in the sun. It doesn’t take long for A2 to discern what this means for them.

The witches don’t seem to notice that they’re awake, and A2 plans to keep it that way for as long as they can. If they can get their bearings and search out some kind of escape route, then at least they’ll have a plan in some capacity.

Exploiting a weakness in the guard patrols doesn’t seem like it’ll be viable. There are countless women wandering around the village doing every sort of task available. Some are weaving, carving bones, and mending furniture; others watch the few children that scamper around the proud huntresses and their catch, yelling at the kids if they get too close; and even more skin and gut fresh kills, tossing the bones aside to the ever growing piles. Though only a few of them have weapons, gruesome crude blades and spears similar to the ones the huntresses carry, there’s enough to give A2 pause while they contemplate just fighting their way through the village. There’s no telling how many of the witches are competent fighters or archers.

A2 considers simply transforming and flying away as soon as their limbs are free. The canopy isn’t as dense here as it is in the untouched sections of The Bog, and even if they couldn’t fit through the branches they could at least jump from tree to tree and glide into denser portions. But with the witches’ pet rats and arrows that could be a problem too…

Before they can decide on a plan of action that wouldn’t immediately fail, something sinister comes into view.

A wooden cage, surrounded by skulls on pikes and inward pointing spikes, covering a gaping hole in the earth. The stench of feces, urine, and death attracts a swarm of huge flies that hover around the cage, enticed by the smells that make A2 gag. Another witch, this one wearing a mask made of a rat’s hollowed out head, grumbles something to the huntresses in a raspy voice before opening a section of the wooden cage. A feverish chill runs down A2’s spine as desperate, longing moans drift out of the pit.

The huntresses cut A2 down from the log suddenly; they land in the mud with a wet splat, before a brutal kick sends them over the edge and plummeting into the filth below. They land in a puddle of murk that seeps into their scales, clothes, and hair. Whatever the fluid is sticks to them in sick clumps of… A2 doesn’t want to know. It stinks of so many things that it’s hard to pin down a single source.

It’s hard to stand. Whenever they put their foot down the ground itself gives, either sinking and engulfing their foot or sliding out from under them. It takes a few attempts, one of which has A2 falling face first into the grime, but they eventually manage to stand and get their bearings. Their first order of business is to toss away the scraps of rope that still cling to their wrists and ankles. The second, is to address the men huddled together on the other side of the pit.

If A2 didn’t know any better, they would have thought that the men were all the same person. Each one has the same terrified, starved, desperate look about them. Like rats, they think. The men are covered with festering sores all over their bodies, some crudely wrapped with scraps of cloth just as filthy as the rest of them. Only one still has hair, but not much. Whatever is left looks as if it would fall out at any given moment. The same can be said for their skin, discolored, sagging, barely hanging onto their skeletons. Each man looks like they’re on the brink of death, or on the brink of rushing A2 and devouring them whole.

“Poor soul…” One man, the oldest it seems, says and steps forward from the group. “What is your name?”

A2 stares at him, watching his gnarled hands and twisted fingernails. They say nothing, but they stand tall, unwavering. They can’t show weakness.

The old man looks at them with sunken, sad eyes. “Can you speak, child?” His voice is raspy but gentle and nostalgic. It reminds them of one of their village elders.

They nod, but still refuse to speak. The other men relax a little but still stay close together, shivering against each other. The old man shivers too, but manages a calm facade as he steps closer to them.

A2 can’t read this man, or at the very least there’s too much to read on his wrinkled sagging face. There’s a sadness etched into every crease on his skin, but he smiles with such warmth that they wonder how this kindness survived down here. “How long have you been here?” they ask, their voice low and cautious.

The old man sighs, “I have seen at least three full moons come and go. The others arrived not long after myself.”

A2 watches as the other men begin to approach them and the old man as he explains his story.

“I used to be a cleric for the theocracy,” he says, sitting cross-legged on the ground. “I was escorting a group of Old Empire refugees to the Blessed Grounds and cut through a part of this place. Obviously, it did not end well.” His expression darkens, eyes fixated on the mud. “The lambs were the lucky ones. They were taken by the swamp creatures well before the Bog Witches found me.” He gestures to the other men, who now sit beside the old man. “These knights were snatched from their troop as they cut through the Bog as well.”

A chill runs through A2’s body, whether from fear or the cold mud seeping through their clothes they can’t tell. Part of their mind runs through escape plans while the other festers in a creeping dread that weighs down their limbs.

“Have any of you tried to get out?” they ask, though in their heart they know the answer.

The old man shakes his head. “I am afraid not. The walls are too slick to climb, even when the knights were fit. The witches only toss whatever rotten scraps they do not eat our way, to keep us weak.” His gaze shifts to a pile of shattered bones in the shadows of the pit. “Not even our dead can give us strength.”

A2 suppresses the bile that rises in their throat.

He rises to his feet, his joints creaking and straining under his emaciated body, and gently takes A2’s hand in his. “I am so sorry, child,” he says in a voice that wavers with the effort.

They rip their hand away, the old man’s warped fingernails scratching at their scales. He flinches away from their scowl and their bared teeth.

“I won’t die here,” they growl. “I am not going to die here.”

The starving men leave A2 alone for the rest of the day. It isn’t that A2 holds any malice to them, but to see these men waste away in a pit of their own filth is more than infuriating. There has to be a way to escape, and they won’t sit idle and wait to die. They pace around the perimeter of the pit, searching for stones, branches or roots, anything that the men could use to climb out. For a moment, they consider the broken bones of the consumed dead, but they refuse to touch them. Even looking at them makes A2 nauseous.

A2 carves a rut into the ground with their pacing, but losing themself in their thoughts has allowed time to pass much faster. Soon soft rays of moonlight filter down through the trees into the filthy prison. The chatter of witches and their animals fades into the darkness as the nocturnal Bog creatures begin their own songs. The torchlight that surrounded the rim fades to embers that barely illuminate the wooden bars of the cage. All of the men huddle together in a strange sleeping arrangement, possibly to stave off the cold. Besides the spasmic shivers that run through their bodies A2 would mistake them for dead.

If they are to escape, now is the time.

Their body feels tense. Each movement makes their bones creak and muscles strain. Perhaps it’s because they haven’t eaten in a bit, or the heavy, stagnant air of this place, but their mind feels clouded. For a moment they toy with the idea of waiting till they have a clear head, but they grit their teeth and launch themself into the air.

With a brilliant flash of light their form erupts into feathers and claws. The wooden cage shatters into pieces as the dragonic form of A2 bursts from their prison. From below, the starving men gasp as they wake to find the cage destroyed and a red feathered dragon launching into the air. A pair of mange-riddled dogs tied to a post of the ruined cage jolt awake, howling and snarling at the intruding creature. A2 makes short work of them with their claws and beak. The meat still tastes like rotten mud.

A2 takes stock of their surroundings as they touch down just beside the pit’s edge. Eerie silence replaces the din of nature. Whatever animals must have left at the sound of a larger creature, but soon A2 hears noises coming from the huts surrounding the pit. The moving of furniture, footsteps, and muffled voices. The witches would be coming out soon.

“Hey! Wait!!!”

Just as A2 readies themself to take to the air, a pained, desperate voice calls out to them. From down below, one of the starved men looks up at them with wide eyes.

“Please!! Take us too!! Don’t leave us here!!”

A2 gazes down at the man and every part of their body begs to bolt and leave these men for dead. The starved men are dying anyway, they’d most likely die in The Bog from starvation or some hungry animal if A2 does pull them out. And yet they find themself crouching beside the edge and reaching down their neck as far as they can. The man jumps, his fingertips just barely brushing the tip of their beak. They growl and hiss, the urge to abandon the men growing by the second, but they dig the claws on their wings into the mud and lean further in.

Suddenly a bellowing voice echoes across the village and a massive shape charges them. A2’s head snaps up just as a large net is thrown above them. Just before the weighted net traps them again, they revert back to their human form and dive out from under it. They skid across the slick mud a few feet before pushing themself back to their feet. Looking behind them, A2 sees a witch that easily stands over eight feet tall lumbering across the village plaza to retrieve the thrown net. She locks eyes with A2, bloodshot, collapsed pupils filled with malice. Not keen on getting caught again, they dart around the side of the pit to put an uncrossable space between them and her.

Something catches A2’s eye: the glint of black iron in the moonlight. A few strides away, discarded amongst a pile of filthy clothes, is their sword. The hulking witch seems to pick up on A2’s idea and bellows something they can only assume are slurs. She leans forward and in two thunderous steps launches herself over the mouth of the pit. A2 wastes no time, diving for their sword just as the witch lands. Mud and rotten plant matter splashes in all directions under the weight of the witch, but the bog’s floor gives too much, engulfing her feet in the soft mud.

The witch lunges for A2, the mud holding her feet steady. A2 throws their sword up as a shield against her, but the colossal witch falls, her sharpened fingernails just inches from the black iron blade. With a short step forward and a burst of furious strength A2 drives the sword’s point straight through her shoulder. The witch shudders and slumps forward with a dying gurgle, blood and mucus pouring out of her mouth.

A grim, violent pride rises in A2’s chest as they wrench the sword free from the witch’s corpse. It surges through their veins like fire and urges them to unleash it upon the village. This place had captured them, wronged them, disempowered them, and the whole of this wretched coven needed to pay for it. All the huntresses, healers, artisans, and children.

However, just as their rampage begins, a crude arrow dripping with poisons lands in their shoulder. Before the pain registers in their head, their arm goes limp. Their sword falls from their hand into the mud and no matter how much they try they can’t make their arm move. Then the pain ignites A2’s arm from the inside. They fall to their knees and scream, their arm thrashing wildly outside of their control. Their vision blurs and pulses in time with their rapid heartbeat, the poison and pain spreading further with each beat. Something yanks on their hair and with their body rigid with pain they cannot resist being dragged back towards the gaping hole in the ground.

Whoever found them, and most likely shot them, tosses them callously back into the pit. The first thing they see when they open their eyes are the sad, hungry eyes of the starving men they should have left behind.

#nier automata #nier automata fanfiction #A2 #fantasy au #fanfiction #tank fics

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mypassionfortrash · 4 years

Text

KICKS (part six)

Cleaning up and coming down from your first session with Roger, you start to think more about your feelings towards him. The pair of you also talk about what you want from your next encounter...

WARNINGS: Strong D/s themes throughout this fic; mentions of sex toys. STRICTLY 18+. NOTES: This is a soft chapter, lads. Thank you so much for the amazing feedback and support with this fic. I’d also like to say a special thanks to @just-my-sickly-pride for checking this over and to @jennyggggrrr for always being the first to read my awful drafts! Again, if you liked this fic, please reblog it and leave feedback! If you’d like me to tag you (or stop tagging you) just ping me a message!

CATCH UP: Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four // Part five

Tags: @jennyggggrrr @sarahgurl09 @scorpiogemini @johnricharddeacy @brianssixpence @hellohellothere12 @crazylittlethingcalledobsession @internationalkpoplova @thefairyfellersmasterstroke @six-bloodyminutes @hannafuckingsucks @dancingcoolcat @cherries-n-rocknroll @theedwardscollection @inthelapofrogertaylor @80s-roger @just-my-sickly-pride @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @johndeaconshands @loveandbeloved29 @toreyyyyyy @fallingprincess

You and Roger collapsed together in a sweaty, exhausted heap of intertwined limbs, racing hearts and air-starved lungs.

You couldn’t fathom why you suddenly felt so tired. Maybe it was the excitement of it all? But even gazing up at Roger depleted what little reserve you had left. “You ok, Roggie?” you whispered, giving his chest a nudge.

Roger’s delicate eyes fluttered closed and he hummed quietly.

You knew that for the time being you weren’t going to get much sense from him. Cleaning yourself up might have been the last thing you wanted to do. But the fog in your brain had started to dissipate, drawing your attention to the sticky, squelchy lube still clinging to your fingers. Cleaning up was a necessary evil. Propping yourself up onto your elbow, you shot him one more look. He was out cold.

Cocooning yourself in your own kinky bubble for an evening made it easy to forget that beyond the spare room, February’s bitter cold still raged. You padded towards the bathroom. Eagerness to wash the filth from your hands made you trip and stumble your way there and when the door closed and your back turned against it all, warmth swelled inside you again.

Gosh, he was beautiful.

As soon as that thought reared its head, you stuffed it back into the back of your mind. Three steps forward. Hands draped over the edge of the sink, a sliver of skin in the mirror caught your eye. A subtle twinkle on the backdrop of an inky black sky. You stared for just a moment as the water soared above the howling weather, hands rubbing together. Bubbles. Rinse.

All the while, that unbearable tension blossomed and bloomed.

You wanted so much more from him.

And the only thing stopping you was your own self.

Three loud raps on the door had you jumping out of your skin. You had been so sure – so certain – that you were alone with your thoughts. What if Roger heard? You did have a habit of thinking out loud.

“Are you in there, darling?”

“Give me a sec,” you called, giving your hands a shake that sent spray flying. When you opened the door, you found Roger shivering in the hall, lit only by a strip of pale moonlight on the edge of his form. “Are you alright?” you asked, smoothing his hair from his face.

He wrapped his arms around his torso in a bid to stop any more heat from leaving. His voice sounded so small. “I just wondered where you had gone.”

“Sorry, I– I thought you were asleep,” you blustered. “I’m just cleaning myself up…”

“I was just about to do that too. Feel absolutely disgusting for some reason.” The light in Roger’s eyes danced from left to right. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it. It… it was perfect. I loved it.”

Your palms fell on Roger’s biceps to calm him down. His skin was still clammy to touch. “Do you want me to run you a bath?”

He swallowed hard. “That’d be nice.”

“Come in,” you said standing aside. Ducking out into the hall, you flipped the light switch beside the door. Suddenly, the bathroom glowed in a sterile yellow that made Roger squint to acclimatise. You eyed him leaning back against the sink, still naked and dishevelled, for just a moment too long. “How do you want to smell after this?” you asked.

“Clean,” he chuckled.

You picked a bottle, any bottle, from the caddy next to the bath and drizzled its contents into the empty bath. Then you let the water come roaring down from the taps. “I’m going to get you some towels,” you smiled. Your eyes trailed down Roger’s body again. “And maybe a robe.”

Roger’s hands travelled south, preserving what little modesty he had left. “Thanks.”

“Back in a moment.”

“Don’t be too long.”

Roger groaned as he eased himself into the comforting blanket of bubbles. His eyes, unable to prop themselves open any longer, closed, and his head lolled against the cold tiles on the wall. After everything, this must have felt like heaven to him. Just like he looked like heaven to you.

It was hard not to feel like you should be tending to his every whim. So you sat down on the floor beside the tub. Reaching out an unsteady hand, you raked your fingers through his hair; it was thick and matted and still damp with sweat at the roots. Even still, a quiet smile formed on Roger’s lips, relishing the attention like he usually did. “Do you want me to wash this for you?” you asked.

His eyes shot open in a moment of horror. “Oh you don’t have to. Only if you want to. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Close your eyes for me.” Dampening Roger’s hair, you lathered it up into a soft foam.

He giggled, taking in the sweet scent. “Smells like bananas,” he said, leaning into your touch.

“One thing’s for certain, you’re gonna smell like a bloody fruit salad after this.”

“Why do girls’ shampoos always smell better?” he mused.

“Suppose everyone always expects us to smell like a freshly-cut bouquet.”

“You smell nice. You always do.”

“You’ve been spending the last few weeks sniffing me?” you asked, giving his hair a sharp tug.

“Ow! Maybe.”

“Who’s the pervert now?”

“Your hand was practically up my bum an hour ago!”

“Point taken,” you conceded. For a split second, your mind strayed, dreaming up everything you really wanted to do with him. “Right, time to rinse you off. Head back.”

When you were finished with Roger, he looked like a drowned rat with strands of bleach blonde hair glued to his forehead and the sides of his face. He looked even sadder when you leaned back and scrambled to your feet. A little helpless, even. And it still tugged at your heartstrings. “Where are you going?” he asked, flashing you a glassy-eyed gaze.

“I’m going to get some tea and toast. You look like you could do with something to eat.”

“It’s alright,” he said, batting away that suggestion with his hand in the air.

“Trust me. You’ll sleep better.”

He couldn’t hide that small smile of his. The coy kind that he reserved only for you. For moments like this. “You know best.”

You brushed your hand over Roger’s shoulder. “I’ll go and get the kettle on. You take as long as you need, Roggie.”

Alone with your thoughts for the second time that night, every noise seemed amplified tenfold, making you wince.

The clang of the rack going into the grill.

The hiss of the boiling kettle.

The tinkle of a teaspoon swirling in a mug.

Something was bothering you. You felt it draw at your shoulder blades and deepen the well in your stomach. The rushing sound in your ears.

You had been doing so well tonight. Enough to keep it all in at least.

Roger was waiting for you in the spare room, wrapped up in a fleecy, fluffy robe, half nodding off when you returned with a plate piled high with toast and jam and steaming hot mugs of tea. You sat the tray down between you both and observed him delicately pick at the crusts.

“How are you feeling, Roggie?”

“Much better,” he said through a mouthful of bread. His eyes returned to you. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” You took a swig of tea to gather your thoughts. You were having a lot of those tonight and you couldn’t quite put your finger on what was going to pour out next. “It’s always a bit of a learning experience when you’re doing this with someone new.”

“You sound sad,” Roger said, sitting upright. “Want to talk about it?”

“It’s nothing,” you smiled. “I’m just a bit tired myself. Takes it out of you.”

“I can believe that. You were really going for it when you were… on me.”

Roger had reverted back to his usual self and it earned a giggle from you. That was exactly what you liked about him. He’d do anything to make you laugh, you were convinced. You tilted your head and wore a contented smile, studying him as he tore the crusts from another piece. “I really was, wasn’t I?” You said.

“It was incredible.”

You reached out and patted Roger’s shin, thumbing at the sparse hairs. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Reckon you’ll want a next time?” As soon as those words popped out of your mouth, you felt your chest burn, dreading Roger’s answer.

He nodded. His own cheeks had taken on a slightly redder hue. “You know how you said you were going to… stretch me out?” he choked through his toast.

You shifted to sit up straighter, eye level with him. “Yeah?”

“Did you mean it? W-would you do that?”

“Do you want that?”

“Yes, please. If you want to do that with me.”

“I’d love to,” you said, still absentmindedly stroking his leg.

“How would we go about it?” Roger asked.

“Are you busy tomorrow?”

Roger shook his head.

“Come over to the shop first thing and I’ll show you.”

You and Roger went your separate ways shortly after breakfast and the hours just dragged on while you waited for him at the shop. You got there early and dealt with deliveries, continuing to work despite agonising tendrils snaking their way around your insides. You swore your mind had turned into a hamster wheel, churning out an endless stream of worst-case scenarios about how this was going to go.

Would you be honest?

Play it cool?

Stick to the script and stay in character?

Your eyes didn’t budge from the clock; the hands barely moved, much like you trying to reach a decision.

Roger robbed you of those final precious moments of thinking time, showing up at Kicks ten minutes early, cosied up in an oversized fur coat, his red cheeks and dark sunglasses just visible above the collar.

Rushing towards the door, you and Roger collided in a nervous hug. “How are you feeling?” you asked him.

“My muscles are in agony today,” he smiled.

“You have muscles?”

Roger chuckled, giving your arm a swat. “Right, show me what you’re shoving up my arse!”

“I’m glad you asked,” you began, wandering over to the cash desk. “Get your coat off, pull up a pew. I’ve got a few things here to show you.”

Roger did exactly as you told him and couldn’t peel his eyes from your movements as you assembled a row of plugs on the desk in front of him. They started small and gradually got larger in diameter. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth while you completed the set with the largest one – for now. Then he raised an eyebrow. His baby blues shot from the toys to you and back again.

“So what do you think?” you asked, shifting on the stool.

“I–I’m excited,” he croaked.

“I’m going to give you a week,” you began, leaning forward. “And what I want you to do is use these every day. Start small and slow with lots of lube. And when you’re comfortable, size up, wear them for longer. Maybe try sleeping with one in. How does that sound?”

Roger’s jaw slackened. “So just wear them around the house?”

“See what works for you. You could make it more fun if you want. It might make you feel good to edge yourself a few times a day using them.”

Roger’s eyes widened and his back straightened. “That sounds more interesting.”

“Are you up for a week of not being able to come?” You said. “Think you could handle it?”

For a moment, he seemed to have second thoughts about your suggestion, unsure of whether he really could go a whole week without release. Then he bolstered himself, his usual cockiness overriding his reservations. “Definitely. I could definitely do that.”

“I’ll have to punish you if you disobey me.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“And I’ll be checking in on you every single day.”

“Sounds excellent if I get to talk to you every day,” he said with a wink.

God, why was he like this? Charming and cheeky and utterly disarming. You had to fight to stay in character. “I can’t wait to see what that arse of yours can do,” you blurted.

Roger leaned back and puffed out his cheeks. “Fuck.”

>>NEXT PART>>

#roger taylor x reader #roger taylor #queen #queen fic

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hutchhitched · 4 years

Text

Social Commentary in The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

I haven’t written a lot of meta about The Hunger Games trilogy. When I first read them, I devoured the entire set in three days before I was part of tumblr or writing fanfiction. My own metas were in my head and part of things I taught my classes and discussed with my friends, but not something I generally put on my blog. I don’t know why. (I do have a meta about Peeta’s hijacking that I’ve been meaning to write for a while. Maybe once I’ve finished this book. Hint: It has to do with George Orwell’s 1984, which I used in my classes last year and was performed at a theater in Houston right as the pandemic hit.) I don’t know if reading this book when I’m a decade older and after a really rough few years of my own has anything to do with it or just that I’ve been exposed to so much by being in this fandom, but I’ve got a lot of thoughts about The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. I’ve only read Part 1 so far, but here are some observations. (It’s long, but at least read the last one—even if you have to skip to get there.)

Spoilers below:

Reaping day is July 4. We already knew it was during the summer, so that’s not a huge stretch. What intrigues me is the symbolism of July 4 for Americans since it’s Independence Day. For those of you who aren’t American or aren’t sure why that struck me, here you go. Independence Day represents the day the Declaration of Independence was signed (although, it was actually two days later, but whatever). The Declaration of Independence was issued 14 months AFTER the beginning of the American Revolution in April 1775 at the battles of Lexington and Concord and was not the cause of the Revolution as so many believe. Penned by Thomas Jefferson (at least colloquially), it famously discusses the celebrated (but sadly, not practiced) phrase that “all men are created equal.” That’s the phrase that’s trotted out and waved about, but the Declaration is mostly about tyranny and the role of government. In fact, the Declaration doesn’t start with “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Instead, it begins with this: “When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…” In other words, the Declaration of Independence does indicate that all humans are created equal. It also discusses what the government is supposed to and not supposed to do. Having Reaping Day occur on July 4 is a brilliant jab that adds an entirely new level to what Independence Day means and how it’s celebrated—with lots of flag waving and fireworks and BBQ (and very little knowledge of what the document itself actually says).

Which brings me to Sejanus Plinth. Bless him. He’s the voice of compassion and reason in part 1 as he speaks up about treating other humans with respect and dignity, about the humanity of those in the districts, as he feeds the hungry, as he challenges the inhumanity of the Games. In short, he’s the Peeta Mellark voice from the final council of the tributes in Mockingjay. I have no idea what’s going to happen to him in the rest of the book, but he’s the humanity I’m craving as I read. A note on his name: Sejanus was a close friend and ally of the Roman Emperor Tiberius. Sejanus worked to improve conditions in the Empire and served as a proxy to Tiberius when he was absent. He was strangled to death in 31 AD/CE. His last name is what makes me stop and want to hug Collins. Four years ago, I had no idea what a plinth was. I’d never heard the word, but I was the prop mistress for my church’s summer musical, and it was on the list of things I had to find. I googled it and found out it’s a base on which a statue (or something else) is displayed. In Mary Poppins, it was used as the base for a statue that came to life and talked to the characters in the park. In other words, it’s a place on which someone can take a stand and deliver a message—a platform, if you will, of the character’s compassion and humanity.

I don’t remember if we got that Tigris was Snow’s cousin in the original trilogy or not. What I do remember is that she was a former stylist who Snow thought was no longer useful and had her removed from the Games. I haven’t figured out yet how I feel about her in this book, but her banishment and desire to see Snow destroyed are even more intriguing to me as a result of her inclusion as his relative. I would not have pictured her as a Snow before reading the new book. I’m still waiting to be convinced. “Snow comes out on top” is awesome. I wish I could write half as well as Collins.

There’s so much Holocaust imagery in this book, it’s terrifying. The cattle cars, the inhumane treatment of the tributes, using a veterinarian to treat the tributes instead of a doctor, the numbers, the cages, the rats, separation into districts and restrictions on travel, the hunger and starvation. Ugh. I’ve spent the past several years studying the Holocaust with some of the leading Holocaust and genocide scholars in the world both here in Houston and in Israel. I’ve traveled to Germany and Poland to see the death camps and headquarters of the Gestapo and Nazis and so on. The Games themselves are genocide, by definition, as an attempt to reduce the population of undesirables by targeting the children so they cannot reproduce. Hearing Survivor stories always reminds me of how Collins discusses Victors. There are no winners, only survivors. Survivors have never forgotten the Holocaust, nor should they. It’s what helped so many of them find compassion and humanity and forgiveness (and equally what causes such despair and depression in so many, as well). During my time Yad Vahsem in Jerusalem last summer, one thing was repeated over and over and over. The real triumph for Survivors aren’t the children; they are the grandchildren and then the great-grandchildren. In Panem, there can’t be too many grandchildren if the children are killed before they reach child-bearing age. (There’s also something in there about Snow being raised by his grandmother, but I’m gonna let that one rest for now.)

In one of the seminars from last summer at Yad Vashem, a scholar of Holocaust music taught us about the role of bands and singing in the camps (all levels, from death camps down to prison camps). First, there are some achingly gorgeous songs (the lyrics of one which were preserved on a child’s shoe in the death camp of Majdanek). Second, she asked us what we thought were the purposes of songs and music in the camps, and we all gave the standard answers—an attempt to distract themselves, holding onto humanity, finding beauty in the midst of horror, and hope. As a faithful fan of The Hunger Games and the saying “Hope is the only thing stronger than fear,” I was just as astounded as others when she said, “There was no hope. People died in death camps. They were starved and covered in shit and piss and lice and filth. They wanted revenge.” I don’t think revenge is what music represents in this book or in the original trilogy, although I think that argument can be made with the use of the Hanging Tree song in rebellion in the movies, but I can’t get that woman’s statement out of my head when I read this book. Not everybody has hope. Katniss didn’t when she first volunteered. I think there’s something to that.

Lucy Gray Baird is not Katniss. I haven’t exactly figured out who she is, yet, but she’s not Katniss in the first part of this book, which I think some people were hoping she was (as an analogy, obviously). Her flirtations with Snow are fascinating, and her outgoing and peculiar behavior at the reaping in District 12 was my first indication that the title was not as clear cut as Snow=Snake and District 12 female tribute=Songbird (alluding to Katniss). She puts a snake down the dress of the daughter of District 12’s mayor. She also sings. Is she both? Is she the songbird only? If so, then why the snake? And Snow doesn’t appear to be the snake either. My bet’s on Dr. Gaul. She’s a piece of work. Or maybe it’s Clemmie. Interested to see where that goes, too.

Lucy Gray’s insistence that she’s not from District 12 is fascinating. She insists she’s Covey, which by definition is a group of birds. The Covey are a group of traveling performers, who were stopped in District 12 and not allowed to leave. Trapped birds—interesting. Also, besides the Jews, the Roma/Sinti were targeted during the Holocaust. This group was commonly and derogatorily referred to as “gypsies,” people who moved about frequently and were suspected of crime, stealing, and a myriad of other issues. The Roma and Sinti immigrated into Central and Eastern Europe from India. If Katniss and others in District 12 are descended from Lucy Gray, then that covers the non-white argument about her ethnic makeup. I have no idea if that was Collins’ intention, but it makes a lot of sense in my brain.

As for Snow, he’s not a villain in this book. At least he’s not yet. So far, he’s the hero (or maybe anti-hero is better), but he’s definitely not the villain. Since we’ve read The Hunger Games, we know he’s the ultimate villain later, but he’s not so far in this book. He’s got ambition and cunning, but neither of those are ultimately villainous. He mourns his mother. He loves his cousin and grandmother. He’s proud of his father’s military service. He’s sad about his friends who die. He’s interested in, if not attracted to, Lucy Gray. We know what he becomes, so it’s hard to read about him as a person with hopes and dreams and struggles. Why? Because it humanizes him, and when he’s humanized, it’s harder for us to say, “He’s evil, and that’s why he did those things.” This is much the same way people blame the Holocaust and World War II on Hitler. “Well, he’s evil, so of course he did that.” Or how we dehumanize gunmen in massacres—“Well, he was clearly a sick individual, so he shot up the place.” Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying these crimes are excusable (in real life or in Collins’ works). What I am saying is that knowing Snow was a child shaped by war, hunger, poverty, and loss makes it harder for us to distance ourselves from this “evil” person. His characterization is uncomfortable because it makes us face that we could also do terrible things in specific contexts. Evil people are rarely born. They are almost always made, which means any of us could be a villain. That is what’s really terrifying.

A couple of other notes before this gets way too long for anyone to read.

The role of the government: Sejanus argues it’s the government’s job to take care of its citizens. This is an argument that’s raged in the US (and other countries) for a long time. The question is how do governments take care of the citizens? By feeding them and giving them health care and making sure everyone has enough? Be protecting them with a huge army? By allowing broad civil liberties (e.g., choosing whether to wear face masks during a pandemic)? By instituting restrictive liberties (e.g., gun control, wire taps, screenings at airports)? It’s a really interesting point Sejanus makes early in the book. Not surprising not everyone agrees.

Mention of the three other book titles (almost): The Hunger Games are mentioned several times. There’s a reference to something that “really catches fire.” And then there are the jabberjays. There are no mockingjays yet. Probably because there is no mockingjay yet. Seriously, Collins is brilliant.

The role of war: War is not good for those who live through it. Snow is traumatized by the war, as are the rest of the Capitol’s citizens. It makes most have little empathy for those in the districts who rebelled against them. War has destroyed the city. It’s weakened the economy. It’s destroyed the Snow’s fortune. And then it also leads to the Hunger Games. This book is anti-war just as much as the original trilogy is. It is not anti-soldier, but it is anti-war.

The role of children: Suzanne Collins lives in Connecticut, right? Yes, she does. You know where? Sandy Hook. More specifically, Newtown. Where children were shot to death in their classrooms by a gunman a few years ago. A ton of gun control people thought the slaughter of children would be enough for gun control to be implemented in the wake of that mass murder. It did not. Since then, there’s been a meme that’s circulated (taken from a tweet) that says, “In retrospect Sandy Hook marked the end of the US gun control debate. Once America decided killing children was bearable, it was over.” On page 60 of the book (right at the end of chapter 4), Snow insists the Hunger Games are to show how much people care about children when Dean Highbottom asks what the purpose of the Games is. And then there’s a paragraph in which Snow wonders if people really do care about children. He concludes that children don’t seem to be quite as important as we claim they are. I don’t think that’s a coincidental commentary on Collins’ part.

So, that became a lot longer than I planned, but wow. This book is fascinating, and Collins is a genius. I’m so ready for more. Part 2, here I come.

Hey, @everlarkedalways, does this count?

#tbosas #tbosas spoilers #balladspoilers #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #spoilers #book spoilers #long post #hunger games meta #meta

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rosierossette · 4 years

Text

Tempting - Ch. 3

Chapter 3 of my Tempting Loki series -

Work Summary: Working as a Temp for Tony Stark you only expected your life to revolve around sending emails and important papers for Tony Stark. However, all that changed when Loki came to live with the Avengers. Two years later, they still don’t trust Loki and need someone to constantly watch over him and keep him from causing Mischief. Given the magical ability to control Loki with your words, your journey begins as you try to carefully tread the line between keeping Loki safe and keeping others from harm. But trying to control Loki has more problems than you’re ready for, and soon you discover why he’s the God of Mischief, and how much he’s willing to sacrifice for his freedom.

Warnings: None for this chapter.

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3

A/N: Oh My Goodness it’s finally being posted! You guys don’t understand how much I LOVE this chapter! I had such a great time writing it, and hearing the response from my Beta Reader about it brought me so much happiness! As always I’ve linked the previous chapters in this work, so if you need a refresher go ahead and do that! Let me know what you guys think of it, and thank you so much for the continued support of my work! <3

Word Count: 4,543

Loki was less than excited about the news of you watching him permanently when Thor visited him that night. While Stark paid to have your things moved to the Tower, you were busy decorating your room, pretending not to hear the sound of Loki throwing a fit. Unfortunately for you, Stark thought it might be a good idea to have your room down the same corridor as Loki’s, which meant you could hear all the nasty words about you coming from his mouth.

Thor was trying his hardest to shut Loki up, but Loki was incorrigible. Soon lightning filled the sky, the terrible roar of the thunder was the loudest you’d ever heard it. The tower shook with every strike, and you could hear the muffled voices of Thor and Loki arguing. You were busy trying to sort through the large pile of furniture ahead of you, a lovely gift from Tony as you were moving into the Tower with all the Avengers. Trying your hardest to pretend you couldn’t hear what they were arguing back, you studied the pile of laundry you also needed to deal with.

Crash. The sound of glass shattering was heard against your wall, right where yours and Loki’s rooms connected. You cursed as you ran down the hallway. You were already sick of this permanent arrangement, and the Avengers hadn’t even left yet.

“Loki, shut up!” You screamed as you slammed the door to his room open, the door pounding against the wall behind it with a bang. Loki and Thor had both turned to you startled, Loki’s mouth involuntarily slammed shut.

You immediately paused at the sight of Loki’s room. It was beautiful, although you felt even that word didn’t describe his room perfectly. Loki’s room had a strange golden glow about it. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you were no longer on earth, or at least it looked unlike any part of earth you had seen. It looked just like Thor had described Asgard. Massive windows overlooking an alluring scene of waterfalls and birds coasting through the air. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun only adding to its beauty rather than taking away from it. Loki’s room was huge.

Your room was nice and spacious, but it seemed like a broom closet compared to Loki’s.

The walls and floor both had the same glow about them. And as you looked around, you noticed there was a huge bookshelf covered with books, most in a language you didn’t recognize. You turned in shock and amazement to admire more of the room when you finally noticed Loki and Thor.

You shook your head, remembering why you came in.

“It is 10 o’clock at night, Thor is causing a lightning storm outside, and I’m trying to get stuff done before I pass out for the night!” You tapped your foot impatiently. “So if you’re both done having a fit at each other like children,” You gestured for Thor to leave, and he stormed out.

He turned to look at the both of you before adding, “Loki, Lady (L/N),” He nodded to each of you, sending an angry look to Loki especially, before disappearing down the long hall.

When you could no longer hear the sound of Thor’s footsteps you turned to him. “I’m sorry about casting that spell,” You spoke hurriedly. “I didn’t actually mean to do it, I was angry and well, people usually say ‘shut up’ when they’re angry, right?” Loki’s eyes never softened, he didn’t even move.

“I release you from my spell.” You mumbled, rolling your eyes. This whole situation is ridiculous.

The look in Loki’s eyes was dark, filled with anger and annoyance, and it was your only warning before he magically shoved you out of his room in a green haze, the door slamming behind you. The air was knocked out of you, so you stood there attempting to remember how to breathe for a moment. When you finally calmed down enough to walk, you went back to your room.

You threw yourself down on the bed, landing on the piles of clothes you were procrastinating working on putting away. Your room was still a mess but your mind was elsewhere. The image of what you were sure was Asgard flashed across your mind. It was absolutely breathtaking. For the first time since meeting Loki and Thor, you were actually disappointed that you were only mortal. You’d love to see the real Asgard sometime.

Keep dreaming sister.

“Alright fine, so I’m not going to Asgard anytime soon. That doesn’t give me an excuse to live in filth.” You muttered loudly to yourself as you jumped up to finish cleaning your new room. You finally came to a decision about where to move your furniture, and then promptly and unapologetically took all your clothes on your bed and moved them to the designated ‘laundry chair’.

“Perfection,” You admired your handiwork, pointedly ignoring the pile of laundry you probably wouldn’t touch for another two weeks. At least.

--------------

“Dinner is ready,” Friday’s voice filled the tower. It was six o’clock on a Thursday evening, and you felt your stomach rumble at the declaration. It had been too long since the small sandwich you had fixed yourself for lunch.

You’d been finishing some paperwork for Stark in his lab when you entered the kitchen and saw all the Avengers. They were….wearing normal clothes. You’d been working here for less than a year, and you had never seen them in anything other than their suits. Usually, when you saw them, they were either getting ready for a mission or working out for one.

Your bewildered expression must’ve been evident when Natasha came up to you holding a plate of food, teasing, “We don’t always wear our suits. We’re only human.” She laughed at her joke. “Well, I guess some of us are.” She winked at you as she walked by to sit on the couch. The mom jeans and white tee she wore seemed so foreign on her, they seemed too casual, but she didn’t look uncomfortable at all. In fact, she looked quite cozy.

“(L/N), come get some food before Sam eats it all,” Stark called to you from the kitchen. When you walked in you laughed at the spread before you. Across the counter laid buckets of fried chicken, there were several containers of mashed potatoes, way more rolls than you had ever seen at once, and a small, sad container of coleslaw.

“Um….” You snorted when you saw the coleslaw. “Who did this?”

Wanda looked up from her plate, “Their coleslaw is absolutely disgusting (L/N). I didn’t want to buy any, but someone decided they couldn’t live without it.” Her eyes trailed towards Stark.

“I will not be insulted for wanting some sort of healthy food with all this fast food junk you guys buy.” Stark didn’t even look away from his plate.

“I offered to make some, Tony,” Steve spoke up, “But you said mine didn’t meet your standards.” Steve made a look towards the offending coleslaw. “At least the lettuce in mine isn’t swimming in water.”

Stark scoffed. “Right, Cap. Well, your coleslaw is the same as what Pepper’s grandmother makes.” Stark made a vomiting noise, “It’s disgusting. I enjoy the look of swimming lettuce.”

You shook your head but decided to fix yourself food instead of getting involved. Obviously, they were both wrong. Your coleslaw was absolutely the superior one.

But like the wise temp you were, you didn’t say anything.

You noticed that all the paper plates were gone. Shrugging, you moved towards the plate cabinet, opening the door before shrieking loudly as a ginormous rat pounced out of the cupboard, barely missing you as you ran backward. Falling on your butt, you only noticed once you had stopped to take a breath that there was a slightly green tinge around the rat.

“LOKI!” You yelled at the top of your lungs, swiftly getting up and swiping at the fake rodent. You ignored the sounds of the Avengers snickering at your misfortune, and you muttered about Loki and his ridiculous sense of humor as you stood. Idiot God, who does that?!

Soon your anger melted away as you sat and enjoyed dinner with the Avengers. It didn’t happen regularly that they weren’t busy with their constant schedules, and you were happy they were so relaxed. Dinner, music, pleasant conversation, the evening went by in a whirl with you enjoying every moment.

After you finally finished with helping the others clean, you walked back to your room. You were happy, full, and ready to sleep for the next twelve years. You walked to your room before pausing in the hall, staring at the direction of Loki’s room. Shaking your head, you opened the door. Your first view of your room was the ginormous hole in the floor behind your door. As clear as day, you could see the room three floors down and you stumbled backward, your adrenaline causing your heart to pound wildly, your chest heaving as you tried to remember how to breathe.

You closed your eyes for a moment; your head pounding, your heart working blood through your system too fast. You couldn’t breathe enough. You laid down, your arms covering your eyes. You felt the shame course through you as the panic started to wear away. You finally could breathe again. Your chest rose rapidly, while your lungs remembered how to breathe properly.

When you finally were able to think properly, you stood and looked over towards the hole, expecting to see several floors through it. What you saw instead was your carpet, the floor showing no signs there ever was a hole, to begin with. Carefully you put a foot where the spot was, and all you felt was the floor. Your rage grew, your blood boiling.

Loki.

You ran to his room, turned the door handle and slammed into the hardwood when the door refused to grant you access. No matter how hard you tried, it would not budge. “Loki, what the hell is wrong with you?” You slammed your hand against his door with precision on each word. “That was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced.”

You heard his muffled words through the door, “You can keep banging on my door, but I’m still not letting you in.” Loki suddenly appeared in front of you, and you almost fell over to avoid being toppled over by him. He stood, leaning against the hard wooden door, a look of contempt covered his features. “What do you want?” The bored tone in his voice made you growl internally.

“What in the seven hells is wrong with you?!” You righted yourself, standing directly in front of him, you still weren’t even close to his height. You stood up straight, attempting to close the distance, your eyes never leaving his. “Why would you do something like that?” If he was thrown off by the amount of sheer rage in your voice he hid it well, simply shrugging.

The urge to strangle him became almost unbearable, you turned, livid, going back to your room. As you walked away you gestured wildly with your hands to yourself your nails clawing at the air, growling once again.

You turned around to flash one more dirty look Loki’s way when you saw his mouth twitch up. He was smirking, the piece of shit. Loki’s brow raised, and you turned to head into your room, slamming the door behind you as he slowly entered his room again.

As you paced your room you struggled to figure out how to make him stop.

You could just - you know - use that little magic ability you got. Just a thought.

You shook the thought away. Not good enough. Besides, you’d just end up making him angrier at you, and you weren’t sure what to do if he got angrier.

Then it came to you. If I’m not going to just tell him off….you came up with an idea, and smiled mischievously.

Two could play at this game.

----------------

You had encountered only a couple issues with Loki again, all of them seemed like he was challenging you, egging you on. He was mocking you, that much you were sure of. If you hadn’t stopped him already, he was sure you weren’t going to do much about it. And you weren’t in a hurry to change his mind. Patience is a virtue.

Finally, your moment came. He finally stepped up his pranks again, this time by locking you in your room. By locking, he, of course, decided to get rid of the door, leaving you stranded in your room for about three hours before he got bored and moved on. When he finally thought you worthy of releasing, you had a whole plan figured out, and if things went well, you would be the winner of his stupid game.

Well, at least for a couple of hours. But you decided not to think too hard about that.

It took a few hours, but you finally ran into Loki. Unfortunately, your spell only worked if Loki could actually hear it. It was bittersweet: It meant you could see his face as you controlled him, but it also meant you couldn’t do it from a safe distance.

When he walked past you, you swiftly turned your mind towards his. “Loki, when you play a prank on someone or use your magic to inconvenience anyone, you have to kiss the person you’re standing next to.”

When Loki turned to you, rage contorting his features, you simply winked and blew a kiss his way.

It wasn’t long before you heard yelling from one of the Avengers as your spell did its job. True to your word, every time Loki decided to play a prank on someone, he had to kiss the poor soul standing next to him.

It worked out perfectly that his first unintentional victim had been Steve Rodgers. Although you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t secretly hoped it would be Stark. Thinking about the look on Stark’s face made you giggle as you headed towards the sounds of Steve’s stuttering.

“What is wrong with you?” Steve repeated the question multiple times, his face was one of complete shock. His hand rested over his mouth. His words were fuzzy as they tried to escape through his hand.

Loki looked just as shocked and looked over towards the sounds of footsteps, his face turning to stone when he saw it was you. “(Y/N).....”

“Are you blaming me for you suddenly jumping Steve, Loki?” You feigned a shocked look, earning an even deadly glare from Loki. “Why would I put a spell on you to kiss Steve?” You walked over and rubbed Steve’s back, faking your concern when all you wanted to do was laugh out loud.

Although you did feel a little bit bad. Poor Steve hadn’t seen it coming.

Loki stared daggers at you, and from behind Steve, you smiled widely. You laughed softly when Loki walked away, his steps thumping loud on the tile flooring.

This means war little mortal, you could hear his voice sneering in your mind. I hope you’re prepared for the consequences.

You smirked as you headed towards the kitchen. I was born ready, Good luck with kissing everyone in the tower.

The slight pain you received as a reply told you everything you needed to know. Especially when Sam cried out this time.

“LOKI!”

A couple of days of Loki kissing everyone in the tower (you both had successfully avoided being around one another, Natasha was the only one left. But the look on Stark’s face when he became another kissing victim made everything worth it to you). You had been sitting, facing the window in the hall, sketching out a picture of the beautiful city below. You could hear Thor’s angry footsteps, appearing in the hallway connecting yours and Loki’s room.

“The two of you had better come out before I break both of your doors down.” Thor’s voice was low, but there was a terrifying power in his words. Thor noticed your presence and nodded towards you, the movement stiff.

You stood, staring at Thor in confusion at the same time Loki walked out of his room. You both had turned towards each other, and immediate icy glares were shared between the two of you. Had Thor not been in such a belligerent mood, he would’ve laughed at your antics. You both stood in front of him. Loki with his arms crossed, looking as bored as ever. You with your hands on your hips, your brow raised at Thor’s anger.

“What do we owe this lovely surprise, brother?” Sarcastic boredom were the words that came immediately to mind at the sound of his voice.

“I’m here to tell both of you to stop your petty fighting,” Thor stared pointedly at Loki and then at you. “You both are causing unneeded wreckage to the tower and to everyone’s emotional stability.”

You had a hunch Thor wasn’t here of his own accord. You also had an image of Steve’s face and snorted out loud, earning a look from Thor that clearly said not now.

“I’m here to ask both of you to stop before I’m forced to take drastic measures,” Thor spoke after a moment of silence. He stared at you until you both nodded. “Good.” Then he left as speedily as he came.

You both stared after him for a while before you spoke, “We’re not listening to him, right?”

Silence.

“Absolutely not.” Loki agreed.

You paused for a moment before speaking again. “Wanna join forces and prank Thor?”

“Yes.”

You nodded, and silence filled the hall again.

After a moment, both of you finally turned to go to your rooms. When you were at your door, you paused, noticing Loki do so as well. “Would-” You hesitated for a moment. “Would you like to come in? Just to talk about what we’re gonna do?”

“No,” Loki replied speedily. You nodded and started to head into your room. You paused in the doorway when you heard his soft voice say, “But I’ll meet you at midnight in the living room.” His door clicking behind him as you walked in was the last sound you heard from him.

You smiled softly, were you really about to do this?. “Deal.” You walked into your room, and hurriedly checked the clock.

9:53

You groaned softly. Was it worth going to bed now, only to wake up in a few hours tired and bitter? Not really. Sighing, you looked around your room and spotted that pile of laundry you’d been avoiding. Guess we’ll waste time actually cleaning. Shocking.

When you finished hanging up the way too large pile of laundry, you checked the clock again. 10:30.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you flopped down on your bed groaning loudly, already bored. What were you supposed to do to get the time to pass by quicker?

How about you pick up a book to read, instead of being loud and obnoxious. Loki’s snarky voice snuck into your mind. You frowned.

Rude. I’m not even talking.

Your mind is scattered all over the place, and I can’t read with you sending your thoughts over here. You could practically see the annoyance on his face. Read woman, and let me have peace.

You rolled your eyes, but took his advice and picked up the first book you could find.

Soon time passed by too rapidly, and you nearly jumped when you heard Loki’s voice once again. Let's go little one. You stood, stretched out your muscles as much as possible and headed towards the living room, walking behind Loki, every step in sync.

“So how are we going to do this?” You asked as soon as Loki sat down on the chair opposite you.

“I might have a few ideas,” Loki stared you in the face. “But it could get a bit….,” he paused. “A bit smelly.”

You paused for only a moment, “Let’s do it.”

And every moment after that you’d be more careful about what you’d agree to. Especially when it was followed by the sneakiest smile you’d ever seen on Loki’s lips.

----------------

You woke up to the sound of your alarm clock going off, and you groaned sleepily. The annoying ding ding only increased the pounding in your head due to not enough sleep. It was nine in the morning, but you still hadn’t slept too well, since Loki and you had stayed up way too late preparing everything for the little prank. You could still smell the prank all over you.

I am never, ever, doing that ever again.

You jumped up and hurriedly took a shower, preparing yourself for the day. Loki had said that the rest was up to Thor, but that you would definitely know when the trap worked. You’d be lying if you said that didn’t worry you at all. You’d told him you didn’t want to do anything too drastic, but you were starting to worry you both might have different definitions on the word drastic.

When you were finally ready, you headed out the door, already smelling way better. As you closed your door behind you Loki opened his and walked out, winking at you as he headed towards the kitchen in a green t-shirt, and black jeans. You smiled and followed him.

There were a few Avengers still eating in the kitchen, but for the most part, it wasn’t too busy. Wanda and Vision were sitting at the table chatting, and Bucky was watching some game show as he ate bacon and eggs. Your stomach grumbled loudly, and you took it as your cue to make something quick and easy. Your two favorite words when it came to food in the morning.

You grabbed your ingredients and put them together before finally sitting at the table with your prize in front of you.

Delicious peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

You smiled to yourself as you took a bite. You hadn’t eaten this sandwich in years, the last time being when your grandmother made you one before your first day of kindergarten. Feeling someone staring at you, you looked up and noticed Loki eyeing your sandwich with a look of curiosity.

“Did you want one Loki?” You gestured towards the glorious sandwich in front of you.

“I’m good, thanks.” He kept staring at your sandwiches.

You got up, grabbed a plate and gave the other sandwich on your plate to him. “It’s not the best thing I’ve ever made, but I enjoy eating it.”

He nodded his thanks before grabbing the offered sandwich and taking a bite. When he took a bite he stared at the sandwich in his hand, then at you, then back to the sandwich. You giggled softly at his response before sitting back down and enjoying your own sandwich. Loki came and sat down next to you, the both of you enjoying your sandwiches in silence.

Suddenly there was a loud roar heard throughout the tower. There was a loud CLAP as thunder and lightning shook the building. You and Loki looked towards one another before booking it out of the kitchen as fast as possible. The sounds of Wanda calling after you were drowned out by the angriest sound you had ever heard in your life.

“LOKI! (Y/N)!” Your names were howled. You both tried to keep from laughing. You could hear Thor catching up to both of you. Loki turned a corner sharply, grabbing your hand as you attempted to keep up. When Thor’s howling became almost deafening, you both ran into the first door you saw, shutting it behind you before darkness enveloped both of you.

You were breathing loudly, all the running had killed your ability to breathe properly. Loki placed a hand over your mouth lightly, still allowing you to breathe while he held a finger up to his mouth.

Be quiet! His voice spoke into your mind, his eyes sending warnings your way.

Thor had suddenly stopped yelling your names. You hadn’t realized, you were too busy trying to breathe.

You could hear his footsteps, slowly getting closer when a horrible smell filled the area around you. You nearly gagged. Maybe dropping Thor into the sewer hadn’t been such a good idea. You looked towards Loki and saw him shake his head, a real smile on his face. You paused. You hadn’t actually seen a real smile on him before, and it was even more shocking for you when you were filled with the desire for him to never stop smiling. Something told you he wasn’t meant to be so bitter all the time.

This is one of my best ideas yet, Loki’s voice filled your head, and you saw him struggle to keep from laughing. You covered his mouth with one of your hands. He looked surprised but didn’t pull away. The look in his eyes made something inside you flutter, and you were suddenly aware of the sounds of both your heartbeats filling the closet you hide in.

When you both saw Thor’s shadow stop right in front of the door you involuntarily moved closer together. Your head rested on his chest, his head on top of your head. You hold your breath, your hands both resting on your stomach. You felt his hands move and wrap around you. You breathed in and immediately could smell Loki. He smelled fresh. You couldn’t explain his smell. It wasn’t like anything you’d smelled before.

When Thor finally leaves, taking the stench with him, you finally look up to smile at Loki, stopping when you realize how close your faces actually are. Your noses almost touched, you could feel his warm breath on your lips. You both pause, searching the other’s face. Neither of you moves, you just wait. You don’t know what it is you’re waiting for, but you know it’ll be worth it in the end.

When you finally start to move, the closet door whips wide open, revealing a very angry Thor. He’s soaking wet, and the sewer smell is overpowering. He opens his mouth to yell at both of you before pausing, taking in your questionable position

You both jump apart as much as the small closet would allow, looking sheepishly at one another. You can feel your face turn slightly pink as Thor mutters, “Pardon me, Brother,” before he speed-walks away from you. You look over at Loki and notice a slight pink tinge to his cheeks, and you feel your cheeks heat up even more. You can’t even look at each other. His arms lay uselessly at his sides and yours are wrapped around your torso.

“I should go,” you point towards where you think your bedroom is. “I’ve got a lot of work to do for Stark…”

“Yes, right,” Loki stutters. “I do as well. I mean, not for Stark, I just have a lot of- a lot of work I need to do…” his voice drifts off.

You can’t run away from each other quickly enough.

#Rosierossette #Tempting #Tempting Fic #Loki #Loki x Reader #Rosierossette writes #Loki Odinson #Loki Laufeyson

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kiki-wiccan · 4 years

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Monster (Kiki/Isabella and Professor James backstory self write Tw: Abuse, Violence, Rape)

Isabella had the worst day at college possible, if that was saying something considering lately everyday had been dreadful. Her project that she was planning on submitting into an art gallery had been smashed to bits. By the looks of it, it definitely was no accident. She couldn’t understand how it would’ve happened though. Her art professor had graciously allowed her to put the sculpture in his office for safe keeping. Did someone sneak into his office just to break it? Oh how cruel could people be? Luckily it was Friday and she didn’t have any classes on the weekends, a break from college. A chance to hide away in her room from the town. She was meant to visit the professor at his apartment that evening for their usual day night.

Dressing up was a hassle with her mood. However she managed to slip on a short but stylish spaghetti strap black dress. Slipping on her black flats she reached over on her nightstand and grabbed a black hair twisty, tying her hair up in a messy bun. Snatching up her purse off of her bed, she said goodnight to her mother and grandmother as she likely wouldn’t be home till late. Slipping into her lavender punch buggy she made her way to the professors complex. Upon arriving she used her key that he had given her to unlock the door and entered his apartment. Closing the door behind her she announces her presence knowing he was somewhere within the apartment. “James, I’m here! You wouldn’t believe what happened! My sculpture somehow got smashed...I honestly thought it would be safe in your office...it’s absolutely awful I won’t be able to submit anything for the gallery!”

James slid a bookmark into his book and set it down on the coffee table, getting up to greet the young woman. “Oh how terrible! These kids should know better than to take their fears out on someone else” he said slightly louder to let her know where he was. As Isabella came into veiw he approached the girl with a smile gracing Isabella's face at seeing her lover. He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, and Isabella nuzzled her cheek against his caring caress. “Don’t worry about it too much, my love. I could let you get some time to remake the sculpture this weekend if you would like. Though if those rats can get into my office, I’m not sure I can guarantee it won’t happen again.”

She normally would be cheered up by his presence alone and of course offering her a chance at a redo as he had many times before. But today the depression of everything that had been happening was weighing heavy on her heart. “Could you? Even then though would it be worth it? Everything I’ve created since...they found out who I am has been destroyed...” she bites her bottom lip and averts her gaze, tears pricking in her eyes. “I know that I shouldn’t give up but....it’s getting worse at school and just in town...they’ve started getting physical...”

James eyes narrowed. “Now now, I’m here, aren’t I? I’ll always have your back Isabella.” He wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb and pulled her in for a hug. With a soft sigh Isabella wrapped her arms back around the professor. “If it ever gets too unbearable, just come to me, and I will protect you from them.” He always did give the best hugs and knew exactly what to say. “You’re right...I’m so lucky to have you, thank you for not leaving me or judging me for who I am,” Isabella replied.

James pulled away from the hug but left his hands on her shoulders. “Would you like something to drink? I have all the usual beverages.” He spoke with a warm smile on his face.

“Then that means you must have chocolate milk, which I need!” Isabella says and grabs his hands and leads him into the kitchen.“Maybe if you’d help me with the sculpture we’d be able to finish it together? I really want to be accepted into the art gallery I know you mentioned how popular they are.” She opens the fridge to find the carton of chocolate milk that the professor kept specifically for her. Isabella loved anything sweet, knowing that the professor kept it in his home because it was something she enjoyed. Anything that made her rely on him for comfort. Grabbing the carton of chocolate milk when she found it. Setting it on the counter she got on her toes and reached up into the cabinet to grab herself a glass.

James crossed his arms, watching Isabella. "An Interesting thought, though I'm not sure how much help I'd be able to provide, my sweet. It is against the rule for a professor like me to help out on such a project, so if anyone found out, the whole town would be after my head." He gave her a sad looking smile. "Nevertheless, I will provide you with all the tools you need and help with what I can. I'm sure with your talents, you will be able to make something beautiful in no time."

Kiki poured the milk into her glass then put the carton away in the fridge. “I know, your reputation is important. I wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble....“ she closes the fridge and grabs the glass from off the counter.

James leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching her closely. "I'm glad you understand. It's truly unfortunate that I can't help you more…” he said with a sigh.

“The new sculpture won’t be as wonderful as the first one I made but I’ll do my best! Should we start it tonight or do you have other plans for date night?” Isabella asked as she continued sipping on her milk. Chocolate milk and the professors encouraging words was definitely a mood booster.

James leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “I don't see why we can't do both. I was just thinking of taking a stroll, but we could always just take the long way around to the studio."

Finishing up her glass she places it in the sink. He really was such a sweetheart, she got lucky finding someone like him. “That sounds like a plan! Let’s do it!” smiling she links her arm around the professor, who grabbed his shoes and keys on their way out. Walking out of his apartment and down one of their familiar pathways. They often would walk at night ever since being exposed. Of course Isabella didn’t mind it, as she loved staring at the twinkling night sky.

As they walked, James seemed to be on high alert for someone-- anyone-- who might be watching them. When they at last reached the campus, he unlocked the door to the studio, ushering Isabella in and locking the door behind them. He covered the windows so that nobody could see inside either. "Alrighty," he said, clapping his hands together in a motion reminiscent of a man starting class. "What can I do to help you get started?"

Isabella set her purse down and chuckled as James seemed to take on his usual authoritative role. “Well I’ll need colorful clay....some carving tools....some glitter....”

James rolled his eyes, a smile making its way onto his face. "You and your glitter... As usual, just don't make a mess with it. I'd feel bad for the custodians." With that being said, he went around the studio, getting out the various items that she needed and setting it up for her. He sat down in a corner to give her some time to work, his legs crossed as he watched the girl he once admired so much.

“I’ll try my best not to make a mess!” Isabella replied she slipped off her black flats and reached into her purse, pulling out a hair twisty and tying her hair up in a messy bun. When she was focused on something she zoned everything else out. After everything was set up she immediately got to work. Humming softly to herself as her hands worked with the clay. She had a specific vision in her mind and she was completely focused on creating it. Using the different colors she was given to create her masterpiece. The form of her art taking shape as beautiful fairy with large wings. Using the glitter she was given to detail the wings. As she finally finished she stepped back. Her hands covered in clay and glitter with some on her face. A smile on her face as she stared at her masterpiece. “sooooo do you like it?” she waited for the usual approval of her lover.

James smiled as she looked up to face him— had he not been smiling the whole time? "Why don't we put it in the oven? We can talk for a bit while it's firing," he said, dodging her question with a forced smile as me motioned for her to put the creature into the oven.

“Ooo alright! I hope it comes out well. I really think I let out my creativity in this piece. I love designing fairies though usually I keep them in my sketchbook hidden...” She carefully lifted up her creation and set it down in the oven. By now she knew how to work the machine and turned it on. Before twirling around and walking back over to the professor. Isabella was practically beaming, it was obvious she was proud of her work.

James watched, his fake smile plastered on his face as she set her abomination into the oven, and waited until she had closed it to approach her. He gently reached out and caressed her cheek, wiping a bit of glitter off of under her eye with the pad of his thumb before removing his hand-- only to swiftly make contact with her cheek once more with a heavy smack. His smile faded instantly to a disgusted frown. "You should keep that disgusting filth hidden forever." before she could get over the shock of him smacking her, he grabbed her shoulders and pinned her against the wall, the force of the action knocking a couple unpainted pots off the shelves and they came crashing down around them.

“J...James....?” her voice cracks as she stares into his blue anger filled eyes. Had she done something wrong? Why was he angry at her?

"Do you honestly think anyone will compliment that abomination you've created!?" James spat, his eyes full of rage. "You should be afraid -- very afraid -- of what this town thinks of you. Yet here you are, happily enjoying yourself with your filthy little hands, creating such vile forms out of our precious clay. You're a disgrace to the art program."

“You said I shouldn’t be afraid....that you’d protect me from them!.....I thought...I thought you didn’t mind supernaturals....what’s going on?” her brows furrowed in confusion as she tried to make sense of what was happening. “Did someone threaten you or something?”

A nasty grin spread across his face as he noted the fear in her eyes and in her voice. Yet he still wasn't satisfied-- he needed more. "Oh, sweet Isabella. I will protect you from them-- but only because you are mine. I used to love you, you know... but you ruined it, ruined everything with this vile truth-- you're a monster, something to be feared. But I won't have that, no no. I will make you fear me." His voice at this point had lost all hints of kindness and was at a low growl, like an angry beast. He kept his grip tight on her, before saying in a deep voice, "I will make you fear me like no other." With that said, he drew back to punch her in the face, the stomach, and kicked her legs out from under her to send her crashing to the floor.

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, was this the man she loved? What happened this couldn’t be real. Had he been lying to her this whole time? Was he like everyone else in this town?! “I...I’m not....I’m not a monster...I...James...I love you....please...” her words of desperation to try and convince him she wasn’t bad, she wasn’t wicked. Instead she was met with a version of the professor she never even knew existed. Chills running down her spine as he claimed that he’d make her fear him. Next thing she knew, more pain. Before she had a chance to recover he had pinned her underneath him, kneeling on her legs so she couldn't kick or get up.

“SNAP OUT OF IT JAMES!! Fucking stop it!!!” Isabella shouted. “I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU TREAT ME LIKE THEY TREAT ME! I AM NOT A MONSTER!!!!” As she was pinned to the floor she instinctively opened her mouth to let out a scream. However it was muffled by his hand and she stared up at him in terror.

"Scream, I dare you. No one will come to your rescue. And at the off chance they do, I'll simply tell them you attacked me. They will believe me, of course. Who would believe a monster?" He gave off an evil-sounding laugh as he continued to beat her, leaving cuts with his rings and bruises with his fists.

James knew exactly what he was doing, he knew how the town worked. They all saw her as some awful monster but she wasn’t. The professor had led her to believe that he thought differently from the rest. Part of her still wanted to believe this wasn’t him. She struggled back against him but it was proven useless. Hit after hit came down and all Isabella could feel was pain. Bruises already forming on her pale skin along with bloody cuts. Once he seemed to be finished she tried getting up, but groaned in pain as she realized how badly he had beat her.

Yet he still wasn't satisfied. Before Isabella could get up, he grabbed the glitter she'd been using. "This is for the art you've disgraced," he spat, sprinkling some into her open cuts. "How does it feel now, Isabella?"

Watching him grab the glitter as she finally allowed her eyes to fill with tears. Hissing as the glitter was sprinkled into her already bloody cuts. It stung, despite this she still didn’t want to believe this was James. She wanted to believe that maybe he was forced to do this? He had to love her right? “ I love you please...James don’t do this....don’t be like them....I thought...you were different....who’s...making you do this?...”

James's twisted smile grew at the sight of her tears. "Who? Who's making me? You really don't know?" he asked, faking a surprised expression. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. "It's you, of course... you freak." He needed to get up, and after glancing around the room, grabbed the wire that was used to cut clay and tied her ankles with it. "Now, be a good girl... I certainly wouldn't recommend struggling against those wires. You know how they cut through clay... like butter."

Her blood ran cold as the realization finally hit her that this was of his own will. His breath tickling her ear as he insulted her. Freak, monster was that really what the man she loved saw her as? After all they had been through, after all the trust she had put in him. As he finally got off of her, she attempted to push herself up. Her arms were shaky and she could barely lift the top part of her body before laying back down. Next thing she knew something sharp was tied around her ankles. She looked down and panic shot through her body yet again. Without even struggling she could already feel the wire cutting into her skin. Gritting her teeth as she laid there, now she really was stuck unless she wanted to amputate her feet. Hearing his mocking tone just hurt her even more, was he really enjoying doing this to her?

After saying that, he got up and opened the oven, the heat of the fire quickly filling the room. He turned the oven off and reached for the metal tongs, bringing out the still uncooked sculpture.

“JAMES NO DON’T!! PLEASE DON’T!!” Isabella cried, reaching out towards the sculpture, her cries were in vain as the masterpiece she’d worked hard on was dropped.

"Oops," he said with an evil grin as the sculpture smashed to the floor with a dull thud and shattered and squished onto the floor. "Oh no.... just like all your other art. How... unfortunate."

“W...why....” a sob escaped her lips as she saw the sad state of the destroyed fairy. Shooting a glare at him. “Like all my ....other art....w....wait...you! Did you...have you been the one destroying my art?!!!” anger swirled with pain as she shouted at him.

"You just now figured it out? Poor girl," he said, clicking his tongue. After kicking the broken pottery out of his way, he made is way back over to Isabella, kneeling down in front of her once more, his face getting dangerously close to hers. He ran his hand through her hair, a gentle caress that the girl was used to-- yet at the end of a few strokes he firmly gripped her dark locks.

"Did you really think I would be careless enough to let others into my office? No... you are mine to destroy, and that applies to your artwork as well." he paused for a moment, looking into her angered eyes with dissatisfaction. "tsk tsk... this won't do. Is that.. anger? Little Isabella... the only emotion you should feel towards me is fear." Like a hungry beast, he hit her once more, then began tearing off her clothing, not caring at all about the ripped fabric.

~ Rape Occured will not be writing details ~

Once he was satisfied, he redressed, straightening his tie and running his hands through his hair, leaving the sobbing girl on the ground as he walked away. Yet before he shut the door behind him, he turned to face her once more. "Remember, Isabella... I would strongly advise against telling anyone of the... 'love spell' you used on me tonight." with that said, he turned off the lights and left, leaving her there in the dark. Staring at him with terror in her eyes, he’d won, she feared him.

Her heart was absolutely torn into pieces, how could he do this to her? The studio was eerily silent minus the pained sobs coming from herself. Using her arms she managed to pull her body to her purse that was near the entrance. Finding her phone she switched on the flashlight and snatched her pocket knife from deeper within her purse. With shaky hands she cut the wire from her bloodied ankles, free at last. Using the wall to help her she managed to stand up on shaky legs. Her entire body was sore and every move brought on more pain. She couldn’t stick around though, turning on the light switch her gaze landed on her destroyed sculpture. Making her way over she knelt down and scooped up the remaining pieces. “I’m sorry....” she whispered as she got up and chucked it into the trash can. Staring down at her torn dress she debated on how she’d be able to get home. Glancing around the art room she snatched up one of the art aprons and slid it on. It covered the parts she needed it to. Taking one last look around the studio she once adored making art in, she promised herself she’d never come back here. Sliding on her flats and snatching up her purse she flicked the lights off and left the studio.

#kikiwiccan #trc:kiki #kikixprofessor #kikipast #tw:abuse #tw:rape #tw: violence

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softforcal · 5 years

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“I LOVE U FOR THE SLYTHERIN!ASH LIKE YOU WENT BEYOND MY WILDEST IMAGINATION so here's another one. slytherin!ash x gryffindor!reader because i'm so here for that (and a hoe for the enemies to friends to lovers trope)” - requested by @irwinkitten (something was up with my asks today and it wouldn’t show up on my blog so i had to post it this way)

SLYTHERIN!ASH X GRYFFINDOR! READER

another long as fuck one, its 4k of filth, continue reading under the cut

-upon further discussion with the love of my life Laura we agreed on Quidditch Captain rivals too because we want to slay the fandom one rivals to lovers trope at a time

-you are the Gryffindor!Team Captain

-and Ashton is the Slytherin!Team Captain

-you guys were appointed captains the same year when your previous house captains graduated and left their Captain Title and their rivalry to you and Ashton

-of course that year the first game of the year was between Gryffindor and Slytherin

-the two of you shaking hands before the game, him leaning in and saying “get ready to get your ass kicked.” and you’re like “in your dreams Irwin.”

-from that moment on its a rivalry

-you keep a tally of games where you win vs when he wins

-and you both really push your teams to play their best when you’re playing against each other

-teachers know not to put you and Ashton together on projects or labs because you two are notorious for talking back to each other

-he’s a fan of really snarky stuff but you always have a come back

-just a real classic Gryffindor and Slytherin rivalry

-match days where you and Ash glare at each other from your separate tables

-Ash’s friends think it’s hilarious but at the same time, Slytherin!Cal points out “you know she’s kinda really hot.” “i know. it makes me sick.” Ashton growls

-because he’s way too into you

-which doesn’t make sense because you two are rivals

-like it makes it tough for him

-because he’s fallen in love with your smile but you only ever smile when you’ve beaten Ash which is bad, but when he wins and he’s happy then you look upset so wtf its a catch 22

-going to the match and for the first time since you both became Captains, Ashton is actually just like “good luck.”

-and you are shook. “you too Irwin.”

-”Ash. call me Ash.”

-and before you can call him Ash, he lets go of your hand and goes to shake another one of your teammates hands and you are just shook

-your team wins and as your teams are walking back to the locker rooms something makes you run to catch Ashton, “hey, we’re having an afterparty, you should come.”

-”we both know i can’t come to your afterparty.” he laughs, “but maybe we can grab a butterbeer sometime.”

-”okay. I’ll uh… we’ll figure something out.”

-you watch him disappear into the Slytherin change-room and a few of your team mates are like “what the fuck was that.”

-meanwhile Calum is hounding Ashton in the change room “did she just ask you out?! did she seriously make the first move!?”

-”fucking Gryffindor’s being brave all the time and making the first move.” Ashton agrees, what can he say, old habits of trashing other houses die hard

-but he’s kinda sad because like… he knows you’re going to be partying somewhere, happy, dancing, and he’s not going to be there to watch

-will he ever be able to see you dance and party?

-because like… the only parties that you go to are the Quidditch afterparties when your team has won and Ash could never go to one of those

-fuck he wants to see you dance and be happy so bad

-and you’re gorgeous. he starts to feel his blood boil just thinking about maybe you dancing with someone else

-”Cal we’re going to crash that fucking party.”

-”of course we are.” Cal grins

-”yeah its bullshit that we’re the only house ever not invited right?” Ashton states

-”well technically she invited you…” Calum points out

-Ashton tells a few of the Slytherins and of course Slytherin!Michael is down to come

-plus, Gryffindor!Luke is a bro and he’s down to let them in

-so a few Slytherins go to the Gryffindor common room and Luke meets them outside, “if anyone asks, it wasn’t me who let you in.”

-the whole group promises not to rat out Luke and he lets them in one by one

-as soon as Ashton gets into the common room, even with the party in full swing, he spots you

-you’re so beautiful it makes his little Slytherin heart swell

-and of course you turn and see the golden haired Slytherin boy and Ashton is shook when you smile

-”You came!” you scream, making your way towards him through the crowd of red, “i thought you weren’t going to.”

-”changed my mind. that’s allowed isn’t it?” he smiles

-and neither of you are really sure what to do because up until legit that morning you’d been rivals and now you’re in this weird, unknown place where you’re not sure how to act with each other

-you turn and see Calum, his hands on a Ravenclaw girl’s hips as she grinds against him

-and there goes Michael with that little Hufflepuff girl that he’s always trying to make laugh

-and Luke? well Luke has his hands all over your Gryffindor Chaser

-yeah, Gryffindor winning afterparties can be a slut fest but thats all good

-you’ve never really cared

-but you’ve never been in a situation where a guy you’re actually sexually attracted to has been there

-and there he is

-all gorgeous and bad… he’s a bad boy you just know it

-you kind of love it too… like, come on he’s sexy as fuck

-and you’ve been playing Quidditch against this guy for ages, you’ve seen his gorgeous Beater arms

-and you’re the Gryffindor so you bet you’re ass you’re going to jump on this opportunity

-”Dance with me.” you state, turning so your back is to him you and you can put his hands on your waist

-Ashton laughs to himself, you’re always the one making the first move and he’s sort of starting to love that

-but now it’s his turn

-he’s not going to pass up on the opportunity you just presented him with. and he’s a fucking Slytherin, so he’s ambitious AF

-his grip on you tightens as he pulls you back against him

-you feel… dirty.

-no one is paying attention to the two of you but still

-and besides, you’re not even being that bad, Cal practically has his hand up that Ravenclaws shirt and he’s notorious for being a womanizer

-and Ash’s hands just feel so good on you

-he’s nice and rough, just like you imagined

-yeah, you’d imagined this whole thing before (but you’d never admit that to anyone)

-you turn to make the first move (again) but before you can his lips are on yours

-one hand on your face, the other on the small of your back to keep you pressed against his chest

-its hot and rough and oddly passionate

-groaning into each others mouths and you’re sure no one else can hear you

-tangling your fingers in those curls and when you pull slightly he groans a bit too loudly and it makes you snap back to reality enough to pull away

-Ashton’s eyes open at the loss of contact and he sees you looking around, seeing if anyone is watching, suddenly you’re not the brave Gryffindor anymore

-he grabs your hand and pulls you through the crowd, “Irwin where are we going?” you ask as the two of you leave the Gryffindor common room

-he stops and looks at you, “do you trust me?”

-part of you wants to say no but looking into his eyes… you do. “yes.”

-and then he’s pulling you again, stopping in front of a wall. you’re about to ask more questions when he presses a few of the stones and the wall slides away, revealing a dark corridor you have never seen in your life

-Ashton whispers an illumination spell and a ball of light appears in the corridor, Ashton grabs your hand and the two of you go into the corridor, the door closing behind you

-”Irwin-” you begin. “what did I tell you about calling me that?” he growls, pressing your body against the wall as his lips capture yours again

-now that you’re alone we’re talking full on rough making out

-and now you know he likes having a bit of his hair pulled so for sure you’re doing that to make him groan

-his hands skim under your shirt and you find yourself pulling your shirt off before you begin to fuss with his

-”we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Ashton says as he helps you pull his shirt off

-you stop, looking at him

-you’re a little shocked that he’s so ready to back off if you’re uncomfortable. i mean, you didn’t think he was some crazy aggressive asshole but this is such a soft side you didn’t know he had

-and it’s like… yes this would be dirty and bad but it would also be fucking LIT AS FUCK FAM

-”are you sure no one else knows about this secret corridor?” you ask

-”pretty sure.” he answers

-grabbing his face and kissing him again

-yes, the first time for you two isn’t going to be on a bed and thats kinky but also… you would not be able to sneak him through the Gryffindor common room to get up to your room and (as per usual Hogwarts) you share a room with two other Gryffindor’s so you wouldn’t even be able to fuck there

-you don’t know about Ashton’s room situations, he might be one of the lucky Slytherins (like Calum) who has their own room with no room mates but your Gryffindor pride is too much to walk through the snake pit Slytherin common room to get to Ashton’s room

-your heart is practically racing out of your chest

-i mean, the sexual tension has been there for… well, for as long as you could remember

-and all it took was a ‘good game’ and now here you are less than 12 hours later?

-why hadn’t you said ‘good game’ years earlier?

-you begin to unbutton his pants and he’s just like “you’re sure you’re okay with this?”

-”Ash, are you going to fuck me or not?”

-there’s his Gryffindor

-he tears off your pants like it’s nobodies business

-and like… he can tell by the way you said ‘are you going to fuck me or not’ that you’re down for the rough stuff

-suddenly his teeth are skimming the skin of your neck and his fingers are gripping you so hard you’re sure there will be bruises

-and you’re moaning and it’s revving him up like a motherfucker

-fingers fam. fingers.

-lets be real he’s pent up like a motherfucker and and he’s been waiting this for god even knows how long

-so you bet your ass he’s having the full experience

-”fuck, wanna taste.” he groans, “get on the ground.”

-for a second you don’t want to obey because you’re both Captains, and it’s going against your Gryffindor Captain mentality to do what he says but… you make a decision right then and there that in strictly a sexual context, he can be in charge

-getting on the floor and the cold stone corridor ground sucks but Ashton immediately distracts you with his tongue

-tangling your fingers in his hair

-he makes you cum once and you think he’s going to come up for air or something but nope, home boi is determined to get you to cum at least twice with his fingers and tongue because this boy will be fucking damned if you leave this experience without wanting more

-your moans echoing off the walls

-when you come a second time you’re a mess and Ashton comes up between your legs, lips on yours

-once again you find yourself reviling in the dirtyness of it all

-the taste of yourself on his tongue, the cold stone floor, the fact that it’s with Ashton fucking Irwin

-he slides into you and you both groan

-his face buried in your neck, soft kisses against the spots that he marked up earlier

-intertwining your fingers

-squeezing his hand with each thrust

-tangling your fingers in his hair again

-and if he likes pain from getting his hair pulled then what would he think about…. dragging your fingers down his back

-”fuck.”

-hearing Ashton swear in his husky sex voice is a blessing

-his lips attach to your neck again and you know there’s going to be a mark because his teeth are driving you wild

-and then his fingers untangle from yours and go to wrap around your neck

-you can feel the bite of his Slytherin Legacy ring against your neck and the thought of it makes you moan

-his lips are on yours again and you know he’s close because his speed is getting quicker

-all it takes is you moaning his name and he cums

-running your fingers through his hair as his thrusting slows and you both just try to catch your breath

-he finally groans and pulls out, rolling off of you onto the ground next to you, “fuck the ground is cold!” he says

-you both laugh

-(if ya’ll know me you know i’m lazy and i have created an anti cum spell so imagine just waving that shit out and it’s anti-pregnancy and anti-mess)

-he grabs your pants and tosses them to you before getting his own clothes on

-you stand up and he kisses you softly

-”still want to grab that Butterbeer?”

-before you leave the corridor Ashton’s fingers brush over your neck, “shit, i’m sorry, you’re neck-” “classic Slytherin.” you tease. “stay here and i’ll go grab you a scarf.” he says

-he comes back really fast with a green scarf and wraps it around your neck

-going and grabbing that Butterbeer

-its an honest to god date

-people are a little shook to see you and Ashton out and about together

-especially with that green scarf

-its kinda late though so you end up back at the school pretty quick

-people are still partying in the common room but a lot of people have cleared out, part of you wants to invite Ashton in but part of you also just needs to go to sleep and think about what the fuck just happened

-because there are still people in the halls you’re not really sure what to do… i mean, you’ve fucked but like… do you kiss? do you hug?

-”come here.” Ashton says, as if reading your mind as his hands settle on your waist

-you go to cup his face and he grins, leaning in and kissing you

-he lets you go and you’re about to take his scarf off but he shakes his head, “keep it, you don’t want to lose the respect of your team by going in there with all these hickies on your neck.”

-i mean… true

-”okay,” he begins to pull away and you say “goodnight Irwin.”

-he laughs, grabbing you again, “what did i tell you about calling me by my last name?”

-another kiss, but this time it’s deeper and rougher and it has you both wanting to go find that secret corridor again

-hearing some whistles and you both break away to see Michael and his Hufflepuff girl standing there with grins on their faces, “get it Ash!” Michael screams

-of course this prompts Ash to get Michael in a headlock and you head into the Gryffindor common room with a smile on your face

-there are still a few people dicking around and Luke is on the couch but his girl is gone and when you enter he immediately pulls you over, arm going over your shoulders, “so you and Ash?”

-of fucking course this Giraffe saw that. he sees everything from his height.

-”and ooh, this is his scarf isn’t it?” Luke asks, beginning to pull the scarf from around your neck

-”back off Luke!” you laugh, smacking his hands away

-”so what are you going to tell the team?” Luke asks, “this is complete betrayal.”

-rolling your eyes, “its not serious, Luke.”

-”pfff, you and Ash have had a thing for each other for ages.” Luke scoffs

-you roll your eyes and head up to your room

-the next morning you’re at breakfast, wearing your red scarf not Ash’s green one. you think it’s going to be like any other day but as you’re leaving a hand goes to your waist and Ash falls in step with you, “you’re not wearing my scarf?”

-”i can’t just wear your scarf Ashton, you know that.” you roll your eyes

-”why not?” he pouts

-”okay, Ashton, what is going on?” you ask, stopping and pulling him out of the direct hallway to a quieter place, “i’m not going to wear your scarf because i’m not your girlfriend. i’m a quidditch captain, like you. i need to represent my own house-”

-he shuts you up with his lips and before you know it the two of you are in the secret corridor again

-”Ash we both have class-” you say between kisses

-”this corridor is a short cut.” he insists, pulling down your pants and turning you around so your back is to him as your hands go to brace yourself against the wall

-its quick but hot as fuck

-you’re starting to realize that it might always be hot as fuck

-him using your red scarf to restrict your neck and thats fucking hot

-you both finish and hurry to pull up your pants then he’s showing you down the corridor and he hits a few tiles and pulls you through quickly and just like that you’re in the back of the class you’re supposed to be in?

-thats how this boy is always getting places so fast!

-you begin to head over to sit with your Housemates and are surprised when Ashton follows you, taking a seat next to you

-the other Gryffindors are surprised as fuck too

-”hey, I’m Ashton.” he smiles

-”we know who you are.” they all say

-”so is this some sort of rival captain forced hang out day?” one of them asks

-”no we’re just getting to know each other.” Ashton shrugs

-”why though?” one asks

-Ashton is shook because he expected this sort of thing from his house but not from yours

-”guys!” you scold, “you’re acting like Slytherins.”

-”ouch.” Ashton laughs

-”sorry, old habits die hard.”

-you begin hanging out more and people don’t react the best to it

-but at least the Slytherins don’t say anything mean to you because they know Ash will kick their asses if they do

-you go to a Slytherin vs Ravenclaw match with your team and your eyes are on Ashton the entire time

-he’s flawless

-a few of your team mates being like “so you and Ashton are hanging out a lot.”

-”its just casual.” you say before you can stop yourself.

-so you just outed you and Ashton to your team

-thats fun

-they are shook

-but they’re not going to question you about it because they’ve noticed you being happier

-Slytherin wins and after the match you go down and wait outside the change room for Ashton to come out

-as soon as he does and he sees you he pulls you into the change room and locks it

-more dirty, kinky, half public sex

-and your neck had just started to heal

-locker room shower sex too because fuck yeah bud

-as your putting on your clothes you tell Ash how great he played and he is actually so soft that you’re complimenting him?

-”so i talked to the team and they’re okay with a few non-house people coming to the after party, if you wanted to come.” Ashton says

-”how did you manage to convince them of that?” you laugh

-”well when i told them i want my girlfriend there they didn’t argue.” Ashton states

-”i’m your girlfriend now?” you ask

-”yes.” he states, pulling you in for a kiss

-and just like that you’re his girlfriend

-he wraps his green scarf around your neck and you laugh

-walking into that Slytherin common room with Ashton’s arm over your shoulders and everyone just gawks at you

-so everything is straight up Fuego with you two

-because you used to be rivals the two of you are matched so well

-like, heavy making out

-lots of hair pulling

-PDA is a thing for Slytherin!Ashton because this boi is possessive AF but also just so proud that you’re his

-sexy dancing to the max

-and it turns out Ashton totally has a room to himself?

-he fucks you on every surface in that room and i will fight you on this

-its just really passionate

-you two are a fucking force to be reckoned with

-”are you sure there’s no secret passage out of your room? i don’t really feel like having a walk of shame out of the Slytherin common room.”

-Ashton walking you out and he glares at anyone who gives you a look

-your houses are going to take a while to accept each other

-but then one of your Gryffindor friends catches Cal’s eye and suddenly your friends are all for SlytherinxGryffindor relationships

-it’s totally a plan that Cal and Ash devised to convince your friends to like Slytherins more but it backfires when Cal’s womanizing Slytherin ways leak out and the girls are all like ‘we hath been played by this slythering boi’

-but Ash is so loyal to you and so in love and everyone can see it

-your first Quidditch game against each other since you started fucking dating and of course a ‘good luck’ isnt enough so he pulls you in for a kiss and both of your teams groan

-meanwhile, Michael (who of course is the quidditch game announcer) makes a super dirty comment ON THE MIKE

-or maybe something more PG like “Oh look kids! spit exchange!” or “first years shield your eyes the captains are working on making a new Christmas team.” because there was that one time Michael said something dirty on the mike and almost got fired from being the announcer

-you both want to win but you both kinda want to see the other smile?

-but you both have to lead your teams so you put on your game day faces

-it’s a super close game

-like insanely close

-but Gryffindor wins

-you begin to walk to the change room but Ashton grabs you and once again you find yourself in some sneaky side corridor but instead of stopping to fuck the shit out of you against a wall Ashton is dragging you somewhere

-ending up in a Prefect bathroom?

-Ashton turns the tub on because you’re both kinda grody from the game

-getting into the water and Ashton begins kissing you immediately

-he gets really dominant which is chill

-”aw baby are you sad cuz we dominated you in the game and now you want to dominate me to make up for it?” you tease

-he pulls back and just gives you this fucking look

-because yes. that’s exactly what he’s about to do.

-and he knows you’re going to let him

-and you’re going to fucking love it too

-so this is your relationship fam

-you are fiercely protective of each other

-marks

-that god damn slytherin legacy ring

-sucking it off his god damned finger

-”that’s so hot.”

-scarves becoming a normal part of your wardrobe

-both of your teams knowing way too much about your sex lives because they have to see the marks in the shower room

-so this is like 4k and i should stop but i don’t want to

-but fam i have to and i am so sorry

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