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interstellargatorskinboots1812 · 3 years ago

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TAPPED INTO YOUR MIND AND SOUL

SUMMARY

Arabella Shelby is tired of the antics of her twin brother Tommy. She hates how she is always left on the back-foot of what is going on. As a fierce and intelligent force to be reckoned with, she knows she is more than capable of dealing with the more unsavoury side of the Shelby Company Limited.

She's made a decision that if Tommy won't allow her to come out of the shadows, then she will make light of her own, elsewhere. But will a deal with the devil be the answer to her problems? Tommy has a proposition for Arabella and one that will see her tied to his most untrusting of business associates. Will Arabella take the plunge and start a new life in Camden, beside the most eccentric and sadistic bread makers and leader of the Jewish Gangs in London, Mr Alfie Solomons?

CHAPTER ONE: Satisfaction Seems like a Distant Memory

She can feel her patience ebbing, like the whiskey reserves behind the bar. Arabella Shelby grinds her teeth and wills the antagonism feeding her veins, to dissipate. The room drowns in the heavy tones of men as they jeer and chat obnoxiously , each having to shout to be heard over the man behind them. Women screech and laugh uproariously trying desperately to gain some favorable attention from any of the rowdy males. Her malachite gaze looks down to her red tipped long nails, holding a now empty brandy glass . She hates the atmosphere and finds the behaviour encircling her to be stifling. Flinching, she ducks away from the spittle flying from the faceless philanderer, trying and failing to impress her. He was a brave man to say the least, she thought. It was rare anyone dared but look at a Shelby sister. Mores the pity she muses, that each of her brothers are too overloaded with their own egos to notice and intervene with a swipe of their caps. The room stinks of tobacco, a thick and heavy film of smog seems to be connecting one body to another as it clings into the air around them. She should already be out of Birmingham, her bags have been packed since the early hours of this morning and the decision to cut out made long before that. Instead she stays in the newly refurbished Garrison, watching the vainglory antics of a family lacerated by their hunger for being high-handed.

Her eyes train on her older brother Arthur, fresh out of jail, as he presses a rolled up note onto the table top and inhales his second blue vial of powder with a determined fury. She surveys with intent as he scrunches his face and presses his fingers to his nose to adjust to the sensation of the toxins traveling into his system.

'Fuck sake, Arthur', she rolls her eyes as her troubled brother stands on the bar and addresses the room under a confident pretension of shouted words. The pub listens eagerly and replies along dutifully and in an orderly fashion to his toasts for the Small Heath Rifles, The Lane Boys and of course, to the Peaky Fucking Blinders. Pulling a wayward wave of blonde hair behind her ear, she scans the doleful faces of the crowd as they raise their glasses, each hanging onto Arthur's words like obedient children.

'The Peaky Fucking Blinders, eh?’ Arabella scoffs under her breath.

'Whose gunna stop us ?'the gravel tone of Arthur spews out. She watches . The time keeper of events from her spot in the corner booth, examining Arthur as he climbs down out of sight, the mask slips as his brow becomes deep set and his expression dulled. She shifts her weight as the leather studs of the booth stab her fiercely in the back. Glancing across the bar to her younger brother, John she observes his dirty and paranoid glances to his wife as he knocks back yet another whiskey. As for her twin, well Tommy was nowhere to be seen. She hadn’t seen him since Epsom earlier that day, when he had told her that he needed to see her urgently for business reasons but then had seemingly disappeared into the ether. Well, she had need to see him urgently too, although he may not like her reasons.

To the outside world the Peaky Blinders were an untouchable force to be reckoned with. Raconteurs racing their way up the crime ladder and vying to be the top of the chain. Money was rolling in and reputation was building, Tommy was making a name for the Shelby Company Limited and a name for himself. However, behind the façade the cracks were springing thick and fast. The family felt fractured and Arabella felt completely disconnected. Dealing with the legitimate side of the business, being a woman within the family, Tommy did not want her getting mixed up into the illegal and dangerous goings on. He would listen to her smart ideas before dismissing them and then re-imagining them with his own. She had begged for Tommy to take her to London to run the start of their empire down there, an ambition that Tommy had staunchly diffused, particularly after what had happened to their younger sister. 'London is no place for a woman like you, it’s heaving with trouble and violence and no sister of mine is going to get caught up in it on my behalf'.

'Pfft and here was me heeding your words of this business being a modern Enterprise that believes in equal rights for women. Those are your words Thomas, or do they only matter when it suits?'

They had argued for days over the matter, of course Thomas had won out and it was Arthur running the show down in London. Upon his arrest, however much it angered Tommy under it’s circumstances, it made his gloating no less bearable when he reiterated that this was why she shouldn't go to the city, Arabella argued back viciously that had she been in charge down there, none of this would have happened because she had a lid on things and was not riddled with the lingering effects of war, mixed with a habit for white powder rotting her faculties.

She could face no more of being on the back foot of what was going on, of having her intelligence shunned and her opinions chewed up and hashed back out in the guise of another. The last few months had been eventful, in the precipice of war with Sabini's Italian gang and in an mistrustful partnership with another, fighting for the dominant control. What good was she to be by being the pretty face at the fucking bookmaker's reception, seemingly in the dark about everything going on beneath the surface.

Unlike her younger sister, Arabella longed to be more involved in the family business, to handle the threats, the plans and the schemes. She knew she was worth more, that she could handle more. She had repeatedly begged Tommy to allow her to be more involved but to no avail. If she couldn’t be more to the family business than somebody who handles it’s books, when it could be seen that she had so much more potential, then she didn’t want to be involved at all. She had made her decision that she would not stand by and be dismissed and so she would wait for Tommy to return to his office and she would tell him she wanted out. Family or no family, her ambitions were being stifled and she would not stand for it any longer.

'Excuse me', she says with a flash of a scowl, pushing at the shoulder of the offending would be suitor to allow her to get up. She manoeuvres the silk crepe of her yellow dress, it's horizontal pointed waistline spiking down like daggers. She couldn't wait to get home and take of the dress. It still smells of smoke from the burning bookie bonfires started by her brother's gang. She wanted to remove every last stitch of Epsom still clinging to her.

Just as she gets to her feet and moves forward, she is hauled back. She glances down to find his fat fingers gripping at her upper arm, fingertips pushing into the flesh.

'Now come on sweetheart, I haven't finished talking to you yet'.

Momentarily, she's startled by the misogynistic manner of his speaking, The moment quickly passes though.

'Ooff!'

The air rushes from his lungs, his stomach moving to a more unnatural position , Arabella uncurls her fist from his diaphragm. His face is turning more scarlet by the second as he desperately tries to suck down more air to get his breath back. Leaning into his ear, she makes her tone curt.

'Call me sweetheart and touch me again and it'll be more than the air I'll take from your chest. Now, fuck off'.

Whipping her red felt hat from the viscid table, she heads for the exit without a sideways glance back. Tommy would see her tonight, alright.

___________________________________

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@lokigirlszendaya

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snarky-bee · 5 years ago

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Milo

A story of Kallian and her boyfriend as teens in love. Pre-blight.

AO3

***

The thin metal tools poked at the inner workings of the lock with only the faint tinkling sound of metal against metal. Kallian’s eyebrows drew closer together with focus. In theory, it sounded easy, but in practice, picking a lock was not a skill mastered in a single try. But with each success, her confidence grew as she learned to pick up the sound of the near silent click with pins falling into place.

Opposite her sat Milo, his brown eyes were intent on her. His entire attention focused on her hands, watching and waiting for the sound of the lock opening. He tucked a loose dark curl behind his pointed ear.

Kallian wanted to kiss him. But not until she conquered this lockpicking thing once more. With a heavy click, it snapped open.

She handed the opened lock back to Milo. “Turns out, not that hard.”

One corner of his mouth turned up in approval. “Now, don’t be cocky, Kalli-girl. When you can pick a lock in under a minute then you’re talking.”

Kallian stuck her tongue out. Her stomach flipped when he used that nickname, and he knew it - given her pink cheeks and his rumbling laugh. Maker, she loved his laugh.

She snatched the lock back and snapped it shut. “Let me guess. You can?”

“What’s the point in working for a locksmith if I don’t pick up a few skills here and there,” he retorted.

“Funny,” she drawled as she dropped her set of picks and slid around to his side of the table. “You aren’t rushing to prove it.” She perched herself down on his lap.

His hands slid up her back and pulled her closer. Her heart raced for no other reason than the fact she was in his arms. And for the perfect shape of his cupid’s bow, and the dark liquid copper of his eyes.

She kissed him and he kissed her back. Heat rose up along her skin and she pawed at his shirt, sliding hands up his chest. She softly moaned against his lips.

“Get this sodding shirt off,” she whispered.

He yanked it over his head, curly hair falling around his shoulders. He kissed her again, letting his hands roam her body, the curve of her ass and gripping around her waist. His thumbs stroked the undersides of her small breasts, suggesting more.

Not for the first time she thanked the Maker that Milo’s mother worked so late.

“Come on Kalli, love, let’s take this to the bed,” he said warmly. Not the first time he’d suggested it. More than heavy petting and hours of kissing.

The warmth pooling between her legs spoke for how much she wanted to give in. But a nervous apprehension pulled her back from the precipice. “Not yet,” she whispered. A kiss to his soft, plush lips. “You said you’d wait,” she reminded him. How her heart was racing, body hot, like her skin yearned for his touch.

She pulled away slightly and swallowed. “Besides, you haven’t proven how good your lockpick skills are.”

“When are you going to tell me why you suddenly needed to learn,” he countered.

His shirt was still off. Distracting, warm. Her hands lingered. “I was curious,” she allowed.

“I just think it’s curious you haven’t asked me to teach you before. Considering how much you like to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Milo teased.

She couldn’t even pretend to be affronted. She had a habit of learning the secrets and gossip of the alienage - not that she spread it herself. But she liked to know what was happening and liked it even better when that information proved useful.

“You know the Bedard sisters?” she started. Milo nodded and she continued. “Heard their mum had to give up a silver locket to pay for rent. Old man Pratchett didn’t give a shit that it was their great grandmother’s.”

“Kallian, no.” Milo was already shaking his head. “Don’t start with this shit again.”

She got off his lap, fixing him with a hard stare while he threw on his shirt. His back faced her but she could tell by the hunch of his shoulders he was angry.

“Come on Milo, how many times are we gonna let Shems step all over us and never do anything back?” Kallian kicked the leg of the table. “You could help.”

He combed his fingers through his hair before turning around, hands on his hips. “Why do you have to get involved? You’re just asking for trouble. You’ll get caught and then what?” Milo sat back down with a sigh. “You at least getting paid?”

“Only in favours,” she responded curtly. “Someday I might be in shit, and it’s good to have some favours hanging around.”

“You wouldn’t need favours if you didn’t come up with these stupid plans,” he said.

“Why don’t you tell me how you really feel,” she said dryly.

“It’s already risky enough that you pilfer things from Miss Gilbert, and now this.”

“Come off it. Some extra thread and scraps of cloth here and there? She won’t miss those things. I thought you liked the silk handkerchief I gave you,” she reminded him.

Milo patted his pocket where she knew the embroidered purple cloth was folded. “I do, Kalli-girl.” He moved towards her, cupping her face to tilt it up those few inches to meet his eyes. “I just worry you’re about to cross a line. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Her hand covered his. “I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” Milo countered.

She flinched away from his touch as if it had burned her. All thoughts of affection flew out the window. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t be like that. You’ve always been impulsive. I just don’t think you’re thinking this through.”

“Then let me just impulsively fucking leave,” she grumbled. “I can’t believe you!”

His door slammed and she stormed out across the muddy paths that wound their way through the rundown homes of the alienage. Mud splashed up on the hem of her dress as she stomped her way home. It was the rainy season. Mud clung to shoes and clothes alike.

Kallian stopped at the Vhenadahl. A couple of drunks were leaned against it, drinking something foul enough to make her nose wrinkle at the sour smell. She paid them no mind and went around the other side of the tree, leaning against it. Going home didn’t hold much appeal either. She wanted to break something.

Milo had pissed her off but not enough to stop her from following through.

After a time, she did go home, and played the dutiful daughter. She helped her mother finish with supper and patiently told her family about her rather boring day stitching hems and making deliveries.

At least she could let out some frustrations with some sparring.

Kallian huffed with the effort of dodging her mother’s blows and worked up a slight sweat. It felt good. She could feel how much better she was, the muscles in her shoulders that weren’t there a year ago. She grunted and aggressively knocked away Adaia’s left hand.

“Ouch!” her mother exclaimed, halting. She rotated her wrist. “Why do I get the feeling you’re angry at me?” She tilted her head, dark brown eyes narrowing. “Are you cross with me, Kallian? What’ve I done this time? Did I say the wrong thing about your hair today?”

Kallian’s look was withering. “You make it sound like I’m a wounded dog snapping at everyone who so much as looks at me,” she muttered.

Adaia sheathed her daggers and wrapped an arm around Kallian’s shoulders, pulling her in for a hug, rocking back and forth slightly. “No, not a dog, just a teenager.”

They stayed like that until Kallian’s shoulders relaxed, the tension gone. Her mother’s fingers through her hair relaxing her.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“No.”

Kallian took a deep breath, closing her eyes while her mother rubbed comforting circles on her back.

“Milo’s an ass,” she said.

“Please tell me we don’t have to go hide a body,” Adaia sighed laboriously.

Kallian giggled and pulled away. “Mum!”

She winked. “Made you laugh, though.”

“He just…” Kallian twisted her mouth to one side. She didn’t want to say why they fought, but she wanted her mother’s opinions. “He’s so overprotective, like, like I can’t handle my own life.”

“Mmm, Kallian,” Adaia wrapped her arms tighter. “Sounds like he cares very much. It’s how people like your father...and Milo... show they love you, yeah?”

If it was love, how come it made her feel so inept and incapable. “But you don’t do that. When dad said I shouldn’t learn how to fight you made him change his mind.”

That was when her mum let go and spun around to face her. She gently held Kallian’s chin in hand. “Because you are my daughter. And no daughter of mine will ever be helpless or dependent on anyone else.”

“Tell that to Milo…”

“Tell him yourself.” Adaia winked. “He will have no choice but to learn. Or deal with your wrath…” She rubbed her wrist where Kallian had struck it. Kallian opened her mouth to apologize, but her mother stopped her. “No it’s fine. It was a good strike. But how about we call it a night anyway, yeah?”

Kallian nodded.

She went to bed with her mind set. Confidence in herself, and a bit of sadistic glee in imagining the many ways she might tell Milo off. Particularly once her plan went just fine and she could throw that in his face too.

***

Milo thought she was impulsive, and she definitely could be. But Kallian wasn’t a fool. Before even asking him to help her with lockpicking, she had done her damn research to find out when she might have a window of opportunity.

That window turned out to be a weekly trip down to the gambling house.

Picks in pocket, Kallian left her house under the guise of visiting Milo. She was over there several times a week anyway. It was more private at his apartment than her place, after all.

It was not yet so late that she would be breaking curfew either. Enough time to hurry to the landlord’s house and be back before the sun had completely set.

She detoured down towards the building that Milo lived in, just in case anyone saw her they could confirm she had been heading to visit him. The alienage was home to many gossips and she knew well enough to avoid them when she could.

Looping back around through another alley, she snuck out toward the gates.

“Kallian.”

Her stomach dropped and she froze. How in the- “What are you-?” She turned around trying to come up with an excuse to her father. And there was Milo standing beside him.

He told her father. He fucking tattletaled.

“The better question is what do you think you are doing, young lady. I know I didn’t raise you to go sneaking about like some common thief.”

Her chest squeezed tight with the sting of betrayal. She glared at Milo, and instead of the sparkle of warmth she always felt in his eyes, she saw disappointment. Like she was a child who needed scolding. Scolding she would only get from her own father.

“You told him?” she shouted. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Milo?”

“I knew you wouldn’t listen to me, and I had to stop you from making a huge mistake,” he placated. “He was glad I told him. How would Cyrion have felt if you were arrested?”

Kallian’s lips turned up in disgust. “Don’t start acting all noble.”

“Noble? I’m protecting you! Can’t you see it’s because I love you? I didn’t want anything to happen to you, Kalli.”

A feral shriek ripped from Kallian’s throat. “You son of a b-”

“He did the right thing,” Cyrion interjected, stepping between both of them. He turned to Milo, gave him a pat on the back. “You know her temper, head on home. I’ll take this from here, son.”

That look of… of ownership. Like he had a right to say what she could or could not do. Breathing hurt; it hurt so much she wanted to cry. She was crying. Hot tears, and heart pounding. She wanted to scream, to pull out her own hair.

“We’re going home,” Cyrion said firmly.

Kallian wrenched her arm from her father. “I’m not going anywhere. And stop looking at him like he’s the bloody Maker himself. I trusted him and he went behind my back!”

His mouth turned into a straight line. “To make sure you didn’t get hurt. He’s good for you, Kallian. The kind of lad who would make a good husband someday.”

Her mouth clamped shut. Struck dumb. Her anger meant nothing? Her broken trust meant nothing? “Husband?” the strangled question was all she could get out before her throat closed up.

“Well, not right away of course. Wait at least a couple years to make sure it’s a good match. But first we’ll need to decide how long you’re grounded,” he placed a palm on her lower back, none too gently guiding her back up the road. “Home. Now.”

Numbly, Kallian followed along. Did Milo use this to get into Cyrion’s good books? He… wouldn’t do that. Would he?

For all that she had started to imagine it, the dress and flowers and maybe even spending her life with Milo… Marriage sounded like nothing more than a cage to trap her in now. The last thing Kallian ever wanted to feel was caged.

#kallian tabris #kallian/OC #milo #fic #snarky writing #adaia tabris #cyrion tabris #i wanted to explore why her first and only relationship didnt work out #and here is what we got

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anubislover · 5 years ago

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A Heart to Be Used as Needed (a dark Corazon!LawxBaby 5 fic)

“Joker killed another one, huh?”

Sniffling and tearfully nodding her head, Baby 5 skulked into Trafalgar Law’s lab, the young Corazon’s afternoon coffee carefully balanced on a silver tray. “The bastard didn’t even give me enough time to set a wedding date.” The Buki Buki no Mi user was a mess; mascara blended with tears down her cheeks, her eyes were red and puffy, jet black hair tangled, and there were thin rips throughout her maid uniform. She’d clearly just come from another failed attempt at killing Doflamingo, her rage at once more being denied her dream of marital bliss no match for the shichibukai and his Ito Ito no Mi powers.

Law scoffed as he continued to dissect the man on his table. His victim was barely conscious, chest cavity wide open, any resistance he might make suppressed by restraints, a cocktail of opioids, and the fact that his limbs were in a bin on the other side of the operatory. Doflamingo had caught the guy snooping around the castle, so he’d been generously donated to the lab for the Surgeon of Death’s amusement. He’d started off using his powers, but after a while decided to practice more traditional surgery—minus the anesthesia, of course. The result was a rather bloody operating table, organs lined up in little trays encased in their own Rooms to keep his subject alive as long as possible.

Holding the man’s liver up to the light, Law tsked at the cirrhosis that had formed. “You know, they say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”

Grimacing at her superior’s handywork, the maid replied haughtily, “I’m pretty sure it’s also finding pleasure in playing around with a man’s organs while he watches.”

“No, that’s sadism. Completely different.” Turning around, he pulled off the bloody latex gloves and surgical mask, switching them with the coffee mug, warm viscera dripping onto the polished silver. Despite being red with tears, Baby 5’s eyes rolled heavenwards in annoyance; with his abilities, he could have easily thrown those in the trash, but he always left it to her to clean up instead. Frowning at the red stains on his dress shirt and white lab coat, she knew she’d also be spending a good hour on his laundry. Oh, well. At least it made her feel useful.

Taking a sip of the bitter beverage as he leaned against the operating table, Law quickly scanned her for injuries. Apart from a few bruises and some thin cuts, she seemed relatively unharmed, but it was still worse than Joker’s usual retaliation. Either he’d been in a bad mood, or Baby 5 had really gone all out this time. “Need me to bandage those up?” the surgeon asked, indicating the long, thin slash at her waist.

She waved of his concern as she dumped the contaminated gloves into the trash. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself; I’ll take care of them later.”

It was an expected response; heaven forbid the maid allow anyone to do something for her. Half the time he had to drug her just to fix her up after a mission, as she’d insist on not being a burden even while bleeding out. So, knowing it was a lost cause, he pointed to the sink. “Then at least wash your face; I don’t need you dripping snot and makeup all over my nice, clean lab.” It wasn’t clean, and Baby 5 would inevitably be the one to mop up the blood later, but she was smart enough not to comment.

As she dutifully bent over the sink, scrubbing away tears and reapplying her lipstick, Law diverted his gaze from her injuries to instead appreciate the way her short dress and high heels made her legs look impossibly long. He couldn’t help it; as a doctor, he enjoyed studying anatomy, and as an admitted hedonist, he loved a sexy pair of legs on anyone. The way she leaned over, arching her back and presenting her pert ass, filled his head with impure thoughts of burying his stiff cock inside her, fucking her hard and slow while she made helpless little sounds of pleasure.

Joker really was a sadist, parading a beautiful, biddable woman around in such a tempting outfit, then basically forbidding anyone from touching her. It was easier on everyone else, as most saw her as a sister or niece if they regarded her at all, but as Law’d never bought into the family crap, he lacked that barrier. Instead, his main reason for not going after the sexy little maid boiled down to the knowledge that if he did, she’d cling to him for life, and Doflamingo would be pissed.

Even the best fuck in the world wasn’t worth upending his ultimate plans.

Downing half the mug of coffee in one go to quell his urges, he said, “Not that I approve of any of the worthless peons you’re stupid enough to fall for, but if you want to get married so badly, quit telling Joker and just elope. Why ask permission when you know you’ll never get it?” Despite his harsh words, he was vaguely impressed—foolish as it was, he’d give her props for persistence. Her intense desire to get married was almost comparable to his drive to bring the Heavenly Demon’s world crashing down around him before finally crushing his heart in his bare hands.

The fact was, despite being Corazon, Law had spent the past decade plotting to destroy Joker and his sick criminal empire. It was hardly for altruistic reasons; he’d set the whole world on fire so long as Doflamingo burned with it. All that mattered was avenging Cora-san, and there was no line he wouldn’t cross. A man in his position couldn’t afford to have scruples; his job generally revolved around torture, unethical experimentation, helping enforce Joker’s rule, keeping his twisted subordinates alive and in line, and more. How could he ever hope to take down the former Celestial Dragon if he wasn’t willing to do the same for his plans?

Besides his lack of limits, Law’s greatest strength was his patience. Much as he wanted to simply rip out his still-beating heart, Doflamingo was too strong to fight directly. At least, too strong for the Surgeon of Death. At first, Law’d planned on simply earning his trust and killing him on the operating table under the guise of performing the Perennial Youth Surgery, but after seeing how monstrously powerful and resilient he was, the young doctor had been forced to figure out a new plan. Then, two years ago, he’d had an epiphany; to take out a Warlord, you needed an Emperor, and he was in the perfect position to sabotage Joker and Kaido’s partnership. He would break one of the gears that kept the New World running, then sit back and relish the beautiful storm he’d ushered in.

It wouldn’t be easy, and at the moment, his greatest challenge was gathering the right allies to help him enact his brilliant scheme. Violet used her powers and sexual relationship with Joker to keep him informed of their boss’ plans and divert any suspicions of betrayal. Law had amassed a small but devoted crew eager to follow him into Hell. Last year, he’d secretly saved the Straw Hat boy at Marineford, healing and handing him over to Silvers Rayleigh to train with the intention of calling in the life debt once he and his crew were strong enough for the New World. The young upstart’s brand of chaos would be useful for destroying Joker’s SMILE factory and invoking Kaido’s wrath.

Slowly Trafalgar D. Water Law moved the pieces into place, playing a quiet game of chess with the unwitting shichibukai while acting as his sadistic but loyal Corazon.

Perhaps it was that devotion to subtlety and meticulous planning that made him so annoyed at Baby 5’s foolishness. “Seriously, you do this every time; flounce into his office crowing about how you’re getting married, and the next day the guy’s entire town has been razed to the ground.”

“But I want the Young Master’s approval!” she declared. She simply could not understand why everyone was so against her getting married. Ever since she was a child, she’d longed to belong somewhere, to be useful and needed by someone. To be a man’s wife meant that there was someone who truly valued her, who saw how useful she was and was happy to let her tend to his every need. To be useful was to be needed, to be needed was to be loved, and a loved person would never be abandoned in the mountains, determined a burden, or forgotten.

Once more presentable, her cheeks flushed as she basked in a romantic fantasy, imagining her hypothetical wedding day. “I know he’s just being protective and doing what he feels is best, but he’s never even met my boyfriends! Once he sees how truly in love we are, he’ll walk me down the aisle and give me away to my beloved—”

“That’s just it—he doesn’t want to give you away,” the Dark Doctor interrupted sourly, running a tattooed hand through his messy hair in irritation. Really, how was he the only one who saw through their boss’ illusion of “family” for the brainwashed cult that it was? Was it because he’d witnessed first-hand what he’d done to his own brother? The volatile maid was one of the few he cut any slack; he’d spent the past twelve years watching Doflamingo cultivate her psychological need to be needed into something fanatical and horribly unhealthy, whereas the rest were just plain cruel, stupid, or greedy. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t gleefully tear into her I delusion like a pinned-down frog, though. “You’re most useful when you’re solely devoted to him. If you marry outside the Family, your loyalties will be divided.”

“No, they won’t,” she argued, clasping her hands over her heart, eyes sparkling dramatically under the cold, florescent lights. “I’ll always be loyal to the Family!”

“But what if your husband wants you to choose between us and him?” Law pressed, setting down his mug. Normally, he didn’t bother trying to reason with her, but he was feeling particularly sadistic at the moment. Such utter devotion to that monster disgusted him, and something urged him to pick at the fresh scab over the maid’s damaged psyche and watch it bleed as she was forced to face painful reality. “Your taste in men is generally atrocious, so who’s to say you wouldn’t end up falling for the enemy? Let’s say your husband needs you to shoot Joker, but Doflamingo needs you to kill your husband. Who would you obey?”

“I—I would…” she trailed off, eyes dropping to the floor and hands wringing her apron as her mind struggled. Cheeks flushed red with strain, white teeth bit into her plump, cherry red lip, and sweat started to form across her brow. The butt of her cigarette fell to the floor, slowly burning out on the white linoleum. Law didn’t need to check her pulse to know her heart was racing, and her bountiful chest heaved as panicked adrenaline raced through her veins. It was like a computer attempting to process a paradox, slowly frying its own circuits trying to figure out the unsolvable answer.

A wide, cold smirk stretched his lips, gold eyes greedily taking in her mental anguish. Really, it was quite an attractive look on her. Control freak that he was, he got a special, sick thrill from the knowledge that he could play with her emotions so easily, his words as precise and sharp as his scalpel. “Exactly. That’s why he’ll always kill your pitiful fiancés. He doesn’t trust you to make good decisions on your own, so he guards you like a dragon would a princess, incinerating any would-be knights in shining armor trying to rescue you.”

“But I don’t need to be rescued,” she insisted weakly.

“Well, that’s good, because none of those idiots cared about you enough to want to rescue you. They wanted to take advantage of your weakness, just like everyone else.”

“You’re wrong; they loved me!”

“Then tell me all about your latest ‘romantic’ proposal,” he said sarcastically, slowly circling her like a leopard sizing up a wounded doe, deciding what part of her soft, defenseless flesh he should sink his teeth into first. “Did he get down on one knee and declare his undying devotion? Whisper sweet nothings as you gazed at the stars? Give you a sparkling diamond ring and a bouquet of red roses?” he rasped in her ear as his hand teasingly stroked along her shoulders.

“He…he gave me a daisy,” she muttered, hopelessly staring at the floor.

“Ooo, a daisy! I’m sure it was the prettiest weed freshly picked from a crack in the sidewalk a woman could ask for.”

Spinning around, she struck him, the deafening slap of her open palm against his cheek echoing throughout the operatory. “Why are you such an asshole?!” she shouted, tears once again welling up in her big, dark eyes.

Even though he’d been expecting it, Law glared at her like a basilisk for her insubordination, smirk returning as she instantly cowered before him. Toying with her was so amusing, her reactions volatile yet comically predictable. Really, it was something he’d grown to enjoy over the years—seeing just how far he could push her before she snapped, only to watch her immediately regret it from nothing more than a cold look.

Relishing the power trip he got from her fear, the Corazon stalked back to the table. His victim’s eyes were becoming a bit clearer and his struggles had renewed, strained noises bubbling up in his throat as the drugs wore off. It seemed his body had processed the opioids more quickly than expected; too bad for the unlucky fool, but that just meant more fun for the Surgeon of Death.

Chuckling, Law glanced over his shoulder at Baby 5. With no one to cling to like she normally would, she’d remained frozen in place, trembling as she fearfully awaited his response. Dismemberment was his go-to punishment for her if her were in a particularly bad mood, though he always put her back together, and by the next morning she’d be back to scolding him for not showing the young master enough respect or stealing her last cigarette.

Lucky for her, this was one of his better days, so instead of having her join the man on the table, Law threw her a bone. “I need you to fetch me that gag on the counter. I don’t trust my patient not to start screaming again, and it would be rude of him to cause a racket when we’re trying to have a conversation.”

The second the word “need” had left his mouth, Baby 5 ceased her cowering, dashing over to the counter and grabbing the leather gag, nearly tripping over herself in her eagerness to be useful.

Despite himself, the Dark Doctor gave the barest hint of a smile. Much as the woman annoyed him with her fanatical devotion to Doflamingo, her desire to help was just so pure it was, at times, endearing. If he were honest, Baby 5 was probably the one he hated the least in the organization; besides being the nicest to look at, her wants and needs were simple, and she could be surprisingly compassionate in little ways. She was one of the few who, despite considering him a traitor, had acknowledged just how much Cora-san had meant to Law. Held his hand while he’d mourned for his savior after he’d been dragged kicking and screaming back to the Family. Been genuinely thrilled that his Amber Lead Disease was cured. Taken up smoking with him as a small tribute to the former Corazon, huddling behind a tree as they retched at their first taste of tobacco.

If nothing else, he always enjoyed watching her attack their boss when he murdered her fiancés. Even when she failed, Law found it to be catharsis-by-proxy, as he spent most of his days plotting how to horribly and painfully murder the shichibukai. A hell of a turn-on, too; who wouldn’t have the occasional sexual fantasy about a hot maid trying to assassinate the man you hated most?

Sparing a nod of thanks, the surgeon shoved the gag into his patient’s mouth before tightening the restraints. He prided himself on his steady hands, and he wouldn’t have his work ruined because the worthless fool couldn’t keep still. “You may call me an asshole, but I’m the only one who cares about you enough to give the cold, hard truth. Everyone else sugar-coats their words so they can keep you compliant and unwilling to think for yourself. So, you’re welcome.”

Hands fisting on her hips, Baby 5 scowled. It was remarkable how she could go from trembling before him to arguing like they were still children. “Oh, so people who are awful to me care, and yet the men you claim give such horrible proposals don’t? You’re so full of shit, Law!”

He shrugged, taking another sip of his now-lukewarm coffee. “Am I? Even when I was officially promoted to Corazon, you still treated me the same as when we were kids—slapping me when I got mouthy and refusing to kiss my ass like all the other sycophants in this shithole. Are you saying you don’t care about me?”

Her beautiful face twisted in genuine confusion. “I…well, of course I do, but…”

“I let you get away with so much more than anyone else. You hit me, insult me, order me about, and the most I’ve ever done is cut off your limbs for a few hours, and I always fix you back up good as new. Because, even though you’re a foolish, emotional pain in the ass, our little spats are the only thing that feel genuine some days. To you, I’m just Law, and I actually appreciate that.” It surprised him how honest he was being, but he supposed it was as he said; he cared enough not to bullshit her, at least compared to the others.

“You do?”

“Yeah. So that’s why I’m telling you to stop accepting every ‘proposal’ a guy throws your way. You’re famous for your eagerness to please, and men are always looking to take advantage of that. And even if you did manage to find the one decent soul in this world who genuinely loved you, Joker will never let you go. He’ll kill anyone who might take you from the Family.”

Something sparked in her eyes at his words, as if he’d given her the greatest epiphany of her life. “Maybe…maybe I could marry someone in the Family, then! Trebol nearly offered just this afternoon!”

Law gagged on his coffee at the very thought. A man like him needed a strong stomach, but perhaps he did have some limits, after all; not even he would inflict marriage to the snot-dripping freak on someone. “Please tell me you had to good sense not to accept.” He facepalmed at her embarrassed blush. How could anyone’s standards be so low? Was marriage really such an enticing concept that she’d bed that? And the risk of death aside, shouldn’t a woman as sexy and submissive as her attract better suitors?

A sudden, cruel idea popped into his head. What if he married Baby 5? A dangerous assassin and obedient maid could certainly be useful in his scheme. Doflamingo wouldn’t dare kill him for proposing; not if he wanted that Perennial Youth Surgery. He wouldn’t even have a good excuse to refuse the match, considering how it would both keep Baby in the Family and—so he’d believe—further secure his Corazon’s loyalty. After all, what better reward could Law ask for after years of faithful service than a gorgeous trophy wife?

And on the day he finally enacted his revenge against the Heavenly Demon, he’d either have a powerful, completely devoted ally in Baby 5, or she’d be too crippled by indecision to pick between them, keeping her from interfering. Either way, Joker would have lost a piece on the chessboard and not even know until it was too late.

A little voice that sounded disturbingly like Cora-san’s whispered in his ear that using Baby 5 like that made him no better than the Doflamingo, but Law brushed it away. If anything, he was being kind to the silly maid; hadn’t Rosinante wanted to keep him, Baby 5, and Buffalo out of Joker’s clutches? The Marine’s own methods of doing so hadn’t been gentle or entirely ethical, either—throwing kids out of a window wasn’t exactly a safe way to deter them from a life of piracy. Besides, even with his not-so-noble intentions towards her, Law was still a far better suitor than anyone she’d pick on her own. In fact, he was making her dream of becoming a wife a reality, and wasn’t that generous of him?

Putting his mug down, the surgeon reached out to gently rest his fingertips under her chin. Startled at the unexpected contact, Baby 5 nearly stumbled back, but he stepped closer, wrapping his arm securely around her waist to steady her. “It astounds me that a woman as beautiful as you would even consider settling for a disgusting thing such as Trebol,” he said lowly, looking deeply into her obsidian eyes. It would be easy to simply say he needed her or demand she marry him, but he wanted to be sure her loyalty fully shifted to him, otherwise, she could become a liability.

Besides, seduction was just so much more fun; since he’d hit adulthood, Law’d indulged in all manner of sexual vices with hundreds of partners, men and women alike. After all, he hadn’t expected to live past thirteen, and even with his Amber Lead Disease gone, he was on a ticking clock. Death loomed on his horizon, whether it he be killed in battle, forced to fulfill his purpose and conducting the Perennial Youth Surgery, or Joker uncovering his betrayal. So, in between plotting and research, why not make the most out of the time he had? And for all her annoying quirks, Baby 5 was a gorgeous, obedient woman, and he’d be lying if he didn’t like it when she showed her feisty side. She’d starred in many a wet dream over the years, and now he could finally justify making them a reality.

Hot, coffee-scented breath made the wispy strands of hair that framed her face flutter delicately. “You’d see you’ve got far better options if you simply opened your eyes.”

For her part, Baby 5 was utterly shocked. First, Law admitting that he cared about her, and now he was implying there was someone out there who might be interested in proposing? Was he serious, or just making fun of her like Trebol?

Slowly, the tattooed fingers at her chin journeyed south, brushing lightly down her pale throat, over her trembling heart, between her voluptuous breasts, across her trim waist, until they reached the pocket of her apron. Her eyes were fixated on his hand as he fished out a cigarette and her lighter, her breath quickening as he raised the former to her mouth. Instinctively, she opened up to take it, but with a playful smirk, he teasingly ran the filter over her bright red lips, amused at the way the cherry gloss stained the white paper.

Finally, he pushed the cigarette between her lips, murmuring, “Have you ever been kissed before, Baby-ya?”

The way her cheeks went pink was so uncharacteristically demure he had to chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, sending strange but thrilling tingles between her legs. “N-no,” she stammered bashfully.

With a soft click, Law flicked the sparkwheel with his thumb, carefully bringing the dancing flame to light the tip of the cigarette. He could tell he was making her nervous by the way she hurriedly took several steadying puffs, embers flaring with every inhalation.

“Such a shame. I imagine there are women who would kill for lips like yours. And the way you practically suck on that cigarette,” he growled, gold eyes fixating on her mouth, “it gives a man ideas.”

“What kind of ideas?” she asked, breathless and full of wide-eyed, eager curiosity.

Unconsciously, his arm tightened around her waist at her innocence, forcing her to arch against him, soft curves molding against hard muscle. God, she didn’t even know how tempting that question made her. If he were a man with less control, she’d be on her knees learning first-hand what a mouth like hers was made for.

Plucking the cigarette from her unresisting lips, Law took a long drag before blowing the smoke out his nose as he looked down at her with hooded eyes. Licking his lips, he could taste the lingering hints of cherry gloss, sharp and sweet and delicious. “The kind a sweet little thing like you wouldn’t ever dream of.”

“Are they,” she swallowed harshly, pupils dilating as she instinctively gripped his lab coat, “the kind husbands and wives have?”

“Husbands and wives, lovers, bedmates, bored, horny teenagers; basically, anyone who likes to fuck,” he replied before taking another drag. As he leaned back his head to release the stream of smoke into the air, he smirked devilishly at her rapt expression. Oh, he was going to ruin her.

Gently tucking a strand of raven hair behind her ear, he murmured, “Let me talk to Joker. Maybe I can pick his brain, figure out if there’s anyone he would consider a worthy husband for you.”

He forced himself not to laugh at the shadow of disappointment that crossed her face. Dropping her gaze, she pushed against his chest, trying to break away. “Ah…thank you, Law, but you don’t have to. I’d hate to be a burden, and you’re so busy—”

“Nonsense. A loyal, caring woman like you deserves a husband who appreciates everything you have to offer.” Deftly, he maneuvered them so her backside was pressed against the operating table, caging her in and thwarting her escape. Their legs entangled, Baby 5 had no choice but to meet his piercing gaze as he absently flicked the cigarette’s ashes onto a small puddle of blood by her hand. “I may not always agree with him, but he was right to kill the worthless bastards you were so infatuated with. Hell, my only complaint is that he always got to them before I did.”

“What?”

“I mean, if killing every man on the planet is what it takes for you to notice me…”

Baby 5 blinked blankly, mind desperately trying to process what he’d just let slip. “Law, are you…?”

“Am I what, Baby-ya?” he teased, leaning forward as he took another drag, his hot breath mingling with the sweet smoke as it fanned over her lovely face.

“Are you…proposing?”

“What if I were? Would you blindly accept like you did Trebol’s?” Putting the cigarette down, he ran the very tips of his fingers over her exposed collarbone before resting his palm over her thundering heart. He was positive if he removed it, it would jump right out of his hand. “Are you so desperate that you’d accept the proposal of a man who’s cut you apart for fun?” Roughly, his other hand buried itself in her thick, jet black hair, yanking her head back and pulling her even closer until their lips lingered barely an inch apart. “So desperate you’d give yourself over to a man covered in blood, pressed against an operating table occupied by a half-dissected idiot?”

“Yes,” she replied with bated breath, hopeful eyes sparkling.

God, she was weak. Law could pin her down and fuck her on that table, do any number of depraved things to that luscious, untouched body and she wouldn’t even complain so long as he said he needed her. The thought was tempting, but he couldn’t risk Joker refusing their union because he couldn’t control his libido. The Heavenly Demon had to feel like the surgeon genuinely desired his approval—that he wasn’t trying to go behind his back and destroy his wretched “Family.”

“Then no, I’m not.” Despair crumpled her face, tears once more welling up at how easily he’d played with her emotions. Before they could fully fall, Law released her hair to cup her chin. “Mainly because my pride would never let me give such a half-assed proposal. When I ask you to marry me, I’ll have Doflamingo’s blessing, a ring, and it’ll be somewhere far more romantic than my laboratory.”

Jaw dropping, she stared at him in disbelief. “Y-you mean that?”

“Absolutely. I can’t stand the sight of your tears; if marriage is what it takes to make you happy, I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Thank you, Law!” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck. “You really do care about me!”

He had to chuckle as he returned her embrace; he knew she’d readily agree, but her pure joy at just the prospect of marrying him stroked his inflated ego.

“I promise I’ll be the best wife you could ask for! I’ll clean your surgical equipment twice a day, launder your lab coats by hand, give you back rubs, make onigiri for dinner every night—whatever you need!”

A tiny smile pulled at his lips. All such sweet, innocent promises from a woman who was far more sheltered than one would ever imagine from an assassin for a family of criminals. Though, he’d definitely take her up on that last one.

“Just promise me you’ll be a loyal, dutiful wife, Baby-ya, and I’ll give you a marriage unlike anything you’ve ever imagined,” he whispered intimately, cradling her cheek. His hand was so big he could fit the whole side of her face in his palm. She turned her face to nuzzle it blissfully, causing his calloused thumb to brush over her plump bottom lip.

Gold eyes darkened at the sight of her red lips against the tattooed appendage. Unconsciously, he stroked it against the seam of her mouth, gently coaxing her to open up and let it slip into her soft, hot mouth. He gave a faint moan at the sensation of her silken lips wrapping around him, molten tongue curiously stroking the rough pad. Experimentally, he gave it a few shallow thrusts, and he nearly lost his damn mind when she responded with an instinctive suck.

“Good girl,” he whispered without thinking, and the way her pupils dilated with desire at his words forced him to pull away, lest he jump the gun and the eager maid before him.

“Is…is that the kind of idea my mouth gives you?” she asked, panting faintly, her pale cheeks flushed as she nibbled on her bottom lip.

“That’s one of the tamer ideas,” he rasped, retrieving the forgotten cigarette. It had almost burnt down to the filter, but there was just enough left for a few steadying puffs. “Once we’re married, you’ll get to experience every dirty thought I’ve ever had about you. Would you like that?” he asked, unable to help himself.

Her harsh swallow was audible in the taut silence of the lab. “Yes.”

The pleasant throb between his legs urged him to start the wedding night early, but besides the logical part of his brain telling him he needed to set things in motion with Doflamingo, it was coaxing him to wait; this wasn’t the time or place to indulge in such a delicious morsel. Baby 5 needed to be savored, like a gourmet meal he’d spent hours preparing, not swallowed down in one bite. Once she was officially his, he’d have plenty of time to mold her into his perfect concubine, subordinate, secret weapon, and tool.

Desire under control, he took her hand, pressing a chaste, gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles. “I’ll meet with Joker tonight; I’m sure I can convince him we’re a match made in heaven. But I need you to not to tell anyone about us until I formally propose, alright? I want everything to be perfect, and we can’t risk Joker finding out too early and thinking we didn’t value his approval.”

Black eyes sparkled as his careful choice of words. “I promise, darling!”

“Such a good girl,” he chuckled, admiring the way her cheeks instantly flushed at his praise. How…interesting.

As Baby 5 giddily skipped out the door, the click of her heels silenced by the door slamming shut behind her, Law turned to the man bound to his table staring at him with wide-eyed shock. He’d nearly forgotten they’d had an audience, and he’d have to make sure he was properly disposed of before meeting with Joker; he couldn’t let anyone spoil his plans before he even got to the good part, after all.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” he said as he pressed the smoldering embers of the dying cigarette against his patient’s cheek, smirking as the accusing eyes watered in pain. A fresh pair of surgical gloves stretched over his long fingers, and as he selected his scalpel, he added, “Trust me—I’m still a better option than that fucking creep Trebol.”

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maddie-grove · 5 years ago

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The Top Twenty Books I Read in 2019

My main takeaways from the past year’s reading:

Sometimes you think something is happening because of magic, but then it turns out to have a non-magical explanation so weird that you find yourself saying, “You know what? I wish faeries or God were responsible for this. I’d honestly feel less disturbed.”

Stop bathing and changing your clothes and shaving for three years, three months, and three days. You’ll find out who your real friends are. I promise you that.

I want more books about bisexual ladies!!! Give them to me!!!

Anyway...

20. The Prodigal Duke by Theresa Romain (2017)

Childhood sweethearts Poppy Hayworth and Leo Billingsley were separated when his older brother, a duke, sent him away to make his fortune. Years later, the duke is dead, a financially successful Leo has come back to England to take his place, and Poppy has become a rope dancer at Vauxhall Gardens after a life-shattering event. New sparks are flying between them, but is love possible when so much else has changed? Leo and Poppy are believable and charming as old friends, Romain makes great use of obscure historical details from the oft-depicted Regency period, and I loved Leo’s difficult but caring elderly uncle.

19. Simple Jess by Pamela Morsi (1996)

Althea Winsloe, a young widow in 1900s Arkansas, has no interest in remarrying, but almost everyone in her small Ozarks community is pressuring her to remarry, and she still needs someone to help farm her land. Enter Jesse Best, a strong young man with cognitive disabilities who’s happy to take on the work. As he makes improvements to her farm and bonds with her three-year-old son, Althea gets to know him better and starts to see him in a new light. This earthy romance could’ve been a disaster, but instead it illustrates how people with disabilities are often...uh...simplified and de-sexualized in a way that denies them autonomy. Morsi has a similarly nuanced take on Althea and Jesse’s community, which is claustrophobic and supportive all at once.

18. Leah on the Offbeat by Becky Albertalli (2018)

Outspoken and insecure, bisexual high school senior Leah Burke is having a tough year. Her friend group is in turmoil, her single mom is seriously dating someone, and she’s caught between a sweet boy she’s not sure about and a pretty, perfect straight girl who couldn’t possibly be into her...right??? The sequel to the very cute Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda, Leah on the Offbeat pulls a The Godfather: Part II with its messy protagonist, sweetly surprising romance, and masterful comic set piece involving the Atlanta American Girl Doll restaurant.

17. Copper Sun by Sharon M. Draper (2006)

Kidnapped from her home in eighteenth-century Ghana, fifteen-year-old Amari is sold into slavery and winds up on a South Carolina plantation, where she faces terrible cruelty but finds friends in an enslaved cook, her little son, and eventually a sulky white indentured servant around her age. When their master escalates his already-atrocious behavior, the three young people flee south to the Spanish Fort Mose in search of freedom. Draper’s complicated characters, vivid descriptions, and deft handling of heavy subjects makes for top-notch historical YA fiction.

16. A Prince on Paper by Alyssa Cole (2019)

After her controlling politician father was jailed for poisoning a bunch of people in their small, prosperous African country, Nya Jerami gained unprecedented freedom but also became the subject of vicious gossip. Johan von Braustein, the hard-partying stepson of a European monarch, wants to help her, partly because he sympathizes and partly because he has a crush, but she thinks he’s too frivolous and horny (if wildly attractive). After an embarrassing misunderstanding compels them to enter a fake engagement, though, she begins to wonder if there’s more to him. I’m not a huge fan of contemporary romance, but this novel has the perfect combination of heartfelt emotion, delicious melodrama, and adorable fluff.

15. One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney (1997)

Stephen, the Duke of Ashburton, has always done the proper and responsible thing, but that all changes when he learns that he’s terminally ill. Wandering the countryside in the guise of an ordinary gentleman, he ends up joining an acting troupe and falling in love with Rosalind, the sensible adopted daughter of the two lead actors. Like another Regency romance on this list, this novel celebrates love in many forms: there’s the love story between Stephen and Rosalind, yes, but there’s also Rosalind’s loving relationship with her adopted family, the new bonds she forms with her long-lost blood relatives, the way her two families embrace the increasingly frightened Stephen, and the healing rifts between Stephen and his well-meaning but distant siblings. Stephen’s reconciliation with his mortality is also moving.

14. My One and Only Duke by Grace Burrowes (2018)

Facing a death sentence in Newgate, footman-turned-prosperous banker Quinton Wentworth decides to do one last good thing: marry Jane McGowan, a poor pregnant widow, so she and the baby will be financially set. Then he receives a pardon and a dukedom at the literal last minute, meaning that he and Jane have a more permanent arrangement than either intended. I fell in love with the kind-but-difficult protagonists almost at once, and with Burrowes’s gorgeous prose even faster.

13. Eleanor and Park by Rainbow Rowell (2013)

It’s 1986, and comics-loving, post-punk-listening, half-Korean Park and bright, weird, constantly bullied Eleanor are just trying to get through high school in their rough Omaha neighborhood. He’s only grudgingly willing to let her share his bus seat at first, but this barely civil acquaintance slowly thaws into friendship and blossoms into love. Far from being the whimsical eighties-nostalgia-fest I expected, this is a bittersweet love story about two isolated young people who find love, belonging, and a chance for self-expression with each other in an often-hostile environment (a small miracle pre-Internet).

12. Shrill by Lindy West (2016)

In this memoir, Lindy West talks about the difficulties of being a fat woman, the thankless task of being vocally less-than-enthused about rape jokes, the joys of moving past self-doubt, and the very real possibility that Little John from Disney’s Robin Hood was played by “bear actor” Baloo, among other subjects. I was having a hard time during my last semester of law school this past spring, and this book’s giddy humor and inspiring messages really helped me in my hour of need.

11. Seduction: Sex, Lies, and Stardom in Howard Hughes's Hollywood by Karina Longworth (2018)

In 1925, very young businessman Howard Hughes breezed into Hollywood with nothing but tons of family wealth, a soon-to-be-divorced wife, and a simple dream: make movies about fast planes and big bosoms. He got increasingly weird and reactionary over the next thirty years, then retired from public life. More a history of 1920s-1950s Hollywood than a biography, this book has the same sharp writing and in-depth film analysis that makes me love Longworth’s podcast You Must Remember This.

10. The Beguiled by Thomas Cullinan (1966)

In Civil-War-era Virginia, iron-willed Martha Farnsworth and her nervous younger sister try to run their nearly empty girls’ boarding school within earshot of a battlefield. When one girl finds Union soldier John McBurney injured in the woods, she brings him back to the house, where he exploits every conflict and secret among the eight girls and women (five students, two sisters, and one enslaved cook). Charming and manipulative, he nevertheless finds himself in over his head. Cullinan makes great use of the eight POVs and the deliciously claustrophobic setting; it’s fascinating to watch the power dynamics and allegiances shift from scene to scene.

9. A Gentleman Never Keeps Score by Cat Sebastian (2018)

Reserved tavern keeper Sam Fox wants to help out his brother’s sweetheart by finding and destroying a nude portrait she once sat for; disgraced gentleman Hartley Sedgwick isn’t sure what he wants after having his life ruined twice over, but he happened to inherit his house from the man who commissioned the painting...plus he’s not exactly reluctant to assist kind, handsome Sam in his quest. I wrote about this heart-melting romance two times last year; suffice it to say that it’s not only one of the best Regencies I’ve ever read, but also possibly the best romance I’ve ever read about the creation of a found family.

8. Frog Music by Emma Donoghue (2014)

Blanche Beunon, a French-born burlesque dancer in 1876 San Francisco, has a lot going on: her mooching boyfriend has turned on her, her sick baby is missing, and her cross-dressing, frog-hunting friend Jenny Bonnet was just shot dead right next to her. In the middle of a heat wave, a smallpox epidemic, and a little bit of mob violence, she must locate her son and solve Jenny’s murder. This is a glorious work of historical fiction; you can see, hear, smell, and feel the chaotic world of 1870s San Francisco, plus Blanche’s character arc is amazing.

7. The Patrick Melrose novels (Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, Mother’s Milk, and At Last) by Edward St. Aubyn (1992, 1992, 1994, 2005, and 2012, respectively)

Born to an embittered English aristocrat and an idealistic American heiress, Patrick Melrose lives through his father’s sadistic abuse and his mother’s willful blindness (Never Mind), does a truly staggering amount of drugs in early adulthood (Bad News), and makes a good-faith effort at leading a normal life (Some Hope). Years later, the life he’s built with his wife and two sons is threatened by his alcoholism and reemerging resentment of his mother (Mother’s Milk), but there may be a chance to salvage something (At Last). Despite the suffering and cruelty on display, these novels were the farthest thing from a dismaying experience, thanks to the sharp characterization, grim humor, and great sense of setting. Also, I love little Robert Melrose, an anxious eldest child after my own heart.

6. The Perilous Gard by Elizabeth Marie Pope (1974)

In 1550s England, no-nonsense Kate Sutton is exiled to the Perilous Gard, a remote castle occupied by suspicious characters, including the lord’s guilt-ridden younger brother Christopher. Troubled by the holes she sees in the story of the tragedy that haunts him, she does some problem-solving and ends up in a world of weird shit. Cleverly plotted, deliciously spooky, and featuring an all-time-great heroine, this book was an absolute treat. The beautiful Richard Cuffari illustrations in my edition didn’t hurt, either.

5. An Unconditional Freedom by Alyssa Cole (2019)

Daniel Cumberland, a free black man from New England traumatized from being sold into slavery, and Janeta Sanchez, a mixed-race Cuban-Floridian lady from a white Confederate family, have been sent on a mission to the Deep South by the Loyal League, a pro-Union spy organization. Initially hostile to everyone (but particularly to somewhat naive Janeta), Daniel warms to his colleague, but will her secrets, his shattered faith in justice, and the various dangers they face prevent them from falling in love? Nah. Alyssa Cole’s historical romances deliver both on the history and the romance, and this is one of her strongest entries.

4. The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics by Olivia Waite (2019)

Heartbroken by the death of her father and the marriage of her ex-girlfriend, Lucy Muchelney decides she needs a change of scenery and takes a live-in position translating a French astronomy text for Catherine St. Day, the recently widowed Countess of Moth. Catherine, used to putting her interests on hold for an uncaring spouse, is intrigued by this awkward, independent lady. I’ve read f/f romances before, but this sparkling Regency was the first to really blow me away with its fun banter, neat historical details, and perfect sexual tension.

3. The Wager by Donna Jo Napoli (2010)

After losing his entire fortune to a tidal wave, Sicilian nineteen-year-old Don Giovanni de la Fortuna sinks into poverty and near-starvation. Then Devil makes him an offer: all the money he wants for as long as he lives if he doesn’t bathe, cut his hair, shave, or change his clothes for three years, three months, and three days. This fairy-tale retelling is an extraordinarily moving fable about someone who learns to acknowledge his own suffering, recognize it in others, and extend compassion to all.

2. Vampires in the Lemon Grove by Karen Russell (2013)

In this collection, Russell weaves strange tales of silkworm-women hybrids in Japan, seagulls who collect objects from the past and future, and, yes, vampires in the lemon grove. She also posits the very important question: “What if most (but not all) U.S. presidents were reincarnated as horses in the same stable and had a lot of drama going on?” My favorite stories were “Proving Up” (about a nineteenth-century Nebraska boy who encounters death and horror on the prairie), “The Graveless Doll of Eric Mutis” (about a disadvantaged high school student who discovers an effigy of the even more hapless boy he tormented), and “The Barn at the End of the Term” (the horse-president story).

1. The Wonder by Emma Donoghue (2016)

Lib Wright, an Englishwoman who has floundered since her days working for Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War, is hired to observe Anna O’Donnell, an eleven-year-old Irish girl famous for not eating for four straight months. With a jaundiced attitude towards the Irish and Catholicism, Lib is confident that she’ll quickly expose Anna as a fraud, but she finds herself liking the girl and getting increasingly drawn into the disturbing mystery of her fast. Like The Perilous Gard, this novel masterfully plays with the possibility of the supernatural, then introduces a technically mundane explanation that’s somehow much more eerie. Donoghue balances the horror and waste that surrounds Anna, though, with the clear, bright prose and the moving relationship that develops between her and Lib, who grows beyond her narrow-mindedness and emotional numbness. I stayed up half the night to finish this novel, which cemented Emma Donoghue’s status as my new favorite author.

#books #reading #top twenty

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imagine-organization-xiii · 6 years ago

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Org XIII Members as Yanderes

Suggested by: Anon. I did research for this one, guys, because I’m not very familiar with the Yandere style. For another good post - that is a lot better than this one - about Org members as Yandere’s, click here. To find where I got my information, click here.

Don’t know what a Yandere is? Here’s a definition: “yandere is a portmanteau of two Japanese words, yanderu (to be sick) and deredere (strongly and deeply lovestruck.) Someone who is sweet and kind at first glance but will become violent and possessive when it comes to their love.”

Be warned. This one gets violent in some places. Also, the behaviors and attitudes listed below are toxic, so if you have a significant other who displays any of these traits, please do what you can to safely leave the situation.

Xemnas

Type: Sadistic

Arguably the worst of the yandere types, Xemnas and sadistic yandere’s have a strong desire to break you. To tear you apart until you’re nothing more than an empty shell of what you once were, and now he can change and mold you to be whatever he wants you to be. In his eyes, you are pure and perfect, so he is utterly fascinated with the idea of corrupting you.

Physical pain is one thing that Xemnas thrives on. Causing physical harm is one of the only ways that he feels he can show affection. Grabbing you a little too harshly by the arm, grabbing your chin with his hand to force you to look at him, pushing you onto the bed or onto a chair and forcibly ripping off your clothes when he wants to have sex with you? All things that Xemnas does.

However, mental and emotional pain is something that he is seriously good at causing. Whether it’s harming or hurting your family and friends, manipulating you into hurting them yourself, and causing you to just be completely mentally torn about your feelings for him and his actions. Xemnas pretty much lives to torture you.

Xigbar

Type: Manipulative

Xigbar’s natural personality is mischievous and dangerous, which makes his manipulation of you all the more powerful. He’s naturally an enticing guy and lures you in with his bad boy persona and before you know it you’re spiraling down a rabbit hole of possession and manipulation.

Makes you feel like you’re completely and utterly dependent on him so when he wants sex and you don’t, you feel like you have to satisfy him otherwise he might leave you. Then where would you be? Alone and lonely and with no one to help you?

Before you actually got together and he realized that you had some attraction for him, he would definitely do anything in his power to make you jealous. He won’t be satisfied until all of your thoughts are of him and no one else.

Xaldin

Type: Overprotective

Xaldin is like a silent guardian for you, following you around and standing behind you with his arms crossed, intimidating anyone that you speak to. It gets to be so overwhelming sometimes that you want him to back off, but be careful when you tell him that because he’ll scowl and frown and claim that you aren’t taking your own safety seriously.

In general, he’s happy just being by your side. He likes spending time in your company and doesn’t like being away from you. However, if he feels at any moment that you’re in harm’s way, you won’t even be able to imagine what he’ll be capable of. Will definitely attack or even kill anyone who bothers to lay a hand on you.

He loves having you depend on him at certain moments because he feels as though you can’t protect yourself. He almost treats you like a child at moments and uses your imagined weakness as an excuse to never be away from you.

Vexen

Type: Stalker

Vexen is usually so busy with doing whatever it is that he does on a daily basis that he has a hard time balancing his work with his feelings for you. Doesn’t get a chance to romance you like he actually wants, so he definitely turns to some stalker tendencies. The worst he’ll ever get is that he literally has a camera in places that you frequent, including your bedroom. It’s the only way he knows that he can keep an eye on you - protect you - while still being able to work.

Watches from the sidelines and continuously admires you from afar, very much on the line of ‘creepy.’ Definitely capable of killing for his S/O whether she knows it or not.

Lexaeus

Type: Overprotective

The two of you were always very close and neither of you can really pinpoint the moment when your relationship went from being protective to overprotective. It was almost a natural transition, so slow and gradual that you barely noticed it. Even Lexaeus doesn’t believe he’s being overprotective because he doesn’t think that he’s going to far with watching over you. Your safety isn’t debatable.

Lexaeus is quiet and dangerous as he watches over you, sometimes taking your safety a little too seriously. You don’t dare call him on it though, in fear of what he might do.

In the end, he makes you feel so paranoid that every single thing in the world might be a danger to you, so you pretty much cease to be your own person. He uses it as an excuse to keep you by his side at all times.

Zexion

Type: Obsessive

Kind of similar to the stalker type. The only difference is that Zexion does make contact with you more often than not and communicates with you as though you are less than intelligent - as if you need to be protected and preserved and kept away from any dangers in the world that might tarnish you.

He’s usually very much a sweetheart on the outside, but there’s something about him - about the way he watches you - that makes you uneasy. It’s almost as though you’re one of his well worn novels that he wishes to put on a bookshelf and keep, to only flip through when he wants to reminisce.

Saix

Type: Possessive

Yandere’s who are the possessive type would like to physically own their love interest, and Saix is no different with you. Like all of the yandere types, the possessive type goes hand in hand with both the obsessive and the stalker. Saix wants to keep you safe and protected, like you’re a favorite knick knack or doll that needs to be kept in confinement.

Really at the extreme part of the spectrum. Saix is extremely good with words and will definitely convince you that you are better off with him and only him. He’ll try to tell you that the friends you have are bad for you and how you shouldn’t go outside because you might get hurt.

Will definitely use force to get what he wants. If you ever try to leave, be prepared to be dragged back by your hair.

Axel

Type: Manipulative

“You don’t want your friends to get hurt, do you? I mean, you can barely take care of yourself. I can’t imagine what kind of burden you must be on them.“ Will definitely manipulate you into thinking you can’t live without him. Controlling you is Axel’s main goal. One main issue with this type of yandere is that many people are already involved with or having feelings for the manipulative person, which makes it much easier to manipulate them! Axel uses your own feelings and love for him to his advantage, making you think that he knows best for you.

“I can’t live without you,“ is not the compliment you once thought. It’s a snare to keep you with him. Makes it so that you feel as though you have to stay to protect him, and by the time you’ve given up everything for him, he turns on you and makes it so that you want to monopolize him as much as he wants to keep you.

Demyx

Type: Possessive

Demyx’s playful demeanor hides a possessive monster. Goes insane when anyone tries to touch or make eye contact with you because he sees you as property and not a person. Will definitely try to separate you from friends and families under the guise of keeping you safe. He’s so casual about it that you can’t help but believe him, and the next thing you know, you’re locked in his room, cut off from society.

Restrained in public, rough and almost violent in private. Wants you to dress a certain way, talk a certain way, and act a certain way. All ways that would suit him. If you act out or do something he doesn’t like, he’ll make it known and you’ll definitely be punished for it.

Luxord

Type: Obsessive

Like other obsessive Yandere types, Luxord doesn’t see you as a person. More often than not, he sees you as a piece of artwork that should be admired and praised. He sometimes wishes that he could pose you like a mannequin in his room forever just so he can admire your exquisite beauty for all eternity.

Luxord manages to keep his yandere tendencies to himself. His mischievous, kind demeanor masks a person who is possessive and controlling. Once Luxord has you in his clutches, chances are that you will not be able to escape again.

Marluxia

Type: Stalker

On the opposing side of the clingy version of the yandere spectrum, stalker type yandere’s usually never have much of a chance to win their love’s affection. Marluxia is so busy with his organization duties, as well as taking care of his plants, etc., that he rarely gets to spend as much time with you as he’d like.

Leaves big bouquets of flowers outside of your door all the time with little love notes saying how much he cares for you and wants to be with you.

Will definitely sabotage any relationship you have with anyone else, especially if that relationship happens to be romantic.

Larxene

Type: Sadistic

Borderline manipulative, Larxene is almost a black widow spider in the way she entices you and manipulates you into her tight clutches and breaks you down until you are nothing like you were before. Fixated on changing you into what she sees as perfect. To her, you’re already pure, but not in the correct way. You’re perfect, but not perfect for her.

As is right with the main definition of sadism - deriving pleasure from the pain of others - Larxene thrives on seeing you in mental and emotional pain. Physical pain is another thing entirely. Slapping you around a bit really gets her going.

Roxas

Type: Clingy

When I say clingy, I mean clingy. Clingy goes hand in hand with the stalker type, when the person feels as if they simply cannot function properly without you. Roxas has serious abandonment issues, so more often than not you’ll find him at your side, holding onto your hand, asking to hang around you. You aren’t even sure if he realizes that he’s doing it sometimes.

The most childish out of most of the organization members. Roxas needs to be near you or he doesn’t feel right. He almost seems normal most of the time because he just wants to spend time with you, but beware - if someone ever tries to monopolize your time, he will most definitely get possessive, defensive, and dangerous.

Xion

Type: Clingy

More on the childish spectrum of the clingy yandere type. Almost acting like a child, Xion needs attention or she will pout and throw what could definitely be compared to a tantrum. Usually just fine with being at your side as you do your own day to day activities, but be warned if you ever try to make a bit of space toward you.

Gets serious separation anxiety when away from you, which means that her clingy attitude will definitely get worse as time goes on. This means that she needs to be by your side almost constantly and gets fidgety when you’re out of her sight.

#organization xiii #organization xiii headcanons #kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts headcanons #yandere

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rat-apologist · 3 years ago

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some things that were in my, admittedly Benadryl-induced, walking dead inspired nightmare(s):

#1: I was in my hometown, which was surprising bc usually my dreams don’t take place in such large expanses of one area

#2: I was with a very attractive couple. At one point the wife of said couple bit and her arm got chopped off. She was then kidnapped by a sadistic cult run by a man who got off on turning people into zombies by force-feeding them zombie flesh and filming it. This part was the first section of the dream as I woke up several times throughout the night.

#3: After I watched (in hiding) as this woman I didn’t know but felt such a strong connection to essentially die by feederism, I investigated the cults commune. It looked very suspiciously like the dorms on the campus of the University of Loyola in Baltimore, Maryland. A place I have been to once, when I was 17. Also, interestingly enough, a place that nowhere near my hometown nor the college I currently attend. Which is why it was so weird. It was also strange because, besides the weird torture room, the rest of the cult was immaculate. Pretty amazing.

#4: So after that I woke up, and then promptly fell back asleep. The bulk of this second dream was focused on me trying to save the lives of my family dogs. I will not delve too deeply into it as it still upsets me. Rest assured, it was winter, there were zombies, and my dogs are old and useless. It was harrowing to say the least. I woke from that dream right as I was about to give my life to save my dogs (who certainly would not have appreciated my efforts, as they are both blind and deaf).

#5: The last dream was by far the longest, and the strangest. I was running through the area around my childhood home. It was strange bc dream me was sort of pseudo-teleporting/fast traveling from place to place for reasons I simply can not explain besides dream logic. There were zombies everywhere and they were FAST! They were attracted primarily to noise, so I was trying my best to outrun them while also staying silent. This is when The Stacey Cult came into being.

#5.5: The Stacey Cult. This one is the big one. I came across this crazy house/gazebo thing (again, dream logic) and there was a pack of semi-identical Y2K hyper-pop super femme blonde women all named Stacey. They had electricity somehow, and were all acting as if the zombie apocalypse wasn’t happening. Obviously this distressed me as like, they had no walls?? And while they had weapons they just didn’t know how to use them?? It eventually became clear to me (by the power of dream osmosis, I can only assume) that this was a compound of women who were being directed by one women, the proto-Stacey. She made all these women dress, look, and act exactly like her under the guise of offering them protection. Unfortunately, they became too flippant about their place in the apocalypse and whatever magical force was keeping the zombies at bay broke when The Stacey’s had a crazy pool party in the middle of the North Eastern winter. The scariest part of this section of the dream was the dawning horror as the screams of Stacey delight turned to terror as zombies came in untamable hordes and overpowered the compound. I barely made it out of the building, but awoke as I was being surrounded by zombies on all sides, death being inevitable at that point.

the walking dead is fun bc it’s the first show in like ten years to give me nightmares and yet i still watch it

#pj speaks #i wish i was making this up but this was genuinely a really upsetting night for me #remind me to never take benadryl again because i woke up sobbing several times #after the second one i had to go downstairs and check on my dogs to make sure they weren’t dead because of how upset i was #the walking dead #tw nightmares #tw zombies #tw gore mention #tw horror

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years ago

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The Walkers pt 1

Kind of the prequel for “The Bear’s Lady”

word count: 3443

“Ullrae!” The scream is the last time you hear your mother’s voice, your name the last thing to pass her lips before the Orc’s jagged blade steals her life. The roar of anger as your father throws himself into the fight, shifting into a massive lynx in mid-air and slashing any and all throats he can, before he too is cut down. You can do nothing but watch, bound by some sort of evil that stops you from shifting, stops you from helping, keeps you still and only able to watch in horror as your family is slaughtered.

Later, you will not remember the long journey to the Orc stronghold, lost in a fog of numbness, grieving everyone you have ever known. Your sister’s new-born litter torn to shreds, their parents forced to watch before they were mercifully killed off too. Your brother, dead as he tried to crawl towards you, fury burning in the one eye he had left. The Orc had laughed, you heard, made you watch as every last remnant of life left his amber eyes. The images continue; an unending cycle of grief and horror and impotent fury. Your heart burns. Your eyes remain dry, and you wonder how you cannot even cry for what you have lost, feeling somehow unclean for it, as though your reactions mean that you did not love them all.

You try not to wonder why you alone have been spared, seeing none of your particular clan among the other Skinwalkers in chains around you. You shy away from guessing at the answer, knowing it can only be more horror. The shackles that wrap around your ankles are cold, cold as snow, and force you to walk slowly. Other Walkers have their hands bound, you see, and feel envious. Lynxes are meant to run free, to dance under the moon, to jump and climb with ease, even in human form. You think they must be magic. You know, deep in your bones, that you could shift and slip out of the restraints with little trouble, your paws far more bendable than your human appendages. You might not survive the feat, you know, but you would not care. Better to die free. At most, the Orcs – whose smell you would do anything to forget, feeling that it clings to your skin and your hair – would simply kill you for it, but you would take some of the scum with you. You try, in a wild moment of recklessness, you try; harder than you’ve ever tried before, but your other side does not come, does not take the place of your skin with its fur.

The day you begin to worry if the lynx in you has died too is the day that brings you closest to breaking.

The Stronghold is dirty, grimy, unclean, just like the filth that inhabits it. You see people who must be Walkers put to work, and they are the lucky ones, you realise. Far below, in the depths of the earth, you are told, they’ve enslaved the bigger Walkers, the bears, the horses, who work the mines and bring up the ore that the Orcs make into their crude weapons of torture and death. It is not uncommon for ‘accidents’ to occur down there, you hear, and are told you should praise yourself for being too small for that work.

You do not.

You might be smaller – you’re not even fully grown yet – but you are still faster and stronger than a mortal Man, more graceful too. You move with the surety of the big cat whose skin is also yours, your eyes large and capable of hunting in the dark. Plans swirl in your mind, plans for escape, for death if escape is not possible, but they will not come to fruition for years. You are watched too closely.

The Orc leader is called Azog, though the prisoners have named him the Defiler, for deeds you do not dare ask about. Everyone here has dead eyes, you know, just as you do, eyes that cannot even long for the freedom of the hunt anymore, hearts that cannot remember the scent of prey or the feeling of long grass tickling as you prowled through it, being taught the game by your mother and aunts, your sisters showing off for the young lads.

The Defiler seems to like you, dressing you in what is presumably fine clothes for an Orc and having you serve him wine. Then he barks something at you in his own tongue, words that are more like snarls than words and you do not understand. You will learn. The first night, you dance. You dance, so that you might avoid the lick of the whip across the back of your legs, the shackle around your ankle attached to his throne with a long chain. You dance, hearing the tinkle of metal on metal with every move. Azog stares. You would swear he takes pleasure in it, but you do not dare finish the thought.

That night, he chains you to a post in what you presume is his room until he disappears through another door that you cannot reach for the chain. You cannot pry open the shackle, spending hours driving yourself to exhaustion to learn it, and there is little enough in the room to help you make an attempt for freedom. There is a platter of bread, which looks maggoty. You eat it anyway. A small pile of straw gives the illusion of comfort from the cold stone floor, but you do not dare sleep. The water in the bowl seems clear, and you gulp it greedily. You wait.

The first night became many nights. Always, you are left in this room, though not always fed, always accompanied by snarls you begin to recognise as orders – or maybe you just infer their meaning from what happens until you comply with his dark wishes. You would pity those who are brought to him in cages, but there is no room for pity in this place. They always die eventually, anyway, their souls released where you cannot follow.

The bears are the worst to watch, you find, to see such powerful beings brought to the very edge. Azog is getting better. He knows now, knows when to stop, how to extend his sadistic fun by leaving his entertainment on the cusp of life until the next day or the next. If they slip away in the night, you are punished. It takes you a long time to realise that, a lot of scars before you begin to hate those people, a feeling that frightens you with its intensity.

You do not know how Orcs reproduce – it is odd that you can still praise yourself lucky to be untouched, but you’ve decided never to think about such things – but the first time you see the small Orc, you stare. Azog says something, pointing to you, and the little one nods with an evil grin. You have the odd feeling it is his son.

Bolg.

The little orc has grown larger, as tall as his father and as pale. You heard that Orcs were Elves once, twisted by evil and corrupted by darkness, and, in Azog and Bolg, you can see it.

You do not know how many years it has been, but the Walkers are all gone. You have heard stories of fantastical escapes over the years, but they have all been fairy stories to you, unsubstantiated by anything but rumour and often debunked by the hunters who bring back the corpse of those who flee. You have seen enough of those corpses.

You still yearn to escape.

The day you get the chance – the only chance – it is delivered in the guise of Bolg. Impatient, he strikes your chain off, instead dragging you by the hair. But he forgets that he habitually carries knives at his waist and stealing one is a matter of timing alone.

You do not miss the long locks.

You know the hunters will follow, will be ordered to catch Azog’s pet Walker, and you run. You run as a human, because you must, because the shackle still won’t let you shift – you try not to worry whether you will have forgotten how when it is eventually removed.

The hunters ride warg, those aberrations born of the Wolf-Clan being forced to breed with actual wolves. The beasts are intelligent, and born of rage, they are mean and slaver to fill the desires of their dark masters.

The arrows that pierce your flesh are made from dark jagged metal, biting into your back, your side.

You keep running.

Long ago, it was a pact you made with yourself, with the side of you that you fear died on that horrible day in the mountains. Run, and die running, die free. Now, it becomes a mantra, die free, die free, die free, repeating in time with your heart beating, your lungs wheezing.

The roar is distant, and you feel like you should recognize it somehow, but you can do nothing but run, run in the fog of exhaustion and pain, aware that death is coming for you; swifter with each step you take. Your blood stains the ground; an easy trail to follow, though you have tried to obscure it in every body of water you come across. You stumble.

There is only darkness and the last smell of grass in your nose.

“Hush, wild thing,” a voice says, slow and deep, deep like you think you remember your father’s was. The snippet of memory wraps itself around the voice, a dreamy quality entering your fog as warm hands care for the numerous wounds you have sustained. The darkness beckons.

You wake slowly, feeling surprisingly comfortable. You hardly dare open your eyes, instead letting the feeling of softness against your skin suffuse your entire being. You stretch, surprised by the lack of pain. The shackle is still a dead weight around your ankle, and your eyes snap open fearfully.

Wood.

Lots of wood.

Most of it is carved, craftmanship that would be beyond an Orc. Your heart slows as you stare around the room. The soft woollen blanket you are covered by has been stitched with a motif of leaves. The bedposts are carved to resemble bears. You can see a game board, with more bear-shaped pieces on one end, the blocks on the other end only half finished. The room is odd, though it takes you a while to realise why. Everything would fit you. The tables are not ridiculously small, which they would be if this place was owned by a Man. You breathe deeply.

The scent is familiar, though hard to place, but eventually you decide what it must be. Bear. Bear-Walker, to be precise. The tears surprise you, but they are welcome relief. You almost do not notice the hand that lands on your shoulder, but find yourself launching from the bed, wrapping your arms and legs around his body like you never want to let go as you sob into his shoulder, breathing in that comforting smell that is at once wild and home. The arms that fold to embrace you are hesitant, cautious, but you squeeze harder in demand until he is holding you with all his considerable strength.

You’re pretty sure it has been several hours before you stop crying, hiccupping sobs at random still, but no longer wailing. You bury your nose against his skin, where his neck meets his shoulder, corded muscles moving under warm soft skin, browned by the sun. Breathing softly, you don’t even realise when you fall asleep.

You wake with a scream.

The large body in bed with you stiffens.

“Hush now, wild thing,” he murmurs, stroking the jagged hair your escape attempt created. Your eyes snap open, certain that the bear had been no more than a dream. Raising your head cautiously from where you were resting on his strong chest, you see a bushy beard, covering his strong jaw. Travelling further up, you are met by calm eyes.

“Bear,” you whisper, hoarsely, your voice croaky with disuse. Daringly, you trace a finger down his nose, and back up to brush against his long eyebrows. You feel the nervous swallow more than you see it, the rush of air lifting your perch slightly. “My bear.” You smile, for the first time in more years than you remember, feeling that the possessive pleases both of you.

“Who are you?” he asks, almost as hoarsely as you, but you know it is emotion that makes him sound so broken. “A little wild thing I found, chased by Orcs, and more than half dead. Who are you, who knows what I am?” His arms are still tightly wrapped around your body, but he allows you room to stretch. You kiss him. The kiss was simply your joy at not being alone overflowing, but you feel him tense beneath you, see the pain flash in his eyes.

“Ullrae,” you murmur, drawing back. You feel almost giddy, overwhelmed by the smell of him, the sheer familiarity of it. He might not be your kind, but he is your kind. You drag your nose along his jaw, burying your face in the shaggy hair and breathing in his smell. “Can you take it off?” you ask, low enough that he wouldn’t have heard you if he wasn’t a Walker. You thought he was tense before, but suddenly you find yourself tossed onto your back, facing an angry growl. Your first instinct is to whimper in fear, blindly looking for the whip over his shoulder, but when you don’t see the Orc with the hated weapon you relax slightly. The bear seems to have regained his self-control when you flinched away, staring darkly at you from a chair across the room. You return his stare, neither of you blinking. When he makes no move to attack you, you dare to ask again. “Can you take it off?” you plead, almost in tears with hope, moving your leg towards him, where the shackle is still obvious. His eyes flick from your face to where your small movement made the blankets move. You had not realised that you’d used all your strength throwing yourself at him earlier, but it becomes clear when you can barely move the blanket aside. The bear’s large hand stills you, as he moves the blanket, making you realise for the first time that you are wearing one of his own shirts over the bandages. It covers your modesty, but not much more. You blush. Walkers are not generally shy, but it has been so long since you’ve been among the eyes of your own kind that his gaze makes you feel vulnerable in a way that even Azog did not manage. The bear’s warm hand wraps around your calf, sliding down until it reaches the shackle.

“This?” he asks, you nod, the tears spilling over once more.

“It stops me,” you admit, the loss of your other self as raw now as on the day you were captured, the longing to be free clear in your voice. The bear looks horrified, his hand tightening involuntarily. You realise that his own wrist is also encircled by dark iron, but it is not like yours, you know.

“I will take it off,” he says, and the vow follows you into exhausted sleep.

The next time you wake, you’re being lifted, carried along with the blanket. You recognize his smell and relax into his hold.

“Wake up, Ullrae,” his voice wraps around your name, a deep caress of sound, making your name sound dark and a little husky on his tongue. You blink your eyes sleepily open. You are outside, beneath the full moon and the bear is rigging up a seat at the same height as the anvil beside you. You allow him to move you, stretching your leg along the cold iron with a shiver. You are still weak. A steaming cup is handed to you, the warmth seeping into your hands. You sip at it. Warm milk with honey and spices flood your mouth, making you sigh in pleasure. You’re so lost in the food that you don’t even notice the bear’s work, the quick way he strikes off the manacle, breaking it apart until only the knowledge that it was once a shackle reveals it as such.

You close your eyes, the empty cup falling from your hands to shatter on the ground a distant sound.

Freedom.

You breathe heavily, almost scared at the thought that there might be nothing to answer the call… and then you are the other you, the large cat prowling around the anvil, testing your limbs. You are weak, but not so weak that you could not hunt. Rubbing your body along the bear’s legs, you hear him chuckle at the way you mark him with your scent but he doesn’t stop you. You yawn. It’s been so long… above you, the moon shines, its glow bring back long-forgotten memories. Feeling like your Clan is with you, you break into a run, roaring happily as you shatter the night with your joy. Jumping the gate in the fence is a simple feat, and you barely hear the bear calling for you to come back. Instead, you lope off into the long grass, knowing instinctively how to move, old lessons coming back to you with the sound of your mother’s voice, the laughs of your sisters and brothers.

You don’t know how far you’ve gone when you catch the scent. It is an elk, a small one and your belly growls.

The kill is messy; inexperienced, but successful. The fresh meat steams in the night, blood soaking into your muzzle as you feast, gorging yourself on the warm meal.

You hear a growl. You look up, seeing the bear, but he simply stands there, watching, and so you shrug, returning to your feast.

When you feel full at last, you offer him the remains of your kill, licking yourself clean. You watch as he makes quick work of what you couldn’t finish. Instinct makes you stand to lick the blood off his fur before you turn back in the direction you think is home. The change catches you by surprise, but you’re asleep before your human self hits the grass.

You wake feeling stronger. Warm fur keeps the chill off your naked skin and you burrow into the bear’s side, murmuring a sleepy greeting. He growls, nosing your shoulder as he gets up. You try to follow, but your limbs have not regained their strength, leaving you to struggle weakly. The bear huffs. You glare blearily at him as he gives you what can only be called a grin. Almost despite yourself, you return it.

“I think I overdid it a little,” you admit, and the bear turns decidedly smug. You scowl. He moves back beside you, making your cheeks heat slightly at the way your smell has mingled with his during the night. He huffs again, nudging you with his nose. You groan, but surrender. When he lies down, you use the shaggy fur to help you climb onto his back. The bear carries you home through the early morning sunlight.

You wake to the sound of wood being chopped. The rhythmic thuds are oddly soothing as you get up, wrapping the blanket around your naked body. The shirt you had borrowed is probably either torn apart by the change or dirtied by spending a night on the ground; you think you remember it rained at one point. Walking slowly through the house, you step outside for the first time in what feels like forever, blinking blearily against the powerful sun.

“Wild thing,” the bear mumbles as a greeting, but it is fond and you relax against the doorpost, watching him chop a few more blocks.

“Bear,” you eventually say, pleased with the way your voice affects him. Moving towards him, you trail your hand down his shoulder, along the shaggy mane that follows his spine and back up to trace a scar on his arm. “Have you a name, my bear?” you ask, feeling a little foolish not to have done so before.

“Beorn.” You almost want to giggle, but it is very him.

“Suits you,” you whisper, leaning against his side as a spell of fatigue hits you. “Breakfast, Beorn?”

Abandoning the axe for the moment, he swings you into his arms with no greater effort and carries you into the house.

You smile against his shoulder.

Part 2

#beorn/reader #Beorn #azog the defiler #reader #hobbitimagine #reader-insert #angst #some fluff at the end #The Skinchanger Chronicles

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inkstainedfanfics · 7 years ago

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Almost Easy

Summary: Reader needs to find a person that’s particularly good at hiding. Newt needs someone to clean up the messes his thugs leave behind as he searches for answers about his brother’s death. A self-proclaimed pyromaniac and a gang leader may just find allies in one another as they work to exact revenge on the ones that wronged them.

Word Count: 3,854

Pairing: Newt x Reader (not romantic)

Tagging @dont-give-a-bother and @sonuvawitch

Any comments/opinions on this piece, positive or negative, are welcome and encouraged

Fire crackles around you as the blood-splattered curtains turn into ash. The rug disappears as well, fading quickly into a pile of dust, next to the smoldering remains of the desk you’d chosen to burn first. It’d been beautiful, an obvious work of carpentry not many could accomplish.

Precisely why you’d decided it needed to go the second you walked in the room.

Avery raises an eyebrow, arms crossed where he stands in the doorway. “Are you gonna burn with all of this?”

You ignore the question, wiping at the sweat beading up on your forehead. “You placed the bomb?”

“You doubt me?”

Glancing at him sharply, you shake your head. “Answer the question or don’t. Leave the smart comments outside.” You’re on a mission, for Merlin’s sake.

Avery whistles, a low sound. “Forgot that you get touchy once you get the flames going.”

You glare at him as flames hit the lighter fluid you tossed in the corner and erupt.

“Did you or didn’t you?”

“Did.”

“In the vault?”

“Just outside of it, actually. Boss had bad information. We’ll get a bigger explosion where I set it.”

You watch him, wary. “You’re certain?”

Avery’s eyes flash, and he straightens, responding to your offhanded challenge. “When am I not right? You’ve got your expertise, I’ve got mine.”

The flames from the rug lick at your boots now, and their heat burns your calves. “Then I suppose we should get out of here. Decker’s got the car?”

Avery relaxes, slipping the bag he’s been carrying from his shoulder and tossing it to you. “Course she does. I swear she likes that more than the torture.”

You catch the bag and roll your eyes. “We don’t torture them.”

He grins, a wicked sight as the scar that runs over his lips and down his chin stretches with it. “If that helps you sleep, be my guest. Call it interrogation.”

The black ski-mask, a guard against anyone identifying you sneaking out, captures the heat filling the room, holding it against your cheeks and nose, but you slide the rough fabric over your face. “We gather information for Mr. Scamander, that’s all.” The words are sharp, meant to convince Avery that no, you don’t want to discuss the parts of this job that result in corpses and bloody knives.

But Avery’s an arrogant asshole. “But how? Think they like our methods? Think they wish we kept them alive just a little longer so we could-“

“Let’s go.” You say, shoving the bag against his chest as you stomp past him. You don’t want to think about the countless bodies left in your wake today, the bodies that won’t be returned to their families, not after Avery’s job works. You were hired on to burn evidence. That’s all.

“Ah come on,” he says, following you down the ornate staircase, “you’re Scamander’s pet. Surely you don’t mind a bit of death.”

“I don’t kill people.”

“And the security guard?”

You blink back the image of the stocky man, his hand trembling as he held the revolver, pointing it at your temple. “I had no choice.” You growl through clenched teeth.

“Stunning curse?”

“Mr. Scamander said no curses. Not today.”

“You’re the one destroying the evidence. He’d never know.”

“The man would be alive.” You snap. “He’d be alive as everything burned around him.”

Avery scoffs, feet pounding against the steps. “Don’t tell me you’re really that soft-hearted.”

You land on the ground floor, panting, wishing the flames were around you again so you could send them spiraling toward Avery. A nip, that’s all he needs, a small bite from the flames and he’ll watch what he’s saying to you.

Drawing your wand, you turn around.

Avery throws his hands up, sly grin returning to his face. “You wouldn’t really shoot the one guy that’s on your side here, would you?”

“Move or go up in flames with the staircase.” You let a beat pass before returning his wicked smile. “Your choice.”

His grin widens. “I knew you had a sadistic bone in there somewhere.” Then he bounds down the final few steps, landing next to you. The stench of his cologne suffocates you, ruins the moment as you cast incendio and watch the lighter fluid spread down the railings and the sides of the steps explode into flames.

Avery whistles again, and you have to resist the urge to hit him for it. How hard is it to shut up?

Far off in the New York streets, firetruck alarms blare. The trucks must be bumbling toward you. Slow. They’re always too slow.

“How much time do we have?”

Avery glances at his watch. Leather. Shiny face. Thick, black numbers. You don’t want to know where a goon like him got it from.

“Two minutes if you did everything right. Ten if you didn’t.”

His jab passes you as you watch the brilliant red and orange fill the hallway. The heat’s back, boiling you alive, and you feel a swell in your chest as it all begins to crumble with cracks and pops and snaps.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Avery turns with you, reaching for the door handle. “Decker’s got the car in an alley five blocks away. We hoof it. Keep your head down. Flatfoots are probably on the way. Don’t get caught.”

You nod, giving the flames a final glance before letting Avery lead you to the front. He’s serious now, all guises of being goofy and carefree disappearing as he scans the area outside.

“It’s clear for now. Hurry.”

You can’t help but admire this side of him. It’s these times, when he takes the lead in your small group of three, that you understand why Mr. Scamander hired him. He’s professional, respectable, and an asset anyone in this career would be lucky to have.

You rush to keep up with his stride as the moonlight bounces off the two of you. He’s a giant, dwarfing anyone and anything nearby, and you struggle to stay by his side. Hurry. An easy command for him.

Two blocks away from the building, you both tear off your masks, casting a quick spell to transform your dark pantsuits into more respectable clothing: him into a three piece suit and you into your own flapper dress, complete with a headband dripping with rhinestones and glittering jewels. Avery tugs his fedora low over his eyes.

You manage another block, half running as the watch ticks away the time remaining. The flames will be near the bomb now. You can almost picture the glowing reds that are eating away the beautiful woodwork inside, almost smell the smoke that’s clouding the ceiling, almost hear the cracks of breaking wood and burning bookshelves. You fight the urge to go back, to watch everything happen, reminding yourself that Mr. Scamander needs you.

Avery’s voice knocks you from your thoughts.

“Grab my arm. We’ve got flatfoots just around the bend.”

“So draw your wand.”

“Merlin’s sake.” He mutters before grabbing your hand. “Just try to pretend you’re in love with me.”

“Excuse me?” You hiss, but have no chance to let him elaborate when a voice stops you.

Two officers step out of a shadowed alleyway, hands on their belts. One’s older, obvious by the way he walks toward you with a raised chin and ramrod straight back. Experienced. Or, at least, he believes he is. His badge glints in the moonlight. His partner, a younger man, steps forward, but stops at the first officer’s hand.

“Pretty late to be walking around, isn’t it, folks?” The first officer asks, his gravelly voice a grating sound in the silence of the night.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I think it’s a lovely night. You don’t agree?”

Your eyes slide to Avery’s watch. Half a minute until the building explodes. He just needs to stall until then.

There doesn’t need to be another death.

“I don’t know.” The first officer continues. “Pretty cold out for your woman to just wear that isn’t it?”

You bristle at that comment, but Avery squeezes your hand tight. So tight you nearly yelp.

Another command.

“Sure, sure. The whiskey’s keeping her warm enough for now, but I’m trying to get her home quick as I can. Be easier if I weren’t stopped unjustly.” There’s a layer in his voice, a warning the cop seems to pick up on.

The older cop sizes Avery up. “Don’t know what you mean by unjustly.”

Avery grins, and you can see the malice beneath it as his hand drifts in his pocket. “Me and my wife are just trying to get home, sir. You going to let us?”

Fifteen seconds.

“Why don’t you step away from the lady, sir.”

“What for?”

Ten seconds.

“Just want to talk to the both of you.”

“We’re perfectly fine, sir.”

Five seconds.

The cop’s hand lands on his gun. It’s tiny, but threatening enough to cause harm if he draws it. You squeeze your eyes shut. Not again.

Three seconds.

“Wrong choice.” Avery says between gritted teeth.

The gunshot’s boom melts in the sudden chaos, overshadowed by the loud rupture of the building behind you.

A part of you is disappointed. You missed it, the initial spillage of flames and fire and concrete into the quiet street, missed seeing the very fire you began end. Another part of you is disgusted. The officer stumbles around pathetically, hand clenched around his throat, mouth opening and closing and opening again like the fish you caught years ago while fishing with your best friend. The final part of you is thrilled as you fall forward, only missing the ground thanks to Avery’s strong grip.

He shoves you forward, gaining his balance sooner than the younger officer who’s struggling to draw his gun.

“Run to Decker and stay the hell out of trouble. I’ll take care of this.”

“Mr. Scamander says to stay together.”

Avery growls. Honest to Merlin growls, eyes burning with anger. “Get the hell out of here before I kill you myself. I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Hell no, Avery. More are coming. You’ll be dead.”

Avery’s lip curls into a snarl. “Go before I make you.”

He says something more, eyes wild, but you don’t hear it. The officer’s drawn his gun, lined it up with Avery’s head, and his finger’s moving toward the trigger.

You leap forward, thinking of nothing but Avery’s unmoving body. There’s been enough death. He won’t fall, too.

The officer is light, thank Merlin, and your hit knocks him off balance. The gunshot bursts, a sharp pop in your ear. Avery’s voice follows quickly, muted, screaming your name as you roll across the ground with the officer.

The officer’s screaming himself, a wordless scream meant only to convey his terror as he scrambles to right himself, the gun still in his hand. Grabbing his wrists, you keep the gun pointed away.

He shoves a foot in your gut, hard, and the air rushes from your chest as your supper threatens to reappear. You curl into a ball, grabbing your stomach, releasing his hands.

Then the gun’s pointed at your head, a swinging silver glint, and you squeeze your eyes shut, ready for it all to end.

Then it’s gone, the bullet erupting out of the gun scraping the inside of your elbow, leaving a streak of burning flames on your skin.

You gulp in breaths, unable to scream, unable to move, unable to even think as you try to refill your lungs.

Somewhere nearby, Avery scuffles with the officer, feet pound toward you, and alarms blare. Still, you remain on the ground, convulsing as you finally manage a full breath.

The bag. You need the bag.

Drawing your wand, you cast accio, charming the lighter fluid hidden somewhere in there. The muggle officer’s too caught up in his fight with Avery, and the others, the ones a block away now, won’t live long enough to remember the magic.

You take a deep breath when the bottle hits your hand. Death. So much death.

Shutting your eyes, you picture your best friend, his face, and nod once to yourself. If the officer’s won’t let you go, they’ll have to die. You have a date with revenge soon, and nothing’s going to stop you.

Yanking the cap off with your shaking hand, you splash it everywhere around you, careful to be sure it misses your clothes, leaving a small circle of dry cement around you. A plan. You need a plan.

Avery struggles with the officer, moving around his back, grabbing his chin and forehead.

Your stomach turns as the man realizes what’s happening at the same time as you.

As you watch the scene unfold, helpless, you smell smoke for a moment, a curl of it, feel it burn your nose, though there’s no smoke around, not for two blocks.

Then Avery’s hands twist and it’s over with, and you’re safe except for the officers that are only a half block away now, their feet so close to landing in lighter fluid.

“Avery, over here, now!” You shout, eyes focusing only on Avery’s scar, his dark eyes, the way his stubble doesn’t grow in one spot on his neck. Anything but the glassy-eyed man at his feet.

Avery dashes to your side, kneeling next to you. “You okay?”

No time for pleasantries. “My matches. Grab one, light it, and toss it.”

“What?”

“Just do it.” You grab at your elbow, squeezing your eyes shut. It bites more than you would’ve imagined.

The officers are in the puddle of lighter fluid now, raising their guns.

“Avery, do something quickly for the first time in your miserable life.”

The match flares in his hand. “You’re so impatient.” He mutters it like it’s a joke, but you can see the terror in his eyes. He doesn’t want to go down, not like this.

You let go of your wound, hand coated in blood now, and grab his white shirt. “Grab me.” You say as the match soars to the ground.

A shame, you think, that you don’t get to see the flames erupt around you, don’t get to feel their heat, but Avery has both arms around your waist and you’re apparating, squeezed through a rubber tube. For a moment, you can see five nails, manicured, painted a light pink, then you’re falling on your face right next to Avery.

Merlin, you hate apparition.

You land in a heap on the ground of Mr. Scamander’s office. Rolling onto your back, you hiss out a curse and grab your arm again. Avery’s next to you, unmoving, just cussing as filthily as he can, staring up at the ceiling.

“Why the hell,” he finally says, “didn’t you listen?”

You gulp in a deep breath of the room’s smoky air, grateful for the chance to actually breathe. “He was about to kill you.”

“I had it under control.”

“Fine, I’ll just let him shoot you in the head next time. Would that be better?” You snap, turning your head to glare at Avery.

He props himself up on an elbow, rolling his eyes. “You’re crazy.”

“And you’re an idiot.” Damn it, your arm hurts.

Avery reaches out, grabbing your hand and dragging it away from the wound. “It’s shallow.”

“I know. That’s doesn’t mean it doesn’t burn.”

Avery’s eyes light up, anger fading fast. “You’re the fire girl. You should enjoy the burn.”

“Shut up and just help me.” You take another deep breath, reveling in the scent of cigars permanently absorbed in the room. It’s a soothing scent, a familiar one you learned to enjoy when you began working with Mr. Scamander the previous year.

“Oh, come on, you saying you didn’t mean to make that pun?”

His anger’s completely gone now, and you’re grateful for it. He can be a real jackass, but when it comes down to it, Avery’s not the worst man you’ve met. “Just fix it, please.”

He chuckles, reaching for his wand.

A familiar voice interrupts any chance of getting comfortable. “Any information?”

Avery blinks as the wound finishes knitting itself back together, then scrambles to his feet, giant body casting a shadow over you. His eye’s bruised and his lip’s bleeding, but he seems no worse for the wear otherwise. Lucky bastard. “None, sir. They were a decoy, just like the other leads.”

Mr. Scamander, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, mustard vest half-buttoned, crosses the room, stepping behind the huge oak desk that fills the center of the room. “Not a thing? You’re sure? Not a mention of the senators, the concilmen?”

His footsteps clack against the wooden floor past the rug, and you notice his boots are untied. He just woke.

“They were just grifters, sir. Swear it.”

It’s unnerving, the silence that follows those words. Undoubtedly, Mr. Scamander’s disappointed, angry, ready to track down the informants that gave false information, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t scowl, doesn’t do anything but reach for one of the desk’s drawer.

He’s the epitome of calm, and it makes you wish you’d stood when Avery did. “You checked everything?”

“Every nook and cranny, sir.”

“Yes, well, I suppose you can’t expect news of your dead brother from a group of criminals, can you?” His lips twitch up as though he’s made a joke, but neither you nor Avery react. His icy gaze sweeps to where you lie on the ground a moment later. “And you destroyed it all?”

You shove yourself to your feet, ignoring the ache of your muscles, taking Avery’s hand. For a second, it’s callused, rough, as though the hand of an old friend you once knew, and his face morphs, too, and you almost shout. Almost. But then it’s over with and it’s normal and Mr. Scamander’s staring at you, so you wipe your hands on the front of your ruined dress and open your mouth. “I did, Mr. Scamander, sir.”

He nods. “Good.” He takes a box of cigars from the drawer. “Avery, Decker’s downstairs. She has a hostage. I’m certain she’d appreciate your help bringing him up here.”

“Right away, sir.” Avery gives you a glance, but turns away, yanking open the heavy office doors.

They shut with a click, leaving you and your boss alone.

It’s silent for a moment before Mr. Scamander speaks, eyes darting up to you. “How are you?”

“Sorry?”

He jerks his chin toward your bloody hand. “That’s yours?”

You raise it, staring at the amount of red covering it, relieved you can answer him truthfully. “Yeah.”

“This line of work isn’t easy.” He fidgets with the box in his hand, “If you’d prefer to leave, I would understand.”

Despite the exhaustion slowly creeping in as your adrenaline fades, you stiffen at the comment. “All due respect, sir, but you never offer Avery a way out, and I’m just as capable as he is.”

Mr. Scamander smiles at this, the corners of his lips moving up, the wrinkles around his eyes revealing just how tired he is. “Avery’s been here too long to leave.”

You stare at him, trying to read what he’s thinking as he lights the cigar. Avery’s only worked with him for six more months than you. Sure, he’s been here since Mr. Scamander became a true contender in the underworld, but he’s not any more important to the operation than you are.

“Avery’s as new as me.”

Mr. Scamander shakes his head. “He’s done this his whole life. You haven’t, have you? You had a life before joining me, didn’t you?”

You stiffen as he lifts the cigar to his lips. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Or how he could know, not when you’ve kept it buried so deep under lies and half-truths that even you wonder if you’ll forget.

But no, that’s impossible. Every moment of that damned night is inescapable, the scars carved deep in your mind. You won’t forget.

That doesn’t mean Mr. Scamander needs to know.

Mr. Scamander watches you. “Perhaps it isn’t.” He murmurs. “But it’s important for you to consider. Why are you here?”

You mean to answer, but the scars, they’re throbbing, and you can’t block it out, not after a mission, not when you’re so tired.

The smell of the smoke’s going to your head, making you dizzy, and you swear the wound’s splitting open on your arm again as you sway back and forth, memories flashing in your vision. You can hear the screams again, see the smoke curling its way to the black sky.

Destruction.

Mr. Scamander’s in front of you suddenly, hands gripping your shoulders, holding you up. “Are you all right?”

You try to nod, to say something, but your words are gone and your tongue’s too heavy to move, to form the necessary motions to say what you need. His smell, the cigar, it makes it worse, and you can’t shake it out of your head as he drapes your arm around his shoulder, taking you somewhere.

You stumble forward, eyes shut but still seeing.

Dark blood under five manicured nails, screams tearing from somewhere far away that you can’t make out no matter how much you squint, acrid smoke burning your nose, rough hands under your arms, dragging you forward, whispering words of comfort in your ears, trying to block out the sounds of death.

“Merlin, make it stop.” You mutter, wishing you could go back, change it all, make sure it never happens. Then you’d be okay. Then you’d be at home with your family and friends and pets, not here, not next to the biggest gang lord in New York, so close you can count the scars on his hands.

Mr. Scamander’s saying your name, setting you down on something soft, something fluffy, and then he’s rubbing circles on your back.

You blink again, a scream building in your throat, but then it’s all gone. Vanishes as quickly as it comes.

Mr. Scamander peers at you, concern clear on his face, the scar over his eyebrow pulled down with his frown. “You’re not okay.”

You shrug. “It’s nothing.”

You can hardly keep your eyes open, exhaustion crawling through your veins, tugging you down onto the bed Mr. Scamander set you on. Sleep. That will keep it all away. That will it tuck it back into the out of mind place it belongs for now.

“Why are you here?” He whispers, half a question for you, half a question he says to puzzle out himself.

“You led me here.” You murmur, hoping the joke will get him to leave you be. Goosebumps not from chills but from fear cover your arms, obvious to Mr. Scamander thanks to your silver dress.

His jaw clenches. Wrong answer. “You offered to help me. Why?”

You force your eyelids to open, peering up at Mr. Scamander’s worried face.

You’ve never told him or Decker or even Avery. It’s your secret.

You swallow, a final face flashing before your eyes.

You smile lightly, more cheeky than honest. “I have someone to track down, and you’re going to help me.”

#newt scamander #newt Scamander x reader #newt Scamander imagine #evil!newt #fbawtft #finally done #I hope it's not horrible #it took so long like eight hours yikes #and I actually edited this one a bit lol #so I hope you guys like it #but if it was the worst thing you've ever read #please do tell me #I don't want to write a series that sucks #because I have it planned on what'll happen #but I don't want to bother people #Newt will definitely be more involved in future chapters obviously lol #gotta show some Evil!newt bc I live for it rn #I hope you two don't mind me tagging you #I noticed earlier you said you'd be interested in seeing Evil NEwt #anyway this is me rambling bc I'm nervous haha #I haven't even slept #I've been living on chex and water as I wrote #and my playlist for this series lol #anyway #have an amazing day everyone!

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adambstingus · 6 years ago

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Macaulay Culkin: ‘No, I was not pounding six grand of heroin a month’

The Home Alone star talks about the drug rumours, dodging paparazzi and his cheese-flavoured Velvet Underground tribute act

Of all modern myths, it is the fall of the child star that most compels us. Whether theyre embarking on 55-hour marriages, throwing bongs out of windows or abandoning monkeys at customs, we cant seem to get enough. Theres something pathological in our need to tear down our icons of innocence, which might explain the overprotective nature of Macaulay Culkins US publicist, who wants to see all my questions upfront. I refuse. I thought we could just … have a chat? The interview, Culkins biggest in 10 years, is supposed to focus on his comeback. Im instructed to avoid anything negative. I ask if I can ask if he has any regrets. Regrets sounds too negative, is the response.

When we meet, in the lobby of a hotel in Spain, Im still trying to figure out what exactly this comeback consists of. Culkins filming an advert for Compare the Market, which is obviously not a passion project. It was fun, and we hammered that sucker out pretty quickly. The biggest scene was me sitting on a bench eating ice-cream.

Is he doing this to fund an exciting new venture? No, not necessarily. Hes dressed grungily, long hair man-bunned back, boots open-laced, blazer badge-studded. He doesnt project the focused careerism of most actors. People feel they have to be in perpetual motion, or drown. Ive never had a problem saying Ive got nothing lined up. Maybe Ill take the next year off. It sounds as if hes not particularly drawn to acting at all. Im not much active, he concedes. If I knew what I wanted to do, Id be writing it myself.

The trajectory of Culkins life feels like fallout from an atomic blast. By the age of 12, Uncle Buck, two Home Alone films, My Girl and (to a lesser extent) Richie Rich had made him the most successful child actor of all time. At 14, he became legally emancipated from his parents; both had been trying to gain control of his $17m fortune in their divorce. Culkin married at 17, and separated two years later. Sleepovers with Michael Jackson became public knowledge when he was called as a defence witness at the singers molestation trial. Im ghoulishly fascinated by this alien childhood. Id like to ask about Michael Jackson.

In Home Alone (1990). Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

I think its best you dont, interjects his manager. She is one of three people sitting with us. Its not that its a painful topic … begins Culkin. His manager insists we move on, the PR next to her agrees. Culkin clearly wants to say something, but six eyes are telling him not to.

I suspect were both wondering why were here; 35-year-old Culkin doesnt do this sort of thing any more, having turned his back on the spotlight. I dont just turn my back, I actively dont want it. The paps go after me because I dont whore myself out. He has spent a decade turning down interviews, and mostly lives in France, where the aloof Parisians leave him alone. (Its also where Kevin McCallisters family were headed when they left him Home Alone, but we cant talk about that.) I get the impression hes as eager to talk about a price comparison website as I am to ask about one. Instead, I ask why people are still fascinated by him.

I have no idea. I was thinking about this the other day Id crossed the wrong street, picked up a tail, suddenly theres a crush of 20 paparazzi. Then people with cameraphones get involved. I dont think Im worthy of that.

With Michael Jackson in 2001. Photograph: Kevin Kane/WireImage

Has it got better with time?

Its been like that my whole adult life. You take on a prey-like attitude, always scanning the horizon. Its strange on dates, as it looks like youre not paying attention. But Ive stopped trying to think of myself in the third person, because thats just gonna drive me nuts.

You had to think about yourself in the third person?

Exactly. Macaulay Culkin is out there, and Im Mac. You guys can play with the first one.

Hes not averse to a bit of playing himself, for Culkin is the celebritys meta-celebrity. You may remember the meme-meltdown a few years back when Ryan Gosling was pictured wearing a T-shirt of Kevin McCallister. Culkin responded by creating a T-shirt that pictured Gosling wearing the shirt, before Gosling responded in kind, being photographed wearing a T-shirt of Culkin wearing a T-shirt of Gosling wearing a T-shirt of Culkin. They may still be at it for all we know.

Culkins previous ads, for the likes of Orange (and, in a Partridge move, the rebranding of Norwich Union), trade in close-to-the-bone self-analysis. For Compare the Market, he plays a hitchhiker picked up by the lovable meerkats, who see him as a child, buying him ice-cream and making him ride merry-go-rounds hes too big for.

In 2006, Culkin wrote an experimental novel, Junior, from the perspective of a certifiable child star with father issues. In web comedy :DRYVRS, hes a blood-spattered sadist, unhinged by the childhood trauma of parental abandonment, and defending himself against home invaders. Is all this self-quoting what hes drawn to, or just what he gets offered? A bit of both. It suits my personality and sense of humour. But I would be game for something non-self-referential.

Given this dilemma constantly returning to a past he wants distance from where does his sense of self come from? From me. I try to figure out what makes me happy and not in a superficial way. I keep my soul fit. Is he spiritual? I know enough to know I dont know. I was raised Catholic, so theres a lot of guilt. Were born with original sin. He veers off into a joke. Since I was told that, Ive been trying to come up with even more original sins, thatll really blow my priest away at confession. Like, heres one you havent heard it involves a pitching wedge, a donkey and a bucket of ice. And two meerkats? Yeah! You might wanna record this one!

With his brother, Kieran Culkin, c 1990. Photograph: Dave Benett/Getty Images

He reflects. Actually, Im very much at peace lately. I can debate with people, and my heart rate never changes. And Culkin is witty and affable. Funny, but distant. He offers confrontational figures of speech amiably. If you want to get into an argument with an artist, ask them what art is, he says. If you want to make an actor feel uncomfortable, ask them what theyre doing next. (I hastily scribble out one of the few questions Ive written down.)

Are his debates political? I have leanings, but Im the definition of a disenfranchised voter I think the system is ugly. This whole Trump thing is amazing. (Trump cameos in Home Alone 2, showing our hero the way to the Plaza Hotel lobby, although we cant talk about it.) Culkin doesnt want to be drawn further. Discussing politics is the quickest way to alienate people, so I dont wanna go into it. And Trump has enough column inches? Exactly! Hes like the Candyman, we have to stop saying his name.

Culkin was acting at four, an age at which no one knows what they want beyond watching cartoons and eating oversugared cereal. Having described himself as effectively retired, he works occasionally (voices for Seth Greens Robot Chicken, cameoing as himself in Zoolander 2), but: Im much more proactive with visual arts and writing, my notebook and little projects. Of the projects that reach the public, most could charitably be classed as divisive. There are paintings: one of the cast of Seinfeld on the set of Wheel of Fortune, being painted, nude, by He-Man. Theres The Wrong Ferrari, a Dadaist knockabout written on ketamine with Adam Green of the Moldy Peaches, shot entirely on iPhones. Most notorious is the Pizza Underground, his Velvet Underground tribute act that replaces the original lyrics with pizza puns (Im Waiting for Delivery Man, Take a Bite of the Wild Slice). At Nottingham Rock City, the band were pelted with beer and booed off stage as he played a kazoo solo. They cancelled their European dates, citing a cheesemergency. My question about all this is: what the hell?

Its one of those good ideas you have when youre drunk, and you wake up and forget about it. But were taking it to the end of the joke. We have an album coming out, a vinyl pressing with a childrens choir, a symphony orchestra. Were giving it away, our gift to the world. Does he still find it funny? Of course I find it funny! We rhyme mushrooms with mushrooms, come on. Its the same joke, relentlessly. Like, theyre really doing this?

Culkin enjoys the absurdity his fame bestows. But scrutiny has its downside. In New York, he takes walks at 4am to avoid harassment. On YouTube, one can find clips of him being harassed by wannabe-paps with smartphones. In 2012, photographs of him looking gaunt, almost transparent, set tabloids aflame with stories he was addicted to heroin and oxycodone, following the breakdown of his relationship with Mila Kunis. Given his friendship with Adam Green and Pete Doherty as well as a previous arrest for possession of marijuana, Xanax and clonazepam it seemed plausible.

Performing as Pizza Underground with Deenah Vollmer. Photograph: Sam Santos/WireImage

Were people right to be worried? Not necessarily. Of course, when silly stuff is going on but no, I was not pounding six grand of heroin every month or whatever. The thing that bugged me was tabloids wrapping it all in this weird guise of concern. No, youre trying to shift papers. Is there a story there he might want to tell one day, on his own terms? Perhaps.

Whatever his recreational habits, Im surprised by how unscrewed-up Macaulay Culkin is. Plans for the summer mainly involve roadying for Har Mar Superstar and Green (with whom he has another lo-fi film out, Aladdin). Home is where my boots are. Im a big fan of jumping on peoples tourbuses, making myself useful, doing load-ins and outs. I do everything except the merch table. I tried that, but … we didnt sell anything.

He has directionless days. He sleeps in, stays up late, indulges immature humour, bounces around with bad-influence friends. In short, hes enjoying the adolescence that celebrity stole from him. Ironically, his personal problems and turbulent relationship with the media have also given him a pretty grown-up perspective. Not a bad epilogue for a child star.

Its allowed me to become the person I am, and I like me, so I wouldnt change a thing. Not having to do anything for my dinner, financially, lets me treat every gig like its the last. He laughs, and this time addresses himself in the second person. If it is, Id think: Culkin, you had a good run.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/macaulay-culkin-no-i-was-not-pounding-six-grand-of-heroin-a-month/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/181995008877

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samanthasroberts · 6 years ago

Text

Macaulay Culkin: ‘No, I was not pounding six grand of heroin a month’

The Home Alone star talks about the drug rumours, dodging paparazzi and his cheese-flavoured Velvet Underground tribute act

In Home Alone (1990). Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

With Michael Jackson in 2001. Photograph: Kevin Kane/WireImage

Has it got better with time?

You had to think about yourself in the third person?

Exactly. Macaulay Culkin is out there, and Im Mac. You guys can play with the first one.

With his brother, Kieran Culkin, c 1990. Photograph: Dave Benett/Getty Images

Performing as Pizza Underground with Deenah Vollmer. Photograph: Sam Santos/WireImage

Source: http://allofbeer.com/macaulay-culkin-no-i-was-not-pounding-six-grand-of-heroin-a-month/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2019/01/14/macaulay-culkin-no-i-was-not-pounding-six-grand-of-heroin-a-month/

0 notes

allofbeercom · 6 years ago

Text

Macaulay Culkin: ‘No, I was not pounding six grand of heroin a month’

The Home Alone star talks about the drug rumours, dodging paparazzi and his cheese-flavoured Velvet Underground tribute act

In Home Alone (1990). Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

With Michael Jackson in 2001. Photograph: Kevin Kane/WireImage

Has it got better with time?

You had to think about yourself in the third person?

Exactly. Macaulay Culkin is out there, and Im Mac. You guys can play with the first one.

With his brother, Kieran Culkin, c 1990. Photograph: Dave Benett/Getty Images

Performing as Pizza Underground with Deenah Vollmer. Photograph: Sam Santos/WireImage

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/macaulay-culkin-no-i-was-not-pounding-six-grand-of-heroin-a-month/

0 notes