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beckettj · 9 months ago

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The Heart of a Villan - Chapter 2/5

Chapter Two - Operation Lion's Den

Summary: Three-thousand miles from home, Henry drags Emma into a land she never imagined venturing to; the realm of English football. She holds no interest in the sport but when she’s approached by Villa Captain Killian Jones, she determines that there could be something in the sport for her after all.

Words: 9536

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Killian enters the home changing room, the last to return due to his flirty grovelling at pitch side, and is met by jubilant chaos. Someone already has their victory playlist at full blast, blaring from their phone, and Will – ever the life and soul of a party – has stripped to his boxers, dancing around the place with his shorts on his head.

Will spots his arrival instantly and prances over, slinging an arm over his shoulder and dragging him centre-stage, to the middle of the room.

“Wahey, look who it is! The man of the hour, the captain of the century!” Will exclaims.

He grabs Killian by the wrist and flings his arm into the air, as if proclaiming him champion of a boxing match.

“It would appear that three points and a man of the match performance is not all our captain managed to secure,” Robin notes.

As appreciative as Killian is for Robin’s pinpoint accuracy on the pitch – a lot of his goals have come from getting on the end of a Locksley delivery – he’s not so fond of it off the pitch. Will jerks Killian’s arm down so to look for himself.

“Emma,” Will reads and looks up at him, “is that the bird whose kid you clobbered?”

“The woman,” Killian corrects pointedly. “And I’d hardly say clobbered.”

“Well, I’ve gotta hand it to ya, mate, it was one hell of a bold tactic,” Will comments. “Keep going with audacious tactics like that and you’ll give the gaffer a run for his money!”

Killian playfully shoves Will off him, knocking the shorts off his head in the same movement.

“Alright, that’s enough of that! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We have yet to seal the deal,” the aforementioned gaffer strolls into the room.

His arrival changes the atmosphere instantaneously. The music is shut off, attentive silence fills the room and the entire team scramble to find their seats. They all know the drill after a victory; the gaffer gives them a small time to celebrate whilst he converses with his coaches and then it’s straight back to business.

He steps into the centre of the room and stands to take in his captive audience. He’s a young man for his role, mid-thirties and some of his players are a fraction older than him but his presence is a notable one, no matter what room he walks into. His presence alone demands respect and attention. He could walk into the away dressing room just next door and elicit the same response.

The gaffer’s accomplishments in the beautiful game deserve such worship, and earns awe from all those he meets for the first time.

Killian remembers the gaffer’s first day, being called into his office at the training ground first thing to be warned that the new gaffer wasn’t adverse to switching things up, to stripping him of his captaincy and giving it to another player if he deemed it to be in the best interests of the team. Had the previous gaffer made such a proposal to him, Killian would have been outraged, diving into an argument of how such an action would be unjust and potentially dent his reputation, yet with the new gaffer he’d done nothing but nod dumbly as he stared, astonished, at the legend before him.

A Premier League footballing legend; he’d broken into the Manchester United first team at just nineteen years old, setting the midfield ablaze, raking in the goals and assists. At only twenty-five years of age, the gaffer’s career came to a tragically premature end when a mistimed tackle in a pre-season friendly broke his leg in two places, but not before he had won five Premier League titles, two EFL cups, the FIFA Club World Cup, and the best of the best; the Champions League. A mind-boggling achievement for only seven seasons in the senior game.

Killian’s own career – coming towards the end of his eleventh professional season – feels trivial in comparison; his highest accomplishments of note being a Championship Play-off final victory and runner-up in an EFL cup final.

So he’d lapped up every word the gaffer had spoken, followed every instruction, gratefully grasped every piece of advice the legend had for him. His efforts retained him his captaincy and the entire team’s belief in the manager’s structural changes, tactics and formations had the team preforming miracles.

With the gaffer being a former Manchester United player, the media had taken to facetiously questioning whether the Aston Villa manager has sold his soul to the devil to elicit such fantastical results in transforming a relegation battling team into one competing for a top four spot on the other end of the Premier League table.

It's somewhat ironic, Killian muses, as the gaffer clears his throat, preparing for a speech, that in the three times Aston Villa have faced up to Manchester United since their new manager’s appointment, the Villans had beaten the Red Devils all three times.

Football is a fickle sport. A man once hailed as a hero for bringing such success to the Devils since transforming into the Villan responsible for pilfering nine points from them.

“As of this moment, we sit in fourth. You all know as well as I do what that means; it’s a Champions League spot but the fat lady has not yet sung!” the gaffer proclaims. “There are still eleven games left of the season and we’re sitting on the brink of success. They believed we’d drop off by Christmas. Did we?”

“No!” comes the charged, unison response.

“And nor will we! But victory comes with a price,” the gaffer continues.

It’s his long old mantra, one Killian’s heard countless times during the gaffer’s thirteen month reign at the club.

“Victory requires focus, it requires determination, it requires grit and it requires hard-work. I have demanded a lot from you lads in the last year and I’d like to think the results speak for themselves, but there’s no time to rest yet. I want Champions League, you want Champions League, the fans want Champions league. Eleven more games, one final push; double the focus, double the determination, double the grit, double the hard-work and we put Aston Villa back where it belongs; back amongst the top clubs of Europe. Are you ready for that?”

“Yeah!” the teams roars, together once more.

The gaffer nods, satisfied, “Enjoy today’s victory. Enjoy your day off tomorrow. You’ve earned it. We go again Monday.”

As quickly as he’d arrived, the gaffer leaves, off to meticulously review the game’s footage ahead of the team’s Monday morning briefing.

Killian releases a leisurely sigh as he leans back, his elbows resting on the tiled edge of the recovery pool, the cold water tranquil and peaceful, as his muscles relax.

“Cannonball!”

The scream comes from Will, moments before he leaps from poolside into the water, sending waves crashing into the faces of Killian and Robin; the only two inhabitants of the pool.

“Watch it!” Killian growls.

“Careful,” Robin speaks simultaneously, a light warning as if he were speaking to his eight-year-old son.

The rest of the team has long left, leaving ‘The Three Fragilities’, as the trio were often mockingly referred to as, to their longer post-match recovery routines. Will, at the mere age of twenty-two, has already torn his ACL twice, spotlighting him, to the club’s physios, as one to watch and take extra care with. Killian has suffered with a weakened Achilles since childhood, subjecting him to the longer recovery processes throughout the entire course of his career. As for Robin, well…

“It’s not my fault you two are old and boring,” Will defends his actions.

“Hey, speak for him, mate,” Killian nods towards Robin, “I’m still in me twenties.”

Will scoffs, “Yeah, and barely clinging on! When’s the big three-oh?”

“Bloody cheek!” Killian huffs. “I’m barely more than a month into twenty-nine!”

“Like I said, clinging on,” Will jokes. “Fighting against the pull of retirement age.”

“Bugger off,” Killian returns and is adamant, “I’ve got at least six years of top-flight in me still.”

“Wonderboy’s eyeing up your captain’s armband already,” Robin observes, amused.

“Wonderboy can bloody dream on,” Killian remarks.

Will settles down in the water, sitting on the submerged seating. The trio promptly dive into a game of ‘Would You Rather’, their usual way of passing the time, and Killian gets splashed by both Will and Robin on multiple occurrences, whenever the other men don’t agree with his responses. Killian gives as good as he gets, particularly dousing Robin when he comes out with the nonsense of preferring to sign for Birmingham City over Derby County.

“Have you lost your bloody mind?” Killian questions, appalled. “You can’t sign for Birmingham from Villa!”

“Says who?” Robin questions.

“Says the universe! It’s an unwritten rule,” Killian reminds him. “City fans won’t want you and Villa fans would be calling for your head! Going to City is like… Luke turning to the Dark Side!”

“As a Forest fan from birth, signing for Derby is turning to the Dark Side,” Robin returns. “I may play in claret and blue and for the lion on the badge, but my heart will always lie with Nottingham Forest.”

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten your allegiance to Forest,” Killian admits.

“Hence the ‘would you rather’, they’re not meant to be easy questions,” Will speaks pointedly. “Where the bloody hell did you think I’d pulled Derby County out of?”

“I learned not to question your mind within your first week at Villa,” Killian retorts.

Further would you rather questions leads to more splashing and before any of them know it, Robin’s alarm is ringing on his phone, calling the end to their recovery time. Will jumps up faster than a diving player whose just won his team a penalty.

“Time to go home, stick on fifa, and relax!” Will grins at the prospect of his evening’s freedom.

Killian and Robin follow him out of the pool.

“I remember those days,” Robin reminisces. “Now I’m going home to an excitable eight-year-old and a newborn who’s vastly opposed to sleep.”

Will pulls a face at the mere thought and comments, “Kids. Who’d have them?”

Emma… Killian thinks wistfully and catches himself just before her name can escape his lips.

He freezes and pretends to busy himself with selecting a towel, allowing Robin and Will to go on ahead, both so deep in conversation that they fail to acknowledge his lingering behind. His eyes are wide at his own mind’s thoughts.

What the bloody hell was that?

He recalls the initial incident leading to their meeting vividly.

The opposition players broke out of nowhere, forcing him to bust a gut sprinting back towards his own goal, throwing in a last minute, desperate slide tackle to block his fellow number nine’s slot. He lay on the grass, watching the flight of the ball, time slowing down as it hurtled towards a young boy. He remembered hoping for the boy, or the woman beside him, to look up in time to react to the oncoming ball. When it became apparent they were both too drawn into their hotdogs, he hoped a member of the crowd would pull out a world class save, diving to parry the ball away.

Hope was useless. The ball hit the boy square in the face.

Shit.

Killian threw himself into PR mode, well-versed from previous escapades. He went over straight away, was the one to attract the attention of the first aiders, apologised, briefly checked in upon their return from the first aid station, dedicated his winning goal to the lad, gave the lad his shirt, signed some things and then he had turned to the best trick up his sleeve and subtly responded to the woman’s flirting.

It had gotten him out of trouble on multiple occasions. A few years back he’d crashed his car into another person’s vehicle. The driver – a woman by the name of Eloise Gardner – had been enraged when she’d climbed out of her car, her fury increasing more upon inspecting the damage. Then she had recognised him and things had taken a turn for the worse when it became clear she was a Blues fan and timing was not on his side; he’d only scored the winner in the Second City Derby the day before, causing him to be a very unpopular man from the eyes of Blues supporters. She’d cursed at him and threatened to go to the police so he’d turned to his charm and talked his way out of trouble and straight into her bedsheets. He’d awoken the next morning to coffee in a Birmingham City mug, a cruel joke, and before he really knew it, Eloise Gardner had gone from angry woman to friend with benefits. And they were regular benefits. Just as there were also regular acts of sabotage, Eloise taking her chances to try and throw him off his game, turning off his alarms, making him late for training, team meetings and matchday coaches, and yet he kept seeing her. There was something of a thrill to it; to fornicating with the enemy, to being challenged by her, and it had pulled him in.

Then the new gaffer had arrived at the club, pulled him up on recent dips in performance and unprofessional behaviours, and threatened to take away his captaincy. Killian dived headfirst into proving himself; spent every waking hour focused on his career, on the pitch, in the gym, or reviewing footage of previous matches. There was no time for the distraction of Eloise Gardner and once he’d made sure his captaincy was secured, she never replied to his texts or answered his calls.

He didn’t care. It had been nothing serious. Just a way to get out of trouble and have some fun in the meantime.

And that’s all it was with Emma. Charming his way out of trouble. But then he’d done something he hadn’t intended to do; he’d invited her and her kid to dinner.

And then his thoughts had gone straight to her the first moment someone mentioned something which even remotely referenced to her.

And he’s still thinking about her.

She’s nestled into his brain and there’s no shaking her.

He absent-mindedly plays with the red towel in his hand, noting the similarity of the red of the towel to the jacket she had worn. He wonders what she’s up to back at her hotel. He can clearly picture her lad bouncing on the bed, chatting enthusiastically to his mates on the other end of a phone call. He imagines Emma sat at the table, taking in the view of Birmingham out her window, a soft smile on her face as she listens to Henry’s excited recount of the day’s events and her eyes drop to her own phone, lying on the table, as she waits patiently for his call-

Wait.

He drops the towel. His heart pounds as a horrific thought swirls around his head. He recalls the light touch of her soft skin against his sweaty, warm arm as she’d written her name and number on his hand. The same hand which had been submerged in water, splashing and being splashed. He dares not look but he has to. His eyes reluctantly drop to his hand and his heart sinks. There’s faint scratching of ink, some stronger, some more faded, most of it gone all together. What remains is purely there to taunt him, to remind him of what he’d almost had, of what he had lost.

He's a bloody fool.

Killian has no idea what has gotten into him. The subtle, nonsense flirting and the offer of dinner had been for one purpose and one purpose only; to stop Emma from going to the press, claiming her five minutes of fame and allowing the newspapers to spin a tale which makes him look bad. The gaffer was big on no distractions and, as they had found out when Will crashed his car into the gates of a primary school, any news story proves a distraction.

Killian had been relieved to discover the morning paper contained no news story about a young lad requiring medical attention at the Villa game, determining himself in the clear.

And yet he finds himself sat in his car outside Villa Park on his day off, clinging to the only knowledge – beside her name – that he had; Emma and her lad had a stadium tour booked. He needs to see her again, if only to explain he hadn’t intentionally ghosted her, and this is his only chance.

A quick search on the Villa website had informed him that stadium tours were scheduled at ten-thirty in the morning and one in the afternoon. He’d arrived at Villa Park at nine sharp, in case her lad had been keen to explore the Villa store before the tour – the big store, not the half-arsed matchday one – when it opened at nine-thirty. He hadn’t. Those going on the morning tour had started arriving in dribs and drabs around ten-fifteen. He searched the group, both upon entering and leaving, for Emma and her lad; nothing.

By the time vehicles finally beginning pulling into the car park for the second, and final, tour of the day, he’s been sat in his car for three-hours-and-forty minutes. He sits up straighter in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes to focus on the people getting out of their cars.

Nothing.

He remains hopeful. The lad said they were coming and Killian doubts, from the impressive knowledge of Villa history that the boy had spouted at him, he would ever let his mother forget about the tour. Unless they haven’t forgotten. Maybe something’s happened; maybe the lad’s fallen ill, or has suffered complications from the impact of the ball. Maybe the lad’s wound up in hospital. Maybe his chances of ever meeting Emma again washed away with her number. Maybe he should start searching the local hospitals; he can start with Birmingham Children’s Hospital, he has a little pull there, visiting at least once a year with the rest of the Villa team.

As his mind spirals, he very nearly misses a grey taxi pull into the car park, only noticing it when it parks in the bay directly in front of his own. The back door opens the very moment the taxi stops and Killian breathes a sigh of relief when Emma’s young lad leaps out; he isn’t in hospital, he looks well in himself (except for the heavy bruising forming around his nose and left eye) and is full of energy, leaping excitedly as he eagerly coaxes his mother out of the taxi.

Killian has to stop himself from emulating the lad’s enthusiasm, very nearly leaping out of his own car when he sees Emma exit the taxi. He glances around the car park, taking in the growing number of people arriving for the stadium tour; he doesn’t want to cause a scene. He’s deep in Villa territory; there’s no chance of him not being recognised. A frenzy of picture and signing requests may well scare Emma off and he wants to speak with her, needs to speak with her, one-on-one (plus the kid).

He dons a black baseball cap and some dark sunglasses – it works in the movies – then slowly gets out of his car and follows after Emma and her lad, both on the move towards the stadium.

“Emma!” he softly calls out.

She turns, looking surprised to hear her name. Her head tilts slightly when she sees him and then her eyes widen with recognition before a cold stare falls over them and she straightens, standing tall and folding her arms across her chest.

“Jones,” she states coolly, hiding her initial surprise.

“She thinks you’re a jackass,” her lad speaks up conversationally.

Killian’s head has never turned so fast, snapping to stare at the boy; she what? Not a good first impression, work to do.

“Henry!” Emma exclaims.

“I don’t! You’re still my favourite player,” Henry covers quickly at Killian’s look then looks to his mother, “But I heard you on the phone to Grandpa. You said he was a jackass and that all professional sports players are egotistical jocks and that you never should have-”

“Okay, Henry,” Emma cuts him off and turns to Killian, “I was mad.”

That’s promising. Mad means she cares.

Cares! For a man she exchanged a few sentences with? She’s mad about her son being let down.

Or it’s a mixture of both.

The side of his mind fighting his corner dares to have hope. He takes a small breath. He’ll never know unless he shoots his shot.

“I would have called but I lost your number,” he starts to explain.

Her eyes shift to his side.

“Did you lose your hand too?” she remarks sceptically.

“The ink washed off,” he expands. “I was a bloody fool and didn’t save your details on my phone before– let me make it up to you. Lunch?”

He’s too eager, not even finishing his explanation before diving into his question. He’s mentally kicking himself.

What the bloody hell is he playing at?

“We’ve eaten already,” Emma tells him outright.

“I can still show you the city?” he offers immediately.

He wants the ground to swallow him up. He’s acting desperate.

“Henry’s been talking about this tour all morning,” she tells him.

It like taking a boot to the face, studs first; using her lad to let him down gently after her first attempt failed to dissuade him. He takes a resigning step back. He’s missed his shot; took too long, invited pressure, put it out wide. She’s taken possession, took her goal kick, and blasted the ball deep into the other half.

“Mom, he can come on the tour with us.”

The young lad dives in with a heroic save to keep the game alive.

Henry looks to his mother with big, brown puppy-dog eyes, seemingly eager to see his idea come to fruition. Killian looks to Emma and raises an eyebrow. If she agrees, there could still be hope.

“I guess he could,” she shrugs.

It wasn’t a no. He had a chance.

“Yes!” Henry cheers. “This is going to be so cool!”

“Aye, lad,” Killian agrees, glad that at least one of them is thrilled about his presence. “But let’s keep my presence between the three of us, okay? The club charges double the price for tours with ex-players present. I doubt they’d be too happy to learn that a current one spontaneously popped up at a standard tour.”

Whilst everything he says is strictly true, he’s talking utter nonsense. In truth, he has the duration of the tour to win Emma on side and he’s not going to be able to achieve such a feat if he’s having to share his time equally with the rest of the people on the tour. As much appreciation as he has for the support that Villa fans show him, they were not the reason he’s wasted half his day off sat in his bloody car; Emma is, and he sure as hell is not going to let those four hours become a waste of his time without a fight.

Henry gasps, “So it’s like a spy movie! You’re going in undercover. You’ve got to get in and out without being recognised!”

“That’s the aim,” Killian nods.

“The hat and shades are a good start,” Henry says, “but we need to name this mission.”

“Name it?” Killian questions.

“An operation name,” Emma expands, amused. “The kid loves his spy movies almost as much as soccer. He turns his aims into missions and names them. For example, Operation Cobra is his mission to get me to like your sport and refer to it as ‘football’.”

“Cobra? Why cobra?” Killian asks.

“Grandma says snakes are a symbol of rebirth and transformation because of the way they can shred their skin. The aim of Operation Cobra is to transform Mom into a football fan,” Henry explains then declares, “But right now we have another op to focus on, and this will be Operation Lion’s Den.”

Henry turns to take in the stadium before them and beams.

“Okay then,” Killian agrees. “Into the lion’s den we go.”

Killian steps towards the stadium entrance, aware that time is not on their side, the tour due to start any moment.

“Wait!” Henry yells urgently.

Killian freezes.

“Have you got an alias?” Henry asks him. “We can’t call you Killian. People might clock on.”

“Fair point, lad,” Killian concedes and considers, “How about Alex? Alex Rogers.”

“Okay Alex,” Henry agrees. “Now, Operation Lion’s Den can commence.”

Operation Lion’s Den was very nearly called off the very moment they had stepped into reception and approached the front desk. The booking under David Nolan had only two tickets to its name and the tour was fully booked. Killian dived in to save Operation Lion’s Den, revealing his true identity to the woman at the front desk, talking his way in and urging her to keep his presence discreet.

They had all received their passes, a claret lanyard on which holds a small claret square complete with the Villa badge and the lettering ‘STADIUM TOUR’, and entered into the Gas Lamp Longue just in time for the commencement of the tour.

Their tour guide is a young yet knowledgeable Australian woman named Belle who is such a fountain of Aston Villa facts – both present and historic – that even Killian finds himself learning new things about his club as they are shown around the hospitality areas within the North Stand.

Henry soaks it all up, chatting enthusiastically with Belle as she leads the way through corridors and up stairways, before the lad runs off to take photos of the view of the pitch from the latest hospitality area they are shown.

Emma lingers at the back of the group, keeping her distance from the avid Villa discussions being held amongst the friendly group, and Killian notices the way her gaze keeps lingering on the view of the stadium, staring longingly at the Holte End opposite, as if wishing to go back to the previous evening’s game.

Belle launches into a tale about the club’s late charge for promotion into the Premier League a few years back, and Killian leans towards Emma.

“You can’t fool me, you know,” he tells her, his voice low and hushed.

“Fool you how, Alex?” she returns pointedly.

“I saw you yesterday, after I scored,” his voice remains a low murmur, right into her ear, purely for the purposes of keeping his secret identity intact, and not because he longed to breathe in every bit of her enticing scent. “I saw the grin creeping onto your face, I saw your eyes alight with adrenaline, I know your heart was pounding in your chest as the roar of the crowd encompassed you.”

Her eyes flick once more towards the Holte End then back onto Belle.

“Is that supposed to mean something?” she challenges.

“It means that you let it in, maybe not consciously, maybe only for the briefest of seconds, but you let the claret and blue of Aston Villa touch your heart,” he tells her.

“Or maybe I was glad to finally see some kind of action in what was looking to be a goalless game,” she returns.

“Hmm, sure,” he replies, unconvinced. “You know, I remember watching my first Villa game. I was eight years old. I wasn’t sure about coming but my dad told me there was no pressure for me to be drawn into the club the same way he was. He said, ‘You don’t choose Aston Villa, Aston Villa chooses you.’. And for some people, that’s from birth, it’s all they ever know. For others, like me, like your lad, it’s more complicated; you find your own way to it, and it fills this gap you never even realised you had until one day you can’t remember there ever being a time in which Aston Villa didn’t hold a place in your heart.”

“That won’t ever be me,” Emma responds assuredly.

“We’ll see, love,” Killian shrugs. “We’ll see…”

Belle leads them into the heart of the Trinity Road stand, through hallways and up more stairways, until they finally enter the press room. Henry is at the front of the group with Belle, allowing him to claim front row seats and reserve two for Killian and Emma who maintain their pattern of lingering at the back of the group. With Henry’s enthusiasm, they can hide at the back no longer and are forced to take the seats right at the front.

When Belle asks for a volunteer to take centre-stage, Emma finds it funny to offer Killian for it and, since they’re seated at the front, Belle spots her right away, urging him up.

Henry looks utterly horrified at the prospect of Operation Lion’s Den being blown whilst Emma all but pushes Killian off his chair, leaving him with little choice but to join Belle behind the desk situated on the raised platform at the front of the room. She lowers her voice to exchange greetings, ask his name, and question whether he wants to take his sunglasses off and he responds with a hasty lie about light sensitivity.

Belle proceeds to lead the group into a fake press conference, introducing him as new signing Alex Rogers, unaware of how incredibly difficult she was making it for him to maintain his cover. To aid his jeopardised cover, Killian naturally slips into an Irish accent as he proceeds to face a bunch of questions from the fake journalists who play their parts well. Emma is stifling a laugh whilst he has to really concentrate on providing answers in the way a standard Villa fan would, and not submit to his years of media training instinctively screaming a standard, scripted answer at him. It’s only five minutes of questions but it feels like the longest five minutes of his life and when he finally escapes the unwanted spotlight, fake Irish Alex Rogers persona somehow intact, he’s sweating.

Belle offers the opportunity for photos behind the desk and light conversation soon floods the room as families take it in turns to have their picture taken at the press desk.

“That was awesome!” Henry exclaims, just about managing to keep his voice down. “They were interviewing Killian Jones and they didn’t even have a clue!”

“Mmm, someone almost blew Operation Lion’s Den,” Killian says, shooting a good-humoured glare at Emma.

She smiles and confesses, “I just wanted to see how you fared under pressure.”

“Because you didn’t see enough of that yesterday?” Killian shoots back.

“Maybe I liked what I saw yesterday,” Emma shrugs.

Henry promptly pulls Emma away to get his own picture at the press desk and Killian stares after her, taking the moment to collect his temporarily scrambled thoughts. It was a return to the previous day’s playfulness, a stark contrast to the cool, withdrawn woman in the car park.

He’s pushed her back into her own half, finally gaining a bit of possession for himself, making progress up the pitch.

He considers what must be left on the tour; the private boxes, the dressing rooms, the pitch and the dugouts. He’s got the better part of the second half of the game to go. He can still pull it back. He can still win it.

There’s time yet.

“We have private boxes available to buy for a game. If you’re interested in this possibility, you can get in contact with our hospitality department via our phone lines or through our website. Many of our players and sponsors also have their own private boxes, whether in this stand or the Doug Ellis on the other side of the stadium. Players’ friends and family will use the boxes during the games,” Belle tells the group as they walk along a hallway, closed doors on the left leading into said boxes.

“Grandpa looked into these,” Henry tells Emma. “They’re about three-thousand pounds per matchday! That’s not far off four-thousand dollars!”

“That’s obscene,” Emma remarks.

“Welcome to the world of top-level English football, love. The money in it is bloody ridiculous,” Killian acknowledges disdainfully for, whilst he benefits substantially from it, he doesn’t wholly agree with it.

Belle brings the group to a stop outside a door which Killian knows well.

“Club Captain Killian Jones kindly permits us entry into his box during these tours,” Belle informs the group, “enabling us to be able to show you the view from such luxurious viewing spaces.”

Henry grins knowingly at Killian as Belle leads the group into the box. Killian lingers somewhat awkwardly in the doorway as he watches the large group explore the space. He’s not used to seeing so many unfamiliar people in his usually remote, private spot. Upon entering after a game, he’s usually met by familiar faces and not the sight of people taking selfies with the view of the pitch behind them. As willing as he is to let the tours into his box – it seems the least he can do after all the support the Villa fans have given him over the years – it feels strange to actually see it happen.

“A whole range of people have watched matches from up here,” Belle tells the group and Killian can but wonder exactly where she’s going to go with her examples. “From family members and close friends to Hollywood actors and royalty. But Killian has also been known to regularly invite local foster families to games and host them here too.”

Emma looks surprised as she turns to him, an awe in her eyes as she murmurs, “Foster families?”

“I’m aware of the privilege I’m fortunate enough to have. If I can make even the smallest difference in the lives of those in less fortunate positions, it only seems right to do so,” he explains seriously and then smirks as he seizes the opportunity to call her out, “You see, not all professional sportsmen are egotistical jocks.”

“We’ll see,” she shrugs, nudging him playfully in the side then asks the burning question, “And royalty?”

“Oh, aye,” he confirms with a nod. “Didn’t you know the future king’s a villan?”

“Until yesterday, I didn’t know a villain was anything more than the bad guy in a movie,” Emma points out. “So, you’re telling me that you mix with royalty?”

“From time to time.”

She laughs.

“What’s so funny about that?” he questions, bemused by the reaction.

“I just can’t imagine you all… fancy and proper,” she tells him.

“I scrub up quite well, I’ll have you know,” he insists. “It’s not all sportswear and sweat.”

There’s a spark in her eyes as she returns, “Pity.”

“And now, the Villa dressing room,” Belle announces as she leads them through the double doors and into the room that, in the entirety of the stadium, Killian is most familiar with. “I’d like to direct your attention to the tactic board up here.”

She brings the group to a large whiteboard, positioned on the only wall not lined with player’s lockers and seats. Scrawls of the gaffer’s tactics remains in place from the previous day’s game.

“Now, as most of you are aware, past Villa managers have used similar tactics for every game which meant they’d furiously remove any signs of their tactics from this board before we’d have even a chance of stepping foot in here,” Belle addresses her attentive audience. “Adam Gold, however, we have all very quickly learned is just as world-class a manager as he was as a player. He’s a tactical genius; his tactics vary significantly from game to game, adapting to the slightest whiff of a weakness he assesses in opposition players, and so he’s more willing to leave us little insights into his great mind.”

She gestures to the board, a combination of circles and numbers to represent players, complete with arrows of various lengths and intensities.

“You can see his half time talk during yesterday’s game partly comprised of urging his front three to apply intense pressure to the back line, to not give them a second on the ball, forcing them to go long despite their forward players not boasting much height and preferring to receive the ball to feet,” Belle interprets the squiggles for those struggling to decipher.

Killian notes her use of the word ‘urging’ as soft. He recalls the gaffer’s instructions as a demand, an unspoken threat of being substituted if they failed to match the intensity he expected.

“And up here,” she points to slightly more legible writing in the top corner of the board, “is his mantra. It’s been here every week without fail since Gold took charge of the club last year. It’s rather inspiring and applicable outside football so I invite you all to take the opportunity to take in the wise words of Adam Gold.”

They’re words Killian has heard countless times since the gaffer’s arrival. Words he could recount in his sleep;

Victory comes at a price;

Focus

Determination

Grit

Hard-work

“Now feel free to explore and take photos,” Belle tells them.

The group immediately disperses around the room, taking photos on the seats beneath various players’ lockers and Belle throws further facts and information at them as they do so. Henry’s the first one to claim the seat beneath Killian’s name, shirt and locker, and Killian watches on amused as the lad flat-out refuses to budge for anyone until Emma catches up with him and takes his picture.

Even then, he’s not done.

“Kil-uh, Alex!” he calls, catching himself, a hint of panic flaring in his eyes, but he quickly continues, “I need one with you.”

Killian ducks his head as he crosses the room, sitting next to Henry and silently urging Emma to move fast as she takes the photo, well aware of the growing number of people waiting. The second he hears the click of the picture, he’s up and guiding the young lad away.

“What about Humbert or Booth?” he suggests to Henry.

The boy nods eagerly and hurries over to their lockers, positioned side by side, roping Emma into continuing to be his photographer. He ends up going around the entire changing room, taking photos under each player’s name and replica shirt. Killian even coaxes Emma to get into some of them with Henry, taking over her duties as photographer.

They eventually make it to the final player in the squad. Killian has Henry and Emma getting ready for a photo in front of Robin’s station when another member of the group steps into his shot and offers his hand out for the phone.

“Here, I’ll take it for you,” the man says. “You get in. As good as place as any to get an update for the family photo album.”

“Oooh,” Killian draws out, immediately noting the assumption. He points dumbly towards Emma and Henry, stumbling over his words, “I’m- he’s- she’s-”

“He’s just a friend,” Emma steps in to clarify.

Friend. He bloody hates the sound of that word on her lips.

But it is better than jackass, or egotistical sportsman.

Small victories.

One step at a time.

Killian refocuses, snapping the photo and returning the phone to Henry who proclaims he’s sending all the photos to Nicholas immediately.

“Okay, we are running short on time so can everyone follow me, and we’ll head out to the tunnel,” Belle announces.

The group are rather prompt in wrapping up on their various photos and following Belle out of the door. Killian sticks an arm out, successfully holding Henry back from being the first one out the door after Belle. As the door swings shut behind the final member of the group, leaving just him, Emma and Henry in the emptied out dressing room, Killian drops his arm back to his side.

“What are you doing?” Henry questions.

“I figured you’d want a proper photo,” Killian explains.

He removes his hat and sunglasses, chucking them onto Robin’s seat. By the time he gets to his seat, Henry’s already there – as eager as always - so Killian ends up to the side, just as he had been in the first picture they’d taken. Emma takes the picture, just as the door swings open again and Belle returns.

“I do require everyone to stick togeth-”

She cuts herself off as the door swings shut behind her, staring at Killian and laughing in disbelief.

“Alex. Rogers.” Belle says the name with a light shake of her head. “I should have known something was up. Wha- What are you doing here, Killian?”

“Trying to keep a low profile,” Killian tells her, grabbing his hat and sunglasses, putting them back on. He nods to Henry, “The lad wanted to go on the tour as planned so I’m tagging along.”

Belle has quickly recovered from her surprise and tells it how it is, “Well, you’re doing a good job of disrupting the planned tour by not keeping up.”

The trio choose not to hang around any longer.

Killian stands staring at the European Cup in the display stand proudly situated in the centre of the tunnel. It’s a reminder every single home game, every time he comes and goes from the pitch, of where the club had once been, how far it had fallen, and what it was striving for once more.

Emma steps up beside him and reads the display tag, “European Champions, nineteen-eighty-two.”

“European Champion,” Killian breathes out dreamily. “Every footballer’s dream. That’s my ultimate goal, right there.”

“Does that mean the rumours are true?” a worried Henry pops up out of nowhere, appearing between Emma and Killian. “The ones about you going to Manchester City in the summer?”

“Off the record?” Killian checks, not that he can envision the boy to go running to the press, but the media training in him demands it. “I could go to City. Might very well go on and lift the trophy my first season there. Certainly a higher chance of it than if I were to stay here. But what does that really achieve? There’s almost an expectation on City to win it. Going to City, well, that just feels like bloody cheating. I want a story, an underdog story. My first season with Villa, we finished in the middle of the Championship. Eight hard years later and we’re pushing to be in competing in the Champions League next season. It’s a big, big ask but there’s every chance I could be lifting that trophy as a Villa player in just over a year’s time, and if there’s a chance of that, even a very, very slim one, I can’t possibly leave. From Championship mediocrity to Champions League winners; proving that focus, hard work and determination pays off, that’s the true dream.”

“So you are staying!” Henry grins.

“No definitive promises, lad,” Killian returns. “We’ll see.”

“And here we are. The conclusion of our tour, the dugouts,” Belle gestures to the team dugouts at pitch side. “Unfortunately, we can not go on the pitch today. We’re nearing the end of a long season and endured a horrendous winter so the groundskeeping team have been working tirelessly to keep the pitch at a top notch condition and have requested minimal disturbance to the playing surface. You are more than welcome to take your pictures in the dugouts and at the side of the pitch right here.”

On Henry’s disappointed look, Killian catches his eye and gives him a small nod – he’ll sort it.

The lad grins and rushes off to get his pictures in the home dugout, diving into the crowd of people doing similarly. Emma is back to playing photographer as Killian wanders over to Belle.

“This is the final part of the tour, right?” he strikes up conversationally.

“That’s right,” she confirms.

“So, you don’t mind if I stay back with two of your guests to give my own personal tour?” he checks.

“By that, you mean take them on to the pitch, which we’re under strict instructions not to allow,” Belle’s onto him in a flash.

“You’re under strict instructions not to allow,” Killian corrects, “and I shall neither confirm nor deny your accusation, that way you are not a willing accomplice in whatever I may or may not be up to.”

“Killian.”

“Come on, it’s not like I’m going to do anything to severely piss off Nathaniel, am I?” he remains persistent. “I’ll let you into a little known fact; us players are just as wary of pissing off that man as any member of the club staff.”

Nathaniel, the head groundskeeper, has a notorious reputation for getting severely pissed off with anyone who dares to touch a single blade of his grass on non-matchdays. Even on matchdays, players opting for a knee slide celebration upon scoring risked the incoming wrath of Nathaniel when bypassing him in the tunnel at half-time or full-time as he’s on his way out to tend to his precious grass. If the man had it his way, the matches wouldn’t even be played on the hallowed turf of Villa Park. There are very few people who dare to cross him; even the gaffer tends to give the man a wide berth.

“Fine!” Belle huffs reluctantly and points an accusing finger at him. “But I had no part in this, understood?”

“Crystal clear, love,” Killian confirms with a nod.

Killian has no bloody idea what he’s playing at.

He and Emma are finally alone. At least alone, if not for her lad. For the first time, there’s isn’t a crowd of people around, or a demand for him to be elsewhere. It’s just them in a completely empty stadium, an opportunity to get to know each other better, and things are great. Except for the fact that Emma doesn’t share the same love for football or Villa as he and Henry do. She’s probably longing to be in the group Belle had led to the exit of the stadium, the doors of freedom from the world of football, and he’s kept her from them.

He had promised her dinner. Instead, he’s given her an extended sentence imprisoned within Villa Park.

He’s a bloody fool. First the ink, next the stadium. He can only marvel at how his brain fails to function properly where Emma is involved.

“Are we going on the pitch?” Henry questions eagerly.

Making Henry happy is easy. Impressing football fans is easy. He has no clue where he stands with non-football fans. He needs to figure it out and fast. Until then, he can only stick to what he’s good at.

“We’re doing more than that, lad,” Killian manages a smile. “What’s the one thing every Villa fan wants to do?”

Henry’s eyes shift towards the goal in front of the Holte End and he dares to believe, “Score in the Holte?”

Killian nods, “Score in the Holte.”

He instructs Henry to hold fire, and his eyes linger for a fraction too long on Emma, sat in the dugouts with an unreadable expression on her face, before he jogs down the tunnel and fetches one of the balls they keep stored in the dressing room. He returns to find Henry exactly where he’d left him and the young boy’s eyes light up at the sight of the football.

Henry doesn’t just score in the Holte, he scores a whole series of goals in the Holte; left foot, right foot, headers, and volleys. He even attempts a bicycle kick which goes soaring into row Z and sends Killian clambering into the stand to fetch the ball. On his return to the pitch, Killian glances to the dugouts where Emma still sits, perched on one of the claret and blue seats, watching with a small smile on her face. He rolls the ball to Henry, who’s quite content scoring in an open goal, as Killian jogs over to the dugouts.

“Well, this won’t do,” he states as he stops in front of Emma, holding out a hand towards her, “I can’t have my best player languishing on the bench.”

She takes his hand, perhaps a little reluctantly, and he helps her to her feet, pulling her along with him onto the pitch and into the penalty box at the Holte End.

“Hey, lad, how about we let your mother have a go?” he suggests.

Henry collects the ball from the net of his latest goal and nods eagerly, “Can I be the keeper?”

Killian agrees and chuckles at the sight of young Henry, barely more than a dot when stood in the centre of the mammoth net. He places the ball Henry chucks at him onto the penalty spot and turns back to Emma.

“I’ve never kicked a soccer ball in my life,” Emma tells him, staring at the ball as if it were going to attack her.

“There’s for a first time for everything,” Killian returns. “All you have to do is kick it twelve yards. Anywhere but at the keeper and you’re pretty much guaranteed a goal, given his size.”

Emma gives a short nod, her eyes fixed on the ball, a hard determination fuelling her gaze, as if determined to prove herself. She steps up to the ball and pulls back her right leg.

“Woah, woah, woah, woah, woah!” Killian calls out, halting her actions just as she’s about to kick.

He moves over to her, placing his hands softly onto her shoulders and guiding her a few steps back from the ball. He stands behind her, his chest just inches from being pressed against her back, as he coaches her.

“You need to give yourself a run-up,” he explains his intervention. “Now, the temptation’s going to be to kick the ball with your toe; don’t do that. You have two options, you can either use the inside of your foot or get under it and hit it with your laces. For now, let’s keep things simple with the side of your foot. Statistically, most penalties are scored in the bottom left of the goal so my technique is to place it in that corner but, for now, just focus on getting it on target. Okay, so run up, generate power, hit with the side of your foot and direct goalwards.”

He releases his hands from her shoulders, encouraging her to take her shot. She charges forward, strikes the ball with the inside of her right foot and it nestles into the back of the net towards the bottom left. It’s not perfectly placed in the corner but it’s a very promising start and Killian is pleasantly surprised by the amount of power she had rifled into the ball; she’s either a good student or beginner’s luck is in play,

She cheers and he high-fives her before Henry charges over, diving onto his mum to celebrate with her.

They break into a mini game, pulling off their jackets and placing them on the ground to make small goals either side of the width of the penalty area; taking Killian back to the many hours spent playing football on school playgrounds and parks in his youth. Henry and Emma team up against him and Killian initially takes it easy, allowing the lad to score and doing very little as Emma dribbles the ball around him and slots it home.

There are wild celebrations as Henry and Emma go two-nil up and break into a teasing chant of ‘we’re beating the pro’ which sets Killian’s competitive side ablaze. He drives forward with the ball at his feet, knocking it through Henry’s legs as the lad makes a step in to block. He powers around Henry, taking a touch of the ball to knock it towards goal, just Emma to beat. He feigns a move left then swiftly knocks the ball to Emma’s right and he’s past her, sprinting goalbound, the ball at his feet. He’s in the clear, goal dead certain and is preparing himself to slot it home when contact is made with the back of his right leg. He loses his balance, barrelling over onto the grass, landing on his back in time to see a stumbling Emma following behind him, crashing down on top of him.

She puts her hands out quickly, onto the grass either side of his head, taking her weight off him, but she remains above him, looking down on him. He dumbly stares up at her, taken by surprise by both her sudden challenge and the position they since find themselves in. His mind’s scrambled, overcome by the light woody scent radiating from her, the faintest hint of cinnamon, and her warm breath tickling his temple.

“Can’t get past me that easily,” she tells him triumphantly.

“I did get past you!” he argues. “I was through on goal, and you took me out. That’s a dead cert red!”

“I have no idea what that means,” she confesses.

“It means your team are down a player, you’re off the pitch, headed for an early bath,” he explains.

“Do I get to take you with me?”

A faint gasp escapes his lips at her suggestive tone and her gleaming earthy eyes only draws him in closer, his head lifting off the grass, his elbows propping against the ground, lifting his upper body against hers. There’s barely anything between them and yet he still desires her closer, needs her closer. Her soft, red lips part; an open goal, inviting his forward move.

His lips brush faintly against hers.

“Mom!” Henry calls.

She’s gone instantly. Killian lets out a shaky breath and throws himself into the grass, squeezing his eyes shut. Bloody kids.

“Uh, Killian, this guy does not look too impressed. He’s actually carrying a pitchfork,” Emma’s comment pulls him from his sulking.

He jumps to his feet, looking towards the tunnel to see head groundskeeper Nathaniel stalking towards them, a thunderous look on his face.

“Killian Jones! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nathaniel bellows from the halfway line.

“Funnily enough, mate, I’ve been asking myself the same question all day,” Killian attempts to keep things light.

The groundskeeper does not see the funny side, a deep scowl piercing into Killian’s soul. If looks could kill, he would be flat out on the ground.

Killian throws his hands up into a surrender.

“Don’t worry, mate, your pitch is intact,” Killian tells him then glances at the scuff marks inflicted by Emma’s challenge and their subsequent falls, and amends, “mostly. My bad. I’ll make it up to you. We’ll be on our way now.”

Killian navigates Emma and Henry around the fuming groundskeeper, an onslaught of curses following his every move as they hastily leave the pitch behind them.

“So, how about that dinner?” Killian proposes.

They stand on the car park outside Villa Park, a safe distance from the fury of Nathaniel. Things have changed since she turned him down the just a few hours ago, and he’s fuelled with confidence for her coming response.

“I’m sorry.”

The response is unexpected and he clenches his jaw in an effort to hide his crushing disappointment.

“We’re due on a train back to London,” she explains.

He comes crashing down to reality. He’d forgotten they were tourists, forgotten they lived thousands of miles away, forgotten that things were much more complicated than winning over a non-football fan when his whole life is football.

“Ah, of course,” he nods. “How long are you in the country for?”

“We leave for Boston next Sunday,” Emma answers.

“I have a game in London next Saturday,” Killian tells her. “I can sort tickets for your whole family?”

“That’d be awesome!” Henry exclaims.

Killian grins at the lad then looks to Emma hopefully, “And maybe we can finally get that dinner after? Just me and you?”

Emma glances at Henry, falls deep in thought as she considers, as if a debate is raging in her head. They’d both gotten caught up in the moment on the pitch, they were both firmly back in reality where any long-term future is especially unlikely. She knows what he’s suggesting; a one-time thing.

“What the hell,” she throws any caution to the wind. “I’m on vacation. Let’s do it.”

“And this time I have my phone to hand so you can put your number directly into it.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and hands it over to her.

“Make sure you don’t drop this down the toilet,” she tells him warningly as she inputs her number.

He takes the phone back from her, holding it tightly.

“I’m an attacker by trade but this I will defend with my life,” he promises.

As she gets into the taxi waiting for her, Killian’s eyes drop to the new contact in his phone; Emma Nolan. He clicks on the edit button, adding one red heart emoji to her contact name.

For all the talk of her letting the claret and blue of Aston Villa touch her heart, he had well and truly let her touch his.

Tags: @teamhook @laianely @booksteaandtoomuchtv @exhaustedpirate @anmylica @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @undercaffinatednightmare @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie @motherkatereloyshipper @soniccat @jrob64 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jonesfandomfanatic @myfearless-love

#cs ff #captain swan #the heart of a villan

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whogirlypop · 10 months ago

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TAMBER HCs chapter 20

20 whole ass chapters and y'all are still reading! That's insane and I thank you for it. This whole thing has gotten me through good times and ones which are not so. But that doesn't matter does it you're here for good old fashioned Tara and Amber mayhem and horniness and that's what you'll get. I'm sure you've read all the previous chapters if you're reading this one but a handy reminder might be of use ei? Even I don't remember what I wrote in chapter 2 so here goes:

Basic info about some special bitches:

Amber goes by she/them (yes, Tara has made the she/them titties joke) and is pan

Tara is a she/her lesbian girly fine with they/them too

Met in school quickly became friends even tho you wouldn't think they would.

After a few years started dating and all that

And now we return to the scheduled Tamber program:

Kinks: Amber

knife kink- cold metal against her body paired with the threat and mask kink combines into one wet night for Amb

impact play- I mean who doesn't like to be roughly loved from time to time, Amb defo does comes from a previous one night stand where a very naughty Enby had some ideas about Amb and her place in all that

blood kink- She's a horror fan ofc she has a blood kink also once again liquids and hot/cold on the body

likes straps, be that receiving or giving- Look she's dated and fucked a lot of people (which in Tar's eyes is perfectly fine thank you mind your own buisness) some of them had dicks some of them used straps on her and she loves that. As for giving, well a weird sense of gender means that she has thought about what it would be like to have a dick and wahey Bottom Tara materializes and they have a chance to try.

Spit- Once again liquids and degradation a good mix if you want Amb to be a bit softer and more submissive.

can't get enough of Tara's cum- It's sweet and it's cum AND Tara gets to be eaten out/ whatever'd what's not to love.

Amber has a choking kink but doesn't act on it often cause Tara has asthma. Developed it with previous sexual encounters I'd like to say a lesbian goth lady or something cause yipee

when Tara is in the ghostface mask, how the turntables as Amber gets choked just how she likes it- half to death (obviously to a reasonable degree but still)

Amber has a piss kink mfsssss cause I said so. Likes the salty taste perhaps idk as for how they developed it ummm idk tbh accidentally peed on herself and liked the sensation? possibly

after a bit of begging Tara agreed cause she couldn't say no to those puppy eyes (even Amber didn't know she could do that)Amber loves Tara pissing all over her and especially in her mouth (cause she just so girly pop like that (don't lie to yourself if Tara Carpenter asked you'd do too))

Kinks: Tara

Tara enjoys being dominated- as she was a virgin before Amb it's new (Wes tried to do stuff before but look, Tara didn't really want to do anything penetrative. At best he got a blowjob but probably not.) AND HELL does she LOVE it I mean being told what to do, the whips and ties also Amb has soooo much fun with straps.

Amber often overstimms/denies orgasms for Tara- Whichever one it is, Tar gets very needy and tired and moany. Likes overstimm more cause she loves cumming for her Amb.

For Amb will try almost anything but has a few hard nonos with womit and that stuff

General slutiness:

Both of them like degradation altho Amb gets to do it more cause Tara is too scared of fucking up to do that.

Amber’s so bottom when Tara’s in a ghostface mask, holding a knife to her throat.

Tara doesn’t like being a top but ‘if it pleases Amber’ (+ she can’t say no to seeing more of Amber so whiny and begging) I mean Amber rocking her shit afterwards always helps tooo

Okay, so the first time they fucked, they fucked on a proper bed unlike later when almost anything would do. Amb wanting to show Tara a good time cause she loved the lil guy fucked her hard and rough, making sure to finger her plenty and eat her out, perhaps even some anal play cause ofc. Which all was great until they were laying exhausted talking and it turned out that Amb had just taken Tara's virginity. She was so apologetic but Tara was like "dude please, that was the best thing ever I wouldn't have had it any other way"

Amber goes fucking feral when she sees Tara naked cause like that bitch is all hers and is so pretty and sweet and...xisjsnsnne

Tara hides her excitement better but in actuality is just as much a horny lil guy for Amber (I mean look at her ofc she is )

Amber has tattoos all over her body which turn Tara the fuck on (especially the one on her stomach and the lil heart on her butt which sje got for Tara)

Amber has naked photos of Tara "for personal use" (she thinks about Tara while fingering herself before bed, when she can't be with Tar)

Amber used to be addicted to porn, but now with Tara she's not anymore cause like why look at other people when ms. Perfect Carpenter is right there

Amber gives THE best aftercare, all the cuddles, kisses and all that

Amber can not keep her hands off of Tara like they're always on her ass or around her waist

Amber likes to tease Tara by doing something bold just randomly, like putting her hand down Tara’s pants when she shouldn’t (In an obscured public place let's say. They don't fuck infront of other people okay? Except perhaps if Ani/Quinn/Mindy/Liv invited them to )

Amber once came so close to Tara’s face for a kiss that her knee landed right between Tara’s thighs and well, the smaller Carpenter almost creamed their pants right then and there. Which didn't go unnoticed and was delt with consequently in a matter of 5 minutes

Amber makes too many jokes about wanting to bang Sam.And like, she is defo hot but in reality her cute fun-sized Carpenter is what she prefers. Less fighting back and less restraint in sexual matters.

Amber just really likes to please women cause she looooveeesss the moans and face it turns them on sm

Before dating her, Tara stumbled on Amb half naked, tits out fucking some of their pretty classmates ( one was being fingered while another ate Amb out). Amber half jokingly made a suggestion for Tara to join (it was a joke for neither of them in the end but they do much group stuff cause Amb is super possessive of Tara), but our favorite little bottom was too awkward and just shook her head. Later on Tara would go on to question her sexuality and have plenty of good nights remembering seeing all those girls naked and imagining herself in that encounter of lust. And that vibrator Amber got her helped out as well on many-a-frustrated occasions. (Yes, Amber got Tara a vibrator cause Tara was too scared cause of still living with Sam, and “we all love our favorite virgin” and because she was “doing Tara a kindness”) Obviously Amb thought that that virgin thing was a joke but as we already know it was noooott so thank you Amber for doing all the work

Amber is pan but if she had to pick, pussy always won. Partly because she preferred the taste, partly because of the fact that men a lot of the time just do the same old boring in and, 30 seconds later, out routine. If she wanted 30 seconds of fun she'd go on tiktok

Tara has, as a matter of fact, been tied up and fucked by Amber to the joy of both of them cause being/seeing Tara so helpless was a turn on for both of them

Tara and Amber both love the idea of Tara all naked and having degrading things written on her body. Just her being a complete mess. Slut and whore and touch me here around her cunt you get the picture hopefully

Amber looovesss seeing submissive Tara and loves questioning her loyalty and making her beg. Feeds into a dommination/humiliation kink for Tara so fantastic both ways

Amb loves seeing Tara's face in pure ecstasy when she's getting fucked and that's why she does everyhing she does

The Group would've soooo teased Amber and Tara for being loud after a party but they themselves were preoccupied with banging the shit out of eachother so they don't care.

I kinda love the idea of Amber being super desperate and horny riding her pillow and then Tara in a ghostface mask sneaking up on her, putting a knife to her throat and giving amber the best orgasm of her life (the feeding into Ambs kinks in this one is insane)

AMB LOVES ANAL the only good thing about dicks is that they can be shoved deep up her ass (we love anal queen Amb) however, they don't last too long and that's why on special occasions they beg Tara to put on a strap and dominate the shit out of that pretty ass.

Amber once walked in on Quinn and Mindy getting it on and was like "damn that's hot, ughhhhh now I'm turned on and Tara's asleep" and just sat down to masturbate while watching Quinn get absolutely railed. (if you've read my stuff Tamber moved in with the polycule and they have a loose privacy system okay? They just horny)

Amber can't go to sleep without first masturbating, well they can but they prefer not to as it's a habit which they developed and it feels wrong to go straight to sleep

Tara and Amber once went off into the forest where amb got high and, with the help of her trusty strap, fucked Tara's lil cunt good

@stab_whore1 obviously Ambs account on twt

Amber obviously, has watched every porn parody/ cosplay vid under the sun of Stab

also Amber boasts a lot about how good she fucked Tara (just not in front of sam for obvious reasons. But Quinn is more than fair game) and Tara is just sittin there all embarrassed and kinda wet and stuff cause obviously she likes the attention.

also Amber looovessss reading fanfics after watching movies and TV shows. Like 5 minutes after it's all Regina George X reader or whatever

also also has a weird relationship with gender. Like she doesn't mind how she is rn but if she got to choose she'd go with like a weird ass tentacle as her genital of choice same with presentation

owns a dildo she bought secretly as well as a few other sex toys cause she used to get soooo lonely before dating Tara, and one can please themselves just as well and now that she is she sometimes gets herself off to the thought of Tara riding it deep and licking off her sweet juices afterwards. Which probably happened didn't it

totally masturbated at the park behind some bushes at midnight, as well as behind woodsboro high

and ate out a girl in the same spot too

(that girl must have felt heaven) but that was later and thankfully just as uneventful

For the love of your body:

Now we come to a part about how they like their own and eachothers bodies

Tara is ofc all tidy about her pubes (a strip if not shaved fully)while Amber just let's it be cause who cares (full on bush cause fuck society)

Amber defo doesn't shave her armpits cause once again and I meaaannn Tara finds all that sexy so

Tara LOOVESSS Amb’s tits cause they're cute and very nice to lay on

Once while Tar was walking behind her and leaned over Amb had an experience as Tara's ass was outlined by her tight Jeans cue *OH MY LAWD* and now Amb is very possesive.

They're both not confident in their bodies Tara more so but she knows her gf likes her body so that's enough for her

Notes:

And so ends the 20th chapter! to 20 more ei? I'll probably do a thing like this with Quinn and then Sam x Kirby but obviously a bit shorter than 2000 words. as always let me know what you thought!! and if you have any ideas!! I loved writing this even if it's a bit more Amber centric than I'd like.(This is very random, but I noticed that I get so much into the headcannon world that I'll be looking at a another fic which is more cannon adjacent and I'm like OHHH RIGHT Amb is a serial Killer, Liv is more mean than cutie patootie and quinn bless her was responsible partly for Ani's death not the loss of her virginity )

@amber-frrman is I just tryna post it on my other blog

#tara carpenter #amber freeman #amber freeman x tara carpenter #scream franchise #scream movie #scream 2022

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avida-heidia-5 · 9 months ago

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WAHEY!!!! Now we move on to drawing requests the author herself @kaossbells sent me for There Is Thunder In Our Hearts, Baby! I’m very excited to post these! 🥰🥰🥰

The following sketches are all from Chapter 13:

📱 Selfie Time! Pt. 2:

🎋 The Bamboo Forest:

⛩️ Visiting The Temple:

Hmmm, those last two drawings look familiar, don’t they? Well, you’ll be surprised to learn that – yes – I’m the same person who drew those pictures. And they were the ones Liz requested! SURPRISE!!! 🤪😆

Bonus sketches below because why not!:

🥪 Lunch On The Hill:

🙊 The Monkey Incident:

🧳 Going Home:

I’ve already drawn another one of Liz’s requests for her upcoming chapter, but I don’t want to publish it yet. It’s a surprise! I also don’t want to get toooo ahead of myself! 😅

I can’t wait to draw some more scenes for the next chapter. Call me hyped!!! 😍🥰

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manifestmerlin · 2 years ago

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Wahey! I finally finished chapter too and it's a big(ger) one! Reminder to go check out @biouxp for the art that inspired this whole thing cause they made the au and I hope yall enjoy reading it :)

#homestuck #davekat #dave strider #karkat vantas #fairystuck #my writing

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authorwiththedragontattoo · 5 years ago

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The Snitch Seeker - Chapter 2

Chapter 1

When he had first heard about Hogwarts eighth year, the thought of attending didn’t even cross Draco’s mind. He had run away from the dark lord, barely evaded Azkaban and spent the last four months living in a house that was being monitored 24/7 by the ministry. They knew every move they made, if Draco decided to put an extra sugar in his coffee one morning, the Ministry knew about it.

So, when Narcissa Malfoy came into his room one day holding a letter from Minerva McGonagall requesting his return to Hogwarts in September, he was shocked to say the least. —– or yet another hogwarts eighth year in which draco redeems himself fic

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Warnings: Mild references to violence and death, mild gore, references to alcoholism and bad eating habits

“I’m going back to Hogwarts, Father.”

Draco stepped tentatively into Lucius Malfoy’s office. Lucius spent most of his time in there nowadays, drowning in old papers, frantically highlighting and scribbling down any notes he could. Neither Draco nor Narcissa knew exactly what he hoped to find in the old paperwork, but they expected he was looking for something, some way to climb his way back to the top. He had hoped that giving up the identities of escaped Death Eaters would be enough to earn him the title he had before, but it hadn’t. He was still just a failed ex- Death Eater who was considered a coward on both sides.

Draco’s words caused him to pause his frantic rummaging through his old draws, and look up at his son. His hair had grown long and unkempt, and his face was stubbly and old beyond his years.

“Hogwarts?”

Draco swallowed, “Yes, Father. To complete my N.E.W.Ts, I was invited by Professor McGonagall.”

Lucius’ brow furrowed, and he turned to face Draco properly; “And I expect all those mudbloods and blood traitors have been invited back as well.”

Draco cringed at the language his father used. Words he had thrown around so freely before now left a sour taste in his mouth, “I expect so, yes.”

This seemed to catch Lucius’ interest, as his face drew to that of concentration. Draco felt unnerved by him, Lucius had been rather… unhinged for a while now. While Draco and his mother had accepted their defeat with grace, quietly putting up with the punishments the ministry had chosen to bestow on them, Lucius had become angry and violent. He blamed ‘mudbloods’ and ‘blood traitors’ for their situation, for the possibility of being stripped of his fortune and for the state of house arrest they had been placed in.

“This is brilliant, my boy!” Lucius lunged forward and grabbed Draco by the shoulders, “Brilliant!”.

“It… it is?” Draco stuttered, taken aback by his father's unexpected joy.

“Yes! We can use this to help bring honour back to the Malfoy name, to bring us back to the power we were in before, you see? We just need to come up with a plan-”

“-No!”

Lucius’ gleeful face dropped into one of confusion, “N-no?”

Lucius wasn’t used to hearing his son say no to him.

Draco felt his father's hands tighten around his shoulders, before he shrugged them off, needing little strength to dismantle his father’s ever weakening grip.

“I just want to get my exams and go.” Draco replied firmly, “We lost, Father. One day you’re going to have to accept that.”

As much as it pained Draco to admit it, Ron was right; he had needed that sandwich.

It had gone nightfall before Draco finally made his way into the castle and the great feast had been and gone. He approached Professor Flitwick somewhat sheepishly, expecting a lecture about arriving so late into the night as he marked him present, but Flitwick didn’t say a word. He simply nodded his head and opened the door to allow him in. This confused Draco; but he secretly thanked whatever higher power there was that he didn’t have to explain to the Professor the reason for his tardiness.

He had been told in the letter that the Prefect’s floor had been converted into a dormitory for the eighth year, so Draco straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, ready to finally face what he had been dreading all day when something stopped him in his tracks.

One of the walls that sat at the entrance of the school had been completely cleared of the old paintings, and instead held portraits. Portraits of all the people that died four months ago.

The breath caught in Draco’s throat as the commemoration left him stiff; staring up at all the faces he had seen many times in his nightmares. But in his nightmares their faces were often frozen in fear, in pain, with blood painting their skin and rubble caught in their hair. Sometimes their faces would distort into vile twists, or their skin would melt off the bone. Occasionally they would talk to Draco, shout at him. Tell him it’s his fault they were dead, his fault they were murdered. Those were the ones that often had Draco retching over the toilet for the rest of the night.

Here they were smiling, happy. Their most joyous moments caught in moving images, laughing and having fun. That’s how people wanted to remember them, Draco supposes. People want to remember when they were happy, not fighting for their lives.

Draco’s rapid heart felt like it skipped a beat when his eyes landed on one particular image. In the corner of the wall, near the bottom, but there nonetheless. The brown eyes of Gregory Goyle burned into the grey of Draco’s.

“Greg…” Draco whispered, stepping closer.

Goyle was someone who was definitely a frequent visitor in Draco’s night terrors, and one of the rather more terrifying ones at that. More than a few nights a week Draco could still feel the flames lick his ankles after watching Gregory slip and be consumed by the inferno. He could still feel the smoke choke his lungs and make his head spin, making climbing for his life all the more difficult. Had Potter not come back, Draco for sure would have met the same fate as Gregory.

Suddenly, Draco selfishly thought of what would have happened if he had died that day. Would he be on this wall too?

Once again he let his eyes roam the wall, analysing the different faces looking back at him. A photo of Lavender Brown in the stunning blue dress she wore to the Yule Ball smiled at him as she curtseyed to the camera. Colin Creevey proudly holding a photography trophy beamed at him, showing off the biggest, toothiest smile. Fred Weasley, slipping some sort of sweet gummy into Professor Flitwick’s cloak pocket cheekily winked at him, holding a finger to his lips in a ‘shushing’ motion.

Giving a small, sad smile to Gregory Goyle’s portrait, Draco concluded that no, he wouldn’t have been included on this wall had he died that day.

The doors of the eighth year common room glared down at Draco, judging him for hesitating. He could hear the commotion coming from inside, lively chatter, clinking of glasses and what sounded like a riveting game of Wizard Chess, but the loudest thing of all was the sound of Draco’s heartbeat in his ears.

He had made it through the train journey with no incidents, his interaction with Weasley was tame compared to what Draco had imagined would happen the second he showed his face here. But this was the real test; walking into a room of people who he’d looked in the eye as he stood among the Death Eaters, stood on the side of the man who killed their friends; their family.

Deciding he had behaved cowardly long enough, Draco straightened his tie and smoothed down his robes, before opening the doors and stepping through. At first it seemed like no one noticed, the chatter carried on and no one seemed to glance his way. That didn’t last long, though. Eventually, people saw him, and gradually a hush fell over the room, until the only sound that could be heard was the crackling of the fire.

For a moment, everyone was still, in shock. Draco stood like a deer in the headlights, but he kept his chin high and his face stern, hoping the pure fear that ran through his veins remained undetected by the crowd. No one seemed to know what to say, or what to do. Draco didn’t either. Until a voice piped up in the crowd.

“Is this some kind of a joke?”

Draco’s gaze immediately zoned in on the source of the voice, finding Seamus Finnigan, rising from the sofa near the fireplace; looking around incredulously as if to make sure he wasn’t the only one who saw Draco walk through the door.

“I better not be seeing you, you better not be here right now.” Finnigan spoke again.

Everyone’s eyes remained on Draco, some still in disbelief like Finnigan’s, some in mild to moderate disgust, and some blank faces. Draco noted Granger and Weasley sat in the corner of the room, and came to the assumption Weasley had already told Granger he was here considering the lack of surprise on her face. Or perhaps she was smart enough to know McGonagall would have invited him back despite his current reputation. That was also highly likely. He briefly noted in the back of his mind that Potter wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“Well, evidently I am here, Finnigan. So why don’t you just fuck off and mind your business.” Draco shot back, feeling vulnerable as thirty pairs of eyes bore into his skin.

Finnigan scoffed, and started moving closer; “What did you have to do to be allowed back here, huh? Did daddy buy your way in?”

Draco looked Finnigan in the eye and scowled, daring him to go down this road.

“Oh wait,” he continued, stepping closer “See, I heard your family is getting stripped of it’s fortune. Daddy doesn’t have any money anymore, does he?”

The room erupted into a low murmur, as people started whispering to each other; eyes flitting between Finnigan and Draco.

“I’m warning you, Finnigan.” Draco replied in a low voice.

He knew this is the exact opposite of what he should be doing, of what he planned. He wanted to keep his head down, and get through the year quietly. He wanted to get his exams and leave as soon as possible, so he could get a good job and buy a house for his mother and father to live in if they weren’t allowed to keep the manor. He knew fighting with someone the second he stepped into the building was the easiest way to ensure he gets his second chance at a future ripped out from under his feet, but he couldn’t help it. Finnigan knew where to prod him so that it hurt.

“Maybe your mother slept with the Minister, is that it?”

Seamus knew exactly where it hurt.

Draco reached into his robes and pulled out his wand, aiming it at Seamus. Quick to recognise what Draco was doing, Seamus raised his in turn. The room gasped and people scuttled to the edges of the room, trying to keep out of the line of fire.

“Don’t you say a word against my mother!”

“What are you gonna do about it Malfoy? You’re finished! You may be back in school but no one is ever going to forget how you and your cowardly family ran away when the going got tough.”

“lingua ligatum”

Without thinking, Draco cast a tongue-tying curse at Finnigan; who easily deflected it with a wave of his wand. Gasps and cries could be heard as the spell was thrown, people covered their heads and ducked away from the conflict.

Finnigan chuckled darkly, apparently not even in shock at Draco casting the curse, and turned to look around the room; “You see that?” he gestured to Draco with his wand before turning back to him.

“Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

Draco broke his gaze with Finnigan and looked around the room. People looked at him with fear and anger in their eyes as they cowered away. It was exactly what he was expecting; exactly what he had hoped to avoid.

And now he tried to curse someone in the common room.

He quickly lowered his wand and turned on his heel. He knew it was late, and all his things would be waiting for him in the dormitory; but he couldn’t stay there. So he did what he seemed to have become very good at these days, and he ran.

As he pushed his way back through the doors, he heard Finnigan call behind him.

“That’s it, run away! Just like you always do!”.

And he was right.

People who asked to be tagged:

@fantasticreads0402

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wizardmarriage · 4 years ago

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almost done with silver snow route wahey 🎉🎉 like 2 chapters away from golden deer 🎉🎉

#megarez text

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ao3feed-taakitz · 7 years ago

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Base Instinct

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2mBo9ya

by InterNutter

Taako has to warn Kravitz about his -er- Special Time before it hits like a meteor. Hint: The best time to do that is NOT when you're sinking fast into the influence of Luume'irma.

Words: 2276, Chapters: 5/5, Language: English

Series: Part 2 of Primal Instincts

Fandoms: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Kravitz (The Adventure Zone), Taako (The Adventure Zone)

Relationships: Kravitz/Taako (The Adventure Zone)

Additional Tags: Pon Farr, This time it's EXACTLY how you think, Interstellarvagabond goaded me into making a series out of this wahey

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2mBo9ya

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #taakitz #taz

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studyworms · 5 years ago

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math finals log

posting here for accountability + motivation wahey

june 2, 2019 - sunday

tonight i will attempt to finish chapters 4.4-6.6 of my calculus book. it will be stressful and ugly but let's GO

#she dyin or wueva #hewwo it me

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zutaraverse · 8 years ago

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Chapter 10: Seeing Without Eyes

Zuko jolted awake from a disturbing dream just before dawn, the last dregs of which were quickly dissipating into the lightening room. He replayed the scene from last night and considered how to approach the new day. Since they were earth bending he didn’t think he should wake Katara for meditation. Besides, Toph being in charge meant there was no chance of starting early.

However, as the grey light of early dawn infiltrated the room, Zuko started to worry. Katara had hardly moved the whole night. He had to place a hand on her stomach just to feel her breathing, otherwise she may as well have been dead. She must have been in a very deep sleep and he was torn as to whether to wake her or not. Finally he decided that she would probably be mad if he didn’t give her the choice - she was not one to look sympathetically at anybody who made decisions for her.

He kissed her gently on the cheek and called her name, drawing her out of her comatose sleep. Katara’s eyes opened slowly - differently to her usual confused fluttering. This was weary, tired, and her gaze was still distant.

“Hey, its dawn, and we’re meant to earth bend today,” he explained softly. Katara’s eyes closed with the same slow, deliberate movement she had used before. They stayed closed a few seconds before opening again to consider him. She reached up a hand and caressed his cheek, before letting it drop back onto the sheets.

“I’m… not… leaving… this… bed,” she breathed. Zuko nodded. He didn’t think he should argue with her - she seemed to be exhausted. There was only one problem though…

“Then we’ll leave Toph to sleep - I bet she will be happy,” he said, trying to conceal his disappointment. He had been looking forward to learning earth bending - he loved the strength it gave those who wielded it. Katara closed her eyes.

“You should learn,” she said from somewhere very distant.

“You’re the only one who can blood bend,” he reminded her. She sighed and reached for his hand.

From her fuzzy state she didn’t need to try to block out anything; it was already gone. She found his blood easily and followed a very bright chi flow in the darkness of her incomprehensibility. Katara had studied Toph’s chi flow the day before, memorising the points where it differed from hers. She wasn’t surprised to find earth bending focussed in the legs and feet. It made sense. In the back of her mind it reminded her of something, but she couldn’t quite place it.

When she had altered Zuko’s chi, she did her own.

“There, now we’re both earth benders,” she said. She hadn’t moved or opened her eyes - Zuko had thought she had fallen asleep again. He kissed her again and quietly left to wake an undoubtedly grumpy Toph.

The sun rose just before six o’clock. Nothing official happened before nine o’clock, which meant that meditation, training, washing and eating took place in those three hours. Katara woke from her stupor at about eight, and decided to find her friends. She didn’t bother hiding the black under her eyes, and she tied her hair up so it wouldn’t look dirty. Going into her bathroom, she sighed in relief at her ability to blood bend. For all of the uses blood bending had, the most mundane was also the most useful. No longer did she have to soak her cycle cloths in boiling water for hours; she could soak them for five minutes or so and bend the blood off. It was amazing. If she ever lost the ability to blood bend this would probably be one of her main regrets.

Having washed herself and thrown on some clothes, Katara hurried to the indoor arena so see if Toph and Zuko were still in there. She opened the door quietly and slipped in, almost laughing at what she saw; Toph had riddled the stone floor with holes and dips, sharp spikes, inclines, and steps of all kinds. Zuko stood, looking somewhat weary, blindfolded in the middle of the maze.

“Hey Katara,” called Toph from the other side of the arena.

“What? Katara’s here?” asked Zuko, jerking his head about and trying to work out where the damned door was.

“What is wrong with you Zuko!” cried Toph, “You are a fire bender, that means you can feel heat! You should be able to sense her in the room with your own element!” She threw up her hands in frustration.

“Yeah well I’m too damned concentrated on trying to sense the fucking death traps you’ve set out for me!” he cried back, a glimmer of his old-Zuko anger in his voice. However, he didn’t remove the blind fold. Toph growled.

“I do not understand why it is so hard to teach earth bending! With Aang what he needed was a forceful push, and I think you need the same. We are going to duel,” she said definitively.

“Duel!” exclaimed Katara. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?” She did not like the idea of a blind Zuko going up against Toph. With his eyesight they may have been equally matched, but he was at a distinct disadvantage here.

“Stay out of this Sugar Queen. This is between me and Sparky. Actually, you can play doctor when he gets his butt kicked. Right, Sparky, you can use any element you like - I will only use earth bending. But we are both blind. And you better start paying attention to the earth pretty soon because it will, quite literally, slap you in the face if you don’t. Ready?”

“Toph I think this is a really bad idea,” started Katara pleadingly. However, Zuko interrupted her.

“Please Katara! If this is what it takes I’ll do it. But you shouldn’t get hurt - wait outside till this is over.”

“Absolutely not,” she said forcefully, crossing her arms and not a little irritated that he was trying to tell her what to do, “I can defend myself, Fire Prince Zuko, and if I have to beat your arse again to prove it, believe me, I will!” And with that she leaned against the door, staring at the back of Zuko’s head angrily.

He gulped. An angry Katara was far worse than a playful Toph. He would have to deal with that later.

“Wahey! Sweetness is getting Spicy!” laughed Toph. This is more like it, she thought to herself.

“Don’t you dare make light of this Toph - I’m furious with you for doing this. You two are going to seriously hurt each other and I’m the one who is going to have to pick up the fucking pieces as usual!” she snarled, switching her cold stare from one blind person to another.

“Shesh! Calm down Spicy! Hey… Spicy and Sparky… I like it… although Sweetness and Sparky is like sweetness and light which is a lovely saying. Except I don’t know what light is,” mused Toph, completely unperturbed by Katara’s outburst. She was more than used to it, but sensed that it had put Zuko on edge… maybe she should go easy on him after all. “Well, lets get to it!” she announced, stomping her foot on the ground and changing the landscape to something completely unfamiliar. Zuko didn’t know it but it was actually easier to navigate than the previous one.

Zuko froze at the sound of grinding rock.

“You fucking changed everything again didn’t you?” he growled.

“Yup!” replied Toph lightly.

He spun around in the direction of her voice and shot a fireball at her. However, he heard the usual creaking of the expanding metal as it collided with the wall.

“Yeah, how are you supposed to get me if you don’t know in which direction I’m going? You are aiming for the past Sparky, get with it!” she instructed, leaping around and changing direction. Zuko tried to aim a few more fireballs but without success. “Not even close!” mocked Toph from yet another position.

Zuko could feel his frustration growing into anger. Anger at himself, at his damned inability to pick this up. He felt like a scolded child again, the worst one at fire bending, with his sister showing off to his father and grandfather moves that he still hadn’t mastered. The familiar rage that he had harboured for three long years on his ship returned full force, contorting his body into well rehearsed moves. He growled through his teeth as he drew on as much power as he could and shot a sheet of fire, spinning as he did so, in order to make it reach every corner of the room.

He was left panting from his sudden outburst. After a few deep breaths things started clearing in his mind as he realised what he had done.

“Katara? Toph? Are you ok? I’m so sorry…” he reached behind his head to undo the blindfold and rush to the aid of his friends. He was resisting breaking down into sobs of self loathing.

“Don’t you dare Sparky!” called Toph from a long way away, “This isn’t over!”

“We’re fine Zuko,” said Katara from somewhere closer to his side of the arena, a softness in her voice that indicated that she at least partially understood what had prompted his rash gesture.

Zuko suddenly felt something hit him square in the forehead. Then something else. They were hard. Stones! Toph was throwing stones at him - he had just whipped out enough fire to destroy a palace and she retaliated by throwing stones. It almost made him laugh.

Because she defended herself from his attack and he was incapable of defending himself from hers.

Right. He needed to find cover. Getting low to the ground, he moved along with his hands spread wide until he found a large rock jutting out. He moved so that it was between him and the rock-throwing Toph. It wouldn’t take long for her to adjust her position to come at him again, but she had been the other side of the arena, so she would have to move quite a bit. At the very least it bought him some time.

A memory presented itself to him; a memory of himself as the blue spirit, living in the shadows and being impossibly quiet - breaking into the highest security prisons and freeing the highest security prisoners. Sneaking around wasn’t going to fool Toph, and there was no wood to dampen his steps. He silently cursed himself for not having brought water in this morning - at the very least it might create some confusion!

But along with these memories came the less pleasant ones; being locked in cupboards, waiting in vents, sneaking through barracks, finding his way down the tunnels of Lake Laogai. In none of those situations did he have any light. He had done it by not searching for light - by instead focussing on what he did know and translating that into images. He remembered sitting very still, hardly even breathing, and listening with all his might to what was happening around him.

Marching boots: soldiers. The paces even: bored. Two, in practiced time: regular partners. No hesitations: knew the land to perfection - they were lookouts on duty.

Now he had more than his ears, though. He had heat. He had water. He had earth.

He relaxed and opened his mind to the arena. There. He could feel Toph not too far from him. She wasn’t moving. So she must have been waiting for him to emerge.

Katara stood somewhere behind him. She was much warmer than Toph.

This didn’t help though. As soon as Toph picks up a rock, and the rock leaves her hand, he would have no idea where it was. He might hope that the contact with her skin would make it slightly warmer than the surroundings, but hat was a vain hope. Besides, was she even picking them up? Wouldn’t she just bend them towards him?

He needed to go deeper than heat and water. He needed to focus on where he was in relation to the room. He needed to feel, through his skin, what was going on. Everything is connected he told himself. I am on the earth, I am touching it, I am part of it. He repeated this mantra in his head over and over as he ran his fingers and toes along the surroundings, paying attention to every nook and cranny he passed over. There was no movement in the room, nor was there any noise; it seemed the girls had decided to leave him to his own explorations.

He felt a dip under his feet as he inched forward. A dip meant a rise though. Where was the rise?

There. The rise was very close - the dip was not wide. But the rise seemed to be higher than where he was standing. That would mean another dip perhaps. It would be annoying to have to climb it though. But moving to the right should give him some space. Instinctively, with the speed yet caution of the blue spirit, he headed towards the easier path. There was something blocking his way though and he ducked just in time, feeling an overhang graze the top of his head. Toph would be standing to the left - stationary - a heartbeat - a more intense vibration. Carefully positioning himself, he shot a simple fireball directly at the direction of the more intense vibrations. The vibrations faded for a split second - she had stepped out of the way - and he felt a presence moving closer - too fast to be Toph - no Toph had not moved from her spot.

Something small and hard hit him on the chest. Oh. Another rock. So that’s what a rock feels like he thought to himself, too fascinated to be irritated.

“Nice one Sparky, you are finally feeling. Now quit with the fire, do it with rock,” instructed Toph.

“Hmmm thanks for the details Sifu,” grumbled Zuko, momentarily distracted from his study of the ground.

“You’ll work it out,” she replied. Zuko imagined a smirk playing on her lips underneath her black bangs.

He returned to the state he had been in while observing the stone beneath his feet. Right. Stone MOVE he mentally shouted. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. He returned to the overhang and, standing in front of it, he placed one hand on the lip, concentrating on how the stone was shaped - not so much on the surface, but underneath it. There he exerted a force, and to his immense pleasure it shifted. Not much, just an inch. But he could do it again - and with more power. The overhang lifted so that he could pass under it without ducking.

Now he needed a stone to throw. He reached up and touched the overhang once more. Instead of pushing inside, he pulled, and a part came away easily in his hand.

Now where was Toph? Ah! There. He threw the stone but it fell short - he felt it hit the ground a few metres in front of her. He took another part of the overhang, and this time, he pushed it from inside. Not enough to separate it, but enough to control its direction. There!

The vibrations coming from Toph changed and the stone stopped. Ah. She must have lifted her hand and caught it.

“I like it Sparky! But I’m afraid we are going to have to continue this another time - your advisors are hesitating outside the arena - I think you might be late for something…” said Toph.

Zuko gasped and tore off the blindfold, ignoring the tears that sprang to his eyes from the suddenly very intense light. He ran to the door and ripped it open.

“What time is it?” he asked urgently to the advisors who stood nervously outside.

“Ten o’clock, my prince,” answered one of them.

“Shit. Prepare the meeting room, I will be there shortly,” he ordered, watching them scurry away towards the palace. Zuko turned to the two girls in the room.

He took in the terrain Toph had created. It had seemed so much more threatening without his eyes - in the daylight he could have manoeuvred it with hardly a thought! Toph had created a seat of stone and was picking at her feet, just as she used to when she was younger. Katara had also seated herself on a boulder, her legs dangling down. She seemed much calmer than before.

“We’ve only got half an hour to prepare but I reckon we can do it,” she said serenely. Zuko regarded her gratefully. He was worried she wouldn’t be there at the meeting today - but she knew so much about what was going on that she would grasp anything he happened to miss. And besides, her insights into how the normal people lived were exactly what he needed. The memories of his life as a refugee in the lower rings of Ba Sing Se were forever fresh in his mind.

Katara slid off her boulder.

“What, Sugar Queen is wussing out of her lesson?” mocked Toph, seemingly unbothered by their disappearance.

“Sorry Toph, if you like I can come back this afternoon after lunch? I had an idea I would like to try with you,” she said, still the image of composure. Toph yawned.

“Yeah alright. I’m going to go and take a mid-morning nap now. Wake me when you want to learn?” the tone in her voice was almost too hopeful, betraying how much she needed this distraction - this reminder that she could be in control of something. Katara smiled.

“Of course,” she promised, before taking Zuko’s hand and heading back to the palace with him.

The meeting had been surprisingly simple. People seemed to be on more or less the same page - which was an event in itself. Zuko had some letters to write, but Katara hurried to wake Toph and they headed to the arena. She was determined not to be put through the same thing as Zuko - that had taken hours, and to be honest, she did not have the patience to deal with it today. She had another idea though.

“What’s this plan of yours then?” asked Toph once the door had clanged shut definitively.

“Well you know how you play with metal? Its kind of like how I water bend - as in it is almost liquid - or it behaves like a liquid. So I wanted to try that,” she explained confidently.

“You want to start with metal?” asked Toph incredulously.

“Well, yes. It might not work, but if it did I think it would be easier for me to attack it that way around,” explained Katara, suddenly not so sure of herself. Toph raised an eyebrow and flicked the hair out of her face with a familiar jerk of the head.

“We might as well try,” conceded Toph. She wouldn’t admit it, but angry Katara was not something she wanted to run into twice in the course of a day. She reached out and summoned a chuck of metal from high up on one of the walls, bringing it down between her hands. She couldn’t resist playing with it for just a bit, letting it circle her hands and splay out in different patterns.

“I don’t really know how to teach you this because I learned it from earth bending. And with that you need to find the earth within the metal. It is there, it just feels slightly different, you know?”

“Like blood feels to a water bender,” compared Katara.

“I guess,” reasoned Toph, “if you can start to place it in space first you would get a feel for what it is?” She was guessing. She actually had no idea how to approach this. She solidified the metal again and handed it to Katara, who sat on the ground holding it between her hands contemplatively.

Treat it like ice, she thought.

“I think,” she spoke out loud, “that solid metal is kind of like ice, liquid metal like water. I don’t know what vapour would be… but anyway, so if this is like ice, then what I would need to do is sort of… break it apart from the inside, but all over at the same time. Does that sound right to you?” she asked Toph.

“Yeah, sort of. But you need to keep the whole together so it doesn’t splatter… the edges kind of feel different.” Toph sat down opposite Katara and waited. Katara didn’t move. She didn’t move for a long time.

Toph focussed on sensing the metal in her hands, and was surprised at how easily she fell into it. She could feel how there was a growing pressure inside, a tentative movement. But it was going in the wrong direction - or rather it was going in all directions at once. That is not how metal is structured, she registered, there needed to be more of a sliding and jostling to it. She murmured this instruction to Katara, careful not to break the concentration of either.

Slowly but surely, she felt Katara’s hold on the metal increase and the right action take place. The metal was more malleable, and then eventually liquid. She imagined Katara would be smiling.

“Fuck. Yes,” breathed Katara, playing with the liquid metal. She was right. She could treat it like water in a way, although it was less similar than she had expected.

Toph grinned.

“Nice one sugar-cake. Now can we get on with real Earth Bending?” quipped Toph, not quite managing to hide her awe for what Katara had just achieved. She wondered if she would be able to use the same technique in reverse when Katara kept up her side of the bargain.

A couple of days had passed and Katara had managed some earth bending - Zuko some metal bending. Both realised that the more they learned about any element made picking up the next one ever easier. So many things were similar that sometimes in the depth of their meditations they stated fusing the boundaries.

Toph liked fire too - she used it to sense what she could not feel through her feet. And carefully, with much caution, she learned to manipulate it. Since it was not solid it took many hours of concentration to keep hold of the shapes she created - they were not bounded by everything, but she saw it as her job to bind it to a shape.

When it came to her turn to learn water, she could hardly wait. Katara had also decided that she would attempt to teach Zuko blood bending at the same time; full moons only came around once a month and she wasn’t sure what the future would hold.

The three met by the little lake, much to the annoyance of the turtle ducks, just before sunset. Katara talked Toph through everything she had done with Zuko, and decided it would be a good idea if she kept her feet in the water. Although Toph had eventually learned to swim, she still feared the power of water, and so keeping the most sensitive part of her body connected with it might help bridge that distrust.

Katara and Zuko left her in meditation as the sun set, knowing that, at this point, it was highly unlikely she wouldn’t experience the surge of power that came with the moon. It seemed strange yet oddly logical that they were all picking up one another’s elements so quickly.

“Blood,” started Katara, “feels slightly different to water. It is harder to move, since it pulls everything else that is in the blood with it. It is heavy in that sense. And besides, there is something blocking your direct access to it. The way I like to look at it is as a reaching past a barrier rather than a going inside.”

Zuko looked around, distracted from her words by a thought that had just occurred to him. He was feeling uneasy.

“Katara, don’t you have some animal I can practice on?”

Katara stared at him hard.

“No. Blood bending takes away the freedom of whatever you are practicing on. Therefore you will only blood bend practice on willing subjects.”

Zuko sucked in a breath. He had a really bad feeling this might happen.

“Katara there is no way I am blood bending on you!” he seethed.

“Yes, you are,” she replied calmly.

“I won’t learn then,” he matched, folding his arms across his chest in defiance.

“Yes, you will. What happens if I go crazy with all this power? What happens if I need to be stopped and Aang can’t do it? What happens if people find out about this and torture me until I make them as powerful as we are?” Katara had tears in her eyes but she refused to let them fall. This was why she had to teach him. How could she trust herself with something so destructive without any way out. “You need to learn Zuko, you need to be able to control me and my chi like I can control you and yours. That way you can take away from me what might one day harm so many people…”

Zuko’s arms had fallen to his sides as her arguments computed in his mind. Out of all of them, she was the only one who could not be stopped. If he or Toph abused their power, Katara would be there to take it away. Aang had still not managed to return to the Avatar state since they had split up two years earlier and so would be incapable of doing so. But if she lost her mind, if she was used and tortured, nobody would be able to help her.

“Katara, don’t think like that,” he whispered unconvincingly. He pulled her into his arms, well aware that she was right. He was both moved by her trust in him and terrified of misusing it. An image of his father flashed in his head. What atrocities could he have achieved if he had known how to blood bend? Zuko didn’t want to imagine.

“Look, Zuko, this is important. I know you are as strong as I am, and you feel the water in the same way I do. Blood is not hard, its just as shift in how you see the element - like lightening is for you and metal is for Toph…” she pushed him away gently and collected herself before starting her instruction.

Zuko was used to observing the mass of water that was Katara. But now he needed to concentrate on overcoming the resistance provided by her skin and moving behind it. He could understand how somebody who struggled with water would find this near impossible, but by this point shifting his perspective was becoming a way of life. The constant re-analysis was opening his eyes - metaphorically - to a way of feeling that was completely foreign to him.

It took a while, but the power of the moon was coursing through his body, and all the water in the world seemed to be at his fingertips. He reached forward with his hands and his mind, and concentrated on what was behind the skin. His fingers curled in order to take control of her body - a rigid, awkward movement, like a puppeteer. He had the distinct feeling that if he softened his stance control over her would slip. Slowly, he moved her arms around, getting a feel for how it felt.

Zuko had expected to be repulsed by the sensation of blood bending another person - especially Katara, but actually he felt very calm, just like when he was water bending. In retrospect, he didn’t really know why he had anticipated repulsion - he hardly felt repulsed by the creation of lightening, and he doubted Toph disliked metal bending.

“Alright Zuko, now I’m going to start resisting,” said Katara. She, too, looked relatively calm.

“What do you mean resist?” he asked, dropping his hold and letting her arms flop to her sides.

“Well, I’ve been letting you do what you want, but that is hardly ever going to happen. I will try to resist and you will need to use more force to control my body. Are you ready?”

Zuko gritted his teeth but nodded, retaking his stance. He hoped that he didn’t hurt her.

This time was more difficult, he needed to focus all his attention on maintaining his hold and bending her to his will. In the back of his mind he could understand how people could become addicted to such power, but he pushed that thought away.

Eventually Katara’s face contorted in pain and she gave over control. Zuko dropped his stance.

They both stood staring at one another, breathing heavily. Katara nodded and forced a smile.

“I think thats enough for tonight,” she murmured, turning towards where Toph sat in the distance.

Zuko caught her arm.

“Katara, wait. There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Uncle made me promise not to but I think you have a right to know,” he started hesitantly.

“Spit it out Zuko!”

“Your family is coming here. To the palace. They are arriving with Iroh.” He was looking away, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

Katara exhaled audibly.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said cordially, controlling her rising panic. “How long to I have to prepare for this?”

“Erm… they arrive tomorrow.”

#zutara #zutaraverse #blood chi and full moons #fanfiction #worldcrawler #atla #avatar the last airbender #avatar

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