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victoria-daydreams · 4 years

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Of Vices and Virtues

Chapter Eight: Fun & Games

AN: Well, I was gonna wait to post this chapter, but there’s an influx of notes pouring in for this story so why keep you all waiting any longer?

Word Count: 5.4k

Trigger Warnings: racism, objectification

Taglist: @azayamari

Chapter Nine: Challenges

With some trepidation, Charles readjusted his grip on the gun and extended his arm. He let out a slow breath and looked to Erik. Taking a step back, he stood with an anxious expression on his face.

"You're sure?" Charles asked, the others were off training, but I stayed to watch the two men from the stone bench I was sitting on. I watched with a sigh as Charles pointed a gun at Erik.

"I'm sure," Erik nodded eagerly, smiling almost manically.

Oh, boy. I knew Erik and I were foolhardy enough when he fired his gun to test his abilities and then me following in his footsteps to test my own powers, but I didn't think he was stupid enough to have a gun fired at him point blank. I liked Erik, but why did he always want to do things that could potentially kill someone or himself.

"All right," Charles sighed, and slowly moved to place his finger against the trigger. Even as his finger was gently placed against it, his frown if anything grew, lowering his arm he shook his head. "No. No, I can't. I'm sorry," he gave in lowering the gun. "I can't shoot anybody point blank, let alone my friend,"

"Thank you, Charles for seeing sense," I remarked dryly, looking up from my reading.

"Oh come on!" Erik said while reaching out and grasping onto his arm and lifting the gun back up. "You know I can deflect it!" he asserted while pushing the gun against his forehead again. "You're always telling me I should push myself," he reasoned simply.

"If you know you can deflect it, then you're not challenging yourself," Charles lectured, lowering his arm again and giving Erik the gun back. "Whatever happened to the man who's...who's trying to raise a submarine?" he reminded.

"Oh, boy. Don't give him anymore ideas, Charles," I commented dryly again, snapping my book shut as I rose from my seat, straightening my skirt and letting my fingers glide over the buttons that went down the center.

"Well, it's gotten the job done all this time," Erik pointed out.

"It's nearly gotten you killed all this time," Charles corrected, he looked around as I turned my attention to the radio satellite in the distance.

"There's a challenge," I thought, catching Charles' stare and he nodded in agreement.

"I have to leave," Charles began, checking his watch before looking up at us. "I need to start setting up for Alex's training. I'll see you two later," he stated, and Erik and I watched as he took the path back into the mansion.

"You're a bit dressed up for training today," Erik commented, his eyes traveling from my simple cream colored blouse down to my maroon colored plaid skirt and finally onto my black pumps.

"I know! Do you like it?" I asked grinning, and holding both sides of the skirt and twirling before it found itself settling down to rest just below the mid thigh once again.

The sun had peaked in the sky, warming the fall day to the perfect level of warmth against our skin and making my golden, brown skin glow. Erik scanned quickly over what I was wearing, his eyes seemingly zeroing on my stockingless legs.

"Well Erik? I don't have all day,"

The sudden remark snapped him out of his daze. My voice contained a little snippiness as it did sometimes, but there was an equal amount of playfulness to it as well.

"I've seen better," he mentioned, and I narrowed my eyes upon him. Our stare down dragged out for five seconds, before Erik's lip started to quirk, struggling to contain his smile.

"I hate you Erik, so much," I uttered, stabbing my index finger into his chest. "And for the record, you're pretty average yourself, so I wouldn't get too cocky," I added flatly, a smile of my own forming.

"Has this always been your nature?" Erik asked with a smirk.

"I don't know what you mean," I replied, arching my brow and mirroring his smirk.

I made my way back to the balcony the gravel crunching underneath my heels before I hopped up onto the railing and faced Erik again. He moved forward moving from the stair we were standing on. He placed his gun down next to me and I immediately picked the weapon, aiming the weapon over his shoulder.

"Put that down before you hurt somebody or yourself," Erik jested, proud of himself.

I lowered the gun, "Who needs guns, when I can snap your neck with a flick of my wrist," I concurred, placing the gun back down on the balcony. "Or I could just order them to do the deed themselves," I added, with a shrug.

"Strange as it may be, but I want to experience your ability as well," he stated, placing his hands down on the smooth, stone railing. "I'm curious if power is truly terrifying as Charles makes it out to be," Erik gibed, a smug look on his face.

"You're going to choke on your words Erik," I sang, straightening my posture and stared into Erik's eyes.

Erik stared back into mine unflinchingly just as I planted the mental aftertaste of vanilla, He began to sniff. He knew the smell wasn't really there, that I was simply tweaking some nerve in his brain that told him he smelt it, but he sniffed anyway.

"I am shaking in my boots, Claudia," Erik commented dryly.

But now, that perfume didn't smell so sweet, he felt terror flood his mind almost like an offensive odor. I conveyed to him the feeling of cold seeping into his bones and water filling his lungs to the extent Erik physically choked.

Drowning.

I released him from my hold and stared at him as his coughing fit wracked his body, I smirked and jumped down from the down balcony. I patted Erik on his back as if I was burping a small baby and Erik just turned and looked at me still coughing, but not as violently.

"Told you I was going to make you choke," I quipped, and made my back into the mansion.

~~~x~~~

I wandered the mansion for a while my heels clacking against the cherry wood, very surprised to find that no one was in sight. I remembered that Charles was training with Alex and took the path to the bunker to see if today would yield better results for Alex. There was quite a bit of banging from what seemed to be in the bunker and low murmur of voices as I approached closer.

Just as I entered I watched Hank and Charles wrestle a vest of some sort on Alex. I joined the three of them my heels clicking on the metal floor alerting them to my presence, I lifted an eyebrow at what Alex was wearing now being able to fully see what it was. Alex had this new device strapped against him. It was a metal circular disk and my educated guess was it's supposed to center Alex's power into one place and shoot out as a beam.

Alex stared down at the thing with slight despair, "Sexy," he commented dryly.

I moved next to him and winked, "Innit? It compliments your eyes," I agreed smiling.

Hank smiled sheepishly, "Well this is just the prototype. The real one will look considerably better. It'll be a whole suit. See these sensors measure your energy I'll put this panel focus in and the excess is absorbed," Hank answered in a long winded explanation.

"You're sure this will work Hank?" Charles asked, a smile on his lips from Hank's excited explanation.

"Anything's possible," Hank answered breathlessly.

"Good enough for me," Charles said, and then pointed at the new three dummies, specifically at the one in the center that had a large ‘X’ tapped from its shoulder blades to its hips. "Alright try hitting the one in the middle, just the one in the middle, mind. Good luck," he concluded, leading Hank and I out the room.

Charles quickly closed the door behind us it wasn't long before I heard a loud explosion from within the bunker. Placing my hand on the handle of the door to open it I felt Charles' hand on mine halting my movement, that's when another thunderous explosion echoed throughout the bunker along with the sound of soft thud, like a body falling. The red light flickered on and I pulled open one of the doors as Hank opened the other one.

"For goodness sake..." Charles trailed off, once again looking at the fiery destruction that Alex caused. "Hank, Hank take care of that for me will ya," he requested, pointed to the now burning mannequins. I knelt down on the left of Alex as Charles knelt down on his right. "You alright?" Charles asked concern present in his voice.

"Yep," Alex replied, out of breath.

"Are you sure?" I questioned, staring at burning mannequins that were placed on the left and right before looking back at Alex.

"Yes," Alex answered again, regaining his breath.

"Can you stand?" Charles inquired, grasping Alex's arm and I did the same just as Alex nodded yes and the two of us pulled Alex from the floor. All of us looked at the blaze in front of us again while Hank tried to extinguish it. "Well, it's progress anyway," he acknowledged, looking at Alex. "At least it's coming from only one direction now. You will learn to control this eventually Alex but-" Charles started.

"But for now I get to wear energy diapers," Alex interjected irritatedly and stormed off. "Thanks Bozo!" Alex fumed, leaving the bunker.

"Oh Alex, you're so dramatic," I thought.

~~~x~~~

I hummed to myself as I moved down the hall looking for something to do, turning the corner I slowed my pace and stopped at a window and looked outside. Charles and Hank had changed into sweats. They were going on a run themselves. Hank saw me and I gave him a thumbs for good luck, he smiled weakly in return. I stepped back from the window and continued my search for human life in the mansion, turning down the hall I heard metal clanking. Someone's in the gym. I moved closer, but stopped when I was a few feet from the entrance because of a certain voice I heard.

"If you're using half your concentration to look normal, then you're only half paying attention to whatever else you're doing. Just pointing out something that could save your life," There was the sound of something heavy and metal moving. "You want society to accept you, but you can't even accept yourself,"

He was talking to Raven. I was irritated, suddenly and inexplicably irritated. But why? All Erik was doing was trying to encourage Raven to be herself. Erik came out of the weight room and walked away from the room but stopped when he saw me. I swiftly masked my expression with a smile, barely having time to process my true feelings.

I walked forward as did Erik, "Now that's a surprise," I began, meeting his gaze. "It's not everyday Erik Lehnsherr boosts your self-esteem," I joked, my voice low so Raven couldn't hear us.

"You overheard me talking to Raven?" he asked, matching my tone.

"Yes," I nodded.

"What do you make of it?" Erik questioned, folding his arms together.

"I think you made a great point. It doesn't matter if she's blue," I agreed. "To me at least," I added.

"It doesn't?"

"No. But it's up to her to decide," I stated giving him a pointed look, before walking past him.

"I see..." Erik murmured. "Claudia!" Erik called, and I spun around to face him. "I lied earlier," Erik remembered.

I let out a chuckle, "Oh, and what would that be about?" I questioned, arching a brow.

"You look fantastic, truly stunning," Erik complimented.

I rolled my eyes, trying to suppress a smile, that slowly seeped through. I looked to the ground, hoping that he wasn't watching my reaction to his compliment. Looking up through my eyelashes, I met his eyes. The two of us watching each other before my smile widened and I slowly walked backwards until I faced the right direction.

"Hard at work I see," I observed smirking from the entrance, before entering the room. Raven was in her blue form, something that will still take time for me to get use to.

"Well aren't you all dressed up," Raven commented, putting a pair of dumbbells back. "I take it you're not training today," Raven stated, gesturing with her hand in regards to my outfit.

"Nope," I answered, popping the 'p'. "Charles gave me the day off, said we'll pick back up tomorrow," I explained, moving about the room and letting my hand running along the gym equipment.

Raven lips quirked up into a smile as blue rippled down her, transforming her back into her fair skinned form.

"Must be nice to have him wrapped around your finger. All you have to do is bat your eyelashes and Charles will do anything for you,"

I found Raven looking me almost expectantly, a grin on her face like she knew something I didn't.

"He is not wrapped around my finger," I argued, shaking my head smiling and Raven's grin grew wider. I definitely didn't 't know what she was thinking now. "What?" I asked, throwing my hands up.

"Nothing. It's just cute," Raven answered simply, with a shrug.

I gave an incredulous look, my hands on my hips, "What's cute?"

Raven laughed, almost a giggle. "You two. You know, a telepath and an empath. In lo—"

"Raven!" I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Come on. You're interested in him, admit it!"

I narrowed my eyes, "I'm not interested in him," I protested, knowing it was a flat out lie.

What Raven's prying eyes didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

"In whom?" Charles's voice startled the both of us from the open doorway of the room, and we both glanced at each other with wide eyes as he leaned against the door frame, evidently done with his running with Hank. He stood there, calm and collected as he looked between the two of us, awaiting our answers with that hint of a smile on his lips.

As if he didn't already know.

~~~x~~~

There were a few things I was concerned about on the way to the mall. Of course, I'm always for the opportunity to buy new clothes, but I didn't have much money on me to pay for my purchases. Not only that, the thought of where in the hell would a black woman like myself be able to shop in Upstate New York crossed my mind. I could envision those three familiar words that have plagued me my whole life.

'No Coloreds Allowed'

When I brought this up Charles tried to assuage my concern.

"Don't worry, I know a place where you won't be bothered," he assured, flashing me a quick smile.

"Do you always have a hard time shopping?" Erik asked, turning in the passenger seat to look at me.

"In the city no, especially where I lived," I answered, shaking my head. "People are a bit more open and welcoming to someone like me," I explained, looking out the window. "But here in Upstate New York State, this is probably a utopia for rich, white folks," I continued, bringing my attention back to the two men in the car. "No offense Charles," I added, a small smile on my lips.

"None taken,"

"The only time people up here probably see someone of my complexion is if they are 'the help'" I finished.

We arrived at the mall and Charles pulled into the vast parking lot, driving around for a bit before he drove into a vacant parking space just as Moira passed us, parking in the space next to us. I looked out the window and at the mall, it was a large complex crafted in sandstone that was only one story. The three of us simultaneously got out of the car just as the back door to Moira's car opened revealing a grumpy Alex.

"Thank God we're finally here," he grumbled.

I raised an eyebrow curious to know what he could be possible be grumpy about now, but then again it's Alex, he's always moody. It wasn't until I heard the sounds of Sean and Raven chatting excitedly, that I figured out why he was so annoyed.

"You alright Alex?" I asked.

"I'm fine now," he nodded. "I had to get out of there, Claudia. I couldn't take much more of those two. Why couldn't I ride with you three?" Alex asked.

"Adults only car," I answered simply, shrugging my shoulders. "Sorry kid, I don't make the rules," I added smiling, and Alex grumbled some more.

Raven approached me grinning, "I am so excited!" she cheered. "This is great! A real break from all that training and worrying about Shaw trying to kill us all. Finally!"

"Technically, we had a break three days ago because of the rain," I reminded, sticking a finger in the air.

"That doesn't count, we were still stuck in the mansion," Raven argued playfully.

"Everybody ready?" Charles asked us, and everyone nodded. "Let us go, then," he smiled.

The eagerly-chattering batch of teenagers walked ahead as we entered into the crowded mall.

I gawked at the beautiful interior of the mall, "I have never seen a mall look this beautiful," I commented, my eye sweeping over the design.

"Almost like a utopia, right?" Charles asked, a smile on his face. I rolled my eyes at him for referencing my comment earlier, as a smile formed on my lips. "Okay, everyone! Gather around! I got something to say, it won't be long," he announced. "You all are free to explore the mall, but I have two rules. Do not draw attention to yourselves and you must be back at the cars by 6:30," Charles explained. "Am I clear?" he asked, looking around at the younger mutants and they all nodded their heads. "Good, have fun," Charles finished smiling.

The boys immediately took off, Sean and Alex went in one direction while Hank walked in the opposite direction. So, now that just left us with Moira, Charles, Erik, Raven, and I. The five of us made our way down the long galleria, but the quick glittering of something bright in the corner of my eye caused me to stop. As if in a trance I walked over to a jewelry's storefront window display, stopping in front of it I stared at the glittering pieces of the marvelously crafted and elegant jewelry.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice commented, I whipped my head around to see Charles standing behind me flashing a grin. "Do you see something you like?"

I glanced back over to the display case, "Everything," I retorted, causing Charles to chuckle.

"Okay, how about being a bit more specific," he suggested, a playful smile on his face.

"Alright," I began, admiring a particularly lovely necklace. "That one," I stated, pointing to a gorgeous Baltic amber egg shaped pendant on a sterling silver chain. "I never seen anything like it," I smiled, looking over at Charles.

"The diamonds don't catch your fancy?" he asked curiously.

"Well, diamonds are a girl's best friend, but...I don't know why, but this necklace is speaking to me," I explained, folding my arms across my chest.

Charles grinned and began speaking, but I couldn't focus on the words coming out his mouth. It felt as if someone was burning hole through my skull with their stare, turning my head to the left I met the gaze of an older white man. He grinned at me, but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. Just as I was about return the gesture out of courtesy, I was suddenly struck by a pulse.

Lust.

I scrunched my nose, disgusted, I shot the man a glare. I placed my hand on Charles' arm silently telling him that we should go, but he didn't seem to notice my hand. I looked up and into Charles' eyes only to see him glaring at the man as well.

He must have obviously heard whatever thought ran across the perverted man's mind, while I had the unfortunate pleasure of feeling what he was thinking.

Charles placed his hand on my back, "Let's catch up with the others, shall we?" he suggested, but it was more of an order as ushered me away from the jewelry store.

"Gladly,"

~~~x~~~

"Charles?" I prompted, softly. He turned his head in my direction. "It's been about five minutes since our little encounter and I want to know what that dirty, old man was thinking," I explained, meeting his stare.

He rubbed the back of his neck, "I'm almost embarrassed to say," Charles replied, a flush creeping up his neck and to his cheeks.

"Humor me,"

"Alright. Well, to begin with, I could hear the man groan in his mind," Charles started.

I twisted my nose up, "Eww," I broke in, letting out a groan myself.

"This is what the man thought, and I quote, 'Ooo, mama...She's a pretty one. I wouldn't mind getting some of that tonight,'" Charles recited, scrunching his nose up as well. "I feel dirty for even saying those words aloud," he added, as we walked into a department store.

I laughed, "Ditto," I agreed.

It seemed my laughter attracted the attention of a sales rep, a pretty blonde dressed in red, with her hair done up in a flipped bouffant.

"May I help you?" she asked, completely ignored me and directing the question solely at Charles.

"Jesus Christ, this place," I thought.

I lowered my mental barrier and glanced at Charles.

"You're right, I won't be bothered here. They'll just act like I don't exist," I thought. "Or think of me as a sex object. And I can't tell which one is worse,"

"I'll make myself scarce then," I informed, glancing at him one last time.

I sighed and decided to go find Raven, making my way away from them, I heard Charles quickly answer with a 'No' and hurry past the rep. Charles caught my wrist and tried to stop me, but I shook him off.

"Charles, let me have my space," I thought.

I walked away without hindrance and continued on my journey to join Raven who was most likely in the women's department. Following the signs I found the department and Raven who was currently sorting through tops, even though she had plenty of clothes draped across her arm.

"And hear I thought I was the person to buy a ton of clothes," I commented smiling.

"Hey!" she cried, smiling herself. "They're not all for me, I picked stuff out for you to," Raven explained, looking up from her task. "You and Charles were taking to long," Raven added shrugging, and handed me the clothes she picked out.

I examined the clothes and checked the sizes which were strangely correct, "How did you know my size?" I asked, lifting my eyes away from the tag.

"I may have went into your room..." Raven answered, trailing off.

I lifted my eyebrow, "You did what?" I questioned, wanting an explanation.

"I didn't mean to," Raven began, lifting her hands in surrender. "Our laundry got mixed together and I went to return your shirts to your room. I know I shouldn't have, but I went snooping in your closet and drawers, I wanted to know your size in case I wanted to give you a gift or something," she explained, and I could see that she meant well.

"While I appreciate the thought Raven, please don't go in my room unless I say you can," I stated, giving her a pointed look.

She nodded her head, "Won't happen again. I promise," Raven assured.

"Good,"

"So..." Raven trailed off.

"So, what?" I repeated, wondering where this was going.

"So do you like Erik or Charles now? I'm confused," Raven asked as we walked down the aisle to lingerie.

"I beg your pardon? What?” I asked confused, raising my eyebrow again. "I don't like Erik," I stated, shaking my head. "Well, not like that, if that's what you're implying," I added.

"But you do like Charles?" she inquried. "You didn't deny it," Raven pointed out.

"Maybe a little. So what? I'm a big girl," I said shoving her playfully and putting my head on her shoulder as we walked.

"I'm pretty sure he likes you too. I've lived with him for so long and I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you," she explained. "But what's going on with you and Erik?"

I sighed, "Nothing is going on between Erik and I. We're friends, which is something I thought would never say," I laughed, as I began looking through a rack of lacy undergarments.

"So what did I see between the two of you during training a couple of days ago?" Raven asked, looking up from her rack.

My hand paused and I lifted my head to meet Raven's gaze, "Nothing," I answered shrugging. "We were practicing hand to hand combat, he knocked me off my feet and then proceeded to pin me to the ground," I explained, shrugging my shoulders before continue my search through the undergarments. "Nothing you should look too deeply into," I reasoned, trying to convince her.

Or...maybe I was trying to convince myself.

"Speak of the devil, look who it is," I commented, spotting the metal bender approaching us from afar. Raven's face went beet red, I don't know why though, possibly because of Erik approaching us while we're looking though undergarments. "No need to be embarrassed Raven, I'm sure Erik has seen lingerie before," I assured, lifting up a set off the rack. "He's probably even helped a few women out them," I added smirking, picking up another set.

"Dia..." Raven groaned.

"What?" I asked smiling, looking at her. "Erik, you naughty boy," I called, once he was closer to us. Erik rolled his eyes and chuckled, before propping one foot on the bottom of the rack and leaning against it. "What would people think seeing you in this section?" I asked, a playful tone evident in my voice.

"You know I could care less what people think, Claudia,"

"True enough," I conceded. "Speaking of what others think..." I trailed off. "Which one do you like?" I asked lifting both sets of lingerie up, one in each hand.

The set in my left hand was a pale blue embroidered with bright white lace, the fabric was silky and sheer and wonderful to the touch. The undergarment in my right hand, my favorite of the two, was a matching deep red bra and high waisted briefs, that was all lace and satin. The garment was meant for one purpose, seduction.

Erik brought two fingers to his chin and began to rub it as if he was thinking hard, "I don't know, it's hard to choose. Maybe you should model them for me," he suggested smirking.

My eyes widened as I let out a laugh of disbelief and my face heating up from the comment. In the corner of my eye I could see that Raven's jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

Laughing softly at my awed expression, Erik lifted his finger and pointed it to the right, "Choose the red set, the red sets off your black hair and brown eyes, not to mention it goes well with your skin color," he noted, shoving his hands in his pockets.

I nodded my head and smiled, "Thank you Erik for your expert opinion," I grinned, and Erik mirrored my expression before walking off.

"How were you not in the least bit embarrassed?" Raven questioned, her eyes wide.

"It's just underwear, what's to be embarrassed about?" I asked back smiling, with a shrug of my shoulder.

Raven chuckled, "Okay, but what about his modeling joke? I would have been red as a tomato if he said that to me," Raven stated, quickly glancing in the direction that Erik walked away from us.

"I'm quite flattered actually," I quipped, still a smile on my face.

Raven shook her head slightly, "I wish I had your confidence," she said a little sullenly.

"You will...maybe not today or tomorrow...but someday," I reassured, placing a hand on her arm and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "We'll work it on together. Now, come on, let's check out,"

~~~x~~~

I was laying on my back on Raven's bed staring up at the ceiling, my hand trailed up and down her thick warm duvet, the cover a wool and cotton blend.

"I look like terrible like this," she groaned,

I quickly pushed myself up from Raven's sturdy, yet soft mattress, "No! No you don't, you look amazing," I protested, staring at Raven in her true dark blue form.

Raven turned around to face me as her skin changed back to it's fair complexion, her pupils shifted from yellow to blue. She plopped down next to me and sighed as I ran my hand through the white fur throw, I glanced at the picture frame on Raven's dresser that had a picture of her, Charles, and a blonde haired woman that was probably their mother.

"I don't know why would you want to look like you do now? I mean, I understand your opinions and reasons...but why would you want to look your mother?" I questioned, tilting my head.

A tense silence followed the end of my sentence.

Raven slowly craned her toward me, her eyes wide as saucers, "How...did you know that?" she uttered, her skin becoming ashen.

"I'm so sorry," I apologized, turning my body to fully face Raven. "A few days ago you looked upset when you were staring at a picture of your mother. I had my shields down at the same time as I walked by you," I explained, running a hand through my hair. "Just as I was about to reseal my emotions, I felt this sudden wave of self-loathing and the strong desire to look like your mother," I continued, my lips forming a thin line. "Raven, I swear that I was not trying to snoop about your head," I promised, taking a hold of her hand and squeezing it.

Raven awkwardly nodded her head at my confession, I could see the varying emotions appearing on her face. We soaked up the silence.

I released Raven's hand and rose from her bed, "I should starting heading for my room," I announced, finally breaking the quiet and Raven just nodded. I made my way to her bedroom door and put my hand on the doorknob, pausing to look back at her before I left. "And remember Raven, confidence is key," I recited, a soft grin on my face as I opened the door and stepped out.

"Thanks Dia," Raven smiled, a grateful expression on her face. "Good night," she called.

I nodded my head, "Good night," I repeated, closing the door behind me.

Heading back to my room was a quiet affair, there was no one in the hallway, everyone was most likely getting ready for bed. I twisted the knob to my door and entered the room. My bed was buried underneath bags and bags of shopping. A smile grew on my lips at the thought of having new outfits and not being forced to wear the same clothes over and over.

My smile faltered when I spotted an unfamiliar small bag on my night stand. I pushed my door closed and walk over to my bed in confusion. I pick up the note attached to the bag in the front and read it.

Claudia,

I'm sorry about today, from the perverted old man objectifying you to the woman who disregarded your entire existence. You were right about me, I am a bit naive. I thought since there wouldn't be any signs banning you from coming in then there would be no problems. It was a foolish thought, racism doesn't just magically disappear. Though your evening was spoiled I wanted to give you something that truly seemed to bring you joy tonight.

Charles

I reached into the small bag and my fingertips brushed against something soft. Lifting the soft item up I could see now it was a long, velvet jewelry box. My eyes lit up slightly as I had inkling to what I was holding. Flipping open the box, I let out a soft laugh at what I was staring at.

It was that gorgeous Baltic amber necklace I spotted earlier.

Chapter Ten: Old Wounds

#x-men fanfiction #x-men fanfic #black fanfiction #charles xavier fanfiction #charles xavier x oc #black!oc #magneto x oc #erik lehnsherr x oc #erik lehnsherr fanfiction #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #black!reader #x men fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel imagine

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summonerscenarios · 4 years

Note

Hey! I hope you're doing well now that your well rested because you've got me worrying here a bit for you. Also since you wanted some fluff here's a scenario that I hope that you'll enjoy. Toji, Ryota and Moritaka hear sounds of a piano and a soothing voice singing in the distance. As they go to where the sound is coming from they are surprised to find that a bunch of kids are napping on the floor while the MC plays on the piano and singing a lulluby. As the MC finishes and spots the three, MC awkwardly explains that tthey were tasked by Ziz to take care of the kids while she goes out as Behemoth was in some kind of trouble again. The MC then looks at the sleeping kids smiling before looking and inviting the three to sleep with the MC and kids. Do they take the invitation or not? (PS: Pls for the love of all things holy go to sleep when the time calls for it, otherwise I'll end up worrying my head off.)

wow been a hot second since I posted any hcs - sorry about the slow posts I’m hoping to make more of a balance with some more soon! and don’t worry I am very well rested so rest assured hun!

---------

Toji

You’d mentioned something about having to stay after school and telling the others to go ahead without you, which Toji was fully prepared to agree to since you could always meet up with them all later once you’d finished your tasks. However Toji also found himself running errands around the school with Ryota after the latter had been asked to deliver a few things. As a result the two of them had ended up staying later than intended, and by the time they were ready to head home they’d ran into Moritaka, having finished his own club for the day. However before they could leave a noise had made them all pause, turning to look down the hallway of the floor they’d just entered.

It was music - Toji recognized the soft unmistakable tones of a piano, accompanied by the gentle croon of a voice that filtered down the hallway from one of the nearby rooms. The sound was enough to give Toji pause; given the time of day the only people who should have been on school grounds were either the teachers or one of the after school clubs, and most of those activities took place in the other school’s on-site buildings. His first thought was that someone was staying behind - maybe even one of the previously mentioned faculty members, but the voice didn’t sound like any teacher that he recognized so it must have been a student or someone else. That’s not his concern however, and Toji was just about to propose that the three of them leave and walk back to the dorms together when Ryota moves to investigate what’s caught their attention.

The sound of the singing leads them down the hallway, with Ryota’s interest obviously peaked as he attempts to discern which room the sound is coming from, looking through windows as he goes past for good measure. Whilst Toji does chide his friend for trying to snoop, it’s clear that Ryota’s not going to back down until he finds out where the singing is coming from, moving from door to door as he assure Toji that as soon as he sees where the music’s coming from they can go. For all they know, it could be a player someone left on! In which case they’d be able to turn it off and just go on their merry way; that’s Ryota’s excuse anyways, right up until he reaches the third door down. The music is loudest here, and Toji can even make out some of the words that the voice is singing in time with the thrum of piano keys; he can almost swear that he’s heard this song before, as well as the person singing it, but can’t quite recall where when Ryota’s expression catches his attention.

As he looks in his smile turns into a stunned expression, and almost comically Toji and Moritaka move to join him, though more hesitant than their excitable friend as they lean up to see what Ryota’s seeing. Toji notices you immediately, sat at the piano and singing along with the soft melody that you play and as soon as he sees your face it clicks - he’s caught you humming before on the way to classes or when you’re focused on something, and recognizes the tune from those times as the same one that he’s hearing now. It’s a lullaby from what he can guess, but that realization only comes to him as Toji turns his gaze to the floor of the room your in, and sees it littered with children, all sleeping the day away apparently lulled to rest by the sound of your lullaby. When you’d mentioned having to stay behind to do something earlier that day he never would have imagined it would be to take care of children - having someone who’s so reckless about putting themselves at risk for the sake of others, Toji doesn’t miss the irony of seeing you now, playing to an audience of sleeping kids and watching over them like a protective parent.

Toji also doesn’t miss the moment that you spot them, as for a split second the piano ceases, and all three of them tense when they realize it’s because you’ve caught them looking in, giving them a baffled look as though silently asking them what the hell they’re doing on school grounds. He’s got the right mind to ask you the same thing - how did you end up roped into doing all of this? You’ve been dragged into situations before, but he doubts that the role of babysitter has ever crossed that list before this point. It seems as though he’ll be getting that answer sooner than he thinks, when you tilt your head and motion them inside, turning back to the piano you’re sat at when you see Ryota peek his head into the room, followed my Moritaka, and then, after a brief hesitation, Toji.

You’d offered to help Ziz out watching over the little ones after school, something you admitted to them you hadn’t originally planned to do but ended up stepping in anyway when the kids took a shine to you and wanted to play. It was only when Ziz had gotten called out to sort out a small emergency that you’d carved and assured her that you’d watch over them, an offer that had very quickly become quite the handful having to deal with a group of excitable kids practically running all over the shop looking for something to do. You were just lucky that you knew how to play well enough and knew enough songs to convince them to stay put and listen for a while, and they’d only just nodded off by the time Toji and company had arrived.

You’re frazzled as you recall it, but even as you talk about the previous chaos Toji can see you smile, expression softening with relief as you turn back to look at the kids, watching them sleep without a care in the world. Moritaka makes a comment about how Miss Ziz was right to entrust you with their care and you chuckle at the praise, shaking your head as you hold one of the notes, movements slowing as you think. When you ask them if they’d like to stay for a while Toji’s taken aback not expecting you to offer - he’d assumed you were busy enough making sure the kids were content until Ziz came back, and that the extra company would just make them restless.

He’s torn between agreeing and leaving when you assure him that his presence won’t upset the kids in the slightest, however, Ryota and Moritaka don’t seem to have the trepidation that he does, as the pair are quick to settle down close to one of the spare spaces and make themselves comfortable. Toji turns back to you, and seeing you still with that soft smile he caves and decides to stay, taking a seat closest to the window and leaning back against the wall as he sits down. He almost looks like he’s keeping guard, arms folded as he looks out over the room of sleeping children and his friends as his gaze flickers between watching the door and the group. He doesn’t end up sleeping, but when you turn your back to him and begin playing again, the soft sound of your humming once again filling the room, Toji watches you play, eyes trailing over the piano keys as your fingers dance back and forth along them, creating a pleasant sound that Toji can’t help but find himself relaxing to, lowering his guard as he closes his eyes to listen.

Ryota

Upon hearing that you’d have to stay behind after school to finish something Ryota was one of the first to help - after all, work goes faster when you’re doing it with friends! You’d assured him that this was something you could take care of yourself and that you wouldn’t be that long, and it was with a promise of meeting up as soon as you were done that you went your separate ways. It was honestly pure chance that he’d ended up having to run a few errands in the school, but Ryota had wanted to help and convinced Toji to come along with him as he got the work done. It was pretty late by the time the two of them had finished, late enough that they’d ended up meeting with Moritaka right as he was leaving his own club activities for the day. Ryota was looking forward to walking back with his friends, and was wondering if maybe you were still in the building too, but before he was able to pull out his phone and message you, the trio stopped in their tracks.

When Ryota hears the sound of singing he perks up, even more so when he realizes that there’s a piano as well. The music wafts down the hallways towards them, coming from one of the rooms loud enough that he can hear the basic tune it’s playing - it’s slow, but sounds undeniably pretty as he takes a second to listen in. From this far away it sounds like it could be some kind of recording, like a radio had been left on or something, and he honestly can’t help but be intrigued - because honestly, how often do you hear piano music and singing after school hours? And that’s when he resolves to find out where the sound of music is coming from, walking down the hallways and over to the closest door, peeking inside to see if he can spot anything making the noise. Toji isn’t too fond of the idea of looking, but relents in light of Ryota’s assurances that they’ll be out of there before he knows it!

The first door yields no results, as well as the second one, but once he reaches the third door he just knows that the music is coming from the room inside. The piano sounds louder, and the voice that accompanies it is clearer, rising and falling in pitch but remaining soft throughout as he leans over to look into the room. He catches sight of someone perched at the piano inside, and not only does he realize that it’s not a recording but someone actually playing, but he also notices exactly who’s playing. It’s you - he didn’t know you could play and sing like that! It’s amazing! Ryota almost can’t believe what he’s seeing, even more so when he looks away from you and sees who else is in the room - a small gaggle of children sleeping contently all across the floor cuddling up to one another as they doze completely unaffected by the sound of you playing. Ryota snaps his attention over to Moritaka and Toji, waving the pair over as though to make sure that he’s not the only one seeing what’s happening.

And sure enough they both look equally shocked by what they see through the glass, a sight that apparently does not go unnoticed when Ryota notices your head turn, scanning over the kids to make sure they’re okay before your eyes drift past the window. You almost do a double take, not expecting your friends to be right outside of the door when you’d thought that they had all gone home. After a moment of pause, you silently motion for them to step inside and Ryota jumps at the offer, peeking his head into the room and being mindful not to disturb any of the sleeping children as he steps inside and makes his way over to where you’re sat, fingers still brushing over the keys albeit slower this time. You explain what happened to them as you continue to play, checking up on the kids throughout as you tell them about the small emergency that Ziz had to deal with and how she’d entrusted watching the kids to you while she went to settle the situation.

Ryota expected as much from you - you’re always willing to jump in for your friends and lend a hand when they needed it, and this is no different. It’s one of the qualities that made you who you were, though he can tell that you’re relieved to have them all finally asleep rather than bouncing off of the walls like they had apparently been earlier. Soon enough the topic of conversation switches, and when you offer to let them stay for a little while until Ziz comes back Ryota’s again one of the first to take you up on your offer, and you’re more than happy to have the company when Moritaka and Toji follow suit and agree to stay as well.

Ryota actually ends up sitting next to you at the piano, whispering questions asking what you’re playing and praising you for how nice the melody sounds as you play. After a little while he goes quiet and listens to the music, lulled into a relaxed state as the piano notes continue to flow from one song to the next. Eventually, you notice that he’s nodded off when you feel Ryota lean against you, expression content and you can’t help but smile, shifting your weight so that he can rest against your side more comfortably as you play the last notes of your lullaby.

Moritaka

When you had first told the others to go off without you and that you had a few errands to run before you caught up, Moritaka understood - after all, he also had commitments to attend his own after school club the same day. So the two of you had ended up going your separate ways from the other Summoners and walking together for a short while before your paths diverged. The last he’d seen of you was a flash of a smile and a wave before you were gone around the corner, and Moritaka thought little more of the encounter. He assumed that you had already returned to the doors by the time his club had concluded, but on his way through the building he ran into Ryota and Toji, the two of them being later than usual running some errands of their own in the building.

Out of the three of them Moritaka has the best hearing, so it makes sense that he’s the first of the trio who picks up on the soft piano tune that begins to filter into the hallway as they step onto the floor making their way to the exit. His ears perk up at the sound. He’s aware that the kendo club isn’t the only afterschool activity on the property, however he’s never had the chance to actually see all of them for himself and so he doesn’t believe it’s too out of the realm of possibility for there to be some kind of music-based club that finishes later in the day. Moritaka does have to admit that he’s curious though - he can make out a voice singing softly just below the noise of the piano, with a slow tempo as though it’s some kind of lullaby. It’s surprisingly soothing, and it appears as though his interest isn’t the only one peaked when Ryota moves to peek into some of the door windows, looking for the source of the music. Toji’s a little more strict, warning Ryota not to snoop, however, it isn’t long before those scoldings cease when his friend rationalizes that it’s fine to look so long as they don’t interrupt.

It turns out that the source of the music is closer than they all thought, as three doors in Ryota’s expression turns from curiosity to surprise as he whips around to face his friends and silently urges them forward with a quick gesture of his hand. Confused, Moritaka joins him to see what’s taking him so aback, and finds himself stunned as well at the sight behind the glass. It’s one of the music rooms, where a piano sits on the far end - there’s a figure perched on the stool and Moritaka watches for a moment, entranced by the way that their fingers dance across the keys, their voice alternating between humming and singing as they sing what Moritaka is now fully convinced is a lullaby. He isn’t sure what surprises him more - the fact that he recognizes that you're the one at the piano, singing and playing the instrument, or the fact that you’re flanked by an audience.

There’s a sleep mat rolled out on the floor, where a handful of children are splayed out on it in various stages of sleep; most of them are curled up with their blankets or cuddling up with one another as they rest, but one or two are still awake, heads resting in their hands as they try to watch you play, though it’s clear they’re equally drowsy as they’re lulled to sleep by your soft tune. This certainly wasn’t what any of them expected to find, much less Moritaka, and he honestly doesn’t realize that the three of them are so blatantly staring at the situation through the glass until you turn to look at the children, still playing as you check to make sure they’re all okay - your gaze is soft, as though happy to see them all so content and peaceful, but your eyes turn wide when you catch sight of your three friends, fingers freezing for but a moment when your eyes meet.

A flush of embarrassment fills Moritaka at your gaze, given that the three had essentially been caught snooping, however instead of waving them away like he expected you to do, your surprise melts into a bashful shrug and you tilt your head, indicating for them to come in as your hands return to playing the piano. Ryota’s the first to take up your invitation, and Moritaka is next to follow, carefully stepping around the sleep mat and moving over to your side to talk to you as you play. When you explain why Ziz left you in charge here the situation makes a lot more sense - you’ve always been good with people, so it makes sense for Ziz to have entrusted you to keep an eye on the children while she rushed off to an emergency; it’s not a decision she’d make lightly, and it seems her faith in you has paid off, and Moritaka mentions as much upon hearing your explanation. His praise is genuine which makes you a bit flustered given that you hadn’t thought much about helping Ziz out in the first place - you’d just decided to jump in when she needed an extra hand - so before you start getting bashful you swivel round and gesture over to the floor, offering to let them stay a while if they want, maybe even join in and take a nap until miss Ziz returns to take over.

Assuming that you’d like the company, and willing to help out should you need it, Moritaka ends up taking you up on your offer to sit down for a little while, finding a vacant space and making himself comfortable along with Ryota and Toji as you turn your focus back to playing, picking up where you left off. Being warm and fluffy it’s only natural that some of the kids, half-asleep and content, gravitate towards him, and there’s almost a tiny circle of children around him the next time that you turn to look at him - Mori doesn’t seem to mind, and so long as one of them doesn't make a grab for his tail he’s fine remaining like this for the duration of your time there.

#suafamily0003 #tokyo afterschool summoners #housamo #housamo imagine #housamo headcanon #headcanons #imagines #the summoners #toji #housamo toji #toji sakamori #ryota #housamo ryota #moritaka #moritaka inuzuka #housamo moritaka #request #ask

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torialeysha · 4 years

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Cold feet - Part 16

Bakers redemption

A/N: I’m on a roll guys! Your love, patience and support for this story fuels my fire for writing, a fire I thought I had lost and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you all <3

Songs: Carry me home - Jorja Smith ft Maverick Sabre

Can’t buy happiness - Tash Sultana

Fortunately the awkwardness of the journey home was lost on you as all you could do was think about Alfie. You questioned the sincerity of his visit and wondered why it had taken him so long to realise you had lied about the ridiculous possibility of him not being the father of your unborn baby? He had asked you for forgiveness. A shot at redemption. Could you give it to him? Could you allow him another chance when he had already let you down not once but twice? Were you foolish enough to give him the opportunity to do it again? Would he do it again? He said that he had seen the error of his ways and that he really did want the baby. Did he mean it? Could you believe him even if he did? He said he could prove it to you and you were curious to see how. Silently you pondered, driving yourself insane with question after question that regrettably you didn’t have the answers to.

After a tedious battle with the London traffic the car finally pulled up outside the opulent townhouse Charles was renting. The atmosphere still frosty and tense as you crossed it’s threshold. You were in the process of removing your coat when one of the butlers collared Charles.

“There’s a Mr Changretta waiting for you in the lounge, sir.” He announced casually as he took your coat. Your hair immediately stood on end.

“Ok. I’ll be right there. Meanwhile, could you please fetch Ms Y/L/N something to eat.” Charles hands his coat to the butler then turns to you. “I won’t be long. Feel free to start without me.” He told you coldly. But you were no longer worried about food and more concerned about the fact that Luca Changretta was in the next room.

Fraught, you staggered to the dining room and began to pace, anxiously wondering what the occupants next door were discussing. You manoeuvred towards the wall that separated the lounge from the dining room and placed your ear against it, hoping that the divide was thin enough to be able to hear their conversation. Their muffled voices vibrated through the wall. You edged closer to the crack of the locked double doors that connected the two rooms and the voices got slightly clearer.

“...And you really trust this broad? You’re sure she isn’t the problem?” It was Luca’s voice.

“Of course I trust her! I wouldn’t have involved her if I didn’t.”

“How much does she know?”

“Hardly anything. She asked me some questions about the club. Why I bought it for her and why I insisted I put it in her name and not mine, but her curiosity is only natural, Luca.”

Your stomach rolled realising they were talking about you.

“What did you tell her?”

“I fed her some bullshit about wanting to give her the world.”

“Nice. So she doesn’t know anything about the money coming in from New York?”

“No, I take care of the books and I keep them locked in my safe.”

“Good.”

There was a brief silence before Luca spoke again.

“Tell me, Cuz, what are your feelings for this broad? You still intend on marrying her when this is all over?”

Cuz? Why would Luca call Charles that?

“Yes. I love her.”

Charles’ confession made you feel sick.

There’s another long pause before Luca speaks again.

“Then you have my blessing. But I’m warning ya, I don’t know if my dear Aunt will be as accepting. You know how she only wants the best for her son.”

Cousin? Aunt? Son? You felt the colour drain from your face as realisation dawned on you.

“Y/N is best for me. Now can we please stop discussing my personal life and get back to business.”

“Of course. I hear what you’re saying about the Jew but we need him alive for now. I think he’ll be able to help us deal with Thomas Shelby.”

“Solomon’s is tight with Shelby. There’s no way he’d sell him out.”

“Oh, he will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse... Don’t look so worried, Chuck, all will be revealed soon. You just carry on doing what you’re doing and remember that we’re doing this per la famiglia. Luca’s foreign tongue made you shudder. “Once Solomon’s, Shelby and Sabini are dealt with. London will be ours for the taking.”

You pulled away from the door just as Charles was asking about Sabini. You had heard enough.

It was worse than you or Tommy had anticipated. Charles and Luca wasn’t just business relations, they were blood relations. His money was their money. Your time and efforts had been in vain. Any hope of sabotaging their connection was gone. Replaced with an overwhelming sense of alarming trepidation. You had to leave. There was no way you could stay now knowing what you know.

The main door of the dining room swung open, startling you.

“I’m terribly sorry miss. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The flustered housemaid apologised as she shuffled in with your supper.

“Please don’t apologise.” You told her shakily.

“You’re white as a sheet! I must’ve given you a proper fright. Poor thing. Sit ya self down and I’ll fetch you something to drink.”

“No, no. I’m fine. It’s just-I’ve received word today that my friend isn’t well and it’s come as quite a shock. I would like to check on her to see if she’s feeling better. Could you let Mr Fenton know that I’m going to visit her and I won’t be back until later.”

“Of course, Miss, but what about your tea?” She signals to the silver tray she’s carrying.

“I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I’ll eat it when I return.”

“Ok, Miss. I’ll put it by for later.” She took off with the tray of food and without a second thought you made for the door without even stopping for your coat or purse.

In a daze you wandered down the street, feeling hopelessly lost in a city that had been your home for 20 odd years. You headed north, knowing that regardless of your current uncertainty towards Alfie you would have to warn him and get word to Tommy. Without your purse you had no money to jump on a bus or the underground. Your only option was to trudge the busy late afternoon streets to your destination. It would take roughly an hour to get from Central to Camden, probably the same amount of time it would take Charles to suspect something was amiss. It was a distressing thought that caused you to pick up pace. To make up time you decided to take a shortcut that lead you along the river and down the canals. It was a risky move as the muddy banks of the canals were refuge to some unsavoury characters - mainly drunkards - desperate men that would find easy prey on a young woman trekking the waterways on her own.

The sun was slowly sinking into twilight by the time you had reached Camden lock. Despite your exhaustion you were relieved to have made it in one piece but you shouldn’t have spoke too soon. In the distance you could see a group of what looked like 3 men huddled together along the path which you needed to pass to get across to the bakery. Your blistered feet slowed but it was too late, they had already spotted you. You quickly tried to think of an alternative route. The only other way was to swim across but jumping in and braving the grim green water that was frothing with rubbish and other questionable substances wasn’t tempting to say the least. There was nothing you could do now except carry on walking with your chin held high as if their shady presence didn’t intimidate you. You argued with yourself as you approached that maybe you had jumped to a brash assumption and that they were in fact a harmless trio who would just let you pass without a second glance. As you got closer they rose from their makeshift perches and swayed towards you. It was then you knew that your brash assumption had been correct.

“Evening treacle.” One slurred. “What brings you down ‘ere then?” He smiled, revealing a row of yellow teeth that were gradually rotting a browny black. You ignored him and tried to pass but he obstructed you.

“Let me pass!” You ordered him.

“Now then, that’s not nice. You could at least ask nicely. Say please.” He slurred.

“Please let me pass.” You said through gritted teeth.

The other two came to stand beside him. Panicking, you tried hard to conceal the trembling of your body.

“Beg.” He tells you through a snarl.

“I love it when they beg.” One of the other men chimed in, earning a chortle from his soapy comrades.

You laugh as if joining in with their sadistic merriment. Then quick as a whippet you tried to barge through their burly blockade, effectively knocking one of the men into the drink. The middle one grabbed you. You turned as he did so, kneeing him between the legs. He dropped to the floor and you made to escape but was grabbed again by the last remaining man. His filthy hand covered your mouth, cutting you off mid scream. You thrashed in his arms. Your eyes widening as the man on the floor rose slowly.

“We’ve got a feisty one ‘ere, Del.”

“Let’s see how feisty she is once I’ve finished with ‘er.” The man you knocked to the floor was now fully upright, stalking towards you.

You closed your eyes, helplessly awaiting your fate.

“Get your filthy fucking hands off ‘er!”

Your eyes shot open at the unmistakable voice coming from behind you.

The man turned suddenly with you still in his arms. Your eyes landed on Alfie and Ollie and you wanted to cry out in relief.

“Mr Solomon’s - I was only helping the poor Lass. She was lost, ya see.” He muttered a sheepish reply. His arms loosening around you. You pushed away from him stricken and lurched into Alfie’s arms.

“Are you ok, Yahalom?” He asked, pushing away the hair from your face and checking you over for any sign of injury.

You noded, clinging to him.

“Run!” One of the men shouted and they both fled in opposite directions. The one who had hold of you tried to leg-it past Alfie who with a flick of his cane tripped him before he could get any further. Alfie pushed you to Ollie, and pounced on top of the fallen man. Savagely he landed a shocking set of bone crunching blows upon the sputtering and sobbing man on the floor.

You started to shake uncontrollably. Your chest heaving to draw in breaths.

“Alfie, stop now. You’re scaring ‘er!” Ollie yelled at Alfie who stopped immediately.

“Get ‘er out of ‘ere!” He shouted.

You felt Ollie tug on your arm.

“No-I c-can’t go-I need t-to talk to A-alfie.” You chattered numbly.

“It’s ok, Y/N. Let’s wait for him inside and you can talk to him then, yeah?” Ollie asked you soothingly. You stopped resisting, allowing him to guide you over the bridge of the canal and inside the huge double door entrance of the bakery. He set you down on a crate.

“Are you ok?” Ollie asked. Kneeling in front of you.

You shook your head from side to side, unable to speak through the loud chattering of your teeth.

“We were just leaving. You’re lucky we spotted you, ya know.”

You didn’t answer him. Instead you reached out and gave his hand a grateful squeeze.

Alfie exploded through the doors, making you and Ollie jump. His blood splattered face was a fit of pure rage.

“How many fucking times have I told you not to walk the canals on your own? If me and him would have left ‘ere half hour ago like we were supposed to, what would have happened then, ay?” His eyes flickered as he tortured himself pointlessly with the sickening possibilities.

“Alright, Alfie. Calm down, ay? We left at the right time and luckily Y/N weren’t hurt-“ Ollie started calmly before Alfie interrupted him.

“- You sure they didn’t hurt you?” Alfie asked.

“I’m sure.”

“The fuck was you thinking, Pet?” His stern voice was slightly softer now.

“I-I wasn’t-“

“-Where’s your coat?” He asked suddenly. “Them cunts take it?”

“No, I left it behind-there was n-no time- I had t-to get out of there fast-I left my coat behind along with my p-purse-I’ve had to walk from Central-thats why I t-took the sh-shortcut.” You stuttered senselessly, barely pausing to take a breath. Alfie took off his coat and draped it over your shoulders. You pulled it tightly around yourself. His musky scent clung to the heavy wool material that was still warm with the heat of his body. You inhaled deeply, feeling instantly calmer. “I couldn’t stay there, Alfie. I had to leave, I had to get out of there!”

“Calm down, Yahalom, and tell me exactly what’s happened?” He ordered, his eyes wild.

“It’s Charles. He and Lu-ca Changretta are related. They’re cousins. I-I overheard them talking. They said something about money coming in from New York and taking over London. They’re going to take down everyone in their way - you, Tommy, even Sabini. Everything Tommy said is true and there’s nothing I can do about it. We have to warn Thomas.”

Alfie exchanged a look with Ollie.

“Did he know you were listening in on his conversation?” Ollie asked.

“No. But he’ll know I’m missing by now and maybe he’ll put two and two together. I told the housemaid to tell him I was visiting an ill friend but I’m not sure he’ll believe that.”

“Right then. Well, first things first.” Alfie put his arms around your shoulders and lifted you gently from where you rested. “I need to get you out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay here and help sort this.” You told him wilfully.

“You’ve done all you can, pet. Let me and Tommy deal with this now.”

“So all of this was for nothing? Me staying with Charles, weeks of misery and sneaking around. That was all for nothing?”

“This isn’t your fight, Y/N. It never was your fight.” Alfie sighed.

“They’re planning on killing you, Alfie - the father of my unborn baby. Tell me how that isn’t my fight?” You sobbed angrily.

He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you lightly.

“Look at me.” He said firmly. Your wide eyes rose to his. “I can handle it, right. What I can’t handle is the worry of anything happening to you. Which is why I’m getting you out of ‘ere, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming. I’m taking you and that unborn baby of mine to safety. You ‘ear me? That’s our priority now, yeah?”

“...Yeah.” You whispered, knowing he was right.

“Come on.”

You held on to him as you walked, your weary feet stinging with every faltered step you took.

“You need me to carry you?” He asked.

You shook your head weakly.

The sun had now almost set but the brightness outside was still blinding as you emerged from the darkness of the distillery.

“Get in the car.” Alfie ordered.

You did as he said, sliding into the front passenger seat and trying to avoid looking across the canal where your attacker still lay, a lifeless crumpled, mess on the floor. You blocked it out and focused on Alfie through the windscreen instead. He was leant into Ollie, telling him something. Ollie gave him a contrite nod and handed him what looked like a set of keys. With a pat on the back, Alfie left him to climb in to the drivers seat. He started the engine.

“Isn’t Ollie coming with us?”

“Na. He’s got to sort a few things out for me.” He replied, shoving the shift stick into gear and pulling off. You watched him intently. An unsolicited heat crept over you as he manoeuvred the machine with a confident ease that you couldn’t help but find alluring.

“Where are we going?” You asked croakily.

“Let me worry about that, right. You look exhausted. Rest your head and I’ll wake you when we get there.”

Too weak to argue you did just that. Leaning your head against the window which was slick with condensation. The soft purr of the cars engine lulled you rapidly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

You were roused from your confined slumber by Alfie as he lifted you from the passenger seat into his arms. Your neck throbbed where you had laid awkwardly propped up against the window for God knows how long. You let the aching heaviness of your head rest against Alfies chest as he carried you. A whooshing noise echoed familiarly in the blustery background, intertwined with what sounded like crunching gravel beneath Alfie’s feet as he walked. Curiously your sluggish eyes peered at your surroundings. You could just about make out the silhouette of a building and an unusual looking tree against the dark blue of the night sky.

Exhausted, your head fell back onto Alfie’s chest and you buried your face in the crook of his neck to shield it from the tenacious chill of the night air. He came to a stop holding you tightly with one arm as the other searched his trouser pocket. A jingling of keys and the sound of the lock turning, then you were finally inside and out of the cold.

The smell of fresh paint and varnish filled your nostrils as he carried you over the foreign residence. After kicking the door closed with his foot, you felt him ascend a set of stairs in the darkness, effortlessly, as if he was already well acquainted with the steps. A door creaked open and then shortly after you were being lowered. You unfolded from him as he placed you on the soft cushioning of a mattress. Your head sunk into the fluffy pillows, your arms stretching across the width of the spacious bed. Your eyes opened when you realised Alfie wasn’t joining you.

“Don’t leave me.” You begged.

“Sssh.” He soothed softly. His heavy hand brushing back your hair from your face. “You’re safe now, Yahalom.”

Your eyes closed, his reassuring tone and tender touch settling you back to sleep.

You awoke with a start. Looking around the huge room that was now highlighted by an orange hue emanating from the fire that crackled and danced in the fireplace adjacent to the bed. The ceaseless whooshing you heard earlier broke in from a set of french doors to your left and you raised from the bed to investigate. Pulling back the floor length curtains that decorated them, you were shocked to see the mosaicked balcony and the beach landscape that it overlooked. At a glance it appeared that Alfie had stolen you away from the perilous situation in London and brought you to Margate - your safe haven. But what was this place? It wasn’t a B&B or a hotel because you remembered that Alfie had entered with a key - you assumed the same key Ollie had handed him before you left. You glanced around the room once more, the unfamiliarity of your surroundings causing you great unease. And it was quiet, too quiet. Where was Alfie?

You poked your nose out of the bedroom door and peeked down the length of the darkened hallway. A sliver of warm light shone from a partially open door of one of the rooms and cautiously you ambled towards it. You lingered outside, your nerves settling when you heard Alfie’s hushed tone beyond the wood.

“Did you get hold of the rabbi?”

There was a long pause before Alfie spoke again.

“I don’t care what fucking time it is just keep trying. I want him up ‘ere by the end of the week, before the fight... Yeah? Well make-fucking-sure.” You heard a crashing bang which you guessed was the receiver of the telephone being put down on whoever Alfie was talking to.

“Are you gonna stand out there all fucking night or you gonna come in?” He shouted out to you, causing you to smile.

You entered slowly, stalling in the doorway.

Alfie was sat at a desk, a much neater, more fancier desk than the one he usually occupied at the bakery.

“You alright?” He asked, watching you intently as you came to sit in front of him.

You nodded absentmindedly, too busy taking in the plush interior of the room.

“Did you speak to Tommy?” You asked eagerly, your eyes finally meeting his. He waited a moment before answering you.

“Na, I ain’t been able to get hold of him. I’ll try again in the morning...You sure you’re alright?”

“Where are we?” You queried, ignoring his question.

“Margate.”

“No, I mean here.” You pointed to where you were sat. “Whose house is this?”

“This is our house.” He said casually.

You look at him stunned. Your mouth agape.

“Our house?”

He nodded simply.

“W-when? How?” You stuttered, dumbfounded.

“I bought it a while back, after I saw you again at the Eden. It was in a bit of a two an’ eight when I bought it. Taken me an’ the boys a little while to do up.”

“I’m confused.” You shook your head. “You’ve bought a house in Margate? But we’re so far away from London, from your businesses. What about the bakery?”

“I’m retiring, Yahalom. I’ve sold up all the properties I own and I’ve handed the bakery down to Ollie. This was my plan all along. The only way I knew I could keep you safe.”

It took you a moment to process everything and still you were stunned speechless.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I thought this was what you wanted?” He cites.

“It was-“

Alfie narrowed his eyes at your use of past tense.

“-I mean is.” You corrected swiftly before carrying on “It’s just come as a bit of a shock is all.”

“Hmm.” He let out a suspicious grunt. “It’s not the best timing after the day you’ve had, I get that. But that was out of my control wern’it?”

You nodded solemnly. Still trying to wrap your head around everything.

“I thought you’d be happy, Yahalom?”

“I am.” You frowned.

“At least show it then. Crack a smile or summin. You’ve got a face like a slapped arse at the minute.” You heard a frustrated annoyance creep into the grimmess of his voice.

“I don’t know how I feel about it, if I’m being honest. The last few months have been a whirlwind for me. I haven’t slept properly in days, weeks even. Weary to the bone. Wracked with guilt and worry. I honestly don’t know wether I’m coming or going. And now you’re telling me that you’re selling up. Leaving behind everything you’ve worked so hard to build and for what?”

“For us!” He barked. “For us to be together without the worry of someone hurting you to hurt me. And yeah, I’ve worked hard, I’ve earn’t my money, however, it’s time for me to rest now and enjoy the fruits of my labour.”

“I’m not sure, Alf...” You hummed uneasily.

“What’s there to be unsure of?”

“I still ain’t sure this is what you really want!” You snapped frustratedly. “A quiet life by the sea, a child you never wanted...I just can’t see it.” You admitted sadly.

He exhaled harshly, rising from his desk and stepping round to extend a hand to you.

“Come with me. I wanna show you something.”

Reluctantly you took his offered hand and let him guide you back out into the hallway and along to a room that was situated next to the one you had been resting in earlier.

He opened the door and moved aside for you to enter.

The waxing moon shon brightly through the bare windows, lighting up the room with it’s spectacular lunar glow. You stepped through noticing immediately the cot that lay new and empty against the far wall, next to it was a matching chest of drawers and a rocking horse that looked like it had been plucked from a fairground carousel.

Your eyes shot to Alfie whose bear like frame was leant in the doorway studying your reaction.

“When did you do this?”

“A couple of days ago. The room needs a lick of paint but I thought you might wanna choose the colour.” He came to join you in the centre of the room.

“So you did all this before you come to see me? Before you were even certain that the baby yours?...Why?”

He was silent for a moment, deep in thought.

He shrugged. “I s’pose deep down I knew you were lying and that the baby was mine... or maybe I didn’t fucking care, I dunno... doing this...it just felt right.”

“But you said-“

“-I know what I said but saying don’t mean fuck all does it. Actions speak louder than words.” He motions to the room. “And this speaks fucking volumes, dunnit. I mean if this doesn’t prove to you that this is what I really want then I don’t know what will.”

Reassurance drifted over you as you looked once again around the unfinished nursery.

“Say something.” He requested quietly.

Wordlessly you rushed to him and threw your arms around his broad shoulders.

“You like it then? You’re happy?” He confirmed uncertainly.

“I do. I am. It’s...wonderful! Thank you!” You choked a reply, your voice struggling past the forming lump in your throat.

He pulled you closer, his shoulders relaxing as if a weight had been lifted off them.

“You want me to show you round the rest of the house?” He whispered gruffly into your hair.

“Not tonight. Show me tomorrow in the daylight so I can properly take in the beauty of it all.”

“Alright. Well, what shall we do now then?” You were sure you heard a seductive undertone in his question and took full advantage.

“Take me to our bed.”

“You ain’t gotta ask me twice.” He said. His eyes lighting up at your words.

You squealed when he lifted you in his arms and carried you to the next room.

“Cor blimey. You’ve got heavier already.” He huffs.

“Oh give over, I ain’t even showing properly yet. You’re just getting weaker with age, old man.” You teased him.

“Oi! I’ll have you know that there’s nothing wrong with my stamina and I will gladly prove that to you in a minute.” He threatened hotly. Sending your pulse racing. “There’s just one more thing I’ve got to do first.”

He set you down carefully on your own two feet.

“Can’t it wait?” You whined as he stepped away from you and headed towards the door.

“It won’t take me a minute.” He assured you.

You stood in the middle of the once unfamiliar room that you now knew was yours and Alfies. Sighing happily, you glided to the french doors and tried the handle. They opened willingly under your touch. The chill of the night air was refreshing as you stepped out on to the balcony. Leaning on the stone balaustrade, you observed the unrelenting waves that stretched the distance, relishing in the peacefulness of their crashing melody. Nothing could ruin this moment, not even the ugliness of the Changretta situation. All that mattered right now was your future with Alfie, a future that this morning never even existed.

“Yahalom?” Alfie called, having returned.

You spun to look at him. He marched skittishly towards you, his hands behind his back, as he joined you on the balcony.

“I know I’ve asked you this before but as you so poignantly pointed out to me the other day, it’s a proposal that has since expired. So, I’m gonna ask you again... Y/N Y/L/N will you marry me?” He asked gruffly, his eyes so intense you thought they could set you on fire. You gasped unexpectedly. Although it was the second time he had asked you, it was the first time you had heard him say those words aloud.

“Oh, Alfie. Of course I’ll marry you.”

“Thank fuck for that. Here then.” He produced a ring that was hidden in his clenched fist behind his back. Grabbing your hand he slipped it on your finger. You stared down at it in awe. A ruby once again burned brightly on your finger but it wasn’t the one you were used to. You frowned down at the foreignness of the rings delicate beauty and the circle of winking diamonds that surrounded the red gem like a halo.

“I searched high and low for the other one in the bakery but couldn’t find it. So I bought you another one. D’you like it?”

“It’s beautiful... I was just expecting to see the old one.” You replied, your heart sinking at the thought of your first engagement ring being lost forever. It was only supposed to be a temporary ring, taken from Alfie’s pinky finger until he had gotten you a proper one. There wasn’t much to it just a thick gold band with a faceted ruby so red it was hypnotising. Back then you had persuaded Alfie not to buy a replacement, that you wanted to keep his one as every time you looked at it it reminded you of him. Now, thanks to yourself you’ll never see it again.

“That’s old hat now that one though, innit? a token of who we used to be. We’ve been through a lot of shit, right, shit I wanna leave in the past. I want us to have a fresh start, a clean slate, and this house and this ring is where it begins.”

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#alfie solomons #alfie solomons fanfiction #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #by order of the peaky blinders

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one-boring-person · 4 years

Text

Just A Babysitter. (Part Five)

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: mentions of drug and alcohol use, some vague mentions of gore.

Context: (Y/n) entertains herself at the cave whilst the boys show Michael their true selves, before they rejoin her for some quality time spent together.

A/N: I apologise that this took longer to get out, but km quite happy with it, even if some parts don't necessarily work "realistically" 😅

Part One , Part Two , Part Three , Part Four , Part Six , Part Seven , Part Eight

"Wanna take a drag?" Paul offers me, leaning over from his perch directly beside me on the railing of the Boardwalk, a lit joint pinched between his fingers.

"Nah, I'm good, thanks. Not really my thing." I decline, gently pushing his hand away from my face, wrinkling my nose at the pungent smell of weed.

"I forget that you're an alcoholic, not a junky. Sorry." The vampire responds, teasing me with smirk as I elbow him in the ribs, a grin on my own face.

"I wouldn't tease her for that, if I were you, Paul. We all know she holds her alcohol better than you do." David points out, giving us a pointed look as he inhales a breath of smoke from the cigarette in his hand. Marko and Dwayne snicker at this, the former yelping when Paul gives him a light slap on the back of the head.

"Not true! I'm not a lightweight!" He protests, though he knows full well that what David says is true.

"You're a lightweight compared to (Y/n)." Dwayne chips in, grinning at us from under his dark hair as he flicks it out of his eyes, the wind having blown it there in the first place.

Paul opens and closes his mouth a few times before giving in, shrugging and taking a drag of his joint in defeat.

"Not as lightweight as Marko." He mutters, a smirk on his face as he says this, intending to get a rise out of the mentioned vampire.

"More so, in fact." Marko retorts, pushing against his friend's back jokingly, laughing when Paul yelps in mock surprise.

He is cut off suddenly when he is pushed aside by a rather distressed Michael, the half-vampire angrily shoving Marko into me, nearly throwing me over the edge and onto the sand below, only just caught by Paul, who sacrifices his joint to save me. Steadying me, the vampire makes sure I'm alright before turning his blue-eyed gaze onto the brunette, staring at him as the rest of us do.

"Where is she?!" Michael growls into the leader's face, grabbing hold of his collar.

In response, David breathes out a lungful of smoke and chuckles, taking Michael's hands off of him.

"Take it easy, Michael." He says calmly, looking the half-vampire in the eye.

"Where is Star, David?" Michael spits out, putting heavy emphasis on the blonde's name.

"Michael, you ever wanna see Star again, you better come with us now." He threatens, face turning serious as the brunette lets him go, breathing erratic.

At his words, I immediately understand what is going to happen, and make a quick decision. As David moves to go back to the motorcycles, I tap at his arm, getting his attention as I walk beside him, voice quiet as I speak to him.

"Can I go home? I don't really want to watch you guys eat a bunch of people tonight..." My voice trails off as I start to think about how stupid and pathetic I must sound, surprised when the vampire places his arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer to his icy body, smiling down at me.

"Of course. Go make sure the other two aren't up to anything bad." David says, rubbing my arm gently before releasing me as we approach the bikes, climbing onto his with a practiced ease. Following suit, I get up onto mine and kick start the engine, waiting for the others to do the same, watching as Michael hesitantly joins us, eyes flicking to mine with confusion and trepidation. In response, I give him a sympathetic look, knowing full well that he will be horrified by what will become his fate.

As a group, we pull out onto the road, taking the route through town to get out, David surprisingly allowing me to ride closer to him than usual, the blonde smirking at me across the gap as I get level with him. Behind us, Paul, Dwayne and Marko all cry out in excitement, their energy levels shooting up at the prospect of a feed, whilst Michael just becomes even more worried. As we leave civilisation, we approach a junction, where we'd normally turn right towards the Bluff, but this time it's only me who takes this route, my hand lifting into a wave as I veer away from the others, bringing up the speed as much as I can as I turn onto the mostly empty road.

For once, I mostly stick to the rules of the road, staying on the correct side and keeping to the speed limits, my pace not quite as wild as it usually is, though I do skip through a few traffic lights I come across, grimacing when I hear the protests of others behind me. The ride up the dusty track leading to the Bluff is no different however, I take it as fast as I usually do, skidding on the dust a little as the bike struggles to grip the ground. A giddy whoop of thrill rips from my throat as it does so, a grin forming on my face in response to this, just proving how much of an adrenaline junky I really am.

Finally, I reach the Bluff, stopping the bike and getting off before hiding it where we normally do, going down the rickety walkway into the cave, navigating it by instinct, seeing as it is nearly pitch black when the lighthouse isn't pointing at it. The interior is lit up by the braziers, the cheerful yet somehow tense sounds of Star and Laddie playing around floating up to me as I get closer, slowing my descent. It's not often these days that Star actually plays with the boy, mostly passing it off onto me or Paul, or Dwayne, who Laddie sees almost as a father figure of sorts. It's not that she doesn't care, it's just that she's preoccupied with other things, like the prospect of becoming a fully fledged vampire, which I can understand.

Entering the sunken hotel, I try to be as quiet as possible, making sure I don't step on any of the debris littering the floor, aiming not to interrupt the two of them at all. Somehow I manage to succeed in doing so, stepping silently over to the corner where my armchair is situated, taking a seat and picking up a book to read, which just so happens to be Anne Rice's "Interview With The Vampire", a favourite of mine ever since the boys bought it for me a couple of years ago, as a joke. Even as I read it through now, I find myself drawing parallels between the characters and my friends, specifically Laddie and Claudia, who are both turned at a young age, and will never fully experience what adulthood is like thanks to this. At the thought of this, a sense of pity wells up in me, thinking back to the boy who I've come to care for as a younger brother, knowing that, eventually, he will become bitter and resentful at his fate, no matter what the rest of us do to help him. If only the boys had read the book, then it might have occurred to them how unfair Laddie's life will soon become.

For a little while, I read the book, soon tiring of the pages as I finish the storyline in my head knowing it all too well, standing from my seat and stretching out my stiff muscles with a sigh. Placing the book down, I survey the area, quickly making up my decision when I notice the familiar beams of wood resting against the far wall, their ends not too far from the secure iron frameworks latticing the ceiling, their rusty bars appearing mostly safe. With a small smile, I go over to them, testing their stability before taking a firm hold of them, bracing my feet against the rock wall and shuffling upwards. A groan escapes me at the exertion, but I push on, determined to reach the top, ignoring the steadily growing burn in my muscles, halting briefly when the beam to my left suddenly makes a cracking noise, a burst of panic making me tense up. When nothing further happens, I continue on my way, going a little more cautiously so as to avoid putting too much pressure on the old pieces of wood, a proud grin splitting my face as I reach the top, my head turning around to gauge the distance between me and the first iron bar. Judging it well, I reach out one arm and push off the wall, feeling suddenly vulnerable somewhere in the middle as I stop on my trajectory, before I feel the reassuring roughness of the iron beneath my fingers.

Taking hold of it with both hands, I allow myself to swing for a moment, enjoying the new perspective of the room briefly, grimacing when I finally heave myself onto the bar, precariously managing to stand up, my feet somehow finding safe purchase on the frame. Using the other bars around me as a railing, I walk along the bar until I reach the middle of the room, where I then sit down, swinging my legs over the edge, watching the room intently, waiting for the two half-vampires to emerge from the curtained area by their beds. I sit there for ten minutes before I see anything, my eyebrow lifting when I notice Star step out into the light, alone wearing a black jacket, looking around as if to check if the rest of us are back yet. I decide to put her out of her misery.

"Going somewhere?" I call down to her plastering a pleasant smile onto my face.

Surprised, Star looks around with wide eyes, trying to find me in the shadows, not once looking upwards towards the ceiling, where I'm residing, amused by her oblivion.

"Up here." I quickly inform her, trying not to laugh when she finally finds me, shock lining her face.

"(Y/n)?! How the hell did you...?" She starts, voice trailing off when she casts her eyes around the room, trying to find out how I got to my perch.

"I climbed. Now answer my question." I respond, smiling at her to show I'm not trying to be controlling, even if that's how it sounds.

"I'm going out." She confirms, clenching her jaw a little.

"Out?" I question, looking at my watch to check the time.

"Yeah, I'm going to the Boardwalk." I can tell she's lying, but I don't say anything, instead telling her to have fun, assuming that she's put Laddie to bed already, seeing as she is willing to leave him alone.

As she leaves, I decide that I'm bored with my current position and decide to change it up, knowing that any slip of the hand could be deadly. Carefully, I manoeuvre myself so that I'm hanging upside down with my legs hooked over the bar, my feet linked under another one a foot or two away to provide stability, my clothes all hitching up around my shoulders as the gravity pulls them downwards. Instantly, I can feel the blood rush to my head, my vision briefly clouding over as I try my best to ignore it, biting my lip when the nausea starts to kick in. Despite all this, the thrill of hanging by a thread seems to excite me, my adrenaline pumping through me, my heartbeat racing in anticipation.

Vaguely, I hear as the boys finally return, their voices loud in the confined space, energy clearly high after feeding; knowing them, they probably came in wearing their victims on their clothes, too. I spot them quickly as they enter the room, their brows furrowing as they notice I'm not in my usual spot, clearly picking up my scent and the sound of my pulse, but unable to place my whereabouts.

"Where is she?" Marko wonders aloud, looking around in concern.

"She's not with Laddie." Paul states, having just gone to check, confusion lacing his voice as the other two stay quiet.

David and Dwayne seem to come to the same conclusion, their gazes landing on the beams I used to climb up, before following them up to the ceiling, worry etched into their faces. They don't spot me immediately, but I give them a grin and a quick wave, and they realise where I am, David letting out a chuckle as he spots me, Dwayne only sighing in exasperation, followed by a broad grin when Marko and Paul continue to figure it out. The former notices David and Dwayne looking up, and follows their line of sight, eyes widening when he sees me, a giggle escaping him, along with a gasp of surprise, Paul figuring it out seconds later.

"How'd you get up there?!" He calls up to me, grinning maniacally at the sight.

"I climbed." I inform them, struggling to talk now, what with the oxygen rushing to my brain, deciding to get back into a comfortable position.

"You climbed? Damn, you have some serious muscle." Marko compliments, making me blush at the comment.

"How do you plan to get back down?" David inquires, smirking at me as I look at the beams against the wall, finally noticing that the climb down wouldn't work as easily as the journey up did, what with the pieces of wood having cracked through the middle.

"Yeah, I didn't think of that." I reply, frowning a bit at the predicament I'm in, embarrassment making me blush.

The sudden sight of Dwayne standing in front of me makes me jump, the brunette grinning widely at me, the vampire clearly having flown up her using his vampiric abilities.

"Jesus, Dwayne, you scared the hell out of me!" I curse, placing a hand over my heart as if to calm it.

"Oops." He responds, before leaning forwards and picking me up, ignoring my protests as he cradles me against his chest, stepping off of the beam again once he's got me. Slowly, he descends back to the cave floor, setting me back on my feet as the rest of the boys crowd around me.

"What made you think I was ready to come down?" I grumble in mock irritation, trying not to smile as Paul mimics me, instinctually giving him a light slap on the chest as he does so. At our antics, the others chuckle, watching as Paul gives me a gentle shove in response, which ultimately breaks out into a playful wrestling match between us as we refuse to let the other win.

For a few minutes, we roll around on the floor, trying our best to get the upper hand, which he eventually manages to do, pinning my body to the floor by grabbing my wrists and holding them above my heads, grinning when he notices my chest heaving in exhaustion, a pout making it's way onto my face at the fact I lost. Again.

"No fair, you used your vampire strength!" I complain, waiting for him to let me up again.

"Nope, I didn't. You'd know if I did, girly." The vampire smirks, not budging as I start to wriggle under his lanky frame, only just noticing the blood still staining the white fabric of his trousers.

"Still." I continue, gritting my teeth as I try my best to get out from under him, looking around to the other boys for help. David smirks and shrugs, letting me know it's my own predicament and I need to get out of it alone, Dwayne smiles at me, clearly enjoying the show, whilst Marko is nowhere to be seen.

"Get off me, you're heavy as hell!" I protest, going limp in his arms as I give up wriggling out from his grip.

"I'm not!' Paul exclaims, acting offended though his blue eyes are glittering with mischief. However, just as he's about to continue, the air is suddenly knocked out of him and he goes flying over my head, his body crashing to the floor a couple of metres away with another, smaller one situated on top of him, Marko's devious giggling echoing around the cave as he and the other vampire get into a scrap again, both of them laughing together. Watching them from my spot lying on the floor, I allow a smile to plaster itself across my face, enjoying watching the two of them playfight, not noticing when Dwayne comes over to help me up, the tall brunette grinning at me as he offers me his hand.

Taking it, I allow him to pull me to my feet, groaning when I feel the blood rush to my head, my balance faltering momentarily before the tall vampire manages to catch me, chuckling lowly as he steadies me against his body. Leading me over to the random sofa they have lying around, he sits me down on it and joins me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as I let my head drop onto his chest, still watching the two younger vampires scuffle around with each other. A quick glance across the room tells me that David is just as invested in the show as we are, the platinum blonde's lips slightly upturned into a smirk.

"Where'd Star go?" Dwayne asks me after a moment, shooting a worried look at the bed in the corner, having finally noticed that it is empty.

"She said she was going to the Boardwalk, but I don't believe her. I think she went to see Michael." I reply, admitting my thoughts to the group because they'll figure it out sooner or later anyway.

"You're probably right. He's gonna need the support anyway." Dwayne comments, brow furrowed a little, even if his tone is light.

"How do you mean?" I question him, confused until the pieces click into place, "I guess he didn't take too well to the whole killing people thing, then?"

"He was terrified." David confirms from across the room, rolling his eyes at the memory.

"Yeah, well, that's a given, surely? I didn't exactly have the best reaction myself, did I?" I point out, embarrassed at the reminder of my childish reaction, back when they first showed me who they really were.

"True, but you didn't stick your face in the sand to avoid looking at us." David replies, smirking briefly before turning back to the other two, "Are you quite finished? The sun's coming up soon."

Almost sheepishly, Paul and Marko pry themselves apart, straightening themselves up as they quickly apologise, though it is obvious that they don't really care. Seeing Dwayne and I together on the sofa, they both exchange a glance, swiftly throwing themselves at the two of us with all the force they can muster, eager to join us. Instantly, Paul sits himself with his head in my lap, moving my hands to his hair, allowing me to touch it for once, Marko draping himself over the back of the sofa, his head resting on my shoulder. Smiling, I carefully brush my fingers through Paul's mess of hair, leaning my head against Marko's as Dwayne pulls me closer into him, rubbing my arm gently, watching as the other vampires soak up the affection, clearly happy to be in such proximity.

Across the room, David watches us, his blue eyes giving away no emotion even if there is a small smile gracing his lips, his head cocked to the side in interest. Eventually, he stands and comes closer to us, sitting himself on the side of the fountain so as not to impose, unsure of what else to do. From my position under the rest of them, I shoot him a quick smile before Paul lets out a complaint, the lanky vampire insisting I stay focused on him, which draws an exasperated eyeroll out of both David and Dwayne, the latter reaching down briefly to flick him in the side of the head. Almost instantly, Paul has retaliated, poking the brunette's leg with a cheeky pout on his lips. Marko giggles as we watch the two of them start a little war of poking and prodding each other, neither vampire willing to give in until one of them accidentally catches me, at which point a surprised yelp escapes me, alerting them both to this fact. Both are quick to apologise, Dwayne pressing a swift kiss to my temple as Paul does the same to the palm of my hand, slender fingers tracing a pattern on the tender skin as he pulls away, smiling up at me apologetically.

For a little while, we remain as we are, comfortably sitting in each other's presence, though I can tell David wishes he were more involved, before all four of them realise what time it is, looks of worry and irritation creeping into place onto their faces.

"What's wrong?" I question them, confused as to their sudden change of mood.

"The sun is coming up." David supplies simply, blue eyes narrowed with frustration.

"Oh." My voice is laced with disappointment, even though I know it isn't their fault.

"Sorry, girly. We gotta go." Paul says to me, reluctantly rolling himself off my lap and onto the floor catching himself on his hands and knees as he behaves himself upright. With a sigh, Dwayne and Marko release me, too, the former giving me one last squeeze as he stands up, stretching his tall body put with a satisfying cracking sound, growling when Paul pokes his stomach in the process, a chase swiftly ensuing as the blonde vampire runs, giggling, towards their sleeping area. Marko gives me one last hug before pursuing them, eager to see Paul get his ass kicked by Dwayne, eyes glittering in amusement.

David is the last to leave, coming over to me on the sofa for a moment and sitting himself beside me, slinging an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into him. It's rare that he gives me this much affection, so I eagerly wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face into the material of his jacket, inhaling the familiar scent of old cigarette smoke, motor oil and blood which has always, surprisingly, comforted me. His low chuckle resonates through his chest, his other arm coming up to hold me tightly, pressing me into his cold body, thumbs rubbing circles into my back as he always has done, ever since they first took me in.

Too soon, he pulls away, pressing a careful kiss to my forehead as he does so, blue eyes softening for a second as they make contact with mine, the proximity causing my pulse to pick up considerably. Knowing he can hear it, I stand up from his grip, pulling him with me as I cast my gaze to the entrance to the cave, where the first rays of sunlight are just becoming visible.

"Sleep well, David." I say to him quietly, hanging my head a bit, as if ashamed at my body's reaction to him and the others.

Lightly, he takes my chin in his hand, tilting my head back up to him as he meets my guilty eyes.

"You, too, (Y/n)." He responds, voice just as soft as mine, a smile gracing his lips before he turns away from me, walking into the tunnel leading to their sleeping area, giving me one last glance as he disappears into the darkness.

Sighing, I take myself to my bed, taking off my jacket and shoes as I prepare to climb into the warm confines, not quite tired just yet, even though I should be. A footstep behind me snaps my attention to the entrance of the room, irrational fear briefly exploding in my mind until I turn to find Star standing there, an odd look on her face.

"Star? What's up?"

"Nothing, I just, err..." She begins, trying to find the right words, "Well, I wanted to say sorry for being a bit of an ass to you these past few days, especially with how good you've been to Laddie. He really loves being with you."

At first, I'm a bit surprised, but I swiftly push it down, motioning for her to come closer. She takes a seat beside me on the bed, her body tense and uncomfortable.

"You don't have to be sorry, life hasn't exactly been easy for you recently. I doubt being a half-vampire is simple at the best of times, so you've been dealing with it quite well, on the scale of things." I reassure her, the words genuine.

"Doesn't give me an excuse to be rude."

"Of course it does. It's not a light choice to make, so I don't blame you for being a bit tense. Don't be so hard on yourself, it's not your fault the whole transition thing is so taxing."

At my words, she gives me a small smile, glad that I'm not flipping out on her at all, even though I have been irritated with her at times in the past few days. I do understand why, though, so I don't really blame her for anything.

"Thanks, (Y/n). I'm glad I've got another girl to talk to." She admits, leaning over to hug me gently, as if afraid to touch me. Carefully, I return the gesture, patting her on the back comfortingly.

"Yeah, me too. There's just a little bit too much testosterone flying around without you." I grin as she chuckles, pulling back a little to look me in the eye.

"Same goes for the other way round." Star chuckles, getting up and going to the doorway, looking back at me, "Thank you again."

"Of course." I reply, smiling at her, happy that she came to talk to me.

"Goodnight, or good day, I guess." She says, allowing me to reply before leaving the room.

I take a few moments to think things through, eventually slipping beneath the covers and into the comfortable interior of the been sighing as I allow myself to relax. It takes me a while to fall asleep, and it is fitful when I finally manage to, the slightest noise waking me up.

Much to my advantage, it turns out.

Part Six

#david(thelostboys)#joel schumacher #the lost boys #vampire #dwayne(the lost boys)#kiefer sutherland #paul(the lost boys)#marko(the lost boys)#star(the lost boys)#santa carla #laddie(the lost boys)#michael(the lost boys)

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slashhinginghasher · 4 years

Text

Midnight Star - Chromeskull x OFC - Part 8: The Greater of Three Evils

wow another chapter six months later. much shock. so surprise

Big TW for NONCON at the end of this chapter. Please read with caution.

This work is on Ao3!

Summary: Worst first date ever.

***

Her reward was a bedroom and a fat, juicy orange the size of both her fists. The orange came first; Cromeans produced it from some hidden jacket pocket and placed it in her lap with exaggerated delicacy. For a half-second, she was afraid he’d leave her there to stare uselessly at the piece of fruit until she caved and asked him to free her hands - or worse, to fucking feed her - but he unlocked her left wrist and… left.

Every instinct told her to rip into the orange before it could be taken away, but she forced herself to go slow. Having gone down the starvation route more times than a person should, she knew that stuffing her face would just lead to everything coming back up a few minutes later. She removed the peel in small, methodical pieces while her stomach growled at her like a rabid dog. Then she neatly sectioned one wedge from its neighbors and, self-control over, shoved the whole thing in her mouth. It was a good thing she was alone because she really didn’t want to cry in front of any of these bastards, but fuck, it was a good orange.

And then the brunette woman named Spann had to ruin it by walking in with another entourage of black-clad assholes. The tension that had marginally left Marena’s shoulders came back full force. Spann smiled at her again. Marena was really starting to hate that smile. It was indulgent and slightly condescending, the sort of subtle smugness that came from a person who knew they had damn well earned the right to be smug.

“You aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you?” Spann asked in a pleasant voice that suggested that she knew the correct answer, and that it would be better for Marena’s structural integrity if she also knew the correct answer. Marena was sorely tempted to spit a mouthful of half-chewed pulp in the other woman’s face, but that would have definitely fallen under the category of “stupid”, and besides, it was a really good orange. Instead, she silently held the brunette’s gaze, blank-faced, unmoving, unblinking, which she had been told by multiple people was “really fucking creepy.”

“Good,” Spann said, like she was praising a child. She nodded to one of the assholes who, to Marena’s credit, looking mildly terrified as he unlocked the other cuff. Marena jerked the newly freed hand into her lap just to watch him flinch at the sharp movement, because she was also kind of an asshole.

“Can you walk?” There was a solid chance that the answer to that question was “no”, but like fuck was Marena going to tell any of them that. She pushed back the sheets, noting with distaste that the sluttish excuse for a nightgown she’d been dressed in didn’t even hit mid-thigh, and carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed. The tile floor was cold against her bare, blistered feet, which was about the only thing that felt good at the moment. The motion had sent her head into a throbbing, nauseated whirl. Her weakened muscles burned and cramped. But she’d done a lot more with a lot worse, so she told her body to shut the hell up and pushed herself fully upright. Her right leg buckled slightly, and she leaned her hip against the railing of the bed like she’d meant to do that all along. Spann wasn’t fooled, but she played along.

“Follow me, then.”

Marena wanted to put up a fight. She wanted to be difficult, and violent, and savage. But she was tired. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know what was going to happen to her, although it was probably going to be very unpleasant. And she had talked. A lot. There was a deep, dull ache in each of her shoulders and she could feel the memories hovering around her, waiting for her to fall asleep so they could dive in and eat what was left of her from the inside out. She shouldn’t have caved. She should have let him rape and torture her until she died, and taken all her shitty secrets with her to the grave.

There was also the pride-rankling fact that Mr. Cromeans had gotten more out of her in a matter of days than a trained therapist had in more than two years. Maybe if they taught psychiatrists how to throw a punch, they’d be more effective.

They reached the bedroom by elevator because apparently her captor was the kind of jackass to have an elevator in his fucking house. Spann didn’t say another word, a small blessing since Marena didn’t think she could handle any conversational attempts without making something bleed. Her legs gave out moments after Spann and the Faceless Muscle Squad shut the door behind her. She pressed her face into the carpet (very plush, very soft) and allowed herself to give in to the absolute, soul-obliterating panic for a count of ten. Then she forced herself upright and took stock.

The room was small (by rich people standards) and sparsely furnished (by rich people standards). The carpet was black, the walls painted deep red like a cheesy vampire movie. The bed, dresser, and wardrobe were all carved out of dark wood and were too heavy for Marena to move, especially in her current physical condition of suck. The single window was made of thick, possibly bulletproof, glass, and seemed unopenable. A peek through the slats of the blinds offered a view of a large interior courtyard and a sunset-painted sky. Even if she could get the window open, there would be no escape that way.

She didn’t bother looking for cameras. She knew they’d be there.

The attached bathroom was almost as big as the main room, with white marble floors shot through with gold. The bathtub and shower were huge, big enough for three people. Or one normal-sized person and one freakishly large person, but if she thought about that for too long she’d start spiralling. At least a dozen different hair products sat in the metal shower caddy, most of which Marena had no idea what to do with, and she’d bet Cromeans didn’t either, since he was fucking bald. Maybe he’d had someone (Spann?) buy them, or maybe they were leftover from the mysterious Veronica that Preston had so obviously wanted to taunt her with. It didn’t take a genius to guess that the woman was most likely dead.

Lucky bitch.

A huge mirror was set into the wall above the bathroom sink, but she didn’t walk far enough forward for it to catch her reflection. Marena avoided mirrors as a general rule; she’d covered the one in her shithole apartment with an old bedsheet. Seeing her face tended to fuck her up on a good day, and in her current state… it might break her, and she couldn’t afford to break right now. She returned to the main room and faced the wardrobe with the trepidation of someone about to open a box that might or might not contain a dead body. The wooden doors mocked her as she stood there, clenching and flexing her fingers. She took a deep breath that wasn’t remotely fortifying and threw them open.

Lace. Lace and tulle and silk because men, rich men, were so fucking predictable it was disgusting. Her gaze caught on a baby blue dress and she slammed the doors shut, staggering backwards until she hit the bed, and then the ground. She couldn’t even look in the direction of the dresser, although she had a fairly good idea of what it contained and it made her want to rip all those pretty dresses to ribbons and hang herself with them. The pain in her shoulders was radiating down her arms and across her back, but she couldn’t rub the ache away without feeling the ghost of the House Master’s touch as he did up the buttons of her dress after Hana changed out the bandages, his perfect pretty little kukolka, and he did always love her in blue... She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted Hana back, and the grief was so heavy it was crushing her, like so much dirt over a grave.

Marena curled in on herself and tried not to fall apart.

***

Her well-deserved panic attack was interrupted sometime later when the door unlocked with an electronic whir and a heavy click. She pressed her back against the wall, waiting for someone - something - to come through, but the door remained shut. Second after excruciating second crept by with no sign of movement. Marena remained huddled on the floor, fists clenched, jaw clenched, hackles up like a dog ready to lunge.

Seconds turned to minutes, and she got bored.

So much of Marena’s life had been spent in a state of torturous waiting. Waiting for Guests to arrive or leave. Waiting for the villagers to let her out of the river. Waiting for the beatings to stop. Waiting for the various devils in her life to fall asleep so she could slip away for a single moment of solitude. She was tired of waiting, and as much as she didn’t want to face whatever hell was about to be inflicted on her, she could not stand to spend one more moment suspended in this agony of uncertainty.

Pushing herself to her feet, she inched her way to the door, preparing to kick in the fucking kneecaps of whoever was on the other side. But there was only an empty corridor and a piece of paper on the floor.

Fourth door on the right.

The obvious choice was to go to the left, then, where a break in the wall indicated a stairway or another hallway. Or was it obvious? Maybe Cromeans was trying to lure her in that direction by giving her orders to do the opposite, expecting her to disobey. So then the thing to do would be to go to the right, to avoid whatever was on the left. Although that didn’t mean that the right was safe. Perhaps Cromeans was so supremely confident in her inability to escape that he just expected she’d end up where she was told. She didn’t know the layout of the house, and if the car had been any indication, her captor was a technophile. That meant cameras, alarm systems, remote locks, maybe even booby traps. Was that something people did outside of movies? Okay. So assuming both directions were bad news, why leave any options open? Why not send an escort? Perhaps it came down to obedience. Disobey and you get punished; obey and you deserve whatever happens to you because you went willingly?

Fuck. She hated mind games. She barely had a grasp on what happened in her own head, let alone somebody else’s.

She could always remove herself from the situation completely. Lie down in that nice, big bathtub and take a few deep breaths until everything went watery and dark. Marena’s will to live was driven by spite more than anything else, but it was - save for one or two notable exceptions - iron-clad and unshakeable. She wasn’t afraid to die, but was she ready to make that final surrender?

It was the cameras that decided it for her, in the end. They were well-hidden in the room, but she could see a few small, red lights blinking in the gloom of the hallway. Cromeans was probably watching her right now, and if he really was just a few doors down, then he’d have plenty of time to foil a suicide attempt. And plenty of motivation to rain unholy hell down upon her when she woke. Men like him didn’t like it when their toys were taken away prematurely. Trying to rob him of the pleasure of orchestrating her death would end up very, very ugly. For her.

You don’t get to kill what is mine.

Marena shuddered and instinctively wrapped an arm around her midriff as she pushed the memory away. She was already going to have nightmares about bullets and pearl-handled guns the next time she slept; she didn’t need to add her nasty little suicide attempt to the queue. Of course, it was perfectly plausible that she would die before she got a chance to sleep again, or that Cromeans had something planned that would eclipse either of those in its awfulness. She ripped the note to shreds, trying to find some sense of control in the tiny act of destruction, and headed for the fourth door on the right.

It was some sort of lounge, all dark earth tones and metal accents. The center of the room was dominated by a dark, heavy slab of a wooden table that could easily seat twenty people. There was a lit fireplace to her right (which had to be fake, because who in the fuck could ever feel cold here?), heavy drapes blocking the far wall, something that looked like a home bar, and honestly, all of the details of this god-awful hell house were starting to blur together and she just couldn’t bring herself to give a shit about interior decorating.

A hand shot out from her periphery, slapping another pair of metal handcuffs on her wrists before she could even twitch, and the only coherent thought her overworked brain could produce was “Was he hiding behind the fucking door?”

Cromeans looked terribly pleased with himself as he ushered her towards a seat at the table. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that made it very apparent that yes, his biceps were bigger than her goddamn thighs, which was just fucking excessive, honestly. Heavy metal was playing in the background, a looping, ever-shifting soundscape of electric guitar, drums, and male aggression. Marena was normally quite partial to the genre, but a headache was building behind her eyes, and all this “friendly” buildup made her sure that whatever was going to happen to her tonight would be that much worse.

In a testament to how absolutely out of it she was, she didn’t notice the food on the table until she was seated right in front of it. Meat, greens, bread, wine. More of those heavenly oranges. She ate mechanically, ignoring the wine, refusing to look up at Cromeans where he sat on the other side of the table. It all tasted like glue and stuck in her throat the same way. If they were two normal people on a regular date, it would have been the most awkward first date in history. They barely qualified as people, though, let alone normal, and Marena could only wish Cromeans was feeling even a little uncomfortable. Smug fucker was probably having the time of his life.

Her steak knife sat heavy and tempting in her hand, but there wasn’t much she could do with it. The chain between her wrists was about 18 inches long, enough for her to eat without much trouble, but too short to throw a knife or a punch without an obvious and awkward windup. If Cromeans wasn’t such a stupidly big man, she’d try to choke him out with the chain. But she would need a damn ladder to reach around his neck while he was standing, and she doubted she’d be able to get behind him while he was sitting.

Cromeans stood and smirked as Marena clumsily pushed to her feet after him, desperate to close the height gap between them even slightly. He sauntered over to the bar, holding up two empty glasses and quirking a brow in question. Marena nodded. He turned his back to her and started fiddling with bottles and shakers and… cocktail things. She snatched up the steak knife and crept towards him, drawing on every bit of stealth she’d honed while hunting and hiding as a child. He knew she was weak right now, unlikely to try or succeed at any sort of physical attack. His hands would be full with both glasses, slowing his reaction time by a crucial fraction of a second. His right side was a blind spot. She would sneak up behind him and stab him in the throat when he turned around, and hopefully he wouldn’t be able to snap her neck before he bled out.

She drew as close as she dared. Stilled her breath. Stilled the knife, both hands wrapped white-knuckle tight around the handle. He turned. She lunged. Glass shattered. Her arms weren’t moving.

He caught it.

He caught the fucking knife.

Oh. BLYAT’.

If she thought the look on his face after kicking him in the balls was scary, it had nothing on the way he was looking at her now. Blood trickled between his fingers as he tightened his grip on the blade before wrenching it out of Marena’s grasp and tossing it aside.

There was a flash of silver. Moving purely on instinct, Marena threw her hands up, stopping the other, bigger knife he’d pulled from somewhere with the chain of her cuffs. Her arms shook with strain, the cuffs biting into the tender skin of her wrists. With a deft motion, Cromeans twisted the knife, wrapping the chain around its serrated blade until Marena’s hands were pressed together, all slack gone. Using the knife as a handle, he forced her backwards, step by step, until she was pressed against the table. Dishes were sent crashing to the floor with a mighty sweep of his arm, and then she was laid out on the table’s surface. Cromeans stabbed the knife into the dark wood, then yanked her back towards him until her arms were stretched above her head and her hips were at the edge of the table.

Panic opened like a yawning abyss in her chest, the sheer scope of her terror threatening to swallow her whole when Cromeans produced another knife and brought down near the scar on one of her shoulders. But he didn’t stab it into the old bullet wound the way she’d expected. Instead, he sliced through the straps of her silk shift and pulled the fabric down with a vicious tug that left her completely bare to his gaze, which was fast shifting from rage to pure, undiluted lust. He devoured her, drinking in the sight of her naked body like he’d never seen a pair of tits before. She wanted to say as much, but fear - and habit - had her voice in a vice grip.

He forced her legs open and stepped between her thighs as he dragged his hands over her hips, his injured hand leaving smears of blood in its wake. The table was tall enough that Marena’s toes barely brushed the ground; she had no leverage with which to kick him or push herself away. She flinched at the first touch of his hand between her legs, hating herself for reacting but unable to stop it. The first brush of his thumb over her clit was feather-light. The second was firmer and dragged a bone-deep shudder from her. With the exception of an asshole cop who got a little too handsy while frisking her, Marena hadn’t had any prolonged human contact in four years, and her touch-starved body didn’t know whether to pull away or lean into the pleasure. The result was an ineffectual jerk that did nothing but bring an infuriating smirk to Cromeans’ face.

And the knife moved, just a little.

Marena took a deep, shuddering breath, followed by an equally shaky exhale, shifting her hips slightly as though in surrender. Cromeans was tracing tingling patterns around her slit, drawing enough moisture that he could almost slip a finger inside. When she was certain his attention was fixed entirely on her cunt, she wrapped her fingers around the knife and began to work it free. The serrated edges of the blade cut into her fingertips immediately, hot sparkles of pain shooting down her fingers. She ignored it, just as she ignored the inexorable dance of the fingers between her legs and the building heat in her core. She just had to get the knife free, and then this nightmare would be over, one way or another.

So close, so close, so close…

Cromeans’ fist slammed down on the hilt of the knife, forcing it several inches deeper into the wood, and buried his cock in her at the same moment. Marena nearly bit through her tongue at the sudden painful stretch. She couldn’t breathe; he was in her and around her and god why did every fucking part of him have to be so big? He didn’t give her time to adjust before starting a brutal pace, long, hard strokes that stole her breath and dragged against every nerve ending in her pussy. One huge hand was splayed across her abdomen; Marena thought he must be able to feel himself moving inside her through her stomach. The other wrapped around her throat, tight enough to choke but not enough to let her black out.

She tried in vain to disconnect, to retreat behind the walls she’d spent so many years building in her mind. But Cromeans had added a twist to his hips that brushed against a spot inside her and made her see stars. The jolts of pleasure pulled her back to herself, made it impossible to divorce her mind from her body. Something hot and wonderful and terrible was building inside her. She wanted it to stop. She was being smothered and she wanted everything to stop.

Cromeans reached down to circle her clit once more, and the tension snapped. The orgasm rushed over her like a wildfire. A tsunami. A supernova. Marena was dimly aware of the way her back arched as her inner muscles clenched around Cromeans’ hard length. A strangled, keening gasp that escaped her throat just before he tightened his grip enough to completely cut off her air, pelvis grinding against hers as he chased his own release. Each stuttering thrust sent aftershocks of pleasure-pain skittering through her body. Her vision was starting to tunnel when he bottomed out for the final time and came with a growl that she felt more than heard.

He remained seated inside her for a long minute, breathing hard and supporting himself on one forearm. The hand around her throat eased from a choking grip to soothing strokes, like he could wipe away the lurid bruises already forming with a gentle enough touch. At last, he pulled out and tucked himself away. He wrenched the knife out of the table and pulled Marena into a sitting position. Her body was quivering, boneless; she doubted she’d have been able to sit up on her own. Cromeans pressed a chaste, lingering kiss to her mouth as he unlocked the cuffs. Then he ran two fingers through the mess of cum and blood coating her inner thighs and licked the digits clean with a wink.

He turned his back and poured himself another drink.

***

Marena didn’t remember leaving the lounge. Didn’t remember staggering down the hall. She had no idea how long she’d been standing in the doorway of her bathroom, swaying slightly and staring blankly at the wall. The stickiness between her thighs had mostly dried, smears of pale pink that matched the tender places where the denim of Cromeans’ pants had rubbed her skin raw. Her hands and wrists were covered in drying blood, fresh rivulets still seeping from the angry marks left by the cuffs.

She raised a shaking hand to her mouth, feeling the ghost of his scarred lips on hers, and her guts knotted violently. She lurched forward, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet just in time to vomit up everything she’d ever eaten in her life. Then she turned on the shower as cold as it would go and stood under the freezing spray until her lips turned blue.

#this is gross and i am very sorry #also it's really hard to write smut when you're a virgin #my writing #jesse cromeans #chromeskull #laid to rest #marena polunochnaya #slasher oc #not sure if im going to continue this tbh #not to be fishing for comments or anything but the lack of response is... disappointing #the brain effort that goes into making the words pretty just doesn't feel worth it if no one else cares

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fleckcmscott · 4 years

Text

The Falls

Summary: Arthur and Y/N reach Gotham City Hall. Two weeks later, they share a taste of newly-wedded bliss.

Warnings: Swearing, Adult situations

Words: 5,953

A/N: This request came from @jokerownsmysoul. I'm grateful for it - it was a real challenge. I can't wait for more! I also need to extend a hearty thanks to @sweet-nothings04 for her support. I've been going through a rough period, which is why my output has slowed. She encouraged me, listened to and helped me work through my doubts, and gave me great feedback. Also, send love to @howdylilflower for reading through this, sharing her thoughts, and pointing out my obvious errors!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Gotham City Hall was, to put it briefly, imposing. Statues of former mayors and city founders stood on either side of its massive staircase. The Corinthian capitals of the portico's columns rose three stories above the entrance. The glass and copper doors, made heavy by their vertical, iron security bars, provided a sense of elite exclusion, regardless of it being a municipal building.

As Y/N and Arthur dashed up the marble steps, their buoyant laughter filling the air, none of that mattered. All that pomp and circumstance was immaterial compared to the leap they were about to make. The leap she hadn't expected that morning but had craved for months. The leap into wedlock and all the dedication, trust, and responsibility that went with it.

The Office of Licensure and Registration was far busier than she'd assumed - it was set to close in half an hour. Two clerks worked the winding line of people dealing with the unremarkableness of bureaucracy. A woman complained about the cost to renew a dog license. ("But he's only a mutt!") At the window, a man was being told he needed to head down the hall and to the left. One guy was muttering to himself about what he was going to have for dinner once he was "out of this hellhole." The atmosphere, admittedly, was not ideal.

However, the love of her life standing beside her, clutching her hand a tad too hard, made it perfect. She examined Arthur's profile as he stared ahead. The joy and relief hadn't left his visage after she'd accepted his proposal. Pensiveness hid in the flare of his nostrils, though. In the repeated clench of his jaw. In the quiet bounce of one knee.

She pursed her lips. Taking off up the street and demanding to be married straight away had been pushy. Under no circumstance did she want him to feel pressured, especially not when it came to this. But, she considered, it was natural to be anxious. And he'd appeared ecstatic, too, nearly yanking her onto his lap on the bench at Lemmars Park.

Tucking back the stray, chestnut strand by his temple, she murmured, "I'm the happiest woman on earth right now." She gently loosened her fingers from his grip and hugged his slim waist. With a bashful duck of his chin and quick puff, his arm went across her shoulders. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes told her his tight-lipped smile was sincere. That he needed this as much as she did. That he'd be all right.

The clerk, whose nametag read "Kyle," was polite and indifferent. Leaning on the counter, they hastily retrieved their IDs from her purse and Arthur's wallet. She rattled off her social security number from memory, while he had to find his card. After paying a fifteen-dollar fee, a slew of typing, and Y/N promising to provide a copy of her divorce papers, Kyle handed them a fountain pen and beige piece of parchment.

Floral borders decorated the edges, an art deco design out of the twenties. The title "Marriage License" leapt out, printed in a font belonging to a carnival barker's wagon. Their names, cities of birth, and birthdays were listed. A final paragraph stated the following: "The undersigned are both of sound mind, are consenting adults, and willingly commit to the bonds of matrimony." They merely had to sign on the respective "bride" and "groom" lines to make it official.

Y/N bent to sign the paper without delay. Not wanting to smudge the ink, she forced her hand to go slower than usual. Arthur grazed her knuckles as she passed him the pen. Only a couple seconds went by, then he jotted his name, a scraggly "A. Fleck." She heard his breath catch as the clerk notarized the document.

The paper needed to be mailed to central office for processing, Kyle explained (which Y/N already knew). A photocopy was made so she could change her name. The official marriage certificate could be picked up in approximately three weeks. To her surprise, he said, "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Fleck" before closing the window's shade.

And that was it. They were husband and wife in less time than it took to register a new car.

Exhilaration fluttered in her abdomen. Pumped its way from her heart to the tips of her toes as they strolled arm-in-arm towards the closest subway station. Y/N suggested they grab a bite to eat to celebrate, maybe go to Kao Wah. But Arthur stated he wasn't hungry. "I'd like to be home. With my- with my wife." He averted his gaze as he said the last words, the tip of his tongue darting to his top lip as if to the savor their flavor.

Given how much he'd learned about traditions from old movies, she'd suspected he'd try to carry her over the threshold. She was grateful he didn't. Instead, he pressed her into the coats and jackets hanging on the wall. Kissed her with his entire body. "I need to make love to you," he uttered into her neck. The softness of the euphemism was strikingly different from his urgency as he unbuttoned her blouse. He'd have likely taken her in the entranceway if she hadn't led him to the bedroom.

The intensity with which he fucked her into the mattress hadn't been experienced since he'd shown up at her apartment drenched, lost, and unable to fully accept she loved him. But this moment was distinct. Although the lines of his face were taut, his eyes were filled with ardor. He entwined their fingers, crushed her to him, drove her hand into the pillow. "Say you're mine," he implored, the jerks of his pelvis deep and uneven. "Please. Say you're all mine."

It wasn't like her to give herself to someone. To allow that person to own her. She'd tried that before; it hadn't been good for either of them. Yet, she'd pledged her fidelity to Arthur barely two hours ago. She knew what his request meant. He didn't want to change or dominate her. He simply needed to hear her answer. To know he was no longer alone in the world and wouldn't be for the rest of his life, even if he doubted.

Caressing the expanse of his back and his distended shoulder, she responded. "Of course, I'm yours, Arthur." The tip of his nose met hers, and she savored the smile he pressed against her cheek. "Of course, I'm yours."

She absentmindedly played with his hair. Holding him to her breasts, she went over everything she had to do the following day. Having a plan calmed her, aided her in thinking straight. And the list she was making was a pleasure because everything on it involved him. "I have to call the landlord to add you to the lease. Go to the DMV to get my name changed. Add you to my insurance at work. Oh, we need to combine our bank accounts, too." She peeked at the top of his head. "I have a feeling I'll remember to write 'Mrs. Fleck' easier than '1983' when the new year arrives."

The emerging rigidness of Arthur's frame and the burps that suddenly left him alerted her to his tumult. He pushed himself off her, swung his legs over the side of the bed as guffaws ripped their way from his throat. She scurried behind him to see his palm hover above his ribs as he covered his mouth with the other.

It had been weeks since his condition had flared up around her. Even longer since he'd tried and failed to hide it. Acceptance of his affliction was a concept that was sometimes hard for him to accept; her kindness and love couldn't erase thirty-five years of distress. But he had gotten better at believing it and she was proud of him. Not wanting any of his progress to be lost (especially not on their wedding night), she helped him through it, as usual. Kissed his bicep. Reminded him to take deep, even breaths. Blessedly, the attack didn't last long.

He was wringing his hands, the shaking of his head almost imperceptible. "What if I-" He spoke lowly, fear emitted with every syllable. "What if I wake up in Arkham? Or taking care of Penny again?" Y/N continued to listen as she searched for the best reply. "I never thought I'd have what I wanted." A humorless chuckle as he swiped his nose. "I don't want it to go away."

She wondered if what he was saying was due to trepidation or illnesses. Then she realized the differentiation was irrelevant. What mattered was soothing him. Letting him know it was all right. And real. Slowly, she knelt on the floor in front of him. "I'm not going anywhere," she confirmed, cupping his weathered cheeks. "I adore you." Smiling, she claimed his lips. "I'm your wife."

His toothy grin caused her pulse to skip, and he drew her to his chest. "I'm your husband."

"There's no one else I'd rather be married to."

Laying on the mattress, he closed his eyes. She stroked his lean pectorals, delighting in his resulting sighs. Once the tension in his sinews seemed to ebb, once he looked relaxed, he made a thoughtful sound. "Are we gonna have a honeymoon?"

~~~~~

For as long as he could remember, Arthur had ridden buses. They were usually crowded, stuffed full of humanity. A cushioned, plastic seat was free about a third of the time. Apart from the engine, the rides were fairly quiet. Everyone wanted to get to their destinations instead of conversing. He'd gathered that from observing them. From trying to figure out how to make a connection.

The tour bus he was currently on felt like the pinnacle of luxury, with its padded, fabric chairs and tinted windows. A newer adventure movie played on the tiny television built into the ceiling, its volume so low he could make out only half the dialogue. There was a bathroom (a bathroom!) in the rear, cleaner than any public one around the city. Passengers were few. A young couple sat across the aisle, playfully teasing each other. Sights like that had sparked melancholy in the past. Now the corner of his mouth quirked.

He'd yearned to get out of the city. To go somewhere warm, beautiful, and calm. To have space but not loneliness, which was readily available at home. The postcards he'd kept in his locker at work and on his refrigerator had been a feeble attempt to keep the hope of leaving alive. A co-worker had asked about them once. Arthur, seeking to cover-up his vulnerability in a room full of tough guys, had mumbled a quick, "They're just pictures."

California's distance from Gotham had made it a promised land. He would have liked to walk its shores. They had to be cleaner than those of the city. Meet the people there. They were likely kinder due to the sunniness of the state's weather.

He'd lain on his worn sofa or written in his journal, particularly on chilly nights, fantasizing about playing ukulele on the beach with a pretty Hawaiian girl. The light shining off her tan skin, a contrast to his own pallor. The sway of her hips while she danced the hula would match the rhythm of his novice strumming. After a shallow dip in the ocean, they'd make love in the sand. The sun would be setting to their left. A campfire would burn bright on the right. It would have been great.

But the woman currently dozing on his shoulder made the reality he was experiencing finer.

It had been difficult for him to admit his disappointment upon learning Y/N hadn't thought of a honeymoon. The notion had been unimportant to her, as unimportant as having a wedding. When they'd married two weeks ago, she'd said, in her usual, casual manner, "You're my husband and I'm your wife and that's fine." He'd believed he'd gotten her meaning - that frills and fusses were unnecessary, so long as they were partners. But his chest had ached all the same. He'd awaited the opportunity to let out the old romantic in him for years. Those frills and fusses were crucial to him.

The brochure for Niagara Falls had been one of many in the travel agency's window. Its bright blues and greens had caught his eye when he'd passed by on the way home from therapy. He'd heard of the tourist spot on television. Weekend trips were awarded as prizes on game shows. A magician may have gone over them in a barrel. It was supposed to be the honeymoon capital of the world. And it was only four hours from home. He'd figured it would be easy to sell her on the idea.

He'd shown her the pamphlet as soon as she walked through the door, prattling with anticipation as she slipped off her heels. "There's a Skywheel. We've been on the Ferris wheel as Amusement Mile but this one's taller." He'd pointed at a picture while taking her coat. "There are a lot of restaurants. And a town we can walk in..."

Trailing off, he'd lifted one shoulder. "I know you've done all this before. A honeymoon, I mean." His brows pinched. "But not with me. I just want-" The interruption of Y/N's lips had stilled him, the twine of her fingers in his hair switching the racing of his brain to the pounding of his heart. Once they'd parted, the affection in her eyes reassured him.

"That's wonderful suggestion," she'd said. "We'll call a hotline for motel recommendations after dinner. I'm sure I can wrangle a free Friday from Phil." Her eyelashes had fluttered against his neck and she'd snorted. "You should have seen his face when I changed my name. And told him you'd be joining me on every business trip."

The memory made him feel fuzzy in spots he hadn't known existed until she'd seeped into them.

It was early evening, cold, and raining when they arrived. Y/N held her pop-up umbrella over them as he retrieved their shared suitcase. Thank goodness the stroll from the bus depot and to their lodgings was short. Only shallow splashes got on their pants during their scurry up the sidewalk.

Arthur had chosen the Honeymoon City Hotel for a few reasons. The ad had promised a view of the falls from every room, which he'd thought charming. A special newlywed's suite had been offered, Jacuzzi, cable television, and free breakfast included. And the place's corny name. Its silliness had touched the part of him that had bought a rose when he'd had no clue what he was doing, having dinner at a woman's apartment like a regular man. The part that compelled him to impulsively grab her hand while they stirred pots on the stove. The part that could, every so often, envision a brighter future for himself because he had her.

The motel, however, stated there was a problem. The room had been double-booked, a mistake blamed on a new employee having forgotten to note their reservation. The other guests had checked in earlier and couldn't be moved.

Having had a plethora of first days, Arthur understood what it was like to be new on the job. But he was still irritated. He asked where they were supposed to stay, then muttered to himself. He didn't want to be upset on their special weekend. Graciously, Y/N patted his arm and stepped in. He self-soothed with nicotine and noted how, in her kind but direct style, she negotiated a stay in one of the business suites and a ten percent refund. The front desk person told them their bag would be in their room.

They were also given a coupon for the nearby revolving restaurant. He'd been intrigued by the mention of it in his brochure, but he'd assumed it was too expensive. It was just beyond the Canadian border in Skyfall Tower. Because of the discount and no passports being needed, they decided to catch a cab and go.

Though Arthur usually didn't eat a lot, they opted for the buffet. He'd thought it a better value, and it would allow him to try new dishes without worrying he'd be stuck with something he didn't like. The novelty of the made-to-order stir-fry felt opulent. And it was fun adding broccoli, carrots, and mushrooms, but no water chestnuts because their texture was bizarre. Y/N appeared to enjoy the chicken Kiev and quiche, going back for a second helping of the latter.

Gazing out at the panorama provided by the windows surrounding them, Arthur titled his head. Droplets ran down the pane of glass, obscuring the view. The multi-color illumination of the falls were hazy from the rain. The plaque at the entrance had stated they were fifty-five stories up. In Gotham, he'd never been worth enough to go above the tenth floor. He wondered how fast they were spinning. He couldn't feel the momentum, but their position had changed slightly during dinner.

In his peripheral vision, Y/N was licking the rest of her chocolate mousse off a spoon. Nonchalantly, as if she didn't know the effect it would have on him. "This was almost worth the mistake the motel made," she said. But she winced as she straightened, put her palm on her stomach. "I'm not going to be able to move for the rest of the night."

Rolling his eyes and giving a half-smirk, he stood and guided her out of her seat. "You just need to walk a little." He slipped her jacket around her back. "Come on."

~~~~~

Y/N tried to stifle her laughter at Arthur's bewilderment. The room was...not what either of them had anticipated. (And a reminder why she was dubious about motels that had silly names.) Saying it left something to be desired was being generous.

Brown wood grain paneling, too dark to be considered cozy, was on the walls. Two twin beds, about three feet apart, were on the right. She chose the one closest to the windows, and it creaked and groaned as she sat on it. ("I hope the walls are thicker than they look.") Dim lamps with avocado green shades were on the nightstands in the middle. A thirty-two-inch television sat on the bureau across from the footboards. The room's saving grace was a fireplace in the back corner.

He popped his head into the bathroom, stated the shower was smaller than theirs, and grumbled that there was no whirlpool bath. She did not mourn that loss. The couple of times she'd used one, the pumps and jets had been loud and distracting. Besides. They were bound to test one out eventually.

Arthur made his way to the acrylic curtains and opened them. "I see...a parking lot." He shoved his hands in the pockets of his tan jacket and sighed. "This wasn't what I pictured."

She knew he'd blame himself because he'd picked the place, which was ridiculous. They'd both agreed to it. Disappointment and guilt on their honeymoon? That wouldn't do. "Vacations never go as planned. That's why you return home more drained than when you left." Reaching behind her, she flipped on the radio. Searched for and found a station playing upbeat music. Kept the volume at a level where the notes of "The Hustle" were barely audible but could still cheer. She stood and flipped back the covers. "Well, the sheets are clean. Help me push these together."

Chuckling, he brought the lamps she'd unplugged to the nearby desk, then moved the nightstands out of the way. There were four or so inches between the mattresses when the bed frames met, but they'd make the most if it. The ease with which he'd moved his bed against hers impressed her, prompted her to squeeze her thighs together.

While Arthur stuck his head out the window for a smoke, Y/N got to work. She dug out the sparkling wine she'd packed (not champagne, which he found too sour) and unwrapped the plastic cups by the ice bucket. After screwing off the top and pouring them both a serving, she stripped to her bra and panties, a lacy dark green set she'd bought for the trip. Then she tip-toed to him. "Mr. Fleck, would you do me the honor of starting the hearth?"

He flicked his cigarette, stood, and turned to her. The desire and love in his intent stare as it roamed up her body, and the softening of his features made her blush. She looked at the brown carpet demurely. "I only packed lace."

The raging flames were half a yard away, a yellow and orange glow illuminating them both. She traced his spine to the beads of sweat gathering in the small of his back. They'd begun mere minutes ago, but she was already light-headed. Not only from the satisfaction of him repeatedly filling her, the joy of joining with him entirely. But also from the blazing heat.

She focused on the drop perspiration rolling down his forehead to his nose, then felt it fall onto her neck. "Arthu-" The last letter was stolen by his lips, the tip of his tongue teasing hers. She broke off, gasping. "Can we take a break?"

Blinking at her, he stopped, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. "A break?"

Gently, she pushed at his hips and nodded. "I feel like I'm going to melt. And not in the good way."

He left the grip of her body carefully and went to the knob next to the fireplace. "I think it's on a timer." She watched his grimace as he attempted to turn it counterclockwise. "It won't budge."

Y/N scooted away from the fire, rolled onto her side, and grabbed her mostly full cup. "We'll have to wait it out." He pouted at her and she laughed. "Hey, waiting will make the quenching sweeter." Taking a sip, she beamed up at him. "I don't think I told you how I got to Gotham."

There was a pause before he swiped back his damp locks. "What do you mean? It was your old job." He stretched to lie beside her, propped on his forearm.

"That's true but there's more to it." Entwining their calves, she draped an arm over his hip so she could caress the modest curve of his rear. "I used to get groceries every Tuesday in Missouri - the shop was further out, so I couldn't go and get a couple of ingredients, like you and I do." She turned onto her back, surveyed the off-white popcorn ceiling. "It would be empty. Lines were short. New stock would have come in.

"I always bought three newspapers for the help wanted section: the Daily Planet, the Toronto Star, and the Gotham Journal. One week I had to work late and go on a Thursday, and the store was out of the Journal." She giggled and shook her head. "I was so annoyed. I'd avoided the Gotham Globe because it looked like a trashy tabloid. But I settled."

The skim of his fingertips across her belly was a series of tender, repeated lines. Her gaze flicked to his, her smile breaking her face wide open. "That's where I found the ad for Shaw and Associates." She brought his knuckles to her mouth. "That annoyance is what got me my job. Allowed me to move to Gotham." She grasped his chin, ran her thumb along his deepening dimple. "What led me to you." Arching a brow, she gave a little shrug. "It's almost enough to make me believe there's a reason for everything. Not quite. But almost."

The concentration in the lines of his forehead told Y/N he was trying to find the right way to express himself. He gave it a go. "You're my reason."

She winced. It was a conversation they'd often had. While she appreciated what he said, held every word in her heart, he tended to aggrandize her and not give himself proper credit for how well he was doing. For going to treatment, for trying different medications. For being honest. She was still finding the kindest, most effective ways to correct those notions. To emphasize they were equals, through and through. "Arthur, I can't be your only reason."

"That's not what I meant." He rubbed the side of his face. Sitting up, he hugged his legs to his chest and his eyelids fluttered shut. "I don't hate myself as much as I used to. Not every day."

He fidgeted with the carpet. Y/N put her palm on his foot, traced the tendons of his ankle. Tried to help bolster him to confide whatever he wanted. "My mother would say she was the one who knew my purpose. That she didn't mind my laugh, because I was happy all the time." Scoffing, he took Y/N's proffered cup. "If she told me I wasn't funny or I did something wrong-" He swallowed hard and finished her wine.

She got it. Penny, along with his experiences in and perceptions of Gotham, had hammered into him that he was hard to love. An egregious, groundless lie. The pain underlying what he'd disclosed settled in her stomach, a dull ache for what he'd lived through. She was about to speak when he wiggled his toe to stroke her wrist. "I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable."

"Psh." She sat to hug him across his back at the waist. "I've never been uncomfortable around you. Not once." He leaned into her as she kissed his temple. The reflection of the hearth in his light green eyes was beautiful, flecks of brown and hazel shining. Gladness lurked in them, undeterred by their earnest exchange. She tousled his curls, ran her nails over his scalp until a pleasured moan escaped him. "Don't ever apologize for telling me how you feel."

A prolonged but companionable silence, then. As the fire died down, she lay on the floor. Pulled him to follow her until his wiry frame covered her. "I hate to break it to you, but you're not that weird."

Enfolding their fingers, he squinted at her. "I'm not?"

"Sorry to let you down." She wrapped her legs about his middle, squeezed him tight as he opened her lips with his. "Loving you is one of the easiest things I've ever done," she purred. She kissed his face in a line, then whispered in his ear. "Planning to proposition a man on the third date was never a habit of mine."

"Hm." At the weight of him hardening against her thigh, she gripped his shoulders and arched towards him. "Did you always flirt with men in the grocery store?"

The mild pinch to his bottom was instantaneous.

~~~~~

After procuring two apples, bananas, and donuts from the breakfast buffet and bringing them to their suite, Arthur decided to journal. He'd been awake since four. There was only so much smoking, staring at the walls, and trying to go back to sleep he could do. So as not to disturb Y/N, he went to the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet, notebook on his lap.

The pen flowed freely and he snickered. It always felt good when jokes came easily. "My mother wud say (change voice here) 'mariage isn't for everyone.' But I found the one person who wanted to marry me. Sorry, mom. It's funny." "I have a wife. It's great to have one special person to steel the blankets from."

Tears pricked a couple punchlines later. He wiped at them with a square of tissue paper. "Today I feel good," he jotted. "I think it's because I like being maried. I'm so proud of myself for sticking with Y/N. The worst days are better. I used to wunder how long I could live with noone caring about me. But I don't half to anymore. I hope I never do again."

A yawn beckoned him and he padded through the doorway to peak towards the beds. Y/N was opening the drapes, just enough to let a strip of sunlight illuminate the room. She was pretty, barefoot, her nightdress ending mid-thigh as the rays framed her silhouette. He sidled up behind her. "What do you call two spiders that just got married?"

Turning, she tapped her chin, apparently giving it a good, long think. "Mr. and Mrs. Arachnid?"

Even if she was wrong, he appreciated her effort. "Newly-webs." Giggling, she hugged him around the neck, stretched slightly to kiss him. "I was on a roll this morning. Maybe I can make them part of my act."

She clambered into the bed beneath the covers and patted the narrow space next to her. It was a tight fit, but he climbed in eagerly, anyway. As he brought her half on top of him, she said she'd looked at the TV schedule and found a movie to start the day. One starring Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn. The film was new to him, though he'd heard of it. He enjoyed the unexpected love story between two people from completely different backgrounds. Nibbling on a chocolate donut, he wondered if Y/N saw the parallels. If that was why she'd chosen it.

When they finally got dressed and headed out, they discovered the Skywheel Arthur had been looking forward to was closed for the season. It appeared they'd gotten married too late in the year for a lot to be open. There was a wax museum and an arcade in the nearby town. Neither appealed to him. But as they wandered the streets, they found the Houdini Magic Shop.

The manner in which she was browsing the props and instruction cards made it was obvious Y/N was out of her element. The only clown performance she'd seen in years had been his. But she was sweet and enthusiastic, and pointed out items she thought might be of interest. He was polite when he declined them. In the end, Arthur picked out a color changing blossom and a never-ending scarf. Although it was a store for performers, he found pens Y/N could use for work. He presented them to her with a flourish, and she promised she'd use them daily.

They stopped by a nearby souvenir shop. It was small, about half the size of their living room. He bought a few postcards to go with the ones on his vanity. She chose three, scrawled "We're hitched!" on them, and mailed them to Patricia, Mabel, and Penny. There was a photographer's booth, too, and he convinced her to have their photo taken. The cardboard frame he chose had "We're honeymooning at Niagara!" emblazoned at the top in bright blue letters. It wasn't her taste. Not at all. But she claimed to like it, stating simply, "At least you're gorgeous."

And now, after a quick lunch of sandwiches and soup at a nearby cafe, they stood on the observation deck overlooking the falls.

Beyond city parks, Arthur hadn't seen a lot of nature. Though he appreciated the majesty of the place, he wasn't mesmerized by it. Not really. The height intimidated him. There had been periods in his life during which he would have gladly flung himself into the depths. Not to die. Just to make everything stop. Smiling slowly, squeezing the hand of the woman next to him, he was grateful not to feel that now.

He swiveled to study her. She was peering through coin-operated binoculars, a contented look on her face. She offered him a turn but he declined, already having the best view. He ran his thumb over the gold band on her left hand and shut his eyes.

He'd heard a song once. The lyrics had said he would be nobody until somebody loved him, and until he found somebody to love. It was plain the love the person sang about wasn't the one he'd felt for Penny. He'd thought half the equation might have been enough. But he hadn't felt much improvement when he'd fallen for his neighbor. He'd grown to hate it, going so far as to hawk the LP, despite liking the other tracks on it. He'd known he'd always be a nobody - he didn't need a tune to rub it in.

Nothing in this world, not even its natural wonders, would ever compare to the beauty of Y/N understanding him for who he was. Of her choosing to care for him even after seeing him. Of him finally having the ability to demonstrate the love he'd always wished was buried somewhere inside him.

Of her confirming his existence.

Her hand going to her forehead caught his attention. He tightened his grip on her, blinked away his musings. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Just a little vertigo. I'll be fine." Resting on the metal railing, she let out a long exhale. "It's too bad we have to head home tomorrow. This is miles better than my first honeymoon."

A burn came across his cheeks. "Oh?"

"My monthly started the second day. My ex's entrance exam for law school was reschedule, so we cut it short." Their gazes met, her irises glittering. "And you weren't there." Her eyelids fluttered and she cleared her throat. "It helps that I'm with a man who won't tire of my tenacity."

That wasn't a word he knew, but he figured it out from the context. It was strange that anyone would be put off by Y/N's strength of character. Her courage had been what had saved him on the subway. He'd found it odd, at first. He'd met so few people with any hint of it. Hoyt had shown his fortitude by yelling. Randall had talked him into shitty jobs and lied.

Didn't she know her strength supported his own? That her confidence, both in him and herself, made it easier for him to function? Lent him an inkling of what it was like to matter?

He palmed her side, took her hand in his, and leaned forward to whisper, "If you close your eyes, you can pretend we're alone." Flights of fancy were harder for her, he knew. He was pleased when she acquiesced. Kissed her browbone and pushed the bridge of his nose to it. Humming softly, he did his best to imitate one of their favorite songs. He didn't lead her in a dance, but a gentle sway from side to side.

Chest on the verge of bursting, he longed to accurately convey the emotions rushing through his core. Such positive experiences still felt new. He chose to use the phrases he would want bestowed upon himself. "I love you because of your...tenacity." Shrugging, he pressed his lips together. "You were always so nice to me. I think you're the best thing I've ever seen. I don't want you to change, Y/N."

The delicate caress of her fingertips on his neck made him shiver. "Should I nag you to quit smoking when I'm ninety? And you're pushing me around Gotham in my wheelchair?"

"Yes," he laughed, nodding swiftly at the idea of them being together for fifty years. That would be heaven. "And that I need new socks." He smoothed his hand down her back until she was flush against him. "And to take my medication." Palming her hip, he grinned down at her. "And to make love, if you still want me then."

She giggled, fisting the front of his jacket. "Definitely." On her tiptoes, her lips seized his. "I'll never stop wanting you." Groaning, he grabbed her face and kissed her fiercely, knowing he'd lose himself in her as soon as they returned to their room.

~~~~~

Van McCoy - The Hustle

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sapphirestarxx · 4 years

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Chapter 13

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When morning broke everyone prepared themselves for the visit to what had to be Tsubaki’s estate, eating quickly and dressing for a confrontation. Whatever was awaiting them at that house was not going to be friendly, but whether or not Tsubaki would be there remained to be seen. None of them thought she would, however; she knew they had found her location and also knew that they had to be coming for her. No, it was much more likely she was long gone and some kind of nasty surprise had been left behind for them. Still, this was the only real lead they had on her and they couldn’t afford to not pursue it.

Sango and Miroku picked up Inuyasha and Kagome at the Higurashi Shrine and then they headed out once all their weapons were loaded up into the car. Sango used her phone’s GPS to lead the way to the address that had been revealed to them by the location ritual. None of them spoke as Sango drove, all of them feeling the pressure. A sense of trepidation hung in the air among them.

For Sango, part of that trepidation was due to the shikigami bite she had received the night before. Despite Miroku’s insistence that they hold off on pursuing Tsubaki until they all got some rest, she hadn’t gotten much sleep as she found it difficult to quiet her mind. Instead she spent the night trying not to toss and turn too much and disturb his own rather peaceful-looking slumber. His words had reassured her, but they still couldn’t completely quell the knot of anxiety in her chest or the way her instincts were screaming at her that something was off.

Eventually the place began to come into view as the car approached the address, and Miroku and Kagome both sat up straighter then leaned forward slightly, their eyes intent. As they grew closer the estate seemed to be closed off by a high brick wall winding around the whole of it, a black wrought-iron gate the only visible way in or out. The sight of all the Japanese ivy weaving its way through the bars and over the top as well as the sight of the placard detailing the address matched their vision exactly.

“This is it.” Kagome confirmed.

“It looks exactly like what we saw during the ritual.” Miroku agreed while Sango slowed the car down, stopping in front of the closed gate.

“The gate’s closed. We may need to open it ourselves.” Sango remarked as the engine idled.

“Keh, that’s no problem. I’ll just--” Inuyasha began, but as he spoke the gate started to move, opening inwards and allowing them entrance onto the estate grounds.

“That was very ominous.” Kagome said. “Who...who do you think opened it?”

“I have no idea, but I’m going in.” Sango replied as she drove past the gate and up the path of the driveway stretching before them, finally coming to a stop in front of the imposing structure. It was just like what Miroku and Kagome had described in the images the location ritual had revealed to them.

The house, if you could call it that, was huge. It stretched three stories high, the western-style mansion made of brick the color of charcoal and the slanting roof tiled with gray terracotta shingles. The curtains were drawn on all the windows, a solid black that contrasted with the dingy white of the window panes and shutters; they were the only spot of light in a sea of darkness. Even though it was the middle of the day and the sun was shining brightly, the mansion seemed to swallow any illumination, replacing it with shadows. An aura of evil surrounded the place, but considering who it belonged to and the kinds of things that must have taken place within its walls, that observation held no answers as to what waited for them inside.

Leaving the confines of the car they all retrieved their weapons and walked up the steps to stand before the tall red doors. After a slight hesitation by everyone, Inuyasha scoffed and gripped the door handle firmly before unceremoniously yanking it wide open.

“We gonna stand here all day or are we gonna go in?” He snarked as he strode inside and they followed closely behind after exchanging glances between themselves. Despite his blase attitude, his senses were on high alert; his ears, eyes, and nose taking everything in and searching for any possible threats.

Carefully, Sango and Miroku entered last right behind Kagome, who lingered close to Inuyasha’s side while gripping her bow tightly. As they stepped fully across the dark threshold the door swung shut behind them with an air of finality, sealing them inside. A sense of dread began to pool within Sango’s stomach and she had the very morbid thought of feeling as though the house around them had become a tomb. As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Miroku lightly brushed her hand with his own and she released a breath at the reassuring touch but otherwise gave no outward acknowledgement of his gesture. The brief moment passed between them and they readied themselves for a fight.

When the door slammed shut Kagome gave a squeak of surprise but otherwise made no move other than to cast her gaze about. It was futile due to the darkness that encompassed everything. The only one of them who had a hope of seeing anything was Inuyasha, with his demonic senses. And then suddenly it wasn’t dark anymore as the lights came on with the same eerie abruptness of the entrance gate opening and the front doors closing.

Blinking rapidly against the sudden influx of white light, Sango waited for her eyes to adjust before scanning their surroundings. Marble flooring stretched from where they stood in a large foyer, continuing beyond the doorways at the far side of the hall. From the ceiling hung a grand chandelier encrusted with crystals that sparkled from the wash of light it cast all over the entryway, bright and blinding. A split staircase began on either side of the foyer, the railings and banisters made of a fine dark wood, before rising a story high and meeting in the middle, a balcony connecting them and overlooking the entryway. The whole scene radiated opulence. And there, up on the balcony, was a little boy sitting on the railing with his feet dangling over the edge.

“You’re here!” He cheered, grinning widely and displaying a set of fangs. His hair was white with a soft wave to it, falling just past his ears and it added to the image of cute innocence he projected, along with the boyish set to his features; the softness of his mouth and the roundness of his cheeks. But it was his eyes that gave him away-- they were glowing red embers devoid of anything but a thirst for chaos and suffering. Looking into their depths it was impossible to mistake this demon for anything other than what he truly was. Despite the unmistakable physical signs the little boy didn’t give off a demonic aura. In fact, he gave off no aura at all.

“I’ve been waiting since last night and I’m soooo bored!” He continued with a pout, gripping the railing he was sitting on with his hands and beginning to swing his legs.

“Who the fuck are you and where the fuck is Tsubaki?” Inuyasha demanded.

“I'm Satoshi!” The demon told them, smiling again. “As for Tsubaki, she couldn’t make it and sends her regrets. Don’t worry, though! I’ve been ordered to stay behind and entertain you.”

“Entertain us, how?” Miroku questioned, feeling a sense of foreboding creep over him.

“You’ll see. It’s going to be so much fun.” Satoshi replied, his smile shifting to something more sinister. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers. At the gesture both Sango and Inuyasha felt something inside them emerge and take root. It quickly spread throughout the whole of their bodies and Satoshi laughed, red eyes narrowing in glee as he took in his handiwork. They both winced, Sango wrapping her arms around herself to try to steady herself and Inuyasha gripping his head with a hand as if the sheer force of his will could hold whatever this was at bay. It was clear they were both trying to fight something inside themselves and Miroku and Kagome watched with growing concern, unsure of what was happening or what to do.

“What have you done to them?!” Kagome cried, looking from Inuyasha to Sango before focusing her gaze on Satoshi. Even as she yelled out her question a part of her already knew the answer.

“I triggered the curse lying in wait inside them just now, a curse delivered to them by the shikigami’s bite. It’s not something you can sense with your spiritual powers if it’s dormant which is why you probably found nothing last night.” Satoshi explained. “I bet you and the monk tried, though, didn’t you? Hehehe!”

“That explains why we couldn’t sense anything wrong.” Miroku said grimly.

“That curse is my specialty. I can take complete control over anyone and make them do whatever I want! These guys are supposed to be your protectors, right? Well now they’re your enemies!” Satoshi’s childish voice was full of delight and he clapped his hands together in excitement.

During this whole exchange Sango gasped, feeling something burrowing through her and it felt as though it was hooking itself into her every muscle and joint, taking total control. Biting her lip hard enough to taste her own blood, she struggled against it but felt herself losing the battle.

‘Attack him. Hurt him. Break his bones. You want to see his blood.’

She shook her head as if she could rid herself of the voice inside but it was no use. More of the same words kept echoing, each rendition more adamant than the last until she was trembling from the force of resisting its commands. Something uninvited had taken up residence inside her, just as she had feared, and in a matter of moments it was going to completely overtake her. Force her to do its dark bidding, to hurt Miroku. No! Seconds later she wasn’t even able to move her head, paralyzed and at the complete mercy of this dark thing controlling her.

“Miroku...get away from me. Do it...now!” She managed, forming the words with an immense effort before the last bit of control she had over herself slipped away. Feeling like a stranger inside her own body, she began to reach back to take hold of her Hiraikotsu, preparing to attack.

Looking at her, Miroku saw the blankness of her face and the dead look in her eyes and knew she had been wholly consumed by the curse. That plea had been her last bit of resistance before finally succumbing and he backed away from her, trying to think quickly. If this Satoshi was going to have them fight each other, then removing the curse from her was going to prove extremely difficult.

Only a few feet separated them before Sango swung her Hiraikotsu at him and he ducked, barely avoiding it. The gust of wind stirred up by her weapon passing over his head ruffled his hair and he swallowed. There had been no mistaking the strength or speed behind her attack; she wasn’t holding back. If she landed a hit on him with that weapon it was over. He inwardly swore, putting more distance between them but she attacked again just as swiftly, this time actually throwing the boomerang at him. It cut through the air and he sidestepped just in time, sticking his shakujo out to the side as he did so to knock the weapon off course.

Her Hiraikotsu struck his shakujo, its rings clinking harshly, and her weapon continued on to crash into the wall behind him rather than return to her waiting grip. The force from the collision between his shakujo and her Hiraikotsu caused him to stumble a bit, sending shocks up his right arm. Sango took advantage of the opening to close the distance he had worked to create between them, drawing her wakizashi. In a matter of seconds she was on him and Miroku had only a split second to regain his footing and defend himself against her attack. Gripping it with both hands he held his shakujo out in front of him to block her sword’s strike. She bore down on him harder, and he gritted his teeth as he pushed back. God, she was so strong. Normally it was a quality he greatly admired in her but right now it was proving to be a problem.

~☆~

Inuyasha was facing his own internal battle, growling and gritting his teeth against the way this thing was infiltrating his very being. He was rapidly losing to the evil presence rising up inside of him. It flowed through him until it had him strung like a marionette. Dark thoughts swirled in his head, taunting him and urging him to do horrible things.

‘Rip her to pieces. Tear the bitch apart with your bare hands. Taste her blood like the animal you are.’

“Kagome...get the fuck away from me right now.” He snarled, trying to step away from her but unable to make himself move on his own accord. Fuck. What the hell had this fucking brat done? Those insidious whispers inside his mind became louder with each passing second, the demands soon impossible to ignore. That last shred of control he had a hold of disappeared into nothing and his own will was forced into submission as he became possessed by the curse.

Kagome hastily moved away from him, her eyes wide. She hated it but she also knew he was right. Inuyasha advanced on her and she felt the full weight of all his youki directed at her for the first time and shivered. The slight flexing of his hands was her only warning before he attacked with all of his demonic speed, his claws poised to rend through her soft, vulnerable flesh. Kagome raised a barrier to shield herself, almost instinctively holding her hands out in front of her and effectively cutting off his attack.

Her barrier didn’t seem to slow him down or even faze him; he only snarled louder, baring his fangs as he tried to get to her. Slowly backing away from him, her mind raced as she tried to consider her options and he followed her every step of the way, never easing in the ferocity of his attack. What could she possibly do? She refused to fire a sacred arrow at him; it was already hard enough to maintain her barrier even knowing that it hurt him. But what choice did she have if she wanted to avoid getting hurt herself? Sparing a glance around she noticed Sango was fighting Miroku and he was facing a similar struggle to hers, doing his best to fend off her assault.

An idea occurred to her and keeping her barrier up around her she planted her feet into a stance, pulling her bow from its place over her shoulder and notching it with an arrow. If she could get to the demon pulling their strings, then surely his death would break the curse. Doing her best to block out the sounds of Inuyasha snarling at her and the buzzing of her barrier as it warded him off, she prepared to fire. Taking aim and being careful not to hit Inuyasha, Kagome let the sacred arrow fly. It shot straight towards where Satoshi still sat on the railing of the balcony but rather than sinking into him and purifying his evil it...passed through him? Kagome blinked in confusion.

Satoshi laughed at her attempt and turned his red stare upon her.

“Oh, come on little priestess. You didn’t think I’d keep my real body out here in the open and so vulnerable to attack, did you? You guys are scary!” He fake shivered before laughing again.

~☆~

With all the strength and agility she possessed, Sango swung at Miroku with her wakizashi again, crouching low to aim at his knees and he nimbly dodged out of the way. She twisted her body as she rose to her feet in the same breath and followed up with a spinning kick, landing a solid hit directly to his abdomen. It sent him sprawling onto the ground with a loud grunt. Shit. The breath had been totally knocked from him for a split second.

"Oooh! That's gotta hurt." Satoshi remarked in mock sympathy from his perch as he watched them fight.

Landing lightly on her feet Sango relentlessly continued her attack, lunging forward and striking down at where he lay prone on the floor. Relying on his instincts more than anything, Miroku quickly rolled to the side and regained his feet, even as he groaned in pain, narrowly avoiding her latest strike. The clang of metal as her blade met the marble of the floor where he laid a second before was loud and echoed around them. There was no pause in her assault, and in one smooth motion she lifted her sword and spun towards him again.

‘That’s definitely going to leave a mark,’ he thought as he dodged and blocked more of her attacks. She was like a panther, sleek and deadly. Her muscles were so powerful and he had never fully appreciated that fact until this very moment. He knew how sculpted they were, of course; he had had the most wonderful privilege of having seen them up close and intimately, after all. But he had never had all that graceful, lethal strength directed at him with intent to kill. Sango was not in control of herself and she wasn’t holding back. He came to the realization that although he didn’t want to hurt her he was going to have to fight her more seriously unless he wanted to get badly injured himself. Or killed.

After exchanging a flurry of blows, Miroku managed to evade her next strike and quickly grabbed her sword arm at the elbow with his left hand. Moving fast he ducked under her arm to step behind her, twisting it with the motion and sticking out his foot to trip her. The pain from having her arm pulled at such an unnatural angle didn’t seem to affect her at all, the grip on her wakizashi failing to loosen. Miroku frowned at the observation.

Sango tripped, but rather than stumble she used the forward momentum to free herself from his hold, yanking her arm from his grasp. As she moved she turned around in the space of a breath to swing her wakizashi at his neck, planting a foot behind herself to stabilize her weight and reestablish the distance between them. Miroku leaned back in the same instant and barely avoided having his throat cut by her blade. Fire burned from where it had grazed him, leaving behind a thin red line showing just how close she had come. A drop of blood trickled its way down his neck as he breathed hard.

"And the slayer draws first blood!" Satoshi cheered, fully enjoying himself. "Uh oh, she almost got you. Was it scary? I bet it was! Hehehe!"

"I thought Tsubaki wanted me and Kagome alive so she could take our reiki. Isn't this counter-productive?" He managed to call back, whirling out of the way from another lightning quick strike from Sango.

"Hmmm. I mean I guess that would make her happy but you know, you guys have been so mean and annoying lately that I don't think she cares anymore. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter!" He replied, shrugging. “I think she’d prefer alive but, well, I’m just having so much fun!”

Still trying to think of possible solutions to this impossible situation, Miroku’s mind raced. Sango’s body was a weapon all on its own, but Miroku figured if he could manage to divest her of her actual weapon then he stood a better chance. The way things were going now, he was never going to get close enough to pin her down long enough to free her from the control of the curse. He had no idea if she was aware of everything she was doing or if she had blacked it out. It didn't matter, because either way he had made her a promise and he intended to keep it.

~☆~

Kagome had her back against the wall, watching as the half demon she was in love with tried desperately to break through her barrier so he could rip her to pieces. Inuyasha had not eased up in his attempts to get to her, snarling and slashing at her with his claws. Looking into his eyes, she saw only feral emptiness in place of his usual fire and unwavering determination.

"Wow, look at all those burns! That's gotta sting. Do you think he feels them?" Satoshi wondered aloud to her before giving an evil grin. "I hope he does."

"You're awful!" Kagome yelled back, her voice cracking with emotion. She wanted to wrap him in every spark of her power and squeeze until there weren't even any ashes left behind of him. Erase him into pure nothingness.

"Oooh, I just love that look on your face, little priestess!" He clapped his hands together in twisted joy.

"Shut up!!!"

Each time Inuyasha's hands came in contact with her barrier they fried; Kagome didn't know how much more of this she could take. Tears filled her eyes, so close to spilling over and sliding down her pale cheeks. His hands were raw and beginning to bleed; she could see all the horrible burns it was causing, smell the singed flesh, and it made her want to be sick. By protecting herself she was also hurting him and she couldn't stand it anymore.

Even though she realized what a terrible decision it was she found herself unable to cause him any more pain. Bracing herself, she lowered her barrier and moved quickly to the side, trying to dodge the sweeping strike of his claws. She was no match for his inhuman speed and he raked his talons over her side, drawing blood and causing her to scream out in pain. Reflexively, she lashed out with one of her hands and released a small shock of her power directly into his chest, sending him stumbling backwards away from her. Gasping, her other hand clutched at where he had slashed her and she felt the wetness of her blood.

“Oooh, he got you good!!” Satoshi observed, grinning and cocking his head as he watched them. “Hmm, but you messed up his hands pretty good too. So exciting!”

Locked inside his mind, Inuyasha was aware of everything but he couldn’t fucking do anything, couldn’t stop himself. The anguish in Kagome’s eyes was just about to kill him, but that was nothing compared to when he felt his claws rip into her, felt her blood on his hands. Being the cause of her pain, hurting her...it was one of his worst fears. Why couldn’t he fucking fight it?!

Inhaling, the smell of Kagome’s blood washed over him and overrode his senses. It was the scent of his mate’s blood, and it called to his demonic half. She was bleeding, she was in pain, she was scared, and none of these things were acceptable to it; her wellbeing was of the utmost importance. His inner demon began to rise in response, attempting to overtake the curse and keep him from harming her further. For the first time in his life Inuyasha did not fight the way it tried to take control. Instead, he welcomed it, standing frozen in place as the strong surge in his youki and aura competed with the commands of the curse running through him.

Kagome stood there, watching him in confusion and a little fear as he breathed harshly and growled. His limbs jerked as if trying to resist the geass of the curse and when he lifted his arms it wasn’t to reach for her but to clutch at his head. Holding her breath, her mind raced as she took in his struggle. Was he fighting it? But how? Had hurting her been the catalyst, allowing him to break through?

Then his aura expanded, billowing out from him in a wave as purple streaks slowly appeared on his face. The whites of his eyes were shifting to red as his golden irises changed into a startling blue. The demon half of him was rising and she stared as he transformed before her eyes, unsure of what was happening now. Was this him fighting the curse or was the curse taking control of his demon side? She had no idea and prayed it was the former.

~☆~

Exchanging a flurry of blows, Sango soon had Miroku cornered with his back against the wall. Raising his shakujo between them he blocked her next strike, sweat trickling down the side of his face. After a short struggle he managed to drive her back a step, thrusting his staff up and out, pushing her wakizashi to the side. With a quick maneuver, Miroku hooked the blade through the loop on the top of his shakujo before pulling up with his staff. It effectively disarmed her and her sword clattered to the marble floor several feet away from where they stood. Wasting no time, Miroku swung his shakujo in the same swift motion at her ankles and knocked her off her feet.

Following her down, he straddled her stomach as he held his shakujo in front of him to try and purify the curse from her. As he leaned forward Sango brought her arms up, triggering the blades at her wrists. He swore and jerked away but was unable to avoid both of them, dodging one as the other cut deep into his right forearm. It sliced through the jacket he was wearing and drew blood, causing him to hiss in a breath and let out a low grunt of pain. Red drops splattered onto her cheek from the wound.

Using all his strength Miroku was finally able to capture both of her wrists in his left hand, pinning them above her head after managing to resheath the blades; there were cuts all over his hands from his efforts. Sango struggled beneath him and he laid his body over hers, pressing down onto her with all his weight to hold her in place. Grabbing his shakujo in his right hand and ignoring the pain the motion caused his wounds, he pushed down onto her with it.

Since the moment it had taken hold of her, Sango had been trying to fight the curse. There was no blissful ignorance of what it was making her do; she was awake and aware for all of it. Feeling like a marionette having its strings pulled, she moved with deadly precision against Miroku, unable to regain control of her body despite her best efforts. Although she was sure her face had remained a mask of impassivity throughout all her attacks, Sango was screaming inside the prison of her mind the whole time. ‘No!! Stop, please! I don’t want to do this!’

She had come so close to ending his life already, the fear of it consuming her. Miroku was holding his own, if just barely, but he didn’t have the specialized training she did and he wouldn’t last in a prolonged fight. The thought of possibly killing the man she loved with her own hands...she wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Desperately, she tried to hold back but it was useless. Hating what this demon and his curse were making her do, her emotional turmoil continued to mount. It skyrocketed when she sliced deep into Miroku’s arm with her wrist blades and felt the splash of his blood dripping onto her face where she lay beneath him. As if her emotional distress was so great it could no longer be contained within the confines of her body, tears pooled in her deadened eyes. Despite the lifeless set to her features, Sango began to cry, the tears trailing down the sides of her face. She saw Miroku look at her, his indigo gaze widening as he noticed her silent weeping.

“Sango?” He whispered, but she couldn’t respond, could barely even see him anymore as her vision blurred with more unshed tears.

“This is getting boring now. Bleh!” Satoshi complained, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight. “Why don’t we spice it up?”

Control returned to Sango’s body in a rush, the compulsion to attack Miroku and cause him pain disappearing entirely. Just as quickly her ability to breathe was stolen away, her lungs refusing to work. Life returned to her eyes as she stared at Miroku desperately, no longer fighting against him. Her mouth opened but she was unable to take a breath or speak.

“What are you doing to her?!” Miroku demanded, raising his head to glare at the smug demon.

“She’s under my total control, dummy. She can’t even breathe without my say so, and right now I don’t say so! Hehehe!”

Miroku was furious, but he had no time to spare for the demon. Working quickly he sent his power into her, seeking out the curse. He had to find a way to break it and fast. Noticing the way she began to pull at his grip on her wrists, Miroku knew her air was running out. Lowering his mouth to hers he breathed for her, hoping it was enough until he could fix her.

“Hmmm, do you think you can save her before she suffocates? Let’s make it a race!” Satoshi called out. Miroku ignored him, everything in him consumed by his need to save the woman suffering beneath him.

After taking a moment to focus, he located the curse and almost recoiled in grim shock. It was spiderwebbed throughout the whole of her soul, lines of darkness beginning from where it had entered at her wrist. Pouring himself into her, he began to purify it, starting from the point of origin where it was thickest. He went as fast as he dared, but it was so entangled with her soul that the process was difficult. Pausing in his efforts he lowered his mouth to hers again, breathing for her once more.

“Please, fight it. Just hold on a little longer. I’m going to save you.” He swore, his voice fervent and his eyes intent. She gave a barely perceptible nod.

Returning his attention to the curse, Miroku came to an unpleasant realization as he worked through each tendril of darkness-- this was taking too long. Fueled by his own desperation, he made the decision that he couldn’t afford to spare the time to be as careful in its removal as he would have ordinarily liked. This was going to hurt her, and if he could take the pain he was about to cause her and place it upon himself he would without hesitation.

“This is going to hurt, and I’m so sorry.” He whispered the apology to Sango before he blasted through the curse with all of his power, erasing it in its entirety. All the darkness vaporized under the burning assault of his reiki and suddenly Sango could breathe again.

Sango had a single moment to draw in a breath to her air-starved lungs before the pain engulfed her. Oh God, she had never felt anything as excruciating as this in her life, not even when her possessed brother had almost killed her. She screamed at the agony of the curse being ripped from her very being; it felt like her soul had been lit on fire. Miroku had warned her it was going to hurt but this was far more awful than anything she could have imagined. When the worst of the pain had passed her screaming stopped and she gasped for air, tears still leaking from her eyes. Blinking, her vision came back into focus and she could see Miroku's face above hers, his expression one of concern and distress.

"Thank you." She whispered to him.

~☆~

Kagome watched as Inuyasha's demon blood took control, but he made no move towards her. When his eyes raised to her face and focused on her she gasped; the emptiness was gone and in its place was the intensity she was familiar with. They weren't the beautiful gold she was used to but she could tell it was finally him looking at her and not the curse. Had he fought it off??

"I-Inuyasha?" She asked hesitantly and he growled in response.

"Kagome...I can't...fight this off. This...is the most...I can do." He grunted out, his voice a deep demonic rasp, each word an effort as his muscles strained against the compulsion of the curse.

"What?"

"My demon blood...is holding it off...because you're my mate...and your blood...but it can't erase it. You...have to purify it. Do it."

"Purify it?! But I don't know what that will do to you!" Kagome cried out, feeling the blood in her veins turn to ice. If she purified it, she would likely also purify the demon half of him in the process. It would be unavoidable.

"Fuck, Kagome, just do it! I want you to do this. It’s better than being forced to hurt you.”

The fact that she had his permission didn't make this any easier. Still, what choice did they have? Stepping forward, she placed her hands on his shoulders and looked inside him with her power, finding the curse. It was nasty and malignant, tendrils of black woven tightly into his soul. Inuyasha gave a pained gasp at the feel of her power moving through him, tensing under her hands, but offered no resistance.

“Hehehe! Wow, so you’re really going to do it, huh? Use your power on him? This is turning out better than I imagined!” Satoshi exclaimed in glee, enjoying the struggle of their physical and emotional suffering. He doubtlessly thought she was going to purify him rather than the curse, although the two things weren’t mutually exclusive. Resolutely ignoring him, Kagome focused all her attention on the man before her. What she was about to do...it made her heart clench and she prepared herself.

“I’m sorry, Inuyasha.” She whispered, the tears in her eyes finally spilling over to slide down her cheeks. With those words she poured herself into the purification of the curse, shutting her eyes tightly so she didn’t have to see the agony on his face as she began her work. His body convulsed and hoarse shouts of pain escaped him while her reiki flowed through him, cleansing the evil wrapped into his soul. Removing every last trace of black from him, her power burned through it until he was almost screaming at the feeling. When it was done and the curse was broken she opened her eyes and released him, crying and breathing hard.

Inuyasha was human, black hair replacing the gilded silver and midnight blue eyes glazed over with pain staring into hers. Even though she knew this was the only possible outcome she was still shocked; she had done this to him. A small part of her crumpled in on itself in guilt and sorrow at seeing the reality before her. He gasped and fell to his knees and she knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tightly to her. His mind was still hazy, his body still overwhelmed at the intense ordeal it had just gone through. The immediate dulling of his senses only added to his disorientation and he groaned.

“Please tell me what I did isn’t permanent. That I didn’t make you irreversibly human!” Kagome cried, pulling away to stare into his face in worry.

“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. It’s too early to tell. Even if you did, there are worse things.” Inuyasha replied, his tongue thick in his mouth. He felt so fucking weak and hated it but he didn’t blame Kagome. Being human was better than the alternative-- being used and controlled to hurt her, possibly even kill her. Looking her over his eyes dropped to the wound in her side and he felt a stab of guilt. She had dodged the worst of it but while it was hard to tell with her sweater still on, judging from the blood staining the fabric it was far more than a scratch. The slight pallor to her cheeks only convinced him further of that fact.

Coming down from the adrenaline of the fight, the pain was starting to push through and Kagome stifled a moan but was unable to completely keep her expression from twisting into a grimace. She attempted to turn her face away so Inuyasha couldn’t see but knew it was a futile attempt. There was no way he wasn’t aware of the injury he had inflicted or the pain it was causing her, but at least she would heal from this. What she had done to him...she had no idea if it was something he would recover from or if she had forever erased his demonic side, rendering him human for good. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced herself to focus on their surroundings.

Vaguely, Kagome heard echoes of other more feminine screams around them and realized Miroku had to be destroying the curse from Sango. Even though her best friend was human it still had to have hurt when Miroku basically ripped it out of her rather than taking his time purifying it, like something as twisted as that typically required. The situation they were in...time wasn’t a luxury afforded to them. At least it seemed they were all free from this demon’s control at last.

Sango moaned in pain as Miroku released her wrists finally, getting up off of her and pulling her to her feet to stand. He held her to him as she tried to regain her bearings. Physically, she was mostly okay but she felt exhausted and frayed at the edges, like something inside of her was scraped and raw. At least her tears had finally stopped and she could breathe. Miroku had kept his word and saved her, just as he had said he would.

He smoothed his aura over her, helping to alleviate the worst of the rawness of her soul, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was a temporary fix until it could recover and heal on its own but for now it would do; they weren’t out of the woods yet.

Looking up, they noticed the demon boy had disappeared from his perch on the balcony’s railing. A glance around revealed nothing and, after Sango and Kagome had retrieved their weapons from where they lay on the floor, an unspoken communication passed between all of them and they gathered in the middle of the foyer. This wasn’t over and they were all waiting for the next shoe to drop.

“What next?” Kagome asked. Inuyasha stood by her side, human and scowling. There was no time to ask what had happened, but Sango and Miroku were able to draw their own conclusions. They also hadn’t missed the blood on Kagome’s sweater or the pallor to her cheeks, but she seemed able enough for the time being so the worry for her and Inuyasha’s wellbeing along with all the questions pressing on their minds would have to wait.

“We find that fucker and feed him his own spleen.” Sango answered her question savagely. She was beyond angry. Not only had that demon seen fit to place her under his control, he had made her harm Miroku and she would make sure he paid dearly for that. Miroku’s arm was still bleeding as were all the cuts on his hands, not to mention all the other injuries he had received from his fight with her. She was pissed.

“Well, this is no fun anymore. You broke my toys.” Satoshi pouted as he emerged from below the balcony and stood in front of them, seeming to materialize out of nowhere. “And it was just getting good, too.”

Within seconds Kagome had an arrow strung onto her bow and was firing at him, also burning with rage. She didn’t think she had ever been so angry in her life. Just like before, the arrow passed through him before sinking into the far wall with a thunk.

"Tsk tsk. Didn't I tell you I wouldn't make it so easy for you?” He chided her, wagging his finger. “Besides, I wouldn't waste any more arrows on a projection.”

“You realize Tsubaki left you behind just to slow us down, not because she actually expected you to succeed.” Miroku said. “Where did she go? Or will you protect a woman who left you as a sacrifice 'til the end?”

Satoshi shrugged, trying to act unconcerned but it was evident now that he was on edge. The childish grin he had been wearing had faded, his eyes a baleful red glare.

“She’s not here anymore and she didn’t tell me where she was going. Hmm, who knows? Guess you guys are out of luck.”

Kagome’s power flared around them suddenly, encompassing the entire room. Her breath came faster, her anger lending her strength. She let it fuel her, her emotions of horror, heartbreak, and rage coursing through her and releasing her from everything that made her feel like she wasn’t enough. All her life she had been told she was incredibly powerful, that she was the strongest priestess in generations, but she had never truly felt like she was deserving of such words. She had always wondered if maybe they were a bit mistaken or hasty in their assessment of her abilities. Over the past month her confidence had grown as she practiced more and began using her power more offensively, but that bit of self-doubt had always lingered just below the surface, holding her back. However, right now there was no room left in her for any of that, only her burning need to purify this demon, make him pay for what he had forced her to do-- all of them to do-- and destroy his evil from this world. It consumed her. A mere projection wouldn’t stop her.

Calling everything to her she honed her senses and focused with the full weight of her power. It was ridiculously easy to find where Satoshi truly lied in wait within the house; Kagome felt like she could do anything she set her mind to. Stringing another arrow onto her bow, she prepared to fire again and send the arrow directly to him this time, sending him straight to hell. An emotion resembling fear passed over Satoshi’s face and for the first time he looked worried.

“You know, even if you do manage to hit my real body and kill me it’ll only be more trouble for you guys. My life is tied to all the wards holding back the demons deep inside this house. If you kill me you’ll be setting alllllll of them free.”

“So what? Is that supposed to scare us?” Sango scoffed, grip tightening on her sword.

“It should. Your half breed friend is human and useless and you humans are banged up pretty good.”

“Who fucking cares! We’ll manage just fine once you’re dead.” Kagome fired her arrow, imbuing it with power and this time as it hit his projection it disappeared through a portal of pink light. With her spiritual senses she knew her sacred arrow had emerged through the same type of portal in front of his real body and slammed into his chest. It was also clear from the way his projection looked stricken, staring at his chest then back up at her, eyes wide.

“How…? Doesn’t matter...you’ll never find...her in time.” With those last words his real body turned to ash from the purification while the projection before them seemed to burn up. Within seconds of his death an immense demonic aura pressed down upon all of them, proving his words about the wards to be true. After several tense moments it appeared nothing was going to immediately come after them and Sango took a step forward.

“I take it we’re goin’ in.” Inuyasha remarked. He felt fucking useless without any of his demonic powers or senses, but he still had his mind and his fighting skills. He might be lacking in strength at the moment but if everyone else could fight as a human then so could he. He’d be damned if he held anyone back. His hands were burned and bleeding but pain had always been more of an annoyance than an actual deterrent to him.

“Yes. I figure that even if Tsubaki has cleared out, this place has been her base of operations for ages. She might have left something behind that we could use. Besides, I can’t in good conscience leave after the release of whatever this demonic presence is. It’s our responsibility to take care of it now.” Sango replied, reaching back to grip her Hiraikotsu. She could use something to tear into right now anyways, truthfully; all her pent-up anger needed an outlet.

“Sango’s right. Besides, after everything we just went through I’m not leaving until we find some answers.” Kagome said with determination.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Miroku voiced his agreement, moving forward and they all finally made their way further into the mansion, walking to the end of the foyer and through the door on the far side. All the lights seemed to be turned on, guiding their way as they all trekked deeper. Sango didn’t miss the way Miroku seemed to be breathing a little more heavily or favoring his right arm, holding his shakujo in his left hand. That observation made her notice his hands and the way they were smeared with red from the cuts bleeding on his palms. She couldn’t help but feel bad about all his injuries even though logic told her she was blameless.

Minutes passed and just when they were all beginning to wonder when they would finally come upon the source of the demonic aura, suddenly it got stronger in front of the door they were about to pass through. Sango glanced at Inuyasha and felt sympathy for him as a fellow warrior; he had to be feeling crippled and she didn’t think that rusty sword would be much use against what they would face without his demonic energy to feed into it. She removed an extra blade she kept inside her boot-- only a dagger really-- but she figured it would be better than nothing and held it out to him. He looked at what she wordlessly offered him and gave a short nod of thanks, taking it.

Then they were through the door and stepping foot into a huge cavernous room with columns supporting the vaulted ceiling. Along the top was a wrap-around balcony that could be accessed by the ornate staircase placed at the very far end of the room. To the left of where they stood was a set of huge red doors that stretched almost to the ceiling, opened wide into darkness, and swarming into the room from the depths were demons.

All four of them assessed the situation and sprung into action. They seemed countless but the demons weren’t too powerful on their own. It was only because of their sheer numbers that they posed any kind of threat and truthfully the four of them had all faced so much worse. This was nothing but a chore in comparison.

Charging into the room, Sango swung her Hiraikotsu and felt a vicious satisfaction as it cut through the horde before returning to her grip for her to release again. She spun as she caught it, her momentum adding more force to her next throw. Miroku murmured an incantation and threw out his sutras, purifying everything in the line they traveled before they latched onto the floor and activated a trap that captured any demons caught within. With another incantation the power in the sutras flared and incinerated them into ash. Kagome was hanging back a little further, destroying the demons in a volley of pink rain, her arrows flying fast and true. Any time a demon came a little too close to Kagome, Inuyasha made short work of them with the help of Sango’s dagger. He might be human but he still took his duty of protecting her seriously and he would sooner die than let one touch a hair on her head.

Soon the flow of demons began to ebb but there didn’t seem to be a decrease in the demonic aura. The reason for that became evident as another demon emerged through the enormous doors, this one larger and not quite as low level as the others. It was huge, its monstrous head almost brushing the top of the door frame as it entered the vicinity. The floor almost trembled with every step it took.

“Is that a fucking oni?” Inuyasha demanded, sounding annoyed.

“Yes. Looks like Tsubaki had one trapped in this place to attack any intruders in the event the wards holding back all her demons failed.” Sango replied, unconcerned.

The oni’s body was red and muscled, barrel-chested with arms and legs thick as tree trunks. Yellow horns protruded from its head and matched the long fangs jutting from its mouth, the image not softened in the slightest by the black mane of hair wreathing its head. It was naked save for a loincloth covering its lower half and the massive spiked club it wielded in its right hand was almost as long as it was. Baleful orange eyes glowed under the heavy ridge of its brow and it growled at them, the sound loud and menacing.

“I have one arrow left.” Kagome told them.

“Better make it count, then.” Inuyasha said. “Sango and I will fight and distract it while you and Miroku work on purifying it.”

“We can weave a net with our power around it to trap it but it will take some concentration. We’re both a little drained after-- after earlier. But Inuyasha...be careful.”

“Keh. I’ll be fine.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Sango said, readying her Hiraikotsu, then addressed Inuyasha. “If you draw its attention I’ll attack.”

“Looks like I’ve been volunteered. Shall we?” Miroku said to Kagome and she gave a decisive nod.

They each met the charge of the oni, slipping in their decided roles. Kagome and Miroku focused their power, sending it out into strands and mingling them together, invisible to the naked eye while Inuyasha shouted insults and taunted the demon, dodging out of the way of its heavy club at the last second.

Running up behind it while Inuyasha kept it distracted, Sango threw her weapon and the oni whirled around at the last second to smack it out of the air. Silently cursing, she leapt towards where it fell, catching it and spinning to block the strike of his club hurtling towards her. The force sent her back several feet and she bent her knees, preparing to attack again.

“Hey, ugly! Come and get it!” Inuyasha snarked, drawing its attention back to him. The thing about oni was that although they were big and strong, they weren’t too bright. It lumbered towards him again, reaching out with its left hand to cut off his path around the room. Quickly pivoting to run the other way he rolled under the swing of its club. It roared, turning fast and snatched at him again and without his demonic speed Inuyasha found himself caught.

Sango dashed forward and threw her Hiraikotsu, aiming low and it cut the oni off at the knees with brutal efficiency. The blow forced the oni to open the fist it had wrapped around Inuyasha, dropping him to the floor as it bellowed its rage and pain, falling forward. Inuyasha got out of the way of its descent before it crashed all the way down and Sango caught her Hiraikotsu again. Not losing any of her momentum, she bounded up and ran over one of its legs to its back just as it began to attempt to rise. Settling her Hiraikotsu upon her own back she drew her wakizashi and grabbed a fistful of its mane to keep from falling.

That was the other thing about oni-- pain did little to deter them, often only pissing them off. And this one was definitely pissed. It snarled, the sound echoing in the space around them. Reaching back, it attempted to swipe at Sango but she dodged its attempts and lashed out with her sword, removing one of its fingers and it howled louder. Quickly climbing her way up to the top of its head, she resisted its efforts to shake her off and then swung herself down in front of its face, anchoring herself with another handful of its dark mane. Kicking off with her feet, she rocked back before swinging forward towards its face and stabbed her wakizashi up to the hilt into one of its eyes.

It screamed and tried to claw at its face as she grunted, removing the blade before flinging herself to the side and slamming her sword into its other eye, completely blinding it but not quite avoiding being struck by its flailing fists. At the same time Miroku and Kagome had finished their work and Miroku took control of the web of spiritual power around the oni, clenching his fist and effectively tightening the noose around its neck. Meanwhile Kagome notched her last arrow onto her bow and took aim, preparing to fire. As Sango was falling she reached back and threw Hiraikotsu at it once more before landing heavily on her side and rolling into a crouch to watch as her weapon struck. It hit just as Kagome’s arrow flew in a pink arc and the filaments of power from Miroku squeezed, closing in.

Hiraikotsu tore through the demon’s mid section at the same moment Kagome’s arrow struck, slamming into its chest and engulfing its body in pink light while the web of power Miroku held kept the oni in place. All three things converged and with a final bellow the oni was purified, vanishing into dust.

Once the threat was gone, Miroku immediately went over to where Sango was rising to her feet. She grimaced as she sheathed her blade then turned to look at him as he approached. Fierce and powerful were the words that instantly came to mind as he assessed her, taking in any possible injuries and seeing none, although he bet she’d be pretty bruised tomorrow.

“That’s all of them. All the demons that were left in this place.” Kagome said into the silence that had descended. She was breathing a little more harshly and one of her hands was grabbing at her wound again. Inuyasha had made his way back to her side and he looked fine, if not a little roughed up, and she didn’t miss the guilt in his eyes as he noticed the way she held her side. When the oni had grabbed him she had almost fired her arrow right then to free him but then Sango had saved him, sparing her from the choice of using her last arrow for his sake or the sake of them all.

Over the next hour they explored the rest of the place, thoroughly checking out every room and finding nothing. Just as they were all getting frustrated at their lack of results or anything to show for the suffering they had endured, they entered the last room on the top floor. As soon as they entered, the familiarity of the place struck home for Miroku and Kagome. It was the study they had seen in the vision from the location ritual. From the heavy wooden desk made of mahogany to the black velvet curtains over the windows, the layout, everything. Everything except for the book that had been sitting on top of the desk, open to the spell required to resurrect Naraku.

Walking to the desk, Miroku examined the surface and frowned as he noticed a single piece of paper left behind, and it wasn’t the page they had seen in their vision. It was handwritten and he instantly knew it had been scribed by Tsubaki. Holding it down like a paperweight was a miniature of the Tokyo Tower. Something dark and oily was emanating from it and he carefully bound it with his power, sealing it and whatever curse it bore then moved it to the side.

“What is that?” Sango asked as Kagome walked over to where he stood.

“A miniature of the Tokyo Tower. There’s some extremely black magic in it, no doubt another lovely little gift Tsubaki thought to leave behind for us.” Miroku said. “I sealed it, but if anyone without strong reiki touches it the binding will be released and whatever curse it contains will be unleashed. It’s very potent and will likely take multiple cleansings to completely purify it.”

Kagome looked at it curiously, giving it a once over with her own power and nodded confirmation to Miroku’s words. “He’s right. I know I’m feeling really drained right now but even I would struggle to eliminate the evil from this object.”

“I wonder why she chose a miniature of the Tokyo Tower to use as the conduit. Is it a message of some sort?” Sango mused.

“Possibly.” He looked at the paper again. Picking it up, he read the contents:

When the reflection of the sun sits high

At the borderline between worlds

Where the pink rain that fell has dried

The point where all directions converge

Only a quarter of light refracted in the sky

The true power of the spell will emerge

Solve this; try and stop me if you dare

When the time comes, no one will be spared

If you wait

It’ll be too late.

“What does it say?” Kagome asked, coming over to peer around him curiously, then frowned as she read it.

“Well? Anybody gonna fucking read it out loud or are we all taking turns?” Inuyasha grumbled with his arms crossed. Miroku looked up at where Sango stood next to Inuyasha, seeing her expectant face, and read the words. When he was done Inuyasha was scowling and Sango was pursing her lips in thought.

“So she left us a shitty poem. It doesn’t even rhyme that well.” Inuyasha said scornfully.

“Well the good news; between the contents of the page we saw in the vision and this piece of paper here, we actually have some clues to work off of now. And the use of such an iconic symbol of Tokyo to hold such a black curse leads me to believe her use of the tower was not by mere chance. It must relate in some way.” Miroku said.

“It’s like she couldn’t resist trying to rub our noses in her plans, leaving us crumbs that she thinks we have no hope of following back to the truth.” Kagome glared.

“Arrogant bitch.” Inuyasha spat.

“Yes, and if we fail at figuring it out in time then we’re all screwed.” Sango said, voicing what they all were thinking.

“So we just need to figure it out.” Kagome said. Of course, that would require some critical thinking, something none of them were really up to at the moment unless it was absolutely necessary. The whole encounter had left them drained; physically, mentally, and emotionally. Now that it was over all they wanted to do was get themselves patched up and go home.

With nothing else keeping them there they made their way back to where they had entered. As they all walked across the foyer the bloodstains splashed onto the floor in stark contrast against the white marble were unmistakable. It was hard to avoid looking at them. Sango shut her eyes again against a brief and irrational moment of guilt and the frown on Inuyasha’s face deepened, a sadness to the set of his brow. Miroku and Kagome pretended not to notice as they all went outside but the oppressive air to the atmosphere didn’t seem to lighten. It was as if the darkness they faced in that house was an inextricable part of them all, unable to simply be left behind by merely exiting the place.

Miroku retrieved the first aid kit from the trunk of Sango’s car, removing a jar when he made his way back to where they all still lingered on the porch. Kagome was pale and Miroku figured he didn’t look too hot himself. Inuyasha’s hands were a burned and bleeding mess. Sango didn’t appear to have any real injuries although she was moving a little stiffly; that fall along with the stress of their fight had to have taken its toll on her body.

“This is a special ointment Jinenji gave me in case we needed some extra assistance again. It’s not as good as actually having him here but he imbued the antibacterial salve with his healing powers. It will take the worst away.” Miroku said, opening the jar.

“That’s great.” Kagome said with a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Sango’s heart hurt for her friend, noticing again the very human appearance of Inuyasha and the total lack of any demonic aura or youki surrounding him. What she and Miroku had gone through had been traumatic and exhausting in every way imaginable but it appeared Kagome and Inuyasha had fared worse. She felt a pang of sympathy but still felt compelled to ask. “Kagome...when you purified the curse from Inuyasha, did you--”

“Yes.” Kagome replied shortly, unable to completely disguise the pain in her voice. Sango let it drop, not wanting to press her on something that was clearly tearing her up inside. That alone confirmed it.

“I told you I was okay with--” Inuyasha began.

“Stop!” Kagome yelled, tears filling her eyes again. Her next words were a whisper. “Just...please. I know, but that doesn’t change anything. You’re still human and I’m still the one who made you that way.”

“Kagome--”

“I just can’t talk about it right now. Please.”

Inuyasha fell quiet, looking like he wanted to say something more but knowing it would be no use. He looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to break out of his skin and escape to anywhere but there. Kagome was too distraught for words of comfort, especially from the person she had hurt. She felt like she didn’t deserve them. The full impact of what she had done hadn’t truly hit until now, with the earlier adrenaline from battle and the hunt for anything to lead back to Tsubaki pushing it all aside to deal with later. But now, standing here and staring at him it felt like a slap in the face and she had to struggle to breathe for a second. Then she felt selfish, feeling like she was making it all about her when Inuyasha was the one who had lost an actual part of who he was. A part he may never be able to regain back.

During their exchange Miroku removed his ruined jacket and rolled up the sleeve to his long-sleeved t-shirt, allowing Sango to treat his wounds. She bit her lip and took his arm, carefully applying the ointment without saying anything out of respect for the gravity of the moment between Kagome and Inuyasha. And what would she say, anyways? She didn’t even know where to begin.

Hesitantly she raised her eyes from where she was rubbing ointment onto the slash in his forearm to his face and saw him watching her. His eyes met her own and she felt the awful urge to cry at the steady and understanding look in his indigo gaze. And hadn’t she been the one to tell him not to feel guilty over being controlled to hurt someone you love? That as the attacked party, she understood it wasn’t the other person’s fault? Yet here she was doing a terrible job of taking her own advice and Miroku seemed to know it.

“It’s okay.” He said quietly and she let out a shaky breath, dropping her eyes back to where she was wrapping the bandages around the wound. Securing it and giving a small nod, she willed back the tears that were threatening to fall and then released his arm, taking his other hand full of cuts. When she was finished treating all the injuries on his hands she swallowed and looked at his throat where the angry red line left behind by her wakizashi lay. Blood had dried around it, and she sent out a silent prayer of thanks that he had been quick enough to dodge the full extent of her attack. After disinfecting it she softly swiped a finger full of ointment over the cut, closing her eyes for a moment. Miroku took the opportunity to press a kiss to the top of her head and she felt some of the tension drain from her. He was still here. It was okay.

Sango handed the jar of ointment to Miroku and he stepped to where Kagome leaned heavily against one of the ornate posts on the porch. “Your turn.” He said. The priestess lifted her sweater up, exposing her stomach and the deep, ragged gashes in her left side along her waist. Blood still shone wetly but the punctures didn’t appear to be actively bleeding anymore. Although Inuyasha’s hands hadn’t been treated yet Kagome’s wound was the more serious of the two and took precedence.

“Give it here. I’ll do it.” Inuyasha said tersely, snatching it out of his hands and Miroku blinked but shrugged, stepping aside. Apparently Inuyasha’s ruined hands weren’t a deterrent. At first glance his actions seemed born out of jealousy, like when Miroku had been holding Kagome’s hands and staring into her eyes intently during the location ritual. But this wasn’t about being bothered at the thought of another man’s hands touching her there. It was about doing anything within his power to heal the hurts he had been the cause of. No matter how unwilling he had been it had still been his claws to tear through that vulnerable flesh of hers and the thought sickened him.

“I still want to call Jinenji. This is deep.” Inuyasha said, and there was anguish in his voice.

“Fine. But at least wait until we get back to the shrine. I don’t want to spend a second longer here than I have to.” Kagome replied and Inuyasha nodded his agreement.

When Kagome had been bandaged up and Inuyasha’s hands treated, they all left without a backward glance. The dark memories wouldn’t be so easily abandoned but they would find ways to heal and grow stronger from it. In the meantime they had a riddle to solve and a dark priestess to catch.

#Inuyasha fanfiction #MirSan #Miroku x Sango #InuKag #Inuyasha x Kagome #Through the Night #yes that's right I finally made a fucking banner #after 13 chapters #whatever better late than never right?

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samwrights · 4 years

Text

I Don’t Care - Punk!AU [Kuroo]

Me: *hits a milestone* I should give back to my community by fulfilling requests *posts an Elixir chapter instead*

Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your kind words and patience regarding my abrupt hiatus last week. I’m gonna be on a slow roll for awhile with Grandpa Frenchy’s passing and me resuming my normal-ish life as work goes back to regular hours and school will be resuming in less than two months. But I’m gonna do my best to feed y’all when I can.

Remember that if you’re confused with what’s going on, that’s probably because this is the second installment of Kuroo’s Elixir route and need to read the first part which can be found here. Also, artwork is not mine so if we can find the artist, please let me know so that they can be properly credited!

Lyrics that are bolded are sung by Kuroo, while lyrics that are italicized are sung by you and if they are both, they are harmonized.

WARNINGS: Language, implied nsfw, mentions of nicotine and marijuana.

Word count: ~2.9k

Song used: I Don’t Care if You’re Contagious by Pierce the Veil

A complementary playlist can be found » here

The ball was in your court. That was what Kuroo had said to you last night. What that didn’t entail was the two of you christening every room in your little one bedroom apartment into the early hours in the morning. It shouldn’t have surprised you at all that Kuroo had a quick recovery time; after all he was a cocky little shit and apparently for good reason.

You were going to need to send apology baskets to your neighbors at some point when this was all said and done.

The ball was in your court, he said, and that somehow brought you to the following afternoon with you and Kuroo laying naked in your bed. Both of you were awake, you knew that, yet neither of you wanted to say anything to break the silence. Neither of you needed to—you were both finally home. Nestling yourself further into Kuroo’s blackened chest is what pulled the guitarist from his wandering thoughts, coercing him to look down at your shifting body. “Not comfy anymore?” His voice is thick with sleep still, and probably raw from dehydration.

“Trust me, I am. But we should probably go get ready.”

“Ugh,” the raven haired man groans, “right, we have a show.”

“Yes, honey, we have a show. Time to go make all twelve of our fans happy for thirty minutes.” He laughs heartily at the jab before pulling you on top of him in the most platonic way. Well, as platonic as you could be when you both were completely naked. You take the opportunity to look at him fully. Though his eyes were darkened from the lack of sleep, Tetsurō Kuroo was every bit as pretty as he was the day you’d met him ten years ago—even if his skin was now covered from neck to toe in black and white and bold-colored works of art and you could fit a single digit through the stretch of his earlobes. If anything, it added to his charm in your eyes.

Subconsciously, your fingers travel down his throat, just grazing over the three traditional style roses that cover it, before dancing over the skulls on his chest. As they trace over one of his pierced nipples, he lets out a grumble that’s a mixture of pleased and in warning. “You start playing with me, I’m not gonna stop.” And after last night, you knew that he wasn’t kidding.

“Fine, fine.” You concede, retreating in the form of resting your head on his chest. Silence fills the two of you again, allowing you to recount yesterday’s events that didn’t involve Kuroo impaling you. “You broke up with Nanami.” It wasn’t a question, but he answers it as if it were.

“I did,” there’s suspicion and trepidation in his voice, as if he’s weary of the direction this conversation is going. “What about it?” Searching for reassurance, he winds his arms around your waist, simultaneously goading you into continuing your statement.

“Nothing, I just...” you aren’t even sure what you’re trying to say at this point. “I just feel like a lot has happened in the last twenty four hours and I still need to process everything.”

“I can help if you need me to jog your memory about anything,” Kuroo’s tone is polite—sweet, even—and entirely contradictory with the thrust of his bare hips into yours.

“Tetsu, I’m being serious.” You deadpan, pretending that you didn’t feel that tiny spark in your core from the movement. Last night he may have been able to coerce you with touch, and even more in the long hours into the morning, but you weren’t going to be fooled again. At least not right now.

“I am too.” He adjusts himself slightly again so that he’s cradling you, eerily similar to last night, with you pulled over his lap. Despite the lack of clothing, there’s no humor or deviancy on his face—he’s completely calm and self-assured. “I know this situation isn’t ideal and this definitely isn’t the way I ever pictured us being together,” the sentence doesn’t go over your head—you’d be lying if you said that it didn’t bring some sort of pleasure to you, “but all that matters to me is that you want this as much as I do.”

You knew what this was. Kuroo was giving you the chance to back out—to move forward without him if you so desired.

But what was the point of living life without your best friend? Lacking a cohesive thought, you rested you head on Kuroo’s chest once again, letting the guitarist’s steady heartbeat bring ease to you. Maybe you were going about this all wrong. For the last ten years, it had taken everything in you try to mute the feelings that you had for Kuroo, or attempt to pass them off as a deep respect for your guys’ friendship. But that wasn’t what this was anymore; this was your guys’ relationship. “It’s a learning curve,” you start slowly, “but I’m willing to try and make this work if you are.”

“That’s all I’m asking for, babe.”

The two of you move about your day in a way that’s exploratory for the two of you—like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen each other. In a sense, that was an accurate depiction. Your guitarist makes it a point to make the both of you the first meal of the day, complete with setting the table and even doing the dishes. Showering together for the first time was odd, to say the least. It was an intimate form of learning and exploration that neither of you had ever thought the two of you would be able to bask in. After having lunch and getting ready for the show tonight, to which you learned that Kuroo had brought clothes with him in the event he did end up staying over, the two of you took his car over to Terushima’s house.

“No fucking way,” Terushima balks at the sight of you two briefly sharing a kiss as he holds the passenger door open for you while your other two bandmates are loading up the van. “He finally confessed! Makki!” The drummer calls for his best friend who’s walking out the door with two guitar cases in his hand. Without needing much context, the bassist quirks a brow in yours and Kuroo’s direction.

“You finally told her?” Is all he asks.

“You all fucking knew about this? Man, fuck you guys.” The incredulity in your voice earns a chorus of laughter from your bandmates.

“Dude, I don’t know how you didn’t figure it out sooner. The way he used to talk to you at work wasn’t a dead giveaway?” Makki is laughing, grinning even, despite his usual deadpan attitude. You try to think back to any particular instance, but nothing was as obvious as the rest of Elixir was making it seem. Sure, Kuroo was rather touchy and there was more than one case of his fingers touching your waist from behind while you took orders or made drinks. But there isn’t anything that he said that would necessarily incriminate him—

Oh.

“Now she remembers.” Kuroo jokes. He’d left your side at some point, when you weren’t entirely sure, to help the boys finish loading up. “Told ya, [name], I’m gonna marry you someday.”

“Gross, you guys are so cute, it makes me sick.” A roll of Teru’s bronze eyes are accompanied with the slamming of the back of the shoddy vehicle. Knowing it was going to probably be a minute or two, the drummer flitted off with Makki to do god knows what, probably off to go kill a blunt if you were being honest, in preparation for the evening, leaving you to curiously gaze at the cracks in the concrete driveway with a cigarette between your fingers.

“There’s no way you meant that back then.” Your voice isn’t accusatory or judgmental—merely flabbergasted as your guitarist leaned on his car right next to you.

“I did and I still do,” is his response, pulling his own Marlboro Red between his thin lips, “I’ve been saying it since day one and I never stopped saying it for ten years.” His bulky arm comes to wrap around your shoulders, nearly swallowing you due to the difference in stature. Yet, despite his sweet words, something wasn’t adding up.

“Kuroo, you never said anything to me besides that one time you told a regular that I was your future wife.” He shakes his head slightly, a laugh rumbling audibly in his chest as he rolls up the jersey fabric of his long sleeves. Pressing his knuckles together so you can see them clear as day, he responds with,

“Homesick was for you, because you always said how being together felt like home.” And suddenly, you feel like time was regressing as he begins to point out the subtleties you never noticed previously. “All of the roses are for every time I swore I was going to confess,” you knew for a fact that Kuroo had seven roses littered along his skin: three on his throat, one on each hand, and one on each of his pecs. “the lipstick marks are from ‘Contagious’ because I wrote it for you. I’ve been saying it since day one, [name].”

“Wait, you wrote ‘Contagious’ for me?!” At that admission, you weren’t sure whether or not you should have been pleased or disturbed. There were themes hidden in the song that could be viewed as romantic, but overall the song was quite morose and not to be considered a love song at first glance. Maybe that was the point.

“Oh, baby, you’re so dense it hurts.”

“So how’s everyone doing tonight? We feelin’ good? Feelin’ the love?” You ask into your microphone after the four of you had completed the one fully acoustic song, “A Part of Me”. Who knew that Hanamaki had such a romantic side to him? It was cute, considering the lax man typically didn’t show much emotion except when he was performing. “So, we’re gonna keep the love theme going—“ your eyes dart over to your guitarist who is grinning like an idiot. It seemed that the pieces were finally coming together in the sense that you knew.

You knew that he was dead set on making good on every promise he’d ever made to you and Kuroo was going to make this known to every fan in the rather large audience tonight as he interrupts your spiel. “I wrote this one a few years ago for someone I’d been pining after for years so if you’re in the same boat that I was in, make sure you tell them you love them.” The guitarist chimes in, his goofy, wicked grin only growing wider. “Love you, [name].” The proclamation does not go amiss by you, your bandmates, nor your audience that housed familiar faces that swore up and down they wouldn’t be in attendance tonight. But neither you nor Kuroo noticed the aforementioned stranger—only noticing the sly, subtle grin the two of you exchanged before the guitarist gave a shrill whine of his instrument that started the song.

Even before realizing this song was...written? Dedicated? However you viewed it, this song was for you and before that knowledge had even been made known to you, you’d always found it to be a strange, enticing verbal dance between you and the guitarist. You and Kuroo often teetered back and forth like a seesaw, bouncing between lines as he intended when he wrote it. It only charged the chemical static between the two of you further now that you understood who it was written about.

Bury me in the bedroom where I I can sing you to sleep all night

Considering the nature of the song, Kuroo and you had your eyes locked on each other’s to make sure the two of you were keeping time and tempo with the other. Or at least, that was what you were supposed to be doing. But with the way the guitarist’s hazel eyes were dancing with amusement and comfort like he was aware of some joke you had no idea existed.

I’d rather kill the one responsible for falling stars at night

It amused you, to some degree, just how all over the place this song was. And while you had known that back when it came to fruition, the air was different now. It was wild and fun and laced with underlying feelings that left you feeling alive much like the last twenty four hours had. Though the hesitance that first presented itself yesterday was no longer there—you believed everything Kuroo had said. The years of pining, the futile attempt to move on, even the way he marred his skin as a physical representation of his dedication to you—you believed it all.

Last night she recited every reason she’s fine

In a way, it made you feel a little silly. Silly in the way that you had felt you hadn’t been able to trust your best friend after all these years, like you couldn’t tell him you had been homesick for him. Keeping up a facade for all those years had only served to hurt and distance the two of you for no reason. Now, the two of you were going to heal, going to focus on rebuilding that home as soon as this show was over.

You sing while I drive

Not once did it go amiss, the way Kuroo glanced at you, hazel eyes flickering back between you and towards the barricade in the audience to your right. At first, it seemed nonchalant; like it was an attempt to engage with the crowd as he typically did. But Kuroo was always meticulous and calculating with his actions, and that lead you to glance in the same direction while you sang your respective lines in the second verse.

I would rather spend my life Vacations in bed with you like drunken summer kites

So that’s why he was looking over there. Funny, considering Nanami had explicitly said that she was unable to make it to the show because of some piss poor excuse of her fabricated brother coming back into town. Under normal circumstances, this would have been an awkward situation. But it wasn’t your fault she had been caught in a lie, nor was it your fault that Kuroo had decided to break up with her last night. Well, okay, maybe it was a little. But it wasn’t your fault she felt the need to grace the audience with her present after saying she wasn’t going to show up. It wasn’t your fault she was red in the face as she glanced at the on-stage chemistry between you and her now ex-boyfriend.

To live in life and die

None of that even mattered anymore, and Kuroo made sure to reassure you of that by the silly way he’s grinning slyly as the end of the song nears. For a moment, you look at each of your bandmates to see if they were watching, paying attention to the telepathic messages going on between the four of you.

I don’t care if you’re sick

Hanamaki, though he’s wearing his typical glassed out look, is reciprocating a languid smile—one you were all too familiar with. Makki was the kinda that had your back regardless of the situation, and he made sure his expression reflected it often.

I don’t care if you’re contagious

Looking back at Terushima, you can see the snark and the itch to fight underneath his sweaty, glistening skin. As if he knew what the hidden glances between you and Kuroo meant; as if he knew some shit was about to go down and he was all over it.

I would kiss you even if you were dead

And finally, you glance back at Kuroo as the two of you harmonized the final bridge. Calm and cocky as ever, with red lighting serving to be nearly ominous. Though, it only made the reds of the roses on his skin shine more and serve as a reminder—they were for you. All seven roses from his neck, to his chest peeking from underneath his black tank, from his shoulder to his hand.

So if we’re heading there together you can sing all night

It served as a reminder that no matter what was to come after the show, the two of you would face it together. Even if that meant confronting the entire awkward Nanami situation that you knew was coming. Not that you minded—you were ready to defend Kuroo and yourself from any impending onslaught.

I’m gonna tear out the thread one by one from your skin ‘Til your bones feel embarrassed by all the attention

As Kuroo belted out his favorite stanza, he locked eyes with you, turning his body to face you entirely. Amusement danced in his eyes, not that it ever left, but this one was painted with something more. Painted with love, painted with lust, painted with home. The guitarist took slow, steady steps matching the rhythm of his words and letting the bass and drums overtake the sound as he grabbed his mic off his stand—an action you mirrored with your own microphone in hand until the two of you were face to face with the reverberation of his last played note floating in the air.

Kiss me while I drive

The song ended with a pronounced yell coming from Hanamaki and yourself before Kuroo places his microphone back on his stand; all but rushing over to you and choking your face in his large, tattooed hands and slatting his lips over yours. In front of everyone—in front your band, your fans, in front of Nanami. He’d made his proclamation in front of everyone and nothing had ever felt more right.

[ Besitos « I Don’t Care » Misery Business ]

Need to start from the beginning? You can check out the prologue [ here ]

Haikyuu!! Tag List

@hihiq @tamcitrus @yourlocalmemedumpster @90s-belladonna @basicallyberry

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serzhantkris · 5 years

Text

Rebel Yell- 5

Summary: Let’s get something straight: he does not love you. He knows that for sure, because he doesn’t want to scream at you and he doesn’t want to get married, and that’s the only things he knows for sure about people who are in love. And he was doomed to kiss with his fists and scream and be angry and blame everyone but himself for the rest of his life. So, no. Billy did not love you. Billy Hargrove x Hopper!Reader

Word Count: 2599

Warning: sexual situations

Masterlist

The fluorescent lights overhead are a stark contrast to sitting in the dark of Billy’s Camaro. They buzz quietly, obscuring everything beneath with a yellow-ish glow. Benny’s Burgers is almost empty, except for two or three other groups of teenagers who, like you, had come to appreciate the hole in the wall just outside of Hawkins. It was on the way back to town, between the trailer and the drive-in, and Billy had stared at the building with trepidation before you took his hand and led him inside.

The table was a little wobbly, but it didn’t stop Billy from leaning with his elbow on it as he plucked fries from the paper-lined basket in the middle of the table. He was eyeing you carefully as you stood a few feet away, jamming down the button on the jukebox to skim through Benny’s records.

Leaning forward, he took a long drink from the vanilla shake in front of him as you slid quarters into the machine and punched in the number. The jukebox was quiet, but he could still make out the sound of Bob Seger’s voice drifting through the old speakers. You slid into the chair opposite him, glancing out the window at the near-empty parking lot as flecks of water hit the glass.

Billy looks around the restaurant. “You didn’t tell me you were takin’ me to a shithole.”

“Hey,” you jam a finger at him pointedly. “This is the midwest, Billy. Shithole is our whole aesthetic.”

Billy rolls his eyes, plucking another fry between his fingertips. “That didn’t sound like a disagreement.”

“It’s charming. You know, like you,” you say, reaching for one of your own, swiping it through the top of your shake. “And it has the best milkshakes in town, and that’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it?”

Billy blinks incredulously at you. “Did you just dip your french fry in your milkshake?”

“Uh, yeah? Everyone does that.”

“No,” Billy snorts. “They don’t.”

“They do in Indiana and New York,” you argue, doing the same with another fry. “Since I’ve never been anywhere else, that’s ‘everyone.’”

“New York?”

Nodding, you repeat the action with a third fry, but this time, you hold it toward him. He shakes his head, leaning back from you with his nose scrunched. “One french fry, Hargrove.”

A sigh falls past his lips and he leans forward, letting you put it between his teeth. Chewing slowly, he makes an unsure face and sits back in his seat. “You been to New York?”

“Lived there,” you mumble, wrapping a hand around the cool glass. Condensation runs between your fingers. “Up until about five years ago.”

“What for?” Billy shifts in his seat. “I mean, why’d you move?”

The glass freezes your hand and you grip it a little tighter, taking a long drink to avoid looking at Billy. “Divorce, mostly.”

A pain shoots to Billy’s temple that has nothing to do with the cold shake on his tongue. He swallows it, hard, and his fingers tap absently on the table. “So, your mom. She’s still in New York?”

You nod, reaching for a napkin to dry the glass. “What about you? What brings you to Podunk, Indiana?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s listening to the crackling of Night Moves, counting breaths between guitar chords. “My dad wanted to move. So we did.”

The look on Billy’s face stops you from pressing further. The sudden need to know more about him is overwhelming, and the straw in your mouth is the only thing slowing you down. “Okay,” you sigh, pushing the shake forward. “Hamburgers or pizza?”

Billy’s eyes found your face again. “What?”

“Hamburgers or pizza,” you repeat. Billy twirls a french fry between his fingers. “This is me getting to know you. Without asking for a tragic backstory. I’m not ready to find out you’re Batman.”

He smirks, subconsciously dipping the french fry in his shake before tossing it in his mouth.

“I fucking knew it.”

“Shut up.”

~~~~~~~~

Streaks of water paint the outside of the window as the rain comes down on Benny’s Burgers. It’s almost louder than the jukebox, spitting out music in a buzzing hum. The quiet chatter of the chef and waitress is muted by the swinging kitchen door. The diner has all but emptied out, leaving you and Billy alone in the dining room.

Neither of you really knew how long you had been sitting there, tossing questions back and forth as you scooped your fries through your shakes- sometimes reaching over the table to steal some of each other’s flavor.

Now, though, the two of you fill the diner with your laughter as you suck down the last of your milkshake, pulling your bottom lip in your mouth to get the whole taste. Billy wraps his hand around the top of his empty glass, toying with the straw between two fingers as he thinks up a question.

“Okay,” he finally says, pushing the glass aside. He leans forward on his elbows, hands clasped together and a serious look smoothing out his eyebrows. “Serious question this time.”

On the other side of the table, you can’t help but giggle. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be serious.” He continues to stare at you and you let out another laugh, covering your mouth with your hand and clearing your throat. “Okay, okay. Ask me your question.”

He waits for you to put your hand in your lap. “Tell me about Kurt Kelley.”

You frown. “This again? Billy-”

“Listen, if I’m gonna hear rumors about you when I’m in the shower, they better at least be accurate ones.” The serious expression doesn’t leave Billy’s face, even if his words make you want to smile or roll your eyes. You look at the table, where the paper-lined basket is empty and stained with grease.

“Nancy Wheeler is one of my best friends,” you start, pinching the paper between your fingers, just for something to do with your hands. “She asked me to go with her to Steve’s for this- this get together, or whatever. It was just us and Steve, Tommy and Carol, and Kurt. And our friend, Barbara.”

You inhale sharply, hoping Billy doesn’t notice the hesitant way you included Barbara in the list. But he doesn’t even blink, silently listening with his eyes trained on your face.

“Eventually everyone split up. Steve and Nancy, Tommy and Carol- you know how it is. And we’d been swimming, you know, so Kurt gets me to go inside with him to get towels. Next thing I know, he’s kissing me-”

Billy’s hands clenched.

“And I shoved him off, called him an asshole, and walked home, still dripping wet. I left, and he told everyone that I was a prude bitch. Which of course over time turned into variations of me being either stuck up or a slut.”

He’s quiet for a second, but there’s no mistaking the hard glint of anger in his eyes. “He’s a fuckin’ prick. Some guys can’t handle rejection.”

You smirk, looking up at him. “Some guys? What about you?”

Billy snorts through his nose. “Most of the time, I shrug it off and ask someone else. Eventually someone says yes.”

“Most of the time?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rolling a torn bit of napkin in his fingers. “Sometimes I corner them behind dumpsters.”

Billy smiles to himself when you laugh, his heart slowing down just the slightest. He made a mental note that if he ever ran into Kurt Kelley, he’d give him a kiss with his fist.

“Shit,” you mumble. “It’s late.”

Billy swivels in his chair, following your gaze to the clock hanging over the door. It’s 9:52, and there’s no way you’re getting home by ten. He turns, reaching in his jacket pocket. Crumbled bills hit the table as you both clamor to your feet, shuffling through the empty diner to the door. The bell jingles as you step out and under the awning, the sound of rain beating on the fabric replacing the muffled music. The two of you stand still, watching the rain as a car drives past.

“I’ll race you,” you elbow him in the ribs and he rolls his eyes, pulling his keys out of his pocket.

“You’re gonna get soaked anyway.”

“Yeah,” you hum, the grin spreading from ear to ear as Billy fixed the collar of his jacket. If you kept smiling like this, your cheeks were going to burst. “But not as much as you if you don’t win!”

Billy’s about to ask what the hell you’re talking about, but you’ve already snatched the keys out of his hand and took off, running through the rain toward the driver’s side of his car, fully intending to leave him locked out in the rain. Billy’s boots splash through puddles as he chases after you, the rain soaking him to the bone even through the denim.

You barely reach the door when Billy grabs your shoulder, spinning you around and slamming your back against the car door. The keys fall onto the wet pavement, but neither you nor Billy notice. His mouth is on yours, the kiss wet from rain and tongues. One of his hands catches the back of your head, holding you against him. His fingers curl as his body presses against you, pinning you between him and the car. Your heart beats faster and harder than the rain coming down on your heads when he grinds his hips against you.

He pulls back, just enough to get his breathing under control, his forehead pressing against yours. Small spurts of cold air tangle between you, keeping you connected as Billy’s free hand reaches past you to fumble for the door handle.

“Told you you’d get soaked if you lost,” you mumble, gripping the lapels on his jacket. He kisses you again, harder, tugging you away from the door as he yanked it open.

“Get in the fuckin’ car.”

The windows are already starting to fog over when your back hits the seats. Billy throws the soaking denim jacket over the front seat, kicking his shoes off as he clamors into the back with you.

Billy hovers, taking a careful look at you as he leans down, one arm holding him up as a leg slips between your thighs. There’s not enough room- never is enough room in a car- but he makes it work, skimming the other hand to rest on your thigh under your skirt. His hand is cold and water from his hair drips on your face and neck.

He dives down, getting a taste of the rain and milkshake on your lips. “This what you want?” His voice is deeper, more gruff than before, and as his mouth leaves yours, he finds your eyes with his. You nod, suddenly shy despite having been perfectly willing to let him rub himself on you outside the car.

His hand glides higher, resting carefully over your underwear. Involuntarily, your hips twitch toward his hand and he grins, bending down again to press careful, tender kisses along your jaw. His lips drag along the bone to just below your ear.

“Something tells me that’s not rain,” Billy’s thumb brushes over the wet spot that’s forming on your underwear, earning a whimper when he presses against your clit. “You’re so wet. Were you thinking about me in the diner?”

Your hand flies up to tangle in his hair, tugging gently as he lowers his head, lips and teeth nipping at the side of your neck. “Billy, please-”

“Please what?” His tongue runs along a vein in your throat, soothing the pain from his teeth. His thumb presses harder against you, rubbing circles over your clothed clit. Your forehead hits his shoulder, mouth agape as he grabs the fabric and pulls it to the side.

Two of Billy’s fingers prod at you, teasing your opening as you squeeze him between your knees. He chuckles to himself, sliding the fingers into you. Your moan fills the car, hitting the fogged windows and filling Billy’s ears.

“What do you want, baby?” The car is filled with the sound of his fingers fucking you. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into the dark, wet fabric of his shirt.

His hand pulls away, leaving you abruptly cold, and you groan against his collarbone. He chuckles deep in his throat, his chest vibrating, and you decidedly have had enough of his teasing.

He’s startled when you shove him back onto his heels, one hand grabbing the back of the seats to steady himself. You silently thanked God for Billy’s inability to button his shirt as you reach for him, letting your hands run down his damp chest to his belt. He grabs onto either side of your head, kissing you deep as you unfasten it, shoving the denim as far down his hips as the position he’s sitting in will allow.

You swallow his moan as you wrap a hand around his erection, swiping a thumb over the head. His hips jerk toward you, desperate for more as your hand moves in long, languid strokes.

“I want,” your words are muffled against Billy’s mouth, his lips parted, tongue flicking out to taste the words leaving your lips. “I want you to fuck me, Billy.”

A growl shoots up Billy’s throat, his hands pushing your head back until both of you fall onto the seats. The cold metal of his pendant hits your collarbone, but Billy is warm, his body holding you tightly between him and the Camaro’s leather. He grabs your leg, fingers digging into your flesh as he shoves it out of the way to fit his body all the way between your knees.

The free hand pushes your underwear aside. The tip of him slides against you, slippery and wet, and Billy reaches down to grip himself, and a second later his hips jerk. He fills you in that one thrust, pushing the air out of your lungs and into his kiss. He’s big, and the bite of having him so suddenly disappears when he starts to move against you.

Billy’s wet hair sticks to your skin, strands of it licking your cheeks, some of it tangled in your hand. You grip the wet shirt, twisting the fabric in clenched hands as his hips snap against you. The leather seat slides under you, but Billy keeps you both from falling with a sturdy hand planted on the car floor.

It’s messy, Billy’s thrusts filling the ache in your belly and your moans hitting the foggy windows; his mouth tasting the rain and sweat along your throat until he buries his face in your collarbone. His thrusts are a drum beat solo, every plunge of his cock inside you hits you like a snare.

“Billy- Billy-“ His name tastes like vanilla and salt on your tongue, burning in your throat. You legs squeeze him and you can feel him smile against your skin, that tongue flickering against his lips as you come. The drumbeat is lost when his teeth nip at your skin, fingers digging into where he has his hold on your hip. His heavy breathing turns to pleading grunts as he thrusts just a little harder, strokes just a little shorter. You cling to him when he comes, suddenly more desperate than you had been while he was fucking you.

Billy remains still for a long moment, his ear pressed against your sternum. Listening to the erratic flicker of your heart, nothing exists beyond the confines of these leather seats.

Taglist Open

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knuffled · 5 years

Text

just practice - chapter six

it’s finally here! sorry for the long wait, but i’m hoping the chapter is good enough to make up for it. there’s an announcement at the end of the chapter on ao3 that you should read if you’re a fan of the fic. hope you enjoy!

side-note: i think tumblr is not showing my posts bc i’ve got nsfw content, so it would help me out a lot if you reblog so people see this. thanks!

here’s the link to ao3

If you asked Annabeth, a thermos full of warm black coffee was one of the only redeeming things about mornings. She liked to make a fresh pot as soon as she woke up so that by the time she was done brushing her teeth, showering, and getting dressed, it would have cooled to just the right temperature – not so hot that it would scald your tongue, but not so lukewarm that it didn’t feel good going down your throat.

Yes, normally, a hot cup of black coffee was one of life’s true delights, but it did nothing to dull the misery of being up at six in the morning on a Saturday, cooped up in her father’s rusty, twenty year old Subaru.

It was Reyna’s fault that she was up at the ass crack of dawn, but Annabeth supposed she had a hand in the situation given that she had decided to reach out to her, not without a great deal of trepidation, to take her up on her offer to run together. At first, she had tried to resist the impulse, but as the date of the invitational drew ever closer, she knew she couldn’t just do what she’d always done if she wanted to get any better, and what better way to improve than to train with the best.

When she had called, Reyna had seemed surprised to hear from her at all.

She introduced herself, trying not to sound too nervous, and said, “Hey, Reyna, it’s Annabeth from the party three weeks ago? Not sure if you remember me, but you gave me your number and told me to give you a call if I ever wanted to run with you sometime.”

“Oh, I remember you,” Reyna said, her voice laden with some unspoken implication that Annabeth couldn’t decipher. “I didn’t think you’d actually call me.”

Annabeth breathed a laugh and said, “I didn’t think so either.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Reyna said. “Are you free this Saturday?”

“Um, yeah, I should be in the morning.”

“Morning works best for me too,” Reyna said. “Do you want to run one of your courses or one of mine?”

“One of yours,” Annabeth said quickly.

“Okay, I’ll shoot you a text with an address. Sound good?”

Annabeth had readily agreed and that had been the end of the call. It was only a few days later that she realized that they hadn’t decided on a time to meet, so she sent Reyna a follow-up text. During their initial call, Annabeth had made the mistaken assumption that ‘morning’ meant an hour or two before noon, not 6:30 like she was dismayed to find in Reyna’s answering text.

That was how she found herself making a long drive to Seneca Falls to a park that Reyna liked to run at. Annabeth tried not to be too grumpy about it and psyched herself up about the fact that she was going to be able to train one-on-one with the best female runner in the state, which made her feel just a little bit better.

By the time she stopped at the park over a half-hour later, the clock on her car dashboard read 6:27, making her three minutes early. Annabeth stepped out and took a look around the park. Dew coated nearly every blade of grass and formed beads against her yoga pants. The sun had only just started to rise, diffusing a pink glow across the horizon, and the air was so crisp it was almost painful to breathe in.

It didn’t look like anything special, but she presumed Reyna had a good reason for favoring it.

She stifled a yawn and made her way further inwards and found Reyna at the other end of the park, midway through stretching her hamstrings at the start of a trail that disappeared into a forest. When she saw her approaching, Reyna stood up and offered her a warm smile, which helped set Annabeth at ease. Seeing that Reyna shared her excitement did a great deal to calm her nerves.

“Hey, thanks for making it out here, Annabeth. I know it’s a bit of a drive from Westwood,” Reyna said.

“It wasn’t too bad,” Annabeth said. “What’s the plan for today?”

“Nothing too special,” Reyna said, shrugging. “We’re just going to follow the trail into the woods. It’s a six mile loop or so. Sound good?”

“Yeah, fine by me,” Annabeth said.

Reyna nodded before she resumed her stretches. Annabeth followed her lead and began stretching too, but she found that her eyes were constantly drawn to Reyna. She’d noticed it at the party too, but seeing how fit she was in the daylight was even more impressive. Even a layman could know she was a runner simply by looking at the definition of her calf muscles. Her shirt rode up when she stretched her shoulders, exposing abdominal muscles that most models would be jealous of. Annabeth had to force herself to look away before she was caught staring several times.

Once they finished their stretches, Reyna led her to the start of the trail and fiddled with her wristwatch before looking back up to her.

“Any final thoughts?” Reyna asked.

“Don’t go easy on me,” Annabeth said. “Don’t slow yourself down at all for my sake. Run like I’m not here.”

An easy grin crossed Reyna’s face. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I fully intend to kick your ass,” she teased.

Annabeth laughed and said, “Good. That’s why I’m here.”

Reyna gave her one final glance and raised an eyebrow. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Annabeth said, nodding.

With that, Reyna started the timer on her watch, and they took off into the woods. Reyna’s pace was faster than Annabeth was accustomed to, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Tall trees towered over the trail, covering them beneath a layer of thin darkness occasionally speckled with dappled sunlight. It didn’t take long for Annabeth to realize why Reyna favored this trail in particular – it sloped up and down constantly and was almost never flat, adding an extra layer of difficulty to the run.

Annabeth tended to favor flatter courses herself, but Reyna’s course posed an interesting challenge. It wasn’t long before her calf muscles began to burn from the strain of constantly fighting to run uphill and also controlling her speed as she went downhill – it was no wonder why Reyna’s calves looked like they were sculpted by gods.

The first three miles weren’t that bad, but it became progressively more difficult for Annabeth to match Reyna’s pace, the difference in the strength of their calves growing ever starker, until Annabeth found herself lagging behind midway through the fourth mile. Reyna gave her a glance over her shoulder but didn’t otherwise slow down, which Annabeth was grateful for.

As tough as it was to fall behind, Annabeth had figured this would happen. After all, if she could keep pace with Reyna for the entire run, she wouldn’t have needed to train with her in the first place, so she took the opportunity to study Reyna’s form instead of indulging in self-pity.

Her own form was nothing to be scoffed at, but Reyna’s was immaculate. From her limited understanding of biomechanics, Annabeth could tell that Reyna was exerting the minimal amount of her energy as she ran. Her form was as aerodynamically perfect as could be achieved – her arms tucked loosely to the sides of her body, her stride not too long or too short, how she rolled fluidly from the tips of her toes to the balls of her heels each time her feet hit the ground – everything working symbiotically to reduce the amount of effort she expended.

It made Annabeth notice how her own elbows were slightly pointed outwards instead of being flush to her torso and how her shoulders were hunched a bit, making it less efficient for her to breathe in and out. Those insights alone were worth the price of admission, but Annabeth continued to pick up on further slight improvements she could make over the rest of the run.

Still, it stung to see Reyna leaning against the side of a tree at the end of the trail, waiting for her to finish. Thankfully, Annabeth finished only two or three minutes after Reyna did, which was honestly better than she had expected, but she suspected that she’d pushed herself much harder than she would have if she’d been running on her own.

Once she reached Reyna, Annabeth leaned over and pressed her hands to her knees, panting. Reyna stopped her watch and turned her wrist so Annabeth could see her time. It wasn’t bad for a six mile run. She’d done better, but those runs had been on far flatter courses.

“How’re you feeling?” Reyna asked.

“Like you delivered on your promise to kick my ass,” Annabeth said breathlessly.

Reyna laughed and said, “I’m glad you’re not sore about losing.”

“My ego’s a bit bruised, but it’s seen worse,” Annabeth said, shrugging.

“I think you did really well for your first time on this course,” Reyna offered.

Annabeth stood up straight and breathed deeply. “Thanks, that means a lot coming from you.”

Reyna smiled and said, “No problem.”

There was a pause before Reyna said, “We should probably finish up with some stretches. I don’t want to keep you for too long.”

Annabeth nodded and followed Reyna’s lead on their post-run stretches. As they stretched, Annabeth asked, “So how long have you been running?”

Reyna hummed thoughtfully before saying, “Since like fifth grade, I think?”

“Were you always this good?”

“I was good, but I wasn’t the best in my school or anything,” Reyna said, shrugging. “I think I started to improve a lot in ninth grade or so once I started getting taller. How about you?”

“Well, I started in seventh grade. I was pretty much the best in my school, but I stopped growing in like eighth grade, so I think I just hit my peak earlier than you did,” Annabeth said.

Reyna nodded in acknowledgement and crossed one leg over another. “Have you always lived in Westwood?”

“Yeah, my entire life,” Annabeth said, mirroring her movements.

“How about the guy you left with at the party?”

Annabeth blinked in surprise. “Percy? What about him?”

“You mentioned you were friends and stuff, so I was wondering if you’ve known him for a long time,” Reyna asked, shrugging.

“Yeah, we’ve been best friends since like second grade,” Annabeth said, nodding.

“That’s a long time,” Reyna noted, a subtle undercurrent in her voice.

Annabeth hadn’t ever really thought about the entire expanse of time she’d known Percy, but now that she did, she realized a decade was an insane amount of time to know someone.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Yeah, you’re right.”

There was a pause before Reyna said, “He didn’t seem to like me very much.”

Annabeth fought her immediate instinct to argue with Reyna’s statement and said, “Yeah, I’m sorry. He’s usually really nice, so I have no idea why.”

Reyna gave her a strange look and said, “I think I have a pretty good idea why.”

Annabeth frowned and said, “What? Really?”

“Yeah, it was probably because he could tell that I was into you,” Reyna said nonchalantly, like she was talking about the weather.

Annabeth felt like someone had hit her in the face with a shovel. “W-Wait, what?”

The seriousness in Reyna’s eyes froze Annabeth. “I think you’re cute, Annabeth. What would you say if I asked you out?” Reyna asked.

“I— I, um, I don’t know,” Annabeth stammered.

“What don’t you know?” Reyna asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, well, I’ve never been asked out by a girl, so I don’t really know what to say,” Annabeth confessed.

Reyna blinked twice before saying, “I didn’t think you were straight.”

“I am,” Annabeth said, before pausing. “Well, I think I am, at least.”

Reyna stood up with a stony look on her face and wiped the mud off her yoga pants. When she spoke, her voice was filled with tense apprehension. “I thought you weren’t straight, my bad. I shouldn’t have just dropped that on you,” she said.

“No, you’re fine,” Annabeth assured her quickly. “I’m just not sure how to react.”

There was a pause before Reyna relaxed slightly and said, “Well, you don’t need to give me an answer straight away. I’m sure you’re feeling a cocktail of emotions right now, so take some time to sort them out. Let me know your answer once you’ve got a better sense of how you feel.”

“I’m already going out with someone,” Annabeth said, playing with her fingers.

“The guy from the party, you mean?”

When Annabeth nodded, Reyna raised an eyebrow and said, “Then why did you introduce him as your friend, not your boyfriend? It didn’t really seem like you both were in a relationship, at least not from what I could see.”

That was the second time someone had told her that in just the span of two weeks, much to Annabeth’s chagrin. Annabeth wasn’t sure how to respond because Reyna was right. She and Percy were only practice dating – it wasn’t a real relationship after all.

“Just think about it for some time, okay? You don’t need to give me your answer right now,” Reyna said.

Annabeth wanted to protest, but there was something in her that hesitated. The truth was that, for all intents and purposes, she wasn’t really in a relationship; she had just asked her best friend to pretend to be her boyfriend without thinking about the gravity of her own request. It didn’t seem right to reject Reyna’s sincere feelings offhandedly.

Reyna seemed to sense that Annabeth was still mulling it over so she said, “No pressure. It’s totally fine if you don’t want to. I just want you to actually think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” Annabeth murmured.

Reyna smiled and said, “Well, I’ll see you later then. Let me know if you ever want to get together again sometime. Good run today.”

Annabeth hadn’t missed that Reyna had dropped the pretense of using running as an excuse to see her again. She simply nodded, not trusting herself to say anything. Reyna gave her one final look before she made her way back to the parking lot at the other end of the park.

As Annabeth watched her leave, she released a breath that she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She sat there for a while and wrestled with the growing frustrated confusion that was churning in her stomach.

What am I doing?

The more she thought about it, the more ridiculous her entire arrangement with Percy seemed. It was becoming increasingly clearer to her that she hadn’t properly considered what she had gotten herself into. First, the incident with Piper and now this with Reyna made her realize that this whole fake-dating thing was completely pointless, at least not in its current state. Nothing was actually any different between her and Percy – they were just friends masquerading as a couple.

For a few minutes, she just sat there and tried to think her way out of the situation before realizing that it was futile. Whatever, she’d figure it out later. Hopefully.

Annabeth sighed and stood up, wiping off the sweat that had accumulated on her brow. She wasn’t looking forward to the half-hour drive home before she could shower. As she made her way back to the parking lot, Annabeth found herself wishing, not for the first time, that she could talk to someone about this whole fake-dating thing, but for now she knew she was on her own.

:::

Rachel’s phone alarm went off midway through their How To Train Your Dragon marathon, alerting them to the fact that their brownies were done baking. Annabeth stood up and eagerly made her way over to the oven with Piper, Hazel, and Rachel. The scent of fresh brownies grew stronger as they got closer to the kitchen, reaching a crescendo once Rachel pulled the baking tray out with a triumphant grin and set the brownies on the counter top.

“They’re perfect,” Rachel beamed. “Now, we just need to wait until they cool down. That means you, Piper.”

“Hey, rude,” Piper protested.

Rachel just stuck her tongue out at her while the rest of them laughed. Having a girl’s night once a month had become something of a tradition during high school. Between her, Piper, Rachel, and Hazel, they would alternate whose house would host the meet-up, and it was spent binging movies and eating pizza. If they were feeling particularly adventurous, like today, they would even bake brownies or cookies.

Within a few minutes, they were seated in front of the gigantic TV in Rachel’s living room again and resuming the movie. Annabeth sat on one end of the sofa, but Piper was sprawled across the other two cushions, with her feet on Annabeth’s lap, much to her annoyance, and her head on Hazel’s while Rachel sat on the ground in front of them.

“Come on, Rache, you should join the fun up here!” Piper said.

“Speak for yourself, you heathen,” Annabeth muttered.

Piper glared at her while Rachel laughed and Hazel hid a smile. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I like the floor better,” Rachel said, shrugging.

They continued their Pixar binge, but as the night went on, their interest in watching whatever movie that was playing waned until they stopped paying attention altogether in favor of talking to one another instead. At first they told jokes or shared stories that wouldn’t have been the least bit funny if they weren’t half-delirious from staying up so late, but eventually the topic of discussion turned to romance, like it always did at some point or another.

“So how’re things going with Percy, Annababe?” Rachel asked, now seated facing the sofa.

Annabeth wanted to groan, but Rachel held her palms up in surrender and said, “I know, I know, and I’m sorry, but you know that I wouldn’t have to ask if I wasn’t forced to go to a dumb private school.”

“Yeah, Annabeth, how are things with Percy?” Piper asked innocently.

Piper only raised an eyebrow in response to the withering look Annabeth gave her, making her sigh.

“Things are going well, as I have already explained to Piper here,” Annabeth said, giving Piper a pointed look before continuing.

“We’ve only been on one date since we started going out because we’ve been so busy with college apps and school and clubs. It was a nice date though. We went to the aquarium that Percy worked at over that one summer and he showed me around. I had a good time.”

Rachel beamed and said, “That’s great, Annabeth! I’m so happy for you two.”

“Me too,” Hazel said. “I know I don’t really say much about it, but I think it was a long time coming.”

The other two girls nodded in agreement, which only confused Annabeth, but she didn’t think it was worth trying to broach the subject like she had with Piper.

“Man, it’s about time that Percy went out with someone nice,” Rachel said, leaning back on her elbows. “Percy’s taste in girls has historically been pretty awful, present company excluded of course.”

Annabeth frowned and said, “What do you mean?”

Rachel furrowed her brow and said, “Like all the stuff that happened with his ex’s and whatnot.”

“Especially Kara,” Hazel said darkly.

Kara Mayfield had been the last girl that Percy had gone out with, but they had only lasted a few months during junior year before breaking up. Like with all his other relationships, Percy hadn’t ever talked to her about it directly, and Annabeth hadn’t bothered bringing it up either because she figured it was Percy’s business and that he would share with her if he thought it was important.

Rachel nodded solemnly and said, “Kara was a real piece of work.”

“Really?” Annabeth said, blinking. “I’ve had a few classes with her and stuff, and she’s always seemed pretty nice.”

Rachel balked and said, “You think she’s nice ? After what she did to Percy?”

This was news to her. “What do you mean?” Annabeth said, frowning.

This seemed to take Rachel aback even more than her previous statement. “Wait, you don’t know? Percy never told you that she–”

Piper had shot Rachel a warning glare and subtly shook her head, making Rachel stop mid-sentence. Annabeth looked between the two of them wondering what had just happened.

“Percy never told me that she what?” Annabeth asked, trying not to sound as irritated as she felt.

Rachel looked between her and Piper nervously before she said, “Uh, I’m not sure I should say.”

All at once, Annabeth felt her bottled frustration erupt. “Why does it feel like everyone is hiding something from me? Like you’re all in on some big secret that I’m not allowed to know about? It’s getting really fucking annoying. Like, am I just not trustworthy enough or something?”

Piper sat up with a sigh, moving her feet off of Annabeth’s lap, and put her hand on her shoulder.

“Look, there’s some stuff that we don’t have the right to tell you about if Percy hasn’t shared with you already. I know it’s upsetting that he’s not telling you things, but I get why he chose not to. It’s not because he doesn’t trust you, okay? We both know Percy would lie in traffic for you. You just have to trust that he has a good reason, okay?” Piper explained.

On the one hand, Annabeth knew that what Piper was saying was true, but on the other she couldn’t deny that it hurt a lot that Percy was keeping things from her. As much as it frustrated her, Annabeth knew it was pointless to try to get anything more out of the other girls, so she grit her teeth and nodded tersely.

“Maybe you should talk to Percy about it, if you really want to know,” Hazel suggested.

“Whenever I try to, he doesn’t give me a straight answer,” Annabeth said, her jaw clenched. “I feel like I don’t even know him anymore.”

“He’s still the same person he’s always been, Annabeth,” Hazel said gently.

“The Percy I know doesn’t keep secrets,” Annabeth snapped. “And I don’t want to hear anymore about how he has a good reason or whatever. I’ve never tried to hide stuff from him. Even the thought of doing that feels wrong to me. I’d just always assumed he felt the same.”

There was an awkward silence before Piper sighed and said, “I think that you need to explain this to Percy. We’ve shared our thoughts and stuff, but you won’t be satisfied until you talk to him yourself.”

Annabeth pressed her lips in a hard line and nodded sharply, but it was still hard to stomach the swirling mass of hurt, anger, and betrayal in her chest. If anything, this conversation had proven that the vague sense of unease that she felt around Percy hadn’t been unfounded. Now that her doubt was gone, she could finally have a stern conversation with him.

Rachel cleared her throat and said, “Well, now that that’s out of the way, I just wanted to let everyone know that I’m hosting a Halloween Party here on the Saturday after Halloween! It’s a costume party, so make sure you get something in time.”

“Real smooth, Rache,” Piper said, rolling her eyes.

“What? Come on, it was getting really awkward in here!” Rachel protested.

Annabeth found that she was smiling despite herself and decided to let the matter go before she turned to Piper and asked, “I forgot to ask, but how’d the audition go?”

Piper’s eyes lit up and she launched into a story about how she’d had to improv a line that she’d forgotten during the audition and how Mrs. McAllister had shed literal tears when she’d heard it. Annabeth’s attention wandered as the conversation meandered from there late into the night. Hazel was the first to fall asleep at around three in the morning, followed by Rachel, and finally Piper and herself.

Her eyes were just beginning to close when Piper whispered, “Annabeth, are you awake?”

Annabeth fought the urge to groan and said, “No, I’m asleep.”

“Very funny,” Piper said dryly.

There was a beat before she said, “I just– just don’t think too badly of Percy, okay? He cares so much about you it’s not even funny.”

Annabeth sighed and said, “I’m just a little upset, but yeah I know.”

Piper propped herself up on her elbows and looked at Annabeth with a hard look in her eyes. “Do you though? Do you really? You don’t know what he’s sacrificed for you, what he has been through for you .”

“And that’s my fault?” Annabeth hissed. “It’s my fault that I don’t know things that are deliberately being kept from me?”

Piper sighed and said, “That’s not my point, Annabeth.”

“Well, get to your point then,” Annabeth snapped.

“My point is that Percy has suffered through a lot for your sake, more than you can imagine. I just really need you to understand that. Like, I get that you’re upset and everything, but you need to trust him and cut him a little slack,” Piper said, her tone taking on a beseeching quality.

Annabeth was silent for a while before she said, “I trust him more than anyone in the world, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be upset with him. I’m sure you’re right about all the things he’s done for me, but I never asked for that. I know that makes me sound like an asshole, but I didn’t ask him to turn himself into a martyr for my sake – I asked for a friend, and friend’s trust each other. And right now, I’m not feeling a whole lot of trust.”

“I understand. Just– Just don’t judge him too harshly without knowing the context behind his actions. That’s all I’m asking,” Piper said quietly.

Despite all the hurt she was feeling, Annabeth nodded. Piper whispered her thanks and said good night before falling silent again.

Annabeth couldn’t sleep after that. Piper’s words echoed in her head for a long while after that, until she finally succumbed to sleep. Maybe that was why her dreams that night resurfaced long forgotten memories, memories she never should’ve lost.

:::

The moonless sky made it difficult for Annabeth to see anything in front of her as she ran through the woods, tears streaming down her face. Her arms were littered with welts and cuts from the protruding branches and thorny shrubbery in her path that she hadn’t been able to avoid. She wiped the unshed tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, but her eyes were still puffy and sore.

Suddenly, she burst out of the forest into a backyard and felt a flood of relief when she saw the house in front of her. With practiced ease, she scaled the willow tree behind the house and rapped her knuckles against the second floor window. It wasn’t long before the blue curtains were drawn back and a twelve-year-old Percy frowned from behind the window before noticing her. His eyes immediately widened with worry before he opened the window. Annabeth tackled him with a hug, making him stagger back, and sobbed into the crook of his neck.

“Annabeth? What’s going on? What happened?” Percy said.

Annabeth tried to speak but every time she tried she found herself just crying harder and harder. Percy, sensing her growing frustration with her inability to articulate herself, ran his fingers through her hair and whispered softly under his breath, and even though she couldn’t make out what he was saying through the sound of her sobbing, she felt a deep sense of comfort.

It was hard to say how long she stayed like that, burrowed in Percy’s arms, before she finally drew away from him. He looked at her with such aching kindness and concern that it made her heart squeeze a little in her chest.

“Do you want me to get you some water or something to eat?” he asked.

Annabeth nodded silently, and it was only when Percy stood up that she realized that they’d been kneeling on his bedroom floor, right beside the open window.

He gave her a stern look and said, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay,” Annabeth said. Her voice was so hoarse she could barely hear herself speak.

Percy understood somehow - like he always did, like he always had - and gave her a reassuring nod before he slipped quietly out of his bedroom. As soon as he was gone, she curled in on herself and bit her quivering lip to stop herself from sobbing. Her heart throbbed inside her chest like someone was trying to twist each side in opposite directions in their hands.

She slipped into a trance of sorts, escaping into some corner of her mind where she didn’t have to feel anything, but it was shattered by a loud sound from downstairs, like the sound of something breaking, that made Annabeth freeze. Silence swallowed the sound quickly and everything was still again, but that just made Annabeth feel even more on edge.

It took nearly three minutes before the bedroom door opened again and Percy slipped inside, closing the door soundlessly behind him, with a glass of water and two granola bars. His face was unnaturally blank, but his eyes burned with cold intensity. The look disappeared as soon as he saw Annabeth again and a tired smile crossed his lips.

He handed her the glass of water and a granola bar and kept the other one for himself. “Sorry I’m late,” he said softly, leaning against his bed frame.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said easily. “Just broke a plate.”

Annabeth knew that he was lying, but she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to press him on it. She hadn’t missed the way he had winced, so imperceptibly that she would’ve missed it if she hadn’t been looking carefully enough, when his back had made contact with the bed frame.

“So what’s going on?” he asked gently, leaning against his bed frame.

Annabeth didn’t want to let him change the subject, but she couldn’t think of how to call him out on it. She stared down at her cup of water and tried to think of where to begin.

“It’s my step-mom,” she said quietly.

Percy’s voice was soft as he said, “Yeah, I kind of figured.”

Annabeth nodded and sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “It’s just – things are just getting worse and worse. She just treats me like I’m a disease. At first, she would always say really mean things to me when she thought my dad wasn’t around, but these days, she does it even when he’s there. That’s the worst part. I know that Helen’s awful, but my dad doesn’t do anything about it. He just – he just lets her do it.”

“That’s terrible,” Percy said, shaking his head. “Your dad shouldn’t let her say stuff like that to you. I mean you’re his daughter.”

Annabeth barked a harsh laugh and said, “It doesn’t feel that way anymore. Ever since Mom left, he’s been… different. It’s like he looks at me and sees her or something. I don’t know.”

She paused for a few seconds and took a deep breath before continuing. “That’s what we fought about today. My step-mom was being a jerk like always and then she said, ‘I don’t know where she gets it from. Probably from your ex-wife,’ and I just got so mad.”

“I started yelling at her and saying that she didn’t even know mom and that she shouldn’t say rude things about her. It just got worse from there and at some point, I told her that I hated her and that she wasn’t even my real mom, and then my dad slapped me.”

“He what ?” Percy asked sharply.

Annabeth nodded, trying to blink away tears. “H-He slapped me and said that Mom left us because she hated us and that Helen was my new mom now and that I had to respect her.”

Percy exhaled forcefully and said, “Oh, Annabeth, I’m so sorry.”

Annabeth tried to shrug like it wasn’t a big deal, but she caught a glimpse of the sadness in Percy’s eyes and before she knew it, she was sobbing again.

Percy pulled her into another hug and muttered, “What your dad did is so messed up. He’s an adult, and you’re twelve. Like I know you’re the smartest, maturest twelve year old on Earth, but that is just wrong.”

Annabeth released a watery laugh and said, “Maturest isn’t a word.”

Percy leaned away so he could look down at her and shook his head, an exasperated smile on his face. “I can’t believe you can still make fun of my grammar right now,” he said, but there was an undeniable fondness in his tone.

Annabeth bit back on the impulse to tell him that the correct term was diction not grammar and found herself smiling along with him for a few seconds before the pain demanded to be felt again and she was struggling to blink back her tears.

“What if my dad is right though? What if Mom really did leave us because we weren’t good enough for her?” Annabeth whispered.

“Your dad is wrong. I don’t know why your mom left, but I am sure she didn’t want to. Even if your dad is right somehow, then your Mom was super stupid. There’s no way you’re not enough,” Percy said, and just like the countless number of times he had told her so before, there was an unshakable confidence in his voice that Annabeth wanted so desperately to believe in.

Annabeth pulled away from him and met his eyes, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat.

“Then why do I feel so alone?” she asked, her voice breaking on the last word. “Why is it that everyone, even my own Mom, leaves me?”

Not even a second elapsed before Percy said, “I won’t leave you. Like, I know I’m not your Mom or anyone special, but I won’t leave you.”

Another watery laugh escaped her even as the lump in her throat grew larger. “You’re just saying that now, but eventually you’ll realize that I’m awful. You’ll realize that I’m mean and selfish and stubborn and arrogant and rude and you’ll want to leave too.”

There was something soft in Percy’s eyes as he said, “Even if you are, I still won’t leave.”

“How can you say that?” Annabeth asked, sounding more broken than she intended to.

“Because I know you,” Percy said, and the simple way he said it left no room for argument.

There was a pause as her heart thundered in her chest. Her thoughts raced in her mind as she tried to find the words to make him understand, understand exactly what an utter shitshow he was getting himself into, but she couldn’t find them.

Instead, she shook her head and said, “You’re making a mistake.”

“I’m not,” Percy said softly. “And even if I am, I choose to make it anyways.”

Frustration welled up inside her, but when she looked up and noticed the unmasked conviction with which he loved her, she found herself breaking in the best way possible.

She wanted to thank him, to tell him that he was wrong earlier about not being special, but as always, her selfishness won out and she found herself saying, “Do you promise?”

Percy reached with his pinky finger and looped it around hers and shook it once for good measure. “I promise.”

#knuffled fic #just practice #percabeth #percabeth fluff #percabeth angst #it's been 84 years...

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capnjay21 · 5 years

Text

A House is Never Still 1/6

Five years ago, Emma Swan disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Killian Jones’ disappearance, well, not so mysterious – given the denizens of Storybrooke all but blamed him for her murder. Drawn back to town by a series of strange events, he soon realises the story of what really happened the night she vanished is beginning to unravel, and what’s more: it isn’t over.

A/N: It’s @csrolereversal and @cshalloweek time! I’m so excited guys, this is my first time submitting anything for an event and I’m bouncing off the walls about it.

This fic is dedicated, of course, to @hollyethecurious, without whose wonderful artwork it would not exist. Thank you for your creation, and for giving this chapter a much needed once over! Please go give her some love!

Chapters will be posting weekly. Enjoy!

Rating: T Warnings: mentions of suicide, canonical character death, and some Spooky Business™.

AO3

-/-

1 -- a house is never still

Present Day

Even after all this time, Killian felt something of a chill run down his spine as his Chevelle sped over the town line.

He had kept himself driving through the night, only stopping once for gas a little ways outside of Portland as he’d felt it would be better if he stayed focused on the road; that way he wouldn’t linger on the reason why he’d packed a few meagre belongings and gotten in the car in the first place. Naturally, with the long, empty and deathly still roads of upstate Maine rolling out in front of him, it had backfired completely and the only thing he had been able to think of since his journey began was the destination that awaited him. It was difficult not to mull on the anxious tone of the voicemail that David had left him, babbling and nervous and unsure. Impossible still to not dwell on its subject.

There’s something – I have something you need to see.

For the last hour the roads had been slippery, the rain-slicked tarmac a reminder of the storm that had hit the area earlier in the day, and a considerable amount of his attention was spent ensuring his back tyres didn’t slide out with every tight corner. Fatigue nestled around his shoulders like an old friend, urging him to shut his tired eyes and relax, but he did his best to ignore it. In the dark, the trees towered over the road in distorted, twisting shapes and the shadows cast by his headlights were just barely visible through the mid-autumn mist.

No, Storybrooke was exactly how he remembered it.

Suddenly the car radio burst to life and Killian jolted at the sudden disturbance, his movement causing the car to swerve dangerously onto the other side of the road as the tyres jerked to follow him. One hand scrambled with the volume on the radio as the other wrenched the wheel to regain control, and after a brief moment of wrestling with both he managed to restore the tentative peace he had endured for the last few hours, only his hammering heart an indicator that he had lost it to begin with.

The low, barely distinguishable synth of Yaz’s Only You was still pouring through the tinny speaker.

Killian, far more alert now and willing his racing pulse to slow, flicked it off.

It was an old car and often prone to such dysphoric outbursts, but that didn’t lessen the way the hairs at the base of his neck stood on end.

Piss off, he thought mutinously, ghost.

God, he needed to sleep.

Before long, the winding country road began to recede, and a taste of the Storybrooke suburbia began to trickle forth with a few dwellings by the side of the road, sporadic lots that quickly opened out into fully-fledged streets lined with house after house. He had agreed to meet David as soon as he got into town, although he doubted the man anticipated it being quite this late. Still, he didn't wish to waste any time. After a minute or so of tracking down the familiar turns, Killian was soon pulling his Chevelle into park outside a large, two-storey house. Once a brilliant white, dirt and age had weathered the paint until it was scratched and peeling. A single windmill lay spinning in the front yard.

Killian tapped a brief message into his phone, before stepping out of the Chevelle and leaning against the bonnet while he waited. He didn’t wait long. After a few moments, the front door opened and David Nolan emerged, careful to shut it behind him as quietly as possible. Undoubtedly there might be a person or two inside not quite as thrilled to see him as the young man rapidly descending the stairs. He was wrapped in a thick coat and his breath was coming out in quick bursts of condensation.

To Killian’s surprise, the first thing David did when he reached him was pull him into a fierce hug.

He’d been expecting a lot of mixed emotions, certainly – trepidation, anger, disappointment. It had been a long time since he’d left the town under a similar cloak of night to the one currently slung over it. To his shame, he realised the entire drive there that he hadn’t once considered that David might be pleased to see him. Once again, he hadn’t given the man enough credit. Hesitantly, he returned the gesture with as much warmth as he could muster.

Some things, then, could still feel like home.

“Thanks for coming,” David said, once he pulled back.

“I’m sorry it’s so late.”

The other man waved away his apology. “Don’t be ridiculous… you look exhausted.” David tilted his head, as if finally noticing the way his eyes were desperate to wink closed again. “Were you driving all night?”

Killian let out a breath of mirthless laughter. “Something like that.”

Try all week.

David gestured to the house behind them. “Do you want to come inside?”

Tempting, certainly tempting. Still, he shook his head. “I doubt that’s wise.” While he might have been wrong about which reception he should be expecting from David Nolan, he was positive where the rest of his family was concerned, his suppositions were entirely correct. For a moment the conversation stilled, and as Killian stared out into the dark road behind him he decided there was little point in not being upfront about the reason he had been summoned back to Storybrooke.

“So,” he began, “is it her?”

David’s countenance changed, a stiffness settling in his shoulders while his expression morphed into one of reluctance, of uncertainty. David Nolan had always been dreadful at masking his emotions, it made perfect sense that two years apart wouldn’t have had any impact on his attempts at duplicity. His lips parted, as if trying to perhaps voice a hesitant refutation, but Killian didn’t let him.

“You wouldn’t have called me if it weren’t.”

The other man shut his mouth, folded his arms. The wind whistled down the wide, empty street, sending gusts of curling, copper leaves up into the air. Killian waited.

David seemed to reach a decision. “It’s late,” he said, instead of an answer. “Let’s leave it for the morning, after you’ve had some rest.”

It wasn’t such a bad suggestion. He was exhausted. The answers he so desperately wished to claw from David Nolan could wait until he didn’t feel like any stiff wind might knock him over. He conceded the delay with a nod and a tight smile, one that David gratefully returned, and pushed away from the bonnet. As he tugged open the door David retreated a few steps back up to the house, wrapping his coat even tighter around him.

“It’s really good to see you, Killian,” he said, offering him the ghost of a grin that was almost – well. Almost sad. He then opened the door and slipped inside.

“Likewise,” he murmured to the shut door, and dropped down into his car.

The engine growled to life underneath him as he made to pull away from the curb, but as he paused out of habit to check behind him for any oncoming traffic, he thought he saw the trail of something white disappear behind one of the trees. It was brief, like the flash of colour from a light blinking out of sight. The trail of a dress disappearing from view. He was sure enough that he’d seen it to give him pause, for his hand to drop to the handle of the door as if he were making to get out again, but not quite enough to follow through. His hand tightened for a moment, but soon gradually released it.

It was late, he was exhausted, and he was seeing things. Or, as was often the case with him, he wasn’t, but whatever he’d seen he didn’t want to be dealing with until morning. Screw the brave thing to do; he was staying in the car. Giving the spot he had seen it one last lingering look in the mirror, he drove away.

The clock on his dashboard read just a little time before midnight, and while he considered spending the night in his car – it would be far from the first – truthfully he wished to avoid any run-ins with the Sheriff’s department where possible, at least until he’d reacquired his bearings. That left only one establishment that would remain open for a new patron so late into the night, and he realised with a jolt that his hands had steered him down the familiar roads before he'd really had a chance to think too much about it.

The exterior of Granny's Bed & Breakfast was barely visible, but from what he could make out nothing really had changed. It was made of the same chipped brick and shattered tile, the brush around the entrance long overgrown after decades of ill attention. The proprietor had always behaved like it was a complete mystery that business was never doing well, but hidden away behind the diner as it was and sheltered by woodland, most newcomers to Storybrooke would scarcely even know it existed.

Killian pulled into one of the parking spaces towards the back of the building, taking only his rucksack from the boot and leaving everything else. Although wary of such a choice at first, he felt everything else would probably be safer in his car than at Granny’s, not to mention aside from one disappearance presumed-murder several years ago, the crime rate in Storybrooke was almost non-existent. He clambered the steps and moved inside.

A loud bell rang out heralding his entrance, and he winced at the volume of the sound. Granny never wished to miss out on any potential customers. It was for that reason that the very same woman came bustling down the stairs with almost alarming speed, broad grin in place ready to welcome whomever had disturbed them so late into the night – until she realised who had done so.

Granny Lucas, small as she was, was a formidable woman. When her eyes narrowed with distinct venom, Killian immediately wished he had just decided to stay in his car.

“I have the right to refuse service to anybody that comes in here, just so you know.”

This was much more the kind of reception he had been expecting to receive from David, but it was late now, and he was tired, and he wasn’t ready to fight.

“Please,” he said. “I’ll pay whatever rate you deem is fair. Just for tonight. I can find somewhere else to stay tomorrow if need be.”

“If it’s that easy sunshine, you can stay somewhere else tonight, too.”

“Granny!”

He heard the admonishment before he saw the person who gave it, but a moment later Ruby Lucas had thundered down the stairs and emerged to join her grandmother.

She glared at her, fiercely. “You think business is good enough to turn anyone away?” The young woman immediately reached behind her grandmother to retrieve the heavy, cob-ridden guestbook and dropped it with a thud in front of Killian. She smiled at him, kindly, handing him a pen. “Particularly a friend.”

“A friend?!” Granny blustered.

“Here,” Ruby began rummaging for a key behind her, “you can take the square view.”

Killian hastily began writing his name in the book, before Granny Lucas either had a chance to assert her authority or pluck the pen out of his hands. In his haste, it became little more than a scribble. The ink smudged across the page made him think of the flash of movement he had seen by the Nolan house.

He needn't have worried. Granny Lucas let out a highly disgruntled noise, before clearly deciding she wished no part in it and stalking into the back room.

“Thank you,” Killian said, once she was gone. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Ruby gave him a look; a rueful, warm thing. “Don’t be silly. This is your home, too.”

The key she had handed him was the same as any other the inn provided, but it still made him ache. It was hung on a large metal keyring, the engraving of a swan at the top of it before receding into carved silver roses and thorns.

“Come see me in the morning,” she suggested, “I’ll make sure we get you something good cooked up for breakfast.”

Killian thanked her again before mounting the stairs. He later realised, on closer inspection, that the silver swan was also engraved with another message.

Welcome to Storybrooke.

“Well,” he muttered, slipping the key into the lock, “we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

-/-

October 14th 2014 – 5 Years Ago

Emma’s desk jolted as two strong hands thwacked down on it with force.

“I’ve found it.”

God, just when she was beginning to make progress.

Unimpressed, she lifted her gaze from the calculus textbook in front of her, after all this time still a puzzling, blurred mix of numbers and symbols that was only just starting to penetrate her mind, as easily distracted as it often found itself. Given she had left a desperate plea on the sign by the quiet study section of the library that she was not to be disturbed, she fixed her would-be guerrilla opponent with an irate stare.

There, with his dark hair stuck up at all angles as if he had spent the last hour running through it with an agitated hand, eyes wide and bright but distinctly pleased with himself, like the cat that had worked out just which dressing complimented diced canary perfectly, stood Killian Jones.

Of course he’d be the one disrupting her precarious peace.

“Don’t tell me – it’s hot cocoa, with cinnamon, and you’re about to hand it over.”

She held out her hands expectantly, offering him the sweetest smile she could muster.

Killian didn’t buy it for a second, and when he made to continue with that same eager glint in his eye, she cut him off.

“—Because that is the only reason I’ll accept you bothering me right now! Killian, you know how much math is kicking my ass, I have to work.”

“I know, but this is –”

“‘This is more important than hairspray to Regina’ better be how that sentence ends.”

“Aye, it’s—”

“More important than hairspray to Regina, say it.”

“Swan—”

She waggled her pen up at him threateningly.

“Say it.”

“Oh bloody hell,” Killian snapped, snatching her pen from the air with a huff of impatience. “Yes, it’s more important than – hair products, or – or David’s truck. There.”

David’s truck was a brand new (second hand) 1973 F-Series. It could manage nought to sixty in eleven excruciatingly painful seconds, but David could not be prouder of it if he’d birthed the thing and raised it himself, rather than receiving it as a seventeenth birthday present from Ruth.

Emma surveyed Killian carefully, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “That’s a pretty serious allegation you’re making, Jones.”

“Aye, and I mean every word of it.”

“I caught him singing to that truck the day before yesterday.”

“Every. Word.”

After a pregnant pause, Emma decisively shut the textbook.

Immediately pleased, Killian reached hurriedly behind him and scraped a chair across the vinyl floor so he could join her at the table.

“I found it,” he said again, and he had that same excited, agitated look on his face, like the news was practically spilling out of him to tell her.

“You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“It,” he continued, “Brooke House.”

Whatever jest had been waiting to spring from the tip of her tongue died immediately on parted lips. She watched him for a few seconds, trying to check the sincerity of the remark the same way she always did – but no, Killian wasn’t trying to trick her. Whatever he’d found, he genuinely believed it to be Brooke House. Which was impossible.

“Brooke House,” she said carefully, knowing how much of a touchy subject this must be for him, “doesn’t exist.”

Killian shook his head fiercely.

“It’s there. In the north woods, just like Liam said. I was hiking on the White Pine trail when I heard –”

“You were hiking?”

“Yes, when I heard –”

“Like, honest to God, timberlands and a windbreaker, hiking? You?”

Killian let out an exasperated sigh, and Emma could see she was rapidly getting on his nerves, causing him to react far too violently for her to continue the passing jest. While ordinarily she would enjoy getting her friend so riled up, there was nothing ordinary about Brooke House. Especially, she realised, since whatever he had stumbled across he sincerely believed to be the missing piece of a puzzle he had lived for years without.

With that in mind, she sobered up quickly. She should give him the attention he deserved.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Carry on.”

He couldn’t even spare an ounce of his nervous energy on feeling grateful.

“It was so strange, Emma. I don’t even remember when I left the trail. I must have been walking for at least ten minutes or so off-road – that’s how long it took to get back – but I suddenly heard this… creaking. Like the way the sign for Gold’s shop moves.” With an almost supernatural precision, the sign for Mr. Gold’s Pawnbrokers had a tendency to rock back and forth at the same pace, no matter how high or low the wind whistled down Main Street. “And I just… knew. So I followed it and there it was – Brooke House. Near the edge of the ravine.”

Emma chewed on her lip. “Okay.” Killian wasn’t a liar, or she’d never known him to be. So, he found a house in the woods. That didn’t necessarily make it anything more than a holidaymaker’s cabin. “How do you know it’s… Brooke House?”

“There was a sign.”

Emma sighed. “Oh, well that’s convenient, isn’t it?”

Killian frowned at this, but she knew at least one of them had to point it out. Killian had searched those woods a hundred times, more – the whole town had given a crack at it once the Storybrooke Mirror had sensationalised the whole affair, and nobody had ever found it. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that this was all some elaborate prank from somebody caught up on the story – somebody uninterested in the emotional weight it carried for those to whom it meant more than a spooky episode in the town’s history.

Those like Killian Jones.

“It’s the real deal, Emma,” he insisted, firmly. Emma remained doubtful. “I just know it. Don’t you trust me to be able to tell the difference?”

It wasn’t a matter of trust. It was a matter of knowing just how much even the possibility that it actually existed must have been fucking around with his emotional state all the way from the trembling moment he had stumbled across it to right now.

Hope had a funny way of making somebody see a ghost – they had all learnt that the hard way.

“Liam wasn’t crazy – and this is the proof.”

Emma remembered when Liam Jones had died. It had been four years ago, just prior to the first time she met Killian. He had driven his car over the edge of a ravine near the boundary of the north woods, close to the town line, and had crashed into the river beneath. The coroner had ruled that death would have been near instantaneous at the point of impact.

After an investigation, it had been declared a suicide.

Not for the first time, Emma couldn’t imagine what kind of damage that knowledge had done to Killian.

But Emma also remembered a scared, lonely twelve-year-old who, even while processing the sudden death of the person closest to him, had found it in himself to be kind to somebody even more frightened than he at all the harm the world had wrought her.

Probably without his notice, his hand had crept across the table to hers and linked their fingers together.

Emma noticed, though.

“Will you – come back with me? To see it?”

To an imaginary house in the middle of the woods, on a hunch that its contents might pertain clues to his brother’s mysterious suicide?

For him, anything.

“Of course,” she said, and Killian visibly relaxed. When he released her hand she realised it was throbbing a little from how tight he had been clutching it. “Just, erm… let me drop this stuff back to Ruth’s.”

She started haphazardly gathering her strewn out study materials.

“Thank you,” he added quietly. “I’ll meet you by the trail end?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

-/-

Present Day

Killian rose far earlier than he had been intending, but something in the town was preventing him from catching even a fading vestige of sleep. It was something in the air, a thickness, a sensation which hung heavily around him. As if from the moment he had crossed the town line he had become a pulse of disturbance, and with every twist he made in the scratchy sheets at Granny’s sent out waves of ripples out into the ether, like a beacon to his presence. He felt exposed, and he’d spent much of the last few years fighting to remain out of sight.

He had considered calling David, but even with his work at the shelter he couldn’t be expected to be as cognizant as Killian prior to six o’clock in the morning. Instead, his eyes heavy with the taunt of sleep, he had gone for a walk.

There was much of Storybrooke he wanted to see again, and the more he considered it, the less he wanted to be visiting them at more populous times.

After emerging from Granny’s Bed & Breakfast, he stopped briefly to check the handles and the windows of his Chevelle. It didn’t look like it had been broken into, and a quick glance in the boot abated his concerns for his equipment. If David was to be believed, he wasn’t sure what he’d need – possibly all of it.

The morning was bleak and grey, a dark cloud lurking towards the south of the town threatening to open up onto the streets below with little warning. Deserted, the only noticeable movement was the scatter of crisp, golden leaves across the centre of the Main Street as they were ushered further down by strokes of wind. He wrapped his coat tighter around him. The clock tower stood exactly as he remembered it, proud and unchanged, but it was the room underneath that interested him most.

The library had closed – not that he was surprised. There had been a significant decline in interest as most turned their attention to the new age of internet research and Netflix even while he had lived there, and it had been cobbling together its running costs through sparse donations from Storybrooke’s more sympathetic residents. Now it looked as if somewhere in the last five years it had conceded defeat, and the windows were now clumsily boarded up with a chain looped around the handle of the door.

Through cracks in the panelling, Killian could still spot the abandoned rows of books lining the shelves, now doomed to gather dust and little else.

Don’t tell me – it’s hot cocoa, with cinnamon, and you’re about to hand it over.

He winced.

The chain appeared weak, or a sturdy pair of pliers could probably make quick work of the lock; either way, he could definitely break his way in if need be. Given his less than warm reception from Granny the night before, he doubted he’d be able to conduct his study with any real privacy in a room at the bed and breakfast and he should be considering alternate locations. The library’s closure actually presented something of an opportunity.

There was one other place he had wanted to return to, but trepidation stayed his movements. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Besides, the town was beginning to wake, and it would be better if he got off the streets.

Going back the way he’d come, Killian quickened his pace but went a block further, rounding the corner to head into Granny’s Diner instead of the residential entrance – he sorely hoped Ruby had meant what she’d said about that cooked breakfast. The sign on the door beckoned open, so he slipped inside.

To his relief, Ruby was stood behind the counter, just beginning to tie her apron around her waist. When she saw who had entered, she offered him a reassuring smile, tying the bow off at the back with a flourish.

“Coffee?” she asked, brightly.

God, he couldn’t be more relieved people like her were still in town.

“Please.”

He unlooped his scarf from around his neck and dropped it on the counter, hastily warming up from the space heater Granny liked to keep on full blast above the counter as the months turned colder. The older woman had always been a little tight with her purse, but while she invested in central heating for the bed and breakfast at the behest of many a desperate customer, she had insisted the heat from the griddle and oven should be enough to keep the diner at a comfortable temperature. The space heater was the only concession she made, which usually kept the barstools constantly occupied at peak times and otherwise.

Ruby soon approached with a mug and a pot of steaming coffee, and Killian thanked her as she handed it over.

“You’re up early,” she mused. “Granny said she went to wake you about half an hour ago, but you weren’t there.”

Granny went to snoop, more likely. What kind of proprietor tried to wake their customers before seven? He shared a knowing look with Ruby, who had the good grace to look a little sheepish on her grandmother’s behalf.

“I didn’t sleep much.”

“Is it the guilt?” called a sharp voice from the kitchen.

“Granny!”

“Worse,” Killian bit back loudly, “your mattresses.”

Ruby looked part irritated, part flustered, and cast an angry glare at the door to the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Killian, “just give me a sec.”

She disappeared through the door into the kitchen, and Killian watched through the pass as she exchanged some harsh words with the elder Lucas, who soon huffed and stormed out of sight. Killian thought he heard the connecting door to the inn swing closed.

“Sorry about that,” Ruby continued, marching back out to the counter, a forced cheeriness there that barely masked the fury he could see dancing behind her eyes. “Granny’s got some work to do, but Floyd will be here in like, ten minutes, and he’ll kick off the breakfast rush.”

“Fine by me. She’s, ah, still the firecracker I remember.”

Ruby sighed heavily. “Wouldn’t let a silly thing like a triple bypass slow her down.”

Killian smiled over the rim of his coffee. “Of course not.”

They passed a few contented moments in silence, Ruby running a cloth across the counter and switching on the milk steamer, and Killian had just about settled himself into it when she spoke again.

“So,” she began, “what brings you back to town?”

He was tempted to suggest Granny’s snooping should have given her an indication, but the words stopped dead on the tip of his tongue once he turned to look at her. She was concentrating perhaps a little too hard on the glass she was currently polishing, staring fixedly at the way the dishcloth had folded in on itself as she pushed it inside, determinedly not looking at him. It was too nonchalant, and everything else in her posture suggested her attention was still aimed solely at him. Lowering his coffee back to the counter, he realised why.

“You know,” he observed, “don’t you?”

Ruby refused to meet his eye.

“You do. Maybe I should be the one asking you questions.”

“I don’t know anything,” she insisted. “No more than anyone else in Storybrooke.”

Killian clicked his tongue. “I’m hardly what you’d call a local anymore, love.”

The waitress seemed more reluctant still, throwing a wary look at the door out to the kitchen. Granny Lucas hadn’t reappeared.

Eventually, she decided to continue.

“I’ve just – heard things. Rumours, mainly. People have been losing stuff they have no sense losing, hearing things they have no right hearing. Nobody has hiked in weeks because of some freak weather, and people are saying the trails are haunted. You know how Storybrooke gets in October.” Like most rural towns, every other house seemed to have a ghost story of its own.

Although, Killian thought to himself, at least one of them was true.

“Then there’s what happened to David, but I bet you already know about that. The moment he told me I had a feeling you’d be back.”

She wasn’t wrong, but Killian had a feeling there was more to this than she was letting on. He told her as much.

“It… it was only once. But as I was locking up two nights ago, I thought – well,” she bit her lip, “at the edge of Main Street, I thought I saw –”

The loud clanging of the bell over the door, along with the slide of the shutters against the glass, startled them both. Ruby almost dropped the glass she was holding, and Killian merely willed his racing heart to slow. Most importantly, he wanted her to continue talking.

“What did you see?”

Ruby shook her head tightly, quickly moving across to the other end of the counter to serve the new customer.

“Ruby –”

“Two coffees to – oh!”

With a start, Killian recognised who had just walked into the diner at the exact moment she realised he was sitting there.

Clad in a soft, lavender coat wrapped tightly around her, a grey scarf wound around her neck and a familiar looking beret atop her cropped dark hair, Mary Margaret Blanchard was staring at him wide eyed, a gloved hand having flown to her chest in surprise at the sight of him.

Gone were the softer edges of her jaw that he remembered from the last time he had seen her, replaced by the distinctive shape of womanhood, the muted hazel of her eyes just a little darker than he remembered them being. Clearly she was no longer the girl he had known when he was scarcely a boy himself, and this woman stood in her place, staring at him as if he were a ghost.

He wondered what she must see when she looked at him.

“Oh,” he echoed her, once he’d gathered his wits, “hello.”

“Hi,” she greeted weakly, uncertain. Five years had passed, and she was just a little less sure of them than he was. “Um two – two coffees to go, please.” This she directed at Ruby, who was happy to have an excuse to busy herself away from Killian’s inquisitive eye.

“I didn’t know you – how are you, Killian?”

He smiled; Mary Margaret’s first thought was always one of kindness. “I only got into town last night. I’m well, thank you.” Mary Margaret returned his smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Remarkably, she looked rather like she’d prefer to be anywhere than the tiny space of air three feet away from Killian that she was currently occupying.

Odd, he thought, when they had all once been so close.

“And yourself?”

“Oh, I’m – I’m good, too. Great, really. I work at the elementary school now.” Her body pivoted, as if intending to point out of the window but realising halfway through that it was pointless, as the school was all the way across town and, besides, he knew exactly where it was. “As a teacher.”

He almost said it. He almost did.

Emma would have loved that.

Instead, he offered his own congratulations. “That’s bloody brilliant,” he grinned. At least one of them had been able to get exactly what they wanted. “Amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“Cream?”

Mary Margaret wrenched her gaze away from Killian. “Uh – sorry?”

“Cream,” Ruby repeated, not unkindly, “did you want it?”

“Oh, yes. Thanks.” She reached absently up to straighten her beret.

Deciding to take the encounter as an act of providence, Killian figured he might as well make the most of it. If even Ruby had been detecting something had shifted in the air, then somebody like Mary Margaret had to have almost as many explanations as David.

“I was hoping to run into you,” he began, “I was wondering if I could ask you –”

“Killian, I’m going to stop you right there.”

To his surprise, her interjection had been decisive, and left little room for argument. It was the sort of voice she had always saved for when she wanted to put her foot down, when things were ever getting a little too far out of hand and she had decided to put a stop to it. It probably served her well in the classroom, and the sparsity of its use had meant they had always taken her seriously when she used it.

And she had used it now.

“Alright,” he said, tilting his head to the side and encouraging her to continue.

Mary Margaret hesitated, as if searching for the right words.

“I’ve put it behind me,” she said eventually, with the same directness. “All of it. And I want to keep it there.”

She could do that? Like it was even possible?

“So if that’s the reason… if that’s why you’re back in town, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to me. Not until you’ve found your peace, too.”

Peace, that was what she called it. Putting a lid on something too painful to carry and shutting it away where it couldn’t hurt her – if that was peace, he wanted no part of it.

“Have you?” she asked, almost hopefully. Found your peace?

In answer he merely shrugged, rueful and tired. “What do you think?”

Two coffees were placed on the counter in front of Mary Margaret and after a long moment she broke eye contact and reached forward to take them.

“Take care, Killian.”

She turned to go.

He made to go back to his own coffee, now lukewarm and bitter since being left untouched for a number of minutes, but paused as he watched Mary Margaret hesitate, then pivot on her feet to take one last look back at him.

She smiled, and he knew this was genuine.

“It really is good to see you. I’m glad you’re okay.”

He returned the sentiment, and before long the door was chiming and clanging shut behind her, the shutters bouncing off the back of the wood.

Killian couldn’t work out how he felt. It would be decidedly easier if he was angry, and for a number of moments he tried to be. Tried to be furious that she could leave it all in the past, that she could throw everything they had all been to each other into a place where she couldn’t see it, David included. But the fury wouldn’t come. Only the same tired melancholy he had carried with him for years, begging for him to let it all go. Not everybody could carry a torch as enduring as that, and it had been draining him for almost a decade – first Liam, then Emma. He couldn’t resent Mary Margaret for wanting to preserve her strength for the next phase of life, not the last.

It just wasn’t that easy for him. Or for David.

Which just left Regina.

After a moment, Killian suddenly remembered Ruby had been about to tell him something, but when he turned back to the counter he found Ashley, another waitress, in her place.

“Where’s Ruby?”

“She said she had to go prepare a couple of rooms in the Inn for some guests checking in later.” Ashley grinned, and proffered a fresh pot of coffee. “Refill?”

Rather dazedly, he realised the tired jukebox in the corner was now spitting out the second verse to Only You. Once he noticed it, he zeroed in on the sound. He gritted his teeth.

Shaking his head at Ashley’s offer, he rose from his stool. He had work to do.

-/-

October 27th 2014 – 5 Years Ago

A large mug of a bitter, foul-smelling liquid was placed in front of him.

“There,” Sheriff Humbert said, settling into the seat across him. “You said you were tired. There’s a coffee for you.”

With difficulty, Killian raised his tired eyes from the steam curling out into nothingness from the mug, and tried to stare the sheriff down. He was sure the effect was less than pitiful, what with the dark circles that had settled uncomfortably underneath his eyes, red-rimmed and barely blinking open. Sometimes when he tried to focus on the Sheriff, he found his gaze drifting six inches or so to the left, and his thoughts were becoming muddled and bleary.

Only one thing remained crystal clear in his mind. Over and over, the scream that battered and ricocheted around his skull.

(Killian – Killian, don’t –!)

When he spoke, the words scratched the back of his throat and his voice was hoarse – he had been yelling all night, and in the pastel pink glow of morning that trickled through the barred window, he needed to rest.

“You’re not letting me go?”

The sheriff folded his arms. “I’m not satisfied yet.” Bloody fuck this man was coming after him like a rabid dog. Emma was – Emma was – gods knew what had happened to Emma, but Killian would have much preferred he was out there looking for her and not trapped in here under the doubtful scrutiny of the town’s only detective. Damn Mary Margaret and her insistence on this.

He knew at this very moment the woods were being combed through by any of the denizens of Storybrooke awake and aware of what had happened, and he longed to join them.

“So, let’s go over it again,” the sheriff continued. “You and your friends are out in the woods in the middle of the night for – well, god knows what. Then Emma Swan just – disappears?”

Her wrist stained red, angry welts erupting across her forearm. Eyes as dark as obsidian.

Killian wanted to cry. Already had. Had wept for hours as they tore through the forest.

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

“Yes, she disappeared.”

“Your friends say she was with you when she went missing. That you were the last one to see her.”

“I was.”

The sheriff spread a hand, inviting him to continue. When Killian was not forthcoming, he pressed. “So, what did you see?”

“I didn’t see anything,” Killian snarled, even as his voice trembled and cracked. “Aren’t you the police? Shouldn’t I be asking you for answers?”

A wave of nausea rose from his gut to his gullet, and with difficulty he pushed it back down as he pressed a hand to his forehead. It came away wet, drenched in sweat and dew.

“Why were you out in the woods?”

He took a deep breath, tried to force himself to sound normal. “We were just messing around.”

“At midnight?” The sheriff stared at him doubtfully. “Near a ravine?”

The ravine, he knew he wanted to say. No use in either of them being coy about just why Killian, a seventeen-year-old, had become a target in this investigation.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Were you drinking?”

“No.”

“Had you been drinking?”

Killian’s gaze snapped up angrily. “No.”

Sheriff Humbert clicked his tongue. “Had Emma Swan been drinking?”

Without planning to, Killian’s fist swung down and slammed on the table, hard.

He’d not let an asshole like Humbert disparage her.

“Nobody was bloody drinking, alright?”

“What other reason do five seventeen-year-olds have to venture into the woods in the middle of the night?”

His wrist was still sticky with blood, and he knew he stank. His leather jacket had been flung onto the floor within five minutes of him being shut in the interrogation room, but his shirt was still foul with sweat and earth. He knew how it looked, but he hadn’t been thinking of that when the four of them had finally agreed to admit this had spiralled far out of their control.

Emma was gone. And they needed help.

But they shouldn’t have come here.

“Emma is missing,” he spat at the detective, fury and misery overwhelming him, and he felt the humiliating sting behind his nose that he knew would preface hot tears as his shoulders began to tremble. He had always felt things too deeply, that was his problem.

I’m not finished, Liam had snapped, don’t you walk away from me.

“You should be out there bloody finding her, not grilling me!”

“Emma is missing,” the sheriff agreed sharply, “and I assure you, I’m doing everything in my power to find her, but for that I need you to stop fighting me.”

Killian could scarcely remember a time when he hadn’t been fighting.

Don’t tell me – it’s hot cocoa, with cinnamon, and you’re about to hand it over.

The sheriff drummed his fingers on the table. “Are we on the same page, Mr. Jones?”

Wiping his eyes, he nodded mutely.

“You and your friends reckon she disappeared around midnight, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” he croaked.

“Then why did no one come to alert the station until five?”

(Bring her back. You bring her back right now, Jones, or I swear –!)

Killian swallowed. “We were – trying to find her.”

“You were trying to find her,” Sheriff Humbert repeated.

“We didn’t think it was serious. At first. We thought she’d just wandered off.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

“And you say no alcohol was involved?”

“No.”

“Then why in god’s name weren’t you a little more concerned that your friend had just – disappeared? If you had told us sooner, we might have –”

The door to the interrogation room burst open.

Dr Archibald Hopper (MD) stood in the doorway, quivering with a barely suppressed rage which he directed solely at the sheriff. Killian, far more overwhelmed and relieved to see him than he had ever been in his entire life, finally gave way to the weariness of keeping his emotions at bay and felt tears begin to spill down his cheeks. He quickly covered his face with his hands, but could hear the furious exchange between the social worker and the detective.

“Sheriff Humbert, I must insist you stop this instant. Killian, don’t say another word.” A pause. “How dare you?”

The sheriff was unapologetic. “He’s a witness.”

“He’s a minor, Sheriff, need I remind you. And he has been through quite enough today already.” Killian dropped his hands, and he could tell the moment Archie realised he’d been crying. “Do you have any idea what kind of irreparable harm you may have already caused this poor boy? Killian, get your jacket.”

Forcing his stiff limbs into movement, Killian knocked his chair back with a loud scrape and reached for his discarded jacket. It was torn in at least three places he could see.

“This was a voluntary interview, Dr Hopper – Killian came to us. A girl is missing.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Archie replied hotly. “That girl was put under my charge long before she became your case, Mr Humbert. And I will not have you waste valuable resources in here interrogating a child when you should be out there, finding her.”

He ushered Killian to the door who went, willingly. He felt as if he might be floating, was more relieved to have somebody else take charge; he almost staggered into Archie as he was led out into the hall.

“If you approach this boy again without my express permission you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

“This isn’t over,” the sheriff growled.

“Oh,” Archie scoffed, a hand landing heavily on Killian’s shoulder as they began marching down the hall, “it really is.”

Killian tripped over his feet as he tried to keep up, and caught only the side of Archie’s stony expression as he looked over at the man. He had never seen him like this. Ever since he had moved into the group home Archie had been nothing but mild-mannered pragmatism, had endured a thousand wild tempers from Killian over the years with nothing other than an infuriating level of understanding, to the point where it had occurred to him on more than one occasion that it wasn’t even possible for Archie to get angry.

It had also never really occurred to him that the man cared a whit for him beyond that which his profession demanded, but perhaps that had been more Killian’s tendency to close himself off to the possibility. Emma had taken a long time to penetrate, too.

At the thought of Emma, another wave of nausea rushed over him and he tugged on Archie’s sleeve as they left the station, stopping in his tracks and hunching over the flowerbed near the entrance. He retched three times, but nothing came out. There was nothing for his body to expel. He realised he was hungry. Famished. Archie rubbed a gentle hand on his back until he felt well enough to straighten.

“Killian,” he said gently, much more the man he knew than the hurricane that had whisked him away from Sheriff Humbert. He stooped to meet his eye, and Killian could see the sorrow that had settled softly behind the rim of his glasses. “I’m going to ask you this only once, because I trust you to be completely honest with me.”

Killian nodded, quivering in the brisk air of morning.

Archie’s mouth was set in a thin, concerned line.

“Do you know what happened to Emma Swan?”

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

It was a good thing Archie Hopper trusted him.

“No.”

Even if he shouldn’t.

-/-

October 20th 2019 – 6 Days Prior to Present Day

After a few moments, David realised he was awake.

Awake, but he couldn’t move.

As if there were some yawning gap between his impulses and his actions, when he tried to rise to a sitting position or even twitch a finger, he felt nothing stir. His ears had popped or, at least, that’s what it sounded like – the regular hums of the old house, the refrigerator, the electric heater on the landing that Ruth always insisted on leaving on, were unusually muffled and a distant ringing had settled there instead.

The room was dark as pitch, only a crack of light from the streetlamp outside falling against the opposite wall, and he knew Ruth must be asleep. Once again he tried to lift a hand, unconsciously intending to mop some of the sweat from his brow, but when nothing happened a swell of panic began to rise within him.

And all at once, he understood he was no longer alone in his bedroom.

With his eyes fixed on the ceiling David couldn’t turn his gaze to the unknown assailant, lurking as they were just at the end of his bed, but he could hear the gentle swish of fabric against the floor, the beams of light from the window winking in and out as the figure passed in front of them, and he began to breathe harder. He was desperate to take deep, gasping breaths but his lips refused to open further than a sliver, and the more he tried to regain control, the more agitated he became.

“Stop,” a gentle voice whispered, “it’s alright.”

David froze and his heart soared, but was immediately clutched by an intense and terrible terror; because he knew that voice.

Something touched his right hand, cold and dead and strange, clutching onto him tight and when David tried to flinch away he managed the barest flicker of movement. Pulse racing and bolstered by the progress, David focused all of his energies on his neck, stiff and unyielding, needing to turn and get a look at the intruder.

As their grip overtook his entire hand, with an enormous effort he managed to tilt his head.

Their eyes locked for a split second, and the darkness stole his cry.

The intruder stared at him intently. They wanted him to remember.

“Bring me the dagger.”

He blinked, and like a spell had been lifted David lurched onto his right side, gasping for air and resisting the urge to retch, a clumsy hand fumbling for the lamp at his bedside and slamming the switch. Warm light bloomed through the entire room, but David was alone again.

His mind kept whirling, replaying the image over and over and trying to process what he had seen – but that stranger, he couldn’t forget them. It was a face he’d spent every single day over the last five years desperate to remember and cherish forever.

It was Emma.

Not caring for the lateness of the hour, David scrambled for his phone left charging by his bed, and called the only person in the world who might believe him.

After stumbling his way through a greeting on Killian’s voicemail, he tried to get to the crux of the thing in the least alarming way possible.

“There’s something – I have something you need to see.”

#jay writes #cs halloweek #cs role reversal #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan #cs au #killian jones #emma swan #a house is never still #this is also my first halloween-y fic ever #SO pumped

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everlarkficexchange · 5 years

Text

Unmasked ~ Twenty-Four

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery.

Dear readers, we continue with our game. I thank you for allowing me to write and share with you from behind a mask, for embracing this story wholeheartedly despite not knowing my identity. Remember, learn my name, you must use the clues in each chapter starting with 21 until the end to hunt for a word in the text of each chapter itself. Gather the words, hold onto them, for they will provide the final clue to the puzzle.

Please enjoy the twenty-fourth chapter of this adventure. It is again a lengthy chapter. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 24 ~~

The morning we leave Everdeen dawns cold and grey. Frost covers the ground and a chill seeps from the stones through my boots as I make my way outside to the stables. Inside is warm, the pungent scent of horse and hay heavy in the air. Peeta is already here, silent as he communicates somehow with Cicero, through touch alone. Peeta turns to give me a wan smile, alerted to my presence by the response of both horses to my scent. We have chosen to leave our mounts here at Everdeen, in Johanna’s able care, and will travel by carriage, but we cannot leave them without a farewell. We stand side by side as we do so.

When we leave the stables, my hand seeks out Peeta’s and he twines our gloved fingers together. We walk with matched steps towards the carriage, two well worn trunks tied to the top and a quartet of horses waiting, stamping their hooves in the chill air to keep warm. Frederick sits atop the box, draped in coats and scarves and blankets for warmth.

We embrace and bid farewell to our family. The last time I left, it was with determination and trepidation. I feel those same things again this morning as Madge murmurs words of encouragement to me. Yet there is more inside me. As I ascend into the carriage, my fingers tucked into Peeta’s as he assists me, I also feel a joyful sort of anticipation.

The carriage leaves, and we wave to those we leave behind until they are out of sight, faded into the distance. I ensure that my healing kit is secure beneath my seat, then I seize one of the fresh, warm blankets Sae stocked the carriage with and leap across to the opposite seat to sit beside him.

Peeta laughs as I insert myself in his arms, pressed tight to his body. He adjusts the blankets about us, creating a cocoon of comfort. “Much better,” I declare as he leans down and kisses the tip of my nose.

The journey takes several days, all of which begin cold, and gradually warm to a comfortable temperature by afternoon. Night brings the chill once again. As we travel north, the cold only permeates deeper, lasts longer, until the day is nothing but cold. We spend our time in the carriage seated as close as possible, talking or reading, and on one especially dull stretch of road…kissing madly. Peeta’s hand wanders beneath my skirts, toying with the ribbons on my stockings and teasing me until my thighs quiver with the need for him to touch me, to bring me to climax on those clever fingers of his.

Unfortunately, just as I think we’re getting somewhere, we reach our midday stop and he withdraws his hand. I consider pleading ill and demanding we take a room at the inn for the night rather than merely stopping for sustenance, but this is not a purely pleasurable trip. We’ve a child waiting for us and can not afford to tarry longer than planned.

After our noon meal that day, I curl up and sleep, content and warm, reclined against Peeta’s shoulder. There are occasional unplanned stops when the nausea and dizziness overwhelm and I can no longer withstand the jostling of the carriage. On those stops, I must run for the side of the road. Peeta is unfailingly there to help me right myself and to comfort me after. He is, for the entire journey, perfectly solicitous and perhaps a tiny bit overly protective of me. I feel it in the way he guides me in and out of establishments when we stop, in the way he uses his body as a physical shield between mine and strangers. It is in the way he tucks me into blankets and confers with Frederick to ensure everything is safe and secure before we depart. The knife always near at hand, even when we are locked in our room for the night and tucked into bed.

At night, we sleep bodies pressed tight together on cramped inn beds, too tired to engage in much beyond holding one another and a few murmured words before we sleep. Besides that, I am uncertain of the cleanliness of these beds and their comfort leaves much to be desired, so I restrict myself to chaste nights with my husband. De Vale will certainly have clean, comfortable beds for us to make use of and provide time for us to better rest.

Peeta does not seem to mind. In fact, the closer we get to de Vale, the more distant he becomes. At first, I am annoyed and hurt by this, but then I think about what it must mean to him, what it must take to fulfill this request – no this demand – from the man who might biologically be his father but whom is such only because he raped Peeta’s mother. What a sticky, uncomfortable position that must have constantly put Peeta in as a young man, even now as a man fully grown. Their relationship forever one part reluctant gratitude and one part utter loathing.

I cannot fathom how he handles it and manage my annoyance at his growing distance by lacing my fingers with his, kissing his cheek, and murmuring that I love him and that he can speak to me if he wishes to.

On the third day of travels, Peeta shifts uncomfortably, waking me from a nap after a fitful night of sleep. “What is it?”

“We’ve reached the border of de Vale,” he says simply.

“Oh good. I could use a cup of tea and a long stroll to stretch my legs,” I say and Peeta caresses over my cheek, tilting my lips up to his.

“I’m afraid that is still a few hours away, my love.”

“What?” I ask and practically crawl across his lap to lift the curtain and stare out at the lands.

Sharply sloped hills lead to craggy cliffs. Snow twirls through the air, tossed about by haphazard winds. The land is grey and brown and dismal, the snow sticking to the ground in patches without accumulation that make it appear… spotted and ugly. There is no sign of a house or a lane.

Peeta shifts me so that I may see better, ties back the curtain. I shiver and he wraps his arms and the blanket around me.

“It’s so…cold,” I say and he nods.

“And we’re not even to the house yet.”

I snort and set my hands over his so he will continue to hold me. “Is it truly another several hours’ journey?”

“Yes,” he says and I sigh.

We pass the next few hours sharing only scattered words. I would demand he put his hands under my skirts again to distract him, except he seems so agitated that I am uncertain of his response. As we draw closer, I can no longer stand the silence.

“Should we pretend to be miserable together? Would that satisfy the Marquis enough to hasten our visit?”

“It does not matter how we present ourselves. He will think he has won somehow.” I have no answer for that and turn a quizzical look towards Peeta. He runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the carefully styled curls that have behaved themselves all morning since we left the inn, but he explains. “If we are miserable, he will delight in it and claim it is because it is what we deserve. If we are happy, he will claim credit for that and arrogantly assume it is all his influence.”

I snort at this and make another suggestion. “And if we are silent and apathetic?”

“Close enough to miserable for him delight in that as well.”

“Are you not supposed to be making me like this man? He is technically your father.”

“He was never my father, not in any real sense. More of a benefactor.” Peeta looks out the window, away from me. His jaw tense and his frame rigid in his seat. I slide across the carriage seat to wrap my arms around him and kiss one cheek, then the other, claiming his attention.

“Then we might as well be just as we are, husband, no pretending, no games.”

“And what are we, wife?”

“Madly in love and ridiculously happy, of course,” I tell him and he smiles.

“That is an act I can manage quite easily, for it is no act at all,” he says and we distract ourselves with kisses for a few minutes.

Then the carriage slows and curiosity gets the better of me. I lean against the window as we turn down a lane marked with a massive stone archway, carved with intricate statuary. Angels pluck harps, wild stag flank the entrance, a fox scampers low to the ground. There are words inscribed at the apex of the arch, but I do not have a chance to read them before we are beneath it and moving on.

Peeta shifts again and when I turn to him, he is tugging at his collar as though it chokes him. I take his hand and pull it away. Our eyes meet and I tend to his collar and cravat, ensuring that it is once more perfect.

“Thank you.”

“It is just a cravat,” I whisper and I see my own feelings reflected in his eyes. We both know he means to thank me for far more than a bit of knotted silk. “And what of my appearance?”

“Perfect, although I now wish I had more time to have you looking well kissed,” he says with a slow, lopsided smile that makes me feel as though I could brave just about anything with Peeta by my side.

“I am always well kissed if you are present, husband.”

It seems to take an age to traverse the lane, almost as long as it would take to travel the breadth of Everdeen in its entirety, and still I am not prepared when the house finally comes into view.

“That is a castle… not a house,” I say and Peeta chuckles, the sound rather dark, but I shake my head, wondering how he can laugh. I imagine him as a boy, frightened and facing this for the first time. I am a woman fully grown and I feel the urge to run and hide at the imposing facade. “How terrified you must have been coming here for the first time.”

“It was not the first such manor I had seen. I grew up on one.” I glance back at him and scowl, waiting for the truth. He shrugs and examines his gloved fingers, folded in his lap. “It is quite different entering through the front door of one of these places as opposed to the servants’ entrances… So yes. I was petrified. By the time the Marquis brought me here, I had been living as part of his household for nearly six months and had already made an infinite number of errors, been at the sharp end of a strap countless times. At first, I feared the Marquis would toss me from the moving carriage on the road somewhere between Capitol and here and be done with me. I think in some ways I almost hoped for that to happen.”

“But he did not,” I say and Peeta nods.

“My presence kept Robert occupied and entertained so that the Marquis could read his papers the entire journey. I suppose he saw me as useful for the first time after that.”

My scowl and my dislike of the Marquis only deepens. Peeta takes my hand and squeezes once as the carriage reaches the courtyard. As soon as it halts, the door is opened.

“Master Mellark. Welcome home,” a nasal voice greets and Peeta gives the man a half smile that is more grimace than anything else as he heaves himself from the carriage.

“Thank you, Branson. How is Anastasia?”

“Ill with the grippe again, sir.” He sounds more annoyed than worried and I wonder at this.

“My condolences. I presume Doctor Hassel has been to see her?”

“We expect him this afternoon, sir.”

“Good,” Peeta says and extends his hand to me. I take it and carefully descend. “Branson, my wife, Katniss Mellark.”

“An honour, Madame,” says the dour looking man as he bows to me. He snaps upright and spins about, waving his hands in some sort of signal. A handful of servants descends on the carriage as Peeta and I slowly walk towards the front of the house. A carved archway, identical to the one over the gate, frames the front door, a massive and imposing thing of polished wood with ornate handles and knockers that I am not certain I could even grasp, they are so thick. I can make out the words on the archway this time and read them.

“Non ducor, duco.”

“I am not led, I lead,” Peeta translates and I shudder. From what I know of the Marquis, he is the last sort of man who should be allowed to lead anyone. Controlling and manipulative, cruel and untouchable, amoral yet seen as an example.

As we ascend the stairs, a woman with regal bearing and dressed in deep shades of purple steps onto the wide verandah, her hands folded in front of her.

“Whatever you do, do not give in to her bait,” he says under his breath. “She will attempt to have you screeching in anger or crying in despair at some point during this visit.”

“You wait to tell me this now?” I ask and he sighs.

“I feared that if I told you, you’d abandon me to face this alone,” his voice carries a slight whine and I cannot help but laugh at his discomfort.

“How many times must I remind you, husband…”

“You are not so fragile,” he finishes with a smile at me, but it fades as we reach the verandah. His usual, easy expression vanishes in favor of one far more somber than I am used to seeing. It is an expression suited to a funeral, not a homecoming.

“You grace us with your presence at last,” the woman calls out as we reach the top.

“Lady Mellark,” Peeta says when we halt in front of her. He bows and I curtsy, but I keep my eyes on this woman, who could have been my mother in law and instead is now simply a nuisance to me. “May I present my—“

“I know precisely who she is. The chit who was not exceptional enough for my Robert.”

Lady Tabitha Mellark is rather petite and delicate looking. Her brown hair a light shade, close to that of some of the reeds that grow alongside the lakes of Everdeen. Her nose tilts up the smallest amount and her green eyes seem almost vacant and unseeing, or perhaps bored as she flicks her gaze over us, dismisses us both. I add haughty and bitter to my list of descriptors for her.

“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Mellark,” I say in as sweet a voice as I can muster.

“Hm. Well, you’re not as pretty as a Mellark wife ought to be, but at least you are only married to an illegitimate son.” I’ve no idea how to respond to such insults and hold my tongue, refusing, as Peeta suggested, to rise to her bait. “Branson will see you to your rooms. Tea in an hour. Do not keep me waiting.”

Her edicts delivered, she spins about, her skirts flaring and her slippers clicking on stone then marble as she leaves us in the doorway.

“That went well, I think.”

“No bloodshed, tears, or screeching. I deem that a rousing success,” Peeta says and I laugh. The sound bounces off the walls as we enter the hall and I spot at least one servant who is startled by the noise.

We are barely over the threshold when a silent servant pauses in front of Peeta and presents a silver tray with a folded and sealed piece of parchment on it. I attempt to hide my surprise as Peeta accepts it with a murmured thanks and the servant disappears. He opens it, the sounds unbearably loud in the hall. As he reads, I examine the foyer and understand in an instant why Peeta implied that the house itself would seem far colder than the weather outside.

The place is a monument to wealth but feels nothing like a home. The foyer alone would hold one whole wing of Everdeen. Ornate fixtures and paintings turn the walls into a veritable museum. Tall narrow windows admit the faint winter light but the heavy, dark blue velvet drapes that hang in perfect shapes to imitate waterfalls give more the feeling of entrapment. I cannot help comparing the shimmering crystal chandeliers, and perfectly polished marble floors with no carpets to add warmth to the room with the warm tones, abundance of fabrics, the sturdy metal light fixtures, and worn wooden floors of Everdeen. The sprawling ceilings of de Vale to the cozy comfort of my own home.

I shiver and Peeta grumbles as he pockets the note, turning to rub warmth into my arms. “I am summoned already. Will you be alright getting us settled on your own?”

“I will be fine,” I assure him and tilt my head back to accept his soft kiss, a reassurance that I need before I watch him walk across the hall in one direction while the dour butler named Branson leads me down a hallway and up a flight of stairs in the other direction. The hallway on the second floor is lined with gleaming wooden doors on one side and more of the massively tall and narrow windows with their suffocating, imitation waterfall drapes on the other. Still no carpets. I will need to wear shoes at all times in this place.

I am pleasantly surprised by the room Branson shows me to, however. The wealth in it is still an excess and a little intimidating, but there is a cheery fire in the hearth, several thick rugs to hold the warmth, and the bed appears luxurious and inviting. Decorated in cheering yellows and warm green tones, the room is a circle of spring in a vast winter prison. It is the nicest piece of de Vale I’ve yet seen. A maid bobs a curtsy and scurries from the room as the butler mutters something to her. I do not hear the words, but I do hear the biting tone.

“Welcome to de Vale, Madame,” the butler says to me with a bow. “Lucy will be in shortly to assist in your unpacking. If there is anything you need, the bells are on the wall.”

“The bells?” I ask and turn towards where he gestured. A quartet of velvet cords all with etched placards. Kitchens. Laundry. Personal Maids. Housekeeping. “How efficient,” I mutter but when I turn around, Branson has disappeared.

In his place, a footman carries in my trunk and sets it near the bed. He bows and is gone before I can even speak. It is strange and coldly efficient and…aggravating. A maid appears on his heels, not the one from before, and curtsies before moving towards my trunk.

“There’s no need,” I say and she purses her lips.

“You do not wish to unpack?”

“I can manage for myself,” I say and smile at the girl. She’s young. Barely older than Prim, if I had to guess. This must be Lucy.

“But the Mistress…”

“Oh there is no need to worry about that. She’s no need to know that I unpacked my own things.” The maid stands there, looking confused and something strikes me then. “Where is…where is my husband’s luggage?”

“It would have been taken to his rooms,” Lucy states as though that is obvious.

“His rooms? Next door then?” I look about for a door to an adjoining room, for surely that must be what the maid means by his rooms, but I see none.

“No, ma’am. His rooms are in the east wing, with the family.”

“And what is this?” I ask, growing more aggravated by the second.

“This is the west wing…for guests.” I stare at her and she shifts her weight on her feet.

“For guests,” I say and clench my teeth. Whether this is Lady Full of Insults or Lord High and Mighty Mellark’s doing, the message is clear. I am not welcome. I am a guest, an interloper, and despite our marriage, despite that they never truly loved him as I do, Peeta somehow still belongs to them, not to me.

“Shall I unpack your things now?”

“Indeed not,” I say and move towards the door.

Glancing up and down the hallway I hail yet another servant who is carrying a parcel of firewood down the hall. “You there! Do you know your way about this monstrosity?”

“Er…me?”

“Yes, you. There is no one else presently in the hall.” He glances about him and seems almost surprised that he is in fact alone. “Where is that firwood bound?”

“The Neptune Room….just there.” He tilts his head towards the door adjacent to mine and I nod.

“Very well. If you would be so kind as to deliver your firewood and then return to assist me with my things? Oh I suppose I should ask…are you capable of carrying them to Mr. Peeta Mellark’s rooms?”

“Master Peeta’s room?” The man gapes and turns nearly puce at the mention of the name. I gather my skirts and my temper as I respond.

“Yes. He is my husband and by some error, I seem to have been banished to the far reaches of Egypt instead of placed with him.” Lucy the maid snorts and the man still gapes at me. “Can you assist me?”

“Assist you with your things?”

“Yes,” I say and smile. “Unless I need ask Branson to–”

“No!” The man nearly shouts then clears his throat. “No need, Madame. I can see to your needs.” He scurries down the hall and I grasp hold of my healing kit. The footman returns, wiping his hands on his trousers and lifts my trunk. “This way.”

Lucy follows us, despite my earlier assurance that I do not require her assistance. It is a bit of a long journey, winding through the halls to the other side of the house, and when we reach it, there’s little difference in the decor. Wealth drips from the trimmings and trappings and yet none of it appears loved or worn or even lived in. The place is spotless. Even as a bright shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom outside and lays across the floor, I find no dust motes dancing in the illuminated air. I feel as though one must tiptoe in a place such as this and place a protective palm over my womb, as though our mere presence in such a soul sucking place might snatch the life growing inside me straight from my body.

Then I catch Peeta’s voice coming from an open door that spills warm firelight and the welcome tones I am now so familiar with into the hallway. I hurry around the footman and ignore his mild protest as I come to a halt in the doorway.

“Oh. Forgive the intrusion,” I say as two sets of eyes turn towards me. One set is blue and belongs to my husband, the other is green and belongs to a man of similar build and vaguely similar features, though not an exact replica. His hair is stick straight and a soft shade of light brown, the exact shade as Lady Mellark’s. He is undeniably handsome, impeccably dressed, and his lips quirk as we stand examining one another.

“Ah, Katniss this is Ethan,” Peeta explains, motioning towards his brother.

“So I gathered,” I say and manage a slight curtsy as the eldest Mellark son examines me from a distance. No matter, I am doing the same, attempting to determine if this is an ally or a foe. Peeta’s only spoken of him in vague terms. I keep my eyes on Ethan and aim my words at Peeta. “I’ve had my things moved.”

“Moved?” Peeta asks and I nod.

“Yes, it seems there was some mistake that placed me in the west wing. Lovely room, but the distance to the dining room and parlor seemed rather formidable. I suppose with such a large house and so many guests in and out that it is a mistake that must happen at least once. I’ve seen it remedied and had my things moved to your rooms, husband, with the assistance of this fine man.” I motion towards the footman still balancing my trunk.

“Jefferies?” Peeta asks and the footman shifts nervously on his feet.

“Yes, sir. I’ll just deliver this and be back to my chores,” the footman says and shuffles down the hall several doors. I then examine the room where Ethan and Peeta stand and notice the family crest, complete with the motto in Latin, woven into the tapestry on one wall. A portrait of the Marquis and Marchioness hanging over the mantle along with a pair of crossed swords. A door leading into a separate bedroom, for this is only an antechamber, a sitting room. This is the room of a first born son and heir, I realise – Ethan’s room, not Peeta’s. I flush at my blunder before taking a step back.

“Well. I think I shall go freshen up for tea. Wouldn’t want to be late,” I say and incline my head towards them before sliding down the hall.

“Good lord. You were not exaggerating,” I hear Ethan say with laughter in his voice. I would take offense at this seeming insult, but Peeta’s answer comes with a clear note of admiration in it, the words themselves praise as well.

“Not in the least. The heart of a lioness.”

“She’ll need it. Mother’s itching for a squall.”

“Is that why you’re here without Sarah and the children?”

“Partly, though now I regret it. I feel as though your wife and mine might make a formidable pairing.”

“Crafty, unstoppable, and terrifying,” Peeta answers, his words slightly muffled as though uttered into a glass near his mouth. Ethan laughs at this.

So the Marchioness is itching for a squall, is she? I’ve no need to hear any more. I roll my shoulders back and march towards the door through which the footman disappeared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first glance, I thought his room to be much like the others – imposing with its impeccable wealth and taste, cold in its impersonal attempts at intimidation, masculine with its heavy woods and dark draperies – but the longer I examine it, the more I notice the small touches of Peeta hidden throughout.

A well worn sofa before the fire with plush cushions and even a large footstool. I examine the thing and make notes to add such a piece to our own sitting area. A low shelf with books, both for reading and for sketching. A box tucked next to the sofa filled with watercolors and charcoals. He should bring those with him when we depart. A cane leaning against the mantle, the handle worn smooth. We should take that as well, as he mentioned that sometimes the cold weather aggravates his leg and makes walking difficult.

Paintings adorn the wall, not the classic portraiture in heavy gilt frames meant to impose feelings of gratitude for the Lord and Lady, but a wide landscape painted directly on the plaster walls, sprawling green fields and gentle rolling hills dotted with sheep and trees, up to the ceiling painted as a sky around the ornate mouldings. It looks very much like Everdeen and I wonder who painted it.

As Lucy and I unpack, I open a rather ancient looking wardrobe to perhaps hang my dress for dinner and startle at the black as night coat trimmed in blood red and moonlight silver that greets me. Peeta’s uniform. It is ready to be worn again, odd for a garment that has spent more than a year hanging here unused and will likely never be worn again. The bright brass buttons are polished to a high shine and the silver braiding over the cuffs and lapels gleams even in the faint winter light, the red collar stands at attention. I reach out and run my hand over the shoulder, turning it slightly and staring at the decorations pinned to the breast. A regimental insignia and an ornate cross hanging from a short bit of red ribbon. I slide my hand beneath it and read the words etched into the polished silver.

Cum Fortitudine et Honore

My Latin is patchy at best, primarily focused on botany and the natural sciences, but even I can decipher the phrase. “With Courage and Honour.” Did my husband receive some sort of medal of valour then? I’ve no answer and will not find it here. I step back away from the thing and then step forward again to push it into the shadows. Then I hang several of my dresses next to Peeta’s other coats, ones I recognize, to better hide the reminder of where the Marquis sent Peeta to disappear, to perhaps die.

By the time Peeta joins me, I have freshened up and changed my dress with assistance from Lucy, and am now enjoying some quiet time to myself. I sit on the sofa, gazing into the fire and tapping my nails on my teeth, forming a battle plan as best I can to prepare for tea. The sound of the door shutting startles me and I relax when I see Peeta leaning against the panel.

“Who is Jeffries?” I ask and Peeta shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“Straight as an arrow and right to the ugly. Jeffries used to be Robert’s valet. After Robert eloped with Delly, the Marquis dismissed him. Or at least, I thought he had. Ethan tells me that Jeffries begged for mercy. His wife was with child at the time, they now have a newborn infant. She had been one of the seamstresses the Marchioness employs. Now she is a laundry maid and he is a footman. A significant pay cut and demotion for them both, and I suspect something else possibly unsettling although I cannot yet be sure, but at least they are not starving on the streets.”

“Such generosity,” I sneer and Peeta moves to sit beside me. “I should think he deserves a raise, not a demotion.”

Peeta laughs and turns my face to kiss me. “I did consider hiring him, and his wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but as I was not certain you would want to add any more bodies to our household right now, I did not wish to make a decision without consulting you.”

“I think it inspired! As thanks for the great favour he did us both. Although I think we should warn poor Jeffries that a post as your valet will be most trying.”

“As will a post as your seamstress,” Peeta says, encircling me with his arms. I care not if he will wrinkle my dress. I feel that I need this moment with him before we take the field against the Mellarks, and it seems that he does too, as we both quickly yield to the need to kiss one another.

“Your room is the most welcoming in the house,” I say forlornly when he lifts his head, and he sighs.

“It was not when it first became mine. It required several years of secret alterations and at least a dozen arguments with Lady Mellark to make it so.” I tilt my head and gaze into his eyes, trying to imagine what that must have felt like.

“We should give Miranda a choice of rooms.”

“That or give her the option to change whatever she wishes, to make her feel at home, as though she has some form of choice,” Peeta agrees. We pass what time we have left before tea just like that, murmuring soft plans for our future with an adopted child. Ensuring that we are in agreement, a united front as parents, before we even sign the papers for her custody. We need not even say why, but being here in this house makes it clear to me what sort of parents we do not wish to be.

Eventually, we can tarry no longer and Peeta leads me down the halls and into the parlor. I feel as though I am being crushed almost the moment I enter. The ceiling soars to a painting of angels and demons locked in some sort of combat and the dark shades of burgundy and purple make me think the walls are bleeding. What a pleasant room for tea.

My fingers clench on Peeta’s arm as Ethan joins us. The two of them resume their conversation as though nothing is amiss. Ethan shares news of Sarah and his children, his voice happy and light. He speaks of a place called Medora and Peeta explains that it is one of the family’s lesser properties, acquired as part of a dowry nearly a century ago.

“The place is gothic but Sarah adores it,” Ethan explains. “Until we moved in, it rarely saw any use. Now it is thriving. You should visit for Christmas sometime. Sarah sees the place decorated with so much green it feels near to summer inside. The children fashion ornaments to hang from all those grim suits of armour in the hall.”

“That sounds lovely,” I manage to say, because the more Ethan speaks about his family, the more I think he was right. I grow to like the sound of his wife and his family and wonder at how the first born son and heir wound up so different from the current Marquis. How did he avoid the influence and shaping his personality after his father as so many young men attempt to do?

We’ve sat and talked for close to a half hour before Lady Tabitha finally deigns to join us. It is rather annoying, her tardiness after her insistence that we not be late. Tardiness is apparently reserved for the titled and wealthy, the privilege of others excusing your poor manners due to your wealth. She sweeps into the room with a maid bearing tea service in trail.

“Mother, you look well,” Ethan greets and stands, as does Peeta. Ethan kisses her cheek lightly when she turns it up for him. She sweeps right past Peeta with no acknowledgement and stands in front of me.

“You will serve, and you will not embarrass this family,” she orders and then turns to carefully arrange her skirts before sitting, prim and stiff. She watches me closely, every movement of mine under scrutiny. What little conversation we have is stiff and formal.

“Sugar?”

“Two lumps, if you please…no not that one. Those are stuck together.”

“How were the roads, Ethan?”

“Cold and barren but not much ice yet. It should still be safe for me to return to Sarah as planned.”

“Hmmm and how do you find de Vale so far….?” It takes a moment for me to realise she addresses me since she gives no name.

“Magnificent. I do so love the mural in our rooms. Is the artist still living or was that done some time ago?”

“Mural? What mural? There is no mural in the Proserpina Room.”

“Oh no, Madame. I am not staying in the Proserpina Room, but with my husband.” I say and take a delicate sip of my tea. Ethan attempts to hide his smile as Lady Mellark turns to Peeta.

“I suppose this was your doing? Countermanding me again? Have you no shame?” Before he can answer, she moves on. “I suppose you’ve grown accustomed to how things are done in a less refined area of the country. How do you find your new residence?”

“Thriving and fertile, madame.” Her face colours at these words and the bare minimum of courtesy seen to, she returns focus to her son.

“The children should come home for Christmas, Ethan.”

“We would, Mother, except Sarah is…well not feeling well lately.”

“Is she with child?”

“No, Mother. We’ve spoken about this.”

“It is ridiculous. You need a second son. I bore three. Sarah can manage two.”

“She had great difficulty with Genevieve. We do not wish to risk–”

“Pish. Motherhood is sacrifice. Marriage to a Marquis is a duty. She must be willing to make the sacrifice and perform her duties to carry on the name or not be a mother at all. Really Ethan, you have been married far too long for her to be so derelict. You must guide her in these matters if her understanding is so lacking.”

Somewhere in this exchange, I begin to wonder if there is nightshade or perhaps hemlock growing anywhere on the grounds. I might attempt more pepper in the tea at the very least if that would cease her damnable judgements, only I fear some poor servant would feel her wrath instead of me, much like Jeffries. While I am contemplating lacing her tea with poison, Peeta devises an entirely different method of dealing with her.

“If it is the continuation of the Mellark name you worry for, my lady, then there is still much hope. Katniss and I are happy to announce that we are expecting.”

“Indeed we are. Sometime in the summer,” I confirm and bat my lashes shamelessly at Peeta.

Ethan coughs violently into his tea and I bask in the angry flush that sprouts around Lady Tabitha’s collar and quickly spreads up her neck to her face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Tabitha does not attend dinner, begging off with a headache and choosing to take her meal in her chambers. The Marquis does attend dinner, however, and my opinion of him remains unchanged from our first meeting. I search for redeeming qualities in him, as he must have something redeeming, but by the end of the meal, I am convinced that any good qualities he can lay claim to are not truly his…they belong to his sons.

The Marquis spends the time interrogating me on everything from the health of my father and my uncle to the status of our harvest to Peeta’s announcement at tea that I am with child. He sneers at most of my responses and I see precisely what Peeta meant in the carriage. The man clearly believes the world revolves around him. The arrogance, conceit, the need to lay claim to and control every aspect of his miniscule environment is astonishing and infuriating. I am struck with the insane urge to call the man out for a duel for the sheer audacity of insulting my husband at every turn. I care not that he was somewhat generous in financially providing for Peeta. He is a wretched father. To all his sons.

I am forced to sit next to Ethan, Peeta across the table from me. I would complain and pitch a fit, except that he has shifted his seat so that his booted foot is pressed up close to mine beneath the table. This small connection feeds me at least a touch of his steadiness and strength, bolstering me enough to deal with the constant line of questioning and beratement, and the fact that I am unable to finish a single course.

The food appears, enticing in aroma and appearance. Clearly the Marquis employs only the finest for his kitchen staff, yet I am not given opportunity to enjoy it. He asks the questions, I am expected to answer. I do so as quickly as possible, and Peeta does attempt to answer in my stead several times. Unfortunately, the Marquis seems to recognise this tactic of his and manages the conversation so that I am almost forced to answer, and before I can take more than a few bites, the dishes are whisked away, hardly touched in my case.

When dessert is finally cleared, I am ready to leap after the poor footman to claw my slice of cake from his grip and scarf it down in one bite.

“Thank you for the pleasure of your company,” the Marquis states, pulling my chair back and helping me from it when dinner is done. His touch on my hand has my skin crawling and I manage a forced smile as I compliment the excellence of the food. He nods as though it is expected, then turns to his two sons. “Shall we retire to the study?”

Peeta lingers, risking censure no doubt for the signs of affection he bestows on me. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “I have something waiting for you in our rooms. Don’t wander or it will spoil.”

I nod and fight back tears. I am tired and hungry, angry and heartsick and he is abandoning me to drink bourbon and smoke cigars in the study with his arrogant bastard of a father, sending me straight to bed like an errant child. Peeta gives me a gentle, lingering kiss on my cheek and then he is gone. I consider wandering about the halls against his advice, but I am so tired and fear another bout of nausea that I trudge back to our rooms.

When I arrive, I shut the door and am preparing to fling myself on the bed to have a good cry when I notice the massive silver tray with a domed cover sitting on the footstool before the fire. I hurry over and lift the cover, laughing and crying at the sight of an entire dinner, all of the courses I missed out on, waiting for me. I savor them and relish the tastes. One dish at a time. A creamy, yellow squash soup, a plate of cool greens and ripe cucumbers in a dressing flavored with dill. How did they manage cucumbers at this time of year? There must be a greenhouse for vegetables somewhere on the grounds. Roast quail and orange marmalade, crusty bread with rosemary. Beef braised in a dark almost cherry flavored wine sauce. Fluffy chocolate cake and a creamy white chocolate beverage.

When I finish with my feast, I ring for Lucy and dress for bed. When Peeta joins me, I am sitting on the footstool, warming myself by the fire and brushing my hair.

“Thank you for the dinner,” I say softly. “It was delicious.”

“You should have been allowed to eat it at the table with the rest of us. I am sorry that I could not keep him from interrogating you so.”

“Hm,” I hum and chuckle slightly. “I begin to understand what you meant when you first described the reason for this visit.” He sits on the sofa behind me and takes the brush from my hands, assuming the task of brushing my hair.

“I used to despise this place, this room. I may have altered it to fit my tastes as much as possible, but it was still never truly mine. I was reminded of that constantly, reminded that I would always be unwelcome,” he whispers. I relax under his gentle ministrations and tilt my head so he may kiss my neck. I shiver at each intimate touch. I can smell the sweet smoke of cigar on him, but underneath that, unable to be fully doused or eradicated, I catch the scents of vetiver from Everdeen and Peeta’s skin. He is still mine, we are still us, despite what rifts the Marquis and Marchioness may attempt to cause. He sets the brush aside and begins braiding my hair for me. “You make it feel more like home than it ever could have before. I think because you have become my home, Katniss.” When he is done, he slides his arms around my waist, his palms spanning my stomach, protecting our child. “Should I apologise for my abrupt announcement at tea?”

“No,” I say as he once more kisses my neck, causing such delightful shivers to tremble through me. “No it was worth it to see her lose her grasp on her arrogance. If only we could come up with some such announcement to affect the Marquis.”

Peeta chuckles against my neck and continues kissing me. “She would have badgered Ethan another hour if no one shocked her out of it.” But I do not wish to speak of Ethan nor of Lady Mellark when there are much more pleasant things we could be doing.

“Peeta, I feel as you do. Everdeen is my home, but you are as well. We brought our home with us in a way. Let me show you?” I whisper and turn to face him. I kiss him, tasting the bourbon on his tongue, gently pushing him back to relax on the sofa, so that I might climb into his lap and curl up in his arms, to kiss him for as long as I wish to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you know what I want right now?” I say into the stifling darkness of our rooms as we lay in bed, the moonlight a cool companion and the fire a crackling balm.

“Mmmm, I would not even attempt to guess at the desires of a pregnant lady. I however,” Peeta murmurs and pulls me roughly up against his chest, “would like a smaller bed so that my wife would cease wandering so far. I am beginning to miss those tiny beds at the inn.”

I chuckle at this and wriggle deeper into his arms. My stomach makes a most unladylike noise then. “But clearly that will not be what you are wishing for so let’s have it, wife. Was the dinner I had sent in not enough?”

“It was at the time, but I am making a child. This requires great sustenance.”

“What do you need, my love? Say the word and it is yours.”

“Bread,” I say and sit up. “Fresh, warm bread.”

“Now that I think I can help with,” he says and joins me in sitting up. We are giddy as children as we pull on whatever clothing we have nearest and cover it with dressing robes and slippers. We scurry through the vast, empty halls, ignoring the cold and the snow as it falls outside the wide windows.

“When we were children and would sneak to the kitchens like this for a late snack, Robert and I would pretend the halls were haunted. We had to evade all the ghosts and goblins that inhabited the drapes at night.” I laugh as he continues telling me the story, imagining the two boys dodging spectres while in search of a tasty pudding or wedge of cheese.

We reach the massive kitchens and I gasp in appropriate awe. He laughs and fires up the ovens, inserts a loaf that has finished rising to bake. Then he quickly sheds his dressing robe and rolls up his sleeves. I do the same and stand before the wide table.

“Teach me?” He smiles and turns me so that he stands behind me, his arms around me and his hands guiding mine as we flour the surface then mix the ingredients and work the dough together. As we knead, he murmurs instructions. It is heady, rhythmic work, coaxing the dough into something usable and nourishing. I barely hear his words, my entire body alive and pulsing with warmth at performing the simple task with him. When our bread is set aside to rise and the loaf he placed in the oven sits sliced on the counter, emitting curls of steam and burning my fingertips as I grasp a slice, I smile and hoist myself onto the plank, kicking my feet as he moves to stand near me.

“Tell me about your father.” A cloud passes over his eyes and I shake my head, grasp hold of his shirt and pull him closer, to stand between my knees. “No. Not him. I meant the baker. William Thackeray. Tell me more about him.”

“He was…kind and quiet, but when he spoke, it was always worth listening. He…he always had a story to tell me, some about the people on the estate, many more that I’ve no idea where he came up with them. Perhaps they were born of his own mind.”

Peeta’s face relaxes then, and as he speaks and we eat, the kitchen fills with warmth and light, laughter and evident love. The cold intimidation of this place cannot touch us here. He tells me the stories. About the man who raised him, taught him kindness and to view the world as it ought to be rather than how it is. Who taught him the importance of acting as one ought rather than as one can get away with. A man who could spin tales from nothing but sugar and air and coaxing them from words the way we did bread from dough.

“I wish I could have met him,” I say when he falls silent and Peeta nods, lifts my hand to his lips.

“As do I. He would have adored you, but then… you and I likely never would have married. Probably never even met, had he lived.” The truth of Peeta’s statement does little to dull the regret that I see in his eyes, that I feel in my soul. I shift my arms to wrap around his neck and hold him close, close enough to remove all of the cold air between us, close enough to wrap my legs around him and bring him closer still. Peeta buries his face in my hair, his strong arms around me and his lips just touching my neck, sending warmth spiraling through me, down to my toes. My fingers twist strands of his hair and this…this moment here feels far too good to let it end.

“I think I am ready to sleep now, husband.” I eventually say when a loud yawn over takes me.

“Sleep or…is there something else you require, now that you are fed?” He lifts one eyebrow at me and I laugh.

“No, sleep will suffice. We will need our rest for the morning. I am sure the Marchioness will have regrouped and be prepared with fresh salvos readied for breakfast.”

Peeta laughs and hand in hand, we return upstairs to our bed where he holds me close to him through the long, cold night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days pass much like the first. I see little of the Marquis, although he does send word every so often, summoning Peeta to his side for one thing or another. When I am forced to be in the Marquis’ presence, I am constantly unsettled, uncertain if the roiling nausea is due to pregnancy or to the way in which Peeta’s father regards me, like some sort of specimen to be dissected and then consumed. He frightens me with his cold blue eyes that could be Peeta’s, his joyless smile that could be Peeta’s. His well crafted biting words and insults that could be Peeta’s, for even in his cruelty I can recognise the talent with words that his son wields, only with far more kindness and grace.

And that, I think is the crux of what makes me so ill at ease, seeing this dark, twisted, mutilated version of the man I love and knowing that Peeta could have been like this… except that he is not.

I spend half my mornings bored and sitting in the parlor with Lady Mellark, pretending to be industrious at sewing. Afternoon tea with Lady Mellark and Peeta by my side where we trade veiled insults as much as we trade pleasantries. It feels like a constant war and after one particularly gruesome tea time, I mutter to Peeta that the infantry must have felt like a stay of execution after life here. Dinner with Lord Mellark, Ethan, and Lady Mellark if she feels up to it, then I am sent to my room like an errant child, banished from the evening, manly entertainments.

It is a strange manner of entertaining guests, so unlike how we entertain at Everdeen. There, it is an entire event, all focused on ensuring the happy nature of our guests’ visit. Here, I feel as though guests are not welcome. A nuisance, and interruption of the importance of the family. When I am not expected to perform for our hosts, I spend my time wandering. I walk in the gardens or explore the vast halls. Peeta is able to join me on some days and instead of boring me with the history and importance of each room, he weaves a different sort of tale, just as he did our first night here.

As he speaks, he paints such a picture that I can see it as though it is happening before me. Peeta and Robert as boys, enacting the stories William Thackeray gave to his son, a dowry of irreplaceable wealth for the life he was to lead here and then adding their own creations to the repertoire – sword fighting with the suits of armor outside the dining room, launching expeditions into the cellars to slay dragons, befriending them instead and pretending their dragon companions accompanied them as protectors on all future expeditions.

“Phineas and Isabelle,” Peeta tells me. “They preferred to eat lemon custard and cherry tarts rather then boys and lambs.”

“They did or their human companions did?” I ask with a smile and Peeta shrugs.

“The poor dragons were blamed for any number of pilfered desserts.”

The ballroom becomes a desert to be crossed and the gardens outside their wall of stained glass doors the oasis. A little used kitchen intended to prepare quick meals for the guests to consume in their rooms is turned into a sailing ship, each guest room a new island to be explored. Treasure buried under mattresses or wardrobes, disgruntled maids and guests when they discovered it. The grounds themselves presented limitless possibilities, too many for Peeta to cover while we are indoors but his words give me an inkling. All of the stories Peeta’s father brought to life in a warm kitchen on another estate in another time, used here as a shield against the dismal silence and suffocating expectations, a source of bonding for a pair of half brothers both in desperate need of someone to love them unconditionally, to care for them.

It sounds so lovely when he describes it, so much like my own childhood with Madge, hiding in corners of our own homes, venturing forth on the grounds. But here at de Vale, the lofty house almost demands more fantastical imaginings than she and I conjured, and Peeta provided. A thousand different worlds unleashed from his mind with Robert by his side, then locked away again when the Lord and Lady entered the room. I am glad that Peeta was able to find some shred of light, laughter, happiness, beauty, and love here.

On days when he cannot join me, I dress warm and wander on my own, all about the gardens, impressive even in their dormant winter state, through the humid greenhouses as I inhale the pungent scent of warm earth, digging my fingers into the soil to feel any sort of connection with my home, to remember who I am. Into forgotten rooms still kept pristine, where lessons were once taught and now silence reigns. An art studio with brushes awaiting an artist, half done paintings on a pair of easels, paints in a neat line, the only proof of use the speckles of color on the floor beneath and on the lip of the easel itself. A library with shelves upon shelves of books on every subject imaginable. I read as much as possible, sitting upon a cushioned window seat and basking in the cool shafts of winter sun that dare to poke through the clouds. The place is silent most of the time, like a tomb or a palace lost in time. So very silent and somber, it drives me near mad, and I am grateful when Peeta is able to join me and fills the world with such beautiful imaginings.

“Because Ethan and Henry both refuse to live here with their children,” Peeta explains the silence now. There are no more children to fill the barren halls of de Vale with laughter and games.

Together, we find some hidden treasures that I cannot resist asking Peeta about. In a room that Peeta calls the Music Room, there are half a dozen instruments covered in canvas coverings, piles of untouched sheet music beside the piano bench, and a half covered painting. When I peel back the fabric draped over it, I gasp in shock. It depicts a stunning woman and her lover, caught in an amorous embrace, only a sheet wrapped about their hips to preserve a shred of modesty.

“That would be Aunt Chastity. Not my aunt, but Robert’s and the others as well. Lady Tabitha’s sister.”

“How does a lady named Chastity wander into such a …salacious painting? In her sister’s home no less!”

“Chastity ran off to the continent to become an opera singer. She was rumored to be exceptional. Eventually, she became a paramour to a French prince. She sent this painting of herself and her prince as a birthday gift for Lady Tabitha one year. The Marchioness wished to burn it, the Marquis refused. They fought terribly over it and the final solution was to hang it in the Music Room. None of us have taken up an instrument and Lady Tabitha has not played since years before I even came here, so it remains mostly unseen back here.”

I laugh for at least an hour over that story. Although I should feel some pity for Lady Mellark, I instead feel some affinity for the mysterious and daring Lady Chastity. We leave the painting uncovered when we depart the room.

Despite our shared moments of levity, I begin to dream of a fog, silent and lethal as it creeps towards me and chokes the breath from me. When that happens, Peeta is there to soothe me, his own sleep poor in a place full of unpleasant memories. We do what we can, holding one another, sneaking into the kitchens late at night to bake and to talk.

Perhaps it would be easier to manage if we were not separated so much during the days. Perhaps it would be easier if we could lose ourselves in physical love in the nights, but with each night that we remain here, passion and desire seem to drain from us a little more. The cold surroundings leech all warmth that dares to challenge the manor’s solemn hold, and that includes lust. This place steals it from us in small degrees until I feel it is near a miracle that we even embrace as we sleep.

It does not help that I am in constant war with my own body, as the violent swings in mood continue. I cycle between ill, irritable, and sad with alarming speed and no warning. The moments of feeling happy or desire become shorter and infrequent, and it frightens me but I’ve no idea how to cure such a thing. I write to Mother about it yet know the answer will not reach me until we are in Capitol.

Every night, I lay close to my husband, resting my ear on his chest that I might feel and hear the steady thump of his heart, a soothing lullaby. His physical warmth and the steady strength of his arms about me serves as both a shield against the crippling cold of this place and as a reminder of the warmth, the heat that lives and breathes as part of his soul, even if it is forced into submission and retreat in this tomb of a house. I will not allow it to be extinguished. I cannot lose the man in the mask, my husband, my love, my Peeta.

Near the end of our stay, I ask Peeta to show me the family portrait gallery, that we might repeat our game from the masquerade. Most of them are as expected, grim and somber, an entire family full of its own importance. Peeta has very few stories to share about them, though.

“Ethan would be better able to give you the family history,” Peeta admits but then I find one he must know about and drag him before it. “Ah yes. The Marchioness delivers an heir.”

I tilt my head and examine the portrait of Lady Tabitha, smiling and benign, holding a chubby infant looking equally as tranquil. “The painter failed to capture the essence of her smile.”

Peeta shakes his head, clearly hiding laughter as we move to the next. Lady Tabitha again with yet another cherubic looking infant. “Henry?”

“Henry. And Ethan in the frame next to him at three years of age.” I smile at the painting of Ethan sitting and looking disgruntled with either his bonnet or the wooden toy horse in his meaty fists. “It became a tradition thereafter. First at birth, then every three years after, a new portrait of each of her sons. The math conveniently worked out as they were spread three years then six years apiece.”

I take another step and quickly peruse the next set. Ethan at six, standing and holding the reins to a squat horse, Henry as a toddler with a wooden sword and a vacant expression. Then onwards to Lady Tabitha with Robert on her lap as an infant. Nine year old Ethan in what appears to be a school uniform, six year old Henry sitting at a desk with quill and parchment. A pictorial timeline of the boys as they grow older by three year leaps with every few steps that I take.

My shoes scrape the marble as I halt and stare at a face out of the timeline, to be certain, I glance back at the ones I’ve only just viewed. Ethan at one and twenty, dashing and confident. Henry at eighteen, stoic and studious. Robert at twelve, charming and mischievous. Here now a fourth face in the grouping. I glance back at Peeta for an answer.

“Robert refused to sit for his portrait the year he turned twelve…unless I sat for one as well. The Marchioness spent a full three days in isolation after the Marquis ordered it hung here.”

I turn back and tilt my head to examine Peeta at fourteen years old, his blonde curls haphazard. Blue eyes somber. There is, as always, no denying the brotherly similarities.

“So there are more portraits of you here?” An excitement fills me at the idea of seeing some part of Peeta’s growth through the years.

“It was one of Robert’s many small acts of rebellion, in addition to insisting on calling me his twin. Every three years, he demanded that I be painted in portrait and join them here as one of the brothers Mellark, ensuring that I was at least shown to be part of the family, if not always made to feel as such.”

“No wonder you would do so much for him,” I muse as I continue down the line of portraits.

While I note the maturation of each brother as we walk, it is Peeta’s face I seek with each new set. At seventeen, showing the signs of the man he would become, the full lips and chiseled jawline more prominent, his youth still evident in slightly rounded cheeks. And then…

“Oh,” I say as I stop once more in front of him, at the age of twenty this time.

“What is it?”

I do not know how to account for the difference. It is still his face, the same collection of features though aged and mature — the devil may care styling of his curls, freckles dusting his nose, limpid blue eyes, the exact curve of cupid’s bow, his ears just right. Yet this portrait is entirely different, and not simply because he is all man in appearance. It is undeniably clear in his expression as well. The hint of a smile lurks about his lips and the expression in his eyes!

Heaven and mercy! had I been in Capitol for Madge’s debut as had been planned the year this portrait was painted, and not at Everdeen dealing with a poor harvest year, had I met this expression across a ballroom, I fear that my heart would have been forfeit in an instant. Even now it patters madly at this almost knowing and teasing and tempting expression. This gaze that taunts and whispers: Follow me to shadowed alcoves. Share your secrets. Lift your skirts a bit. The pleasure I can offer will be worth the danger of ruin.

I am heated then chilled in rapid turns and cannot look away as my knees acquire all the rigidity of blackberry jam. Then words rise up from memory to provide an answer, an explanation for the change in him.

The stupid impetuousness of youth.

Of course. This portrait is of a young man who has recently discovered the thrill and satisfaction to be found in a woman’s body. The portrait of a man who has recently removed a corset and thus his boyhood.

“Who was she?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The woman you were thinking of when you sat for this.”

“What do you mean?” I turn to face him and clench my hands together, a sense of dread and foreboding filling me.

“Peeta… I am not stupid, nor am I so naive. I’ve seen you look at me with this expression. I know what it means. Who was she?”

“Ah,” Peeta makes a noise or two of discomfort.

“Who was she?” I repeat.

“Are you certain you wish to hear? I cannot take it back, Katniss. I cannot change the past.”

“No but I can use it to understand who you are now.” He hesitates and then turns me back to face the paintings. To face his captured visage as he discovered manhood and sexual prowess. I hate her. Whoever she is, I hate her, as illogical as it may be.

“Her father was on commission with the Marquis. He painted every portrait in this series,” he points back down the hall from whence we just came, “and she was his apprentice for nearly thirty years until his death, some time prior to my twentieth birthday. While the Marquis and Marchioness had reservations hiring a female painter when it came time for this set to be done, she challenged them to give her a chance. She painted Ethan first,” he moves me back down the line and points to the difference in skill, in the fidelity and shading, the techniques between the years before and this set. I must admit to myself that even Ethan at nine and twenty and Henry at six and twenty appear more like themselves, more alive when captured with her brush than they did under her father’s. “The Marquis acknowledged her skills far surpassed her father’s. She has painted every portrait since.”

“And how did you wind up beneath her skirts?” I ask, unable to keep the bite of jealousy from my voice.

“We shared a commonality, low birth and an interest in art,” he says as we return to the portrait of him. “I began drawing as a child. Pigs and cats and things drawn with bits of rock and chalk, on the paving stones at Hilston House. Then parchment and charcoal when I continued to show a desire to draw. My mother… my mother taught me. She used to draw as well and my father would spend what he could spare on parchment and pencils for us. When I came here, Robert learned of the interest and asked the Marchioness to hire a painting master to teach him, and by that he meant to teach us, even though Robert had no interest in studying the arts.”

“Because she would have refused if she knew it was truly for you.” Another way in which Robert showed his affection for Peeta.

“Yes. She,” he points back at the portrait, “was willing to speak with me at length about art and that led to discussing other topics. We became friends of a sort.”

“And that led to not talking and not being friends,” I mutter. “You had a torrid love affair with a painter who was twice your age.” Peeta does not answer, for there is no need to.

It burns, the knowledge that this expression of sublime flirtation and desire was aimed at some other woman than me. I knew there had been someone before me, but seeing him thus, through her eyes, burns almost as badly as running through open flames. Because I have seen something like this expression myself, hovering over me in our bed, teasing me across drawing rooms when he knows my thoughts wander to the salacious and I can do nothing about it. I thought that look was mine and mine alone yet here it is in oil pigments, permanently captured and saved for someone else to remember his lips, his embrace, his body against hers.

I can see it so clearly. Peeta sitting in a chair, confidently flirting, slinging witty remarks and distracting a blushing beauty as she attempts to paint him, admonishing him to stop moving so she may finish and they might engage in other activities. His hands wandering up her skirts, eliciting soft moans and high pitched cries of pleasure. His mouth…learning the intricacies of a woman’s pleasure under her tutelage…bodies spread across that massive bed beneath the wide azure sky painted on his ceiling… I am on fire with rage and jealousy and the need to smash something and watch it burn too.

“Katniss, please,” he reaches for me. I feel the approach of his touch in the change in the air around me. My body responds and I shake my head, stepping out of his grasp. “You wanted to know.”

I did, and now that I have asked, a hundred more questions tumble about in my mind, several of them spill from my lips, forced out by the sheer overcrowding of my thoughts.

“Did she paint your mural? Your beautiful sky and meadows? Did she leave her permanent mark on your bedroom walls after you loved her in your bed? Did she stare up at that blue sky and think the color matched your eyes as she cried out your name in ecstasy? Is that why the Marchioness would not give the name of the artist? Because it belonged to your lover?” My voice is shockingly cold and calm, given the fires raging inside me.

“Had Lady Mellark known of the affair, she would have given you every detail she knew of and several she would have made up, simply to cause a chasm between you and I.” He is undoubtedly correct and still I seethe. “Lady Mellark would not give you the name of the artist because I painted that mural.” I stop moving away from him, stunned. “I started it when I was twenty, yes. But I had known her,” he gestures towards his own face, “several years before that. She may have given some guidance at the start, but she never saw the mural itself… because she never set foot in my chambers.”

I march down the hall, uncertain that I believe him and unseeing until I reach the frame that will show him at three and twenty. I spin on my heel, prepared for another assault of a happy, seductive Peeta and am instead met with ice. My fury is quenched in an instant.

There has always been an undeniable physical resemblance to the Marquis, but there was always something in his eyes and the way he holds his mouth, in his manner of expression, that belonged only to Peeta, that set him apart from his sire. But this painting… in this painting, he truly and fully looks exactly like his father.

My jaw drops open as I stare at him, at the cold and foreboding glower of a man with no joy and no love in his life. Once again the change from the previous painting is astonishing and unnerving. Still dashingly handsome, nearly devastatingly so, but his eyes burn now not with the playful desire and flirtation of a young man engaged in a love affair, but the cold reticence of a man who has seen far too much. He wears his uniform in this one and his face…his face is scarred. So then he had already spent time away at war. Had already saved Johanna’s life and was keeping her secret. Had killed a man, slaughtered him like a pig, perhaps more than one.

“I came home on a medical furlough after they removed shrapnel from near my ribs. Just in time for Robert’s birthday.”

“And yours.”

“And mine… so we sat for our portraits and I could barely sit still. Nothing would hold my attention for long. I felt…out of sorts in all company. I was in pain and unsure if it was from healing wounds or something fractured in my soul. This place… had begun to feel more like I might belong before I had left but when I came back, I was a stranger again.”

His words strike on memory. I burn as he speaks. Not with rage or jealousy but with memory. The sudden looks of pity, disgust, uncertainty. The carefully treading of well meaning people as they come to believe my worth, my place in the world, my chances for happiness, have been forever destroyed. How to treat a creature mutilated and damaged by flames, be they the flames of war or the flames of a fire. I burn with the cold radiating from his expression and know…I was right about us. We recognise and understand something in one another that few others can. The way scars on the soul burn deeper than scars on the skin.

“As I attempted to hold pose and she attempted to cajole me into laughing for her… I couldn’t even smile. My body wouldn’t even allow a false one. That essentially describes my entire week at home before I returned to my regiment.” I nod mutely as I absorb the aura of the painting.

“Did you and she…while you were at home that is…?”

“Yes. Once. We were not in my chamber. As I said before… She never saw that room at all, so to answer your other questions, all of them… No.”

I want to ask him where then, where did he lay her down and love her? Perhaps one of the guest rooms. Or did he make the effort to leave this place and seek her out elsewhere? Perhaps they conducted their affair in dark corners of the manor here, frantic fumbling and the thrill of a rushed tumble in shadows.

“What is this line of questioning truly about, Katniss? Do you truly wish for me to paint a sordid picture for you? Or is there something else prompting this?” He asks and runs a hand through his hair.

“Have you thought of her when we are in bed together here?” Some of my fury leaves me as I voice the words and I realise it is because I thought he had touched her, loved her, seduced and been seduced by her in the sanctuary of his room, in his bed that we have now shared, yet has not known our love, as he has barely touched me since being here. And my jealous mind now assumes it is not because this place discourages romance as I had thought, clearly that is not the case if he had an affair right under the nose of his benefactors, but because he must be remembering her.

“No. I’ve not given a single thought to her until this moment when you asked me who she was. Katniss… I love you. I married you. I have pledged my life to you. I would not change that for the world. And I have neither seen nor spoken to her since the last time she painted my portrait. She was a piece of my past but she was only one part. You… you are everything to me. I am, in every way… yours.”

I nod and he seems to deflate a little, but I know it is in relief. Still, I have a few lingering curiosities and so I ask.

“Why did it end?” I ask softly and he takes my hands in his and lifts them to his lips, his eyes growing hazy and pained as he explains.

“She told me that there was something twisted and dark inside me. She wanted me to be who I was at twenty, but I was no longer that young man. You see the scars on my face in that portrait. You know what caused them. What I had seen and done. She knew none of it, only saw the effects and did not care for them. I returned to my regiment … and my leg was… and I realised she was right about me. There is something dark and twisted. You have seen it too. But I—“

I cover my mouth with my hand and close my eyes. Was he as wild with her during their last time together as he was that night with me? Did the savage and riotous force of his need to love and be loved frighten her? Did she recoil in horror from the brute? I can feel the damnable wetness leaking from my eyes down my cheeks. The schism inside him in these paintings, the change within his eyes alone is staggering and unbearable. But I know that this is only one piece of my husband. A portrait can capture only a moment, a brief instance, and one expression. There is far more to him than this one moment. Surely a painter would have known that? And that’s when I realise what a fool she was and accept that I’ve no reason to envy her. It falls away lime the cloak of winter, shed to absorb the warmth and light of spring, of hope.

Just as I cannot sever my scars from my skin, from my soul, neither can Peeta. I already knew this when I wrote to him that I could handle the brute in the night and the gentleman in the sun. That I am strong enough for all of him. And that is when I understand. She held a piece of him for a short time. I hold all of him, from now until death parts us.

“Katniss.”

“I do not know why I am crying!” I say and Peeta brings me to his chest, holds me in his arms. He soothes me when it is I who should be soothing him. I cling to him and expel my tears onto his coat, and when he tilts my chin up and whispers my name, I cannot help kissing him. Kissing him even in the middle of the hall with sunlight slanting across the marbled tile and his face. I invite the brute and welcome the force of his kiss. I demand it.

And when he finally releases me, I cannot help asking one more thing. “What was her name?”

He stares at me and finally answers, the syllables dull on his tongue. No remorse, no excitement, nor any longing. Simply stating a fact. “Ophelia.”

I nod and then compose myself, running my hands over the fabric of his coat, ironing out any wrinkles I may have caused in our moment of abandon. “I will be present at the sitting for your portrait come this spring or you’ll not be painted at all, husband.”

“Of course you will be present, if there is such a sitting. I would want you to be painted beside me.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, and I would not complain if we took some inspiration from Aunt Chastity for it.”

“Lecher!” I accuse, but I am suddenly laughing and smiling, as is Peeta when he gives me one more, chaste kiss. “Even if there is something dark and twisted inside you, you do not let it rule you. That makes you the man, not the monster.”

He smiles at me and caresses my cheek, such a loving gesture and I am struck with an idea. I tuck it away for later, another time when I am alone. For now, I take his hand in mine and lead him towards our room, shutting the door and uncaring if it is unseemly to do this in the middle of the day. We have never paid heed to that stupid rule of propriety anyways.

“We haven’t much time,” he whispers as we kiss and heat builds and builds inside me, pushing out the numb of the past few days.

“We have enough,” I whisper back as we lay across the bed and he lifts my skirts to my waist. I cling to his hair and relax into his touches and kisses, gaze up at the blue, blue sky above me. Then down at his eyes between my thighs as he watches me unfold. I gasp, keeping the sounds quiet as he loves me. I hold tight to it, so tight that I’ve no warning and no chance to prepare. My sex seizes all control as I am flung into rapture, my spine arched on the bed and his name a ragged cry that echoes off the ceiling back to my ears. My body convulsing in waves. I shudder and moan and then his lips are on mine, feeding me the taste of my own desire, my own pleasure, my own release.

I watch him struggle with his trousers, myself still drifting on a cloud of sublime release, and then he groans in frustration when there is a knock on the door.

“What is it now?” He growls and climbs off of me, yanking my skirts back down to cover me and leaving me feeling hollow, needing him to fill me, as he strides across the room and opens the door enough to speak to but not enough to reveal any of the room to the person on the other side.

“Lady Mellark reminds you of tea, sir,” comes the timid squeak of an answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tension continues to build, even though I’ve gained more of an understanding of it and of Peeta as a result. There are more members of the household feeding it than just us. It is like a sleeping demon preparing to rise and wreak havoc on all the world. I grow agitated and jumpy and Peeta is the same as tea is served.

Steam curls from my cup in tranquil tendrils yet I know the violence that rages inside the kettle as it heats. I press my thighs together beneath my skirts, eager for this to be over that Peeta and I might find a quiet moment to continue where we were interrupted. I have had my release and still feel the pressure building inside me. He must be near to bursting.

Then, the stifling quiet build of tension is broken at last by the arrival of an unexpected visitor. Sir Robert.

As he enters the parlor in the middle of tea, Lady Tabitha rises with a smile on her face. It is the first genuine such expression I have seen on her.

“Robert, my darling!” She says and practically falls on top of him. “Do you travel alone?”

I give Peeta a questioning look at her eager inquiry and he shakes his head, indicating that I should watch, observe, before I speak.

“Mother. Yes, I travel alone this time.”

“Oh I am so happy to see you! You have been away from home far too long, neglecting your mother. How long will you stay?”

“Not long. Only a night and then I must return to town.”

“No, Robert! So soon?” Lady Mellark laments.

“I am afraid so, Mother. I only came to collect a few things and to make my excuses for Christmas in person.”

“Not coming for Christmas?” Robert ignores his mother’s whining question and forges onward.

“And I have good news to share. Delly and I have secured lodgings of our own.”

“What?” Lady Mellark practically yells and Ethan once more coughs in his tea. Peeta asks if he takes pepper in it, peering into his brother’s cup, and while Ethan and Robert both laugh at this, Lady Mellark only seems befuddled.

“Of course not. Why would Ethan take pepper in his tea?”

“Katniss poured today,” Ethan answers through his tears and I give Lady Mellark my best look of innocence as she scowls and shakes her head, clearly deeming it not worth her inquiries as she turns back to Robert.

“But darling, you are always welcome here. You know that! What will I do without you?”

“I have quite decided on it, Mother. And you will be fine! You’ll finally have time to yourself as you’ve always wished for more. Besides that, Peeta was right. I cannot continue to be a burden on you and Father. I am a married man now and must stand on my own feet, care for my wife. My wife and I thank you, brother, for the assistance. I shall pay you back, as promised.” Lady Mellark whirls and glares at Peeta, opening her mouth and clearly prepared to launch into a tirade, but Ethan intervenes.

“Splendid! I shall bring the girls and Thomas by sometime soon! Where will you be staying?”

“Hartford Road,” Robert says and Lady Mellark sputters some more.

“But that is…you cannot!”

“I cannot live in the Merchant Quarter? But whyever not? My wife is a cobbler. It is an excellent location for her to build her trade. And I am to be a barrister – oh! That is the other bit of news I had for you. I have–” he claps his hands together gleefully “– at long last decided to make use of that fine education you and Father provided for me with a profession of my own!”

“Drinks are in order!” Ethan declares and hurries across the room to a sidebar as Lady Mellark flounders, her face growing redder by the second. “Happy news for all the family!”

The brothers move to distribute glasses and see Lady Mellark seated before she swoons. I get the distinct impression that this is a carefully orchestrated, well practiced routine for them.

“What news for you, Ethan?”

“Sarah wrote that she is much better. The doctor believes it a bad reaction to clams. So the solution is simple! No more eating clams! I detest the things anyways. Slimy little buggers.”

“Henry and Angelica?” Peeta asks now.

“Emma has surpassed Mr. Bowland’s skills by far in her studies of Greek, Latin, and Hungarian. They are making plans to travel to the continent next summer to immerse her in the cultures and languages as well as to hire more skilled tutors,” Ethan reports. Toasts are made to Emma’s brilliance and likely future as a scholar. Lady Mellark grips the cushions beneath her. She takes deep breaths, the sounds whistling through her teeth.

“That leaves you, Peeta,” Robert says with a grin and Ethan once more delivers the news, gesturing towards me.

“Expectant father!”

“Congratulations, brother!” Robert shouts and smacks Peeta heartily on the back.

Lady Mellark screeches then and Robert thrusts a glass in her hands. “Oh Mother, forgive my rudeness. Your sherry.”

She gulps it down and then stands, storming from the room and throwing the glass as she goes. It shatters against one of the paintings on the wall. A door slams down the hallway and all three brothers drink calmly, as though nothing had happened.

“Is that painting difficult to repair?” Robert asks.

“Probably,” Peeta mutters and Ethan shrugs.

“I am certain Miss Ophelia will be glad of the work.”

Their nonchalance in the face of such hysteria is troublesome. For one moment, I feel sorry for Tabitha Mellark. I stand slowly and clear my throat. “Do none of you feel guilty for antagonizing her to cause that scene?”

“Oh trust us, it would have happened sooner or later,” Robert says with a heavy sigh. “Best to get it over with fast. The longer it takes, the messier the resulting fit.”

As if hearing this, there’s shouting down the hall and the sudden sounds of more smashing glass. “AND SEND FOR THE DOCTOR! I cannot breathe! And my heart! Oh! You have broken me this time! Are you happy for breaking your poor mother’s heart?”

I watch as Robert mouths her entire diatribe nearly word for word until the last, which makes him visibly wince.

“…UNGRATEFUL WRETCH!”

A harried looking maid practically runs past the door to the parlor as the one down the hall once more slams shut.

“Oh good. An immediate call for Doctor Hassel. Usually she waits for at least an hour before she does that,” Robert says.

“You did tell Mrs. Hastings that you were here with announcements, to give the staff a warning, yes?” Ethan asks.

“Of course! I am not a complete ass,” Robert says. Then smiles at me. “Most of the time. I’ve made rather a habit of it lately but I am trying to turn it around.”

An apology. Having learned all that I have of their life here and of more of his relationship with Peeta, I am inclined to accept it.

“That poor maid,” I say with a shake of my head.

“Who was it this time?”

“Noelle,” Peeta answers and Ethan nods.

“I’ll see she’s compensated, as usual. If Henry were here, he could tell us just how fast we managed it this time. It seemed rather swift, did it not?” Ethan says, returning to their previous line of talking.

“Robert usually isn’t the cause. I think she was unprepared for that,” Peeta points out and Ethan laughs, punching Robert on the shoulder.

“At long last, the favoured brother falls.”

Robert heaves a sigh, the sound oddly relieved. “It was still Peeta that sent her over the edge, getting his wife pregnant. For shame, man!”

“I am happy as always to fulfill my family role,” Peeta says and I sit back down, strained laughter spilling from my lips.

“Are you alright, Katniss?” Robert asks me then and I shake my head.

“I think I have been here far too long.”

“Cheers to that,” Ethan says and lifts his glass to me with a wry smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, we spend an hour of talk in our bed. Peeta caresses over my back and my shoulders as I whisper in the dark, spilling more of my own secrets, the days following the fire and how it affected all my hopes for the future. He listens as I tell him of the young man who had been writing poetry to me, perhaps the early stages of courtship and how his desire turned cold after the fire. The knowledge of my scars a deterrent to love.

After, when I’ve run out of words and my throat aches, Peeta kisses me softly, across my cheek and down to my scars. “He was a fool. You are exquisite in every way.”

Peeta sleeps soundly that night, yet I cannot. Excitement courses through me with each beat of my heart. Tomorrow we leave. Tomorrow we head to Capitol and if all goes as planned, in a few days we will be bound for Everdeen with one addition to our family.

I trace the dark circles under my husband’s eyes as he sleeps. Kiss each one and then his lips before I slide from our bed and slip into my slippers and dressing robe. I find a taper and light it, silently leaving him to sleep as I seek out the room I need.

The cold is biting tonight as I hurry on silent feet through the strange halls. I imagine the ghosts pointing the way, helpful spectres who only desire to be left in peace to rest. When I finally reach it, I inhale the lingering scents of paint and turpentine.

At first, I plot a thousand kisses to overshadow his memories in this room, a thousand ways to make this ours when we are next forced to visit here, and when I spot a divan I had not noticed on my previous visit, I have one lurid thought before it careens out of control and instead of dreaming of Peeta touching me, I am picturing him holding paint stained skirts out of the way and thrusting between creamy unmarked thighs wrapped about his hips, glossy hair spilling over the divan and fingers spotted with bright oil paints gripping his buttocks.

I shake my head and turn away from the divan. Perhaps they did conduct their affair here. And perhaps Peeta is right. He cannot change it, and I cannot erase it. This room, that affair is a thing of the past. I have only struggled with it so because I have been faced with the proof of it, whereas before coming here, I had only a vague knowledge of it. Now the lover has a name and a story. Ophelia.

I run my hands over the soft bristles and note characteristics of the brushes that Peeta would have used. His birthday is in a few months, and now I know precisely what to get for him, another piece of him to welcome to Everdeen and bring home with us.

Satisfied that I have gleaned all that I can from the history in this room, I leave and return to bed, sliding with ease into Peeta’s arms. He wraps me in his embrace and murmurs in his sleep.

“Katniss, my love.”

And with that, I am at last able to find rest as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Mellark remains closeted the rest of the day after her fit at tea and into the morning. Her throwing the wine glass is the last I see of her. Lord Mellark delays our departure in the morning by summoning Peeta after breakfast and keeping him far too long. I pace the marbled hall, dressed for travel and ready to leave.

Robert has already departed an hour ago, calling me “sister” with an odd sort of affection and soliciting a promise that Peeta and I would see him and Delly in town. Ethan too, has long since left, rising with the sun and departing before the rest of the house had even stirred, leaving only a note reminding Peeta that we are welcome at Medora any time we wish. Even Jeffries and his wife Lydia have left in a hired carriage, a trunk filled with Peeta’s things as well as their own belongings in their care, a letter in my hand addressed to Father explaining who they are and how they are to be employed at Everdeen.

Our own bags are packed and the horses hitched. Frederick sits on the box with reigns in hand. I await only my husband. At long last, he hurries up to me, grasping my arm and fairly charging out the door.

“Do not look back. Just leave,” Peeta mutters. He moves rather swiftly, given the wooden leg. He steers me down the stairs and into the carriage, following right behind with four words of instruction. “Capitol, with haste Frederick.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

I am still settling in as the coach lurches into motion and I fall backwards, right into Peeta’s lap. His arms surge around me and he holds me tight. He inhales and releases it, a shuddering and desperate sound. “God I couldn’t bear another second of it. It’s harder to bear, knowing life need not be like that at all.”

“Peeta…I cannot breathe.”

“Apologies,” he says and loosens his hold enough to help me onto the seat. “I hope you did not forget anything. If you did, I fear it is now lost. I will not go back there for all the riches in the world.”

“What happened?”

“They were bickering and making it impossible for me to cross a room without risking something being thrown at my head.” I gasp and push his hat off his head to examine him for injuries, he chuckles and takes my hand in his, bringing it to his lips in what has become a familiar and comforting gesture between us. “No injuries, my love. Only a desperate need to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible for as long as possible.”

“For me as well, husband,” I murmur and settle in, comfortable against his shoulder and chest. “What were they arguing over?”

“Me, or rather what we did.”

“Oh?”

“They did not take the news well that I had hired myself a valet and a seamstress for my wife.”

I glance up at him and he smiles at me. I return the expression and kiss his jaw, happy that Jeffries and his wife will no longer suffer. I am too afraid to ask what the other thing is that Peeta suspected was happening to the couple, what other payment the Marquis had extracted for Jeffries protecting Robert.

We ride in silence for a time, watching the snow dance outside the carriage. It is already nearly midday and we still have a fair distance to travel.

“We might need to stop at an inn on the edges of town,” Peeta says and I nod. “We’ll send word ahead to Haymitch when we stop.”

“Peeta,” I say, attempting to order my words and waiting for him to make a sound of encouragement for me to continue. “How is it that none of you wound up anything like the Marquis? Or the Marchioness?”

“Well…for Ethan I think it was school. He spent most of his life away at boarding schools. The best ones, only the best for Ethan. He stayed away for so long that by the time he returned home to learn the particulars of the title and estates he was to inherit, he was already his own man. Henry…no one paid any mind to Henry. They did not know how to handle his thirst for knowledge and his constant questioning of everything. They left him to his books instead, hired tutors and left him in their charge. He found mentors and guidance elsewhere, through his academic studies and letters he sent to scholars, anyone who would correspond with him. Then he too went away to university and met Angelica. Robert spent more time in the care of the Marchioness than the others did. In many ways, he is most like them out of us all. In others he is nothing like them. Since he was the third son, the Marquis had no interest in parenting Robert other than using him as a source of pride. He was content to leave the youngest in his wife’s hands.”

“Until you came along.”

“Until I came along. Then Robert spent a great deal more time with me than anyone else in the household since we shared tutors and school lessons, went off to school together for several years.”

“I suppose that is why she favours him and despises you.”

“Likely, among other things. Robert grew closer to me and grew away from her. She has accused me more than once of poisoning both Robert and the Marquis against her, which is laughable. I am not her son in any form. She has no reason to care for me at all, and she has never once called me anything other than ‘you’ or ‘that boy.’ I only serve as a constant reminder of her husband’s indiscretions and his disregard for her wishes. I am not the only bastard he has fathered. I am not even the only acknowledged one, but I am the only one she was forced to even converse with.”

“I almost felt sorry for her. Up until she insulted me for the thousandth time and threw a glass across the room. It is not as though she could control her husband’s actions, but she can control how she treats everyone around her. Look at Madge. She was married to a tyrant and managed to maintain the kindness of her soul. As did you,” I say. I yawn then and snuggle closer to my husband.

“Are you suggesting that I married a tyrant?” He asks, and I smile inside at the teasing note in his voice yet I turn a scowl to him.

“Not as long as you packed some of those rolls with the cheese on them.”

“They are under your seat.”

I gasp in delight and he chuckles. As I search for them, I find something that I packed as well and present it to him.

“Why did you bring this?”

“For the cold days to come. You mentioned that the cold affects your leg.” He smiles at me and I can see the lifting of the dark clouds from his eyes as he accepts the cane and sets it next to his seat. Then he grasps my arms and hauls me into his lap.

“You are too good to me,” Peeta whispers and nuzzles my nose.

“It is what you and I do, husband. Take care of one another.” He kisses me then, my entire body awakening as we drive away from the tomb that is de Vale. It is as though spring has arrived early. Warmth blooming in my chest and birdsong fluttering in my head.

From there it is far easier to speak and enjoy the ride, wrapped up in his arms and cosied together, and yes kissing here and there.

Only as we continue, it becomes clear that this journey is taking far longer than expected. The roads and ice necessitate a slower pace. We stop for a late midday meal that will likely double as dinner. We send word with a rider ahead to Haymitch. Frederick lights the lanterns to dispel the darkness. Peeta wraps me in warm blankets and fur, and I allow him to pamper me. Then we continue on. I am drowsy and begin to nod off as the sun sinks from the sky.

The sounds of horse and carriage remain as I dream, swaying and floating in a strange sort of way. My feet grow cold as I walk through frosted woods. Flashes light the trees and I cannot place them as I follow faint tracks in the frost painted ground. I catch the scents of cinnamon and dill, vetiver. There’s a brush of a hand on my cheek and I attempt to capture the hand, to hold Peeta close to me. His fingers slip through my grasp.

A loud crack of thunder startles me. My eyes fly open to the screaming of horses, a sound of collision I cannot place, the lurch forward as the horses break into a mad gallop, the precarious swaying of the carriage as it dashes through the night. The lanterns outside follow the movement, a macabre dance of flames through the glass. Peeta attempts to move me and I am sluggish to respond. Then the carriage leans to the side too far and Peeta shouts something, grabs my shoulders and turns me away. We are suspended for one moment then I land on my back atop him.

Glass shatters and wood splinters. My head strikes something. The already dark world turns hazy and spins before my eyes, then everything turns black. Black as death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued…

Your clue for chapter 24: When we build a life with someone, we are already a person with a past, secrets, and this one word you seek. Words rise up from it to cause a bit of strife. A stroll down this lane can be painful, cathartic, and sometimes both but usually necessary to reconcile past and present in the name of the future.

#Springtime Edition 2019 #late submission #M #prompt 88 #submission

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thecrownedbeastarchive · 5 years

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Unholy (Priest!Michael LangdonxReader)

Author’s note: This was a Millory fanfic I wrote a few months back. I edited it to be a Michael LangdonxReader fanfic. I thought you all would enjoy it! More fanfic to come thanks to your requests. 💜

Warnings: public masturbation, blasphemy, domination, bondage, nsfw

You were a faithful churchgoer. From your first breaths to now, your parents had instilled in you a sense of dutiful religion. The first thing you’d done after moving away from home was find a local church; and you found a perfect one in The Cathedral of Our Lady of Purity. The congregation was warm and welcoming, you felt at home instantly. The church leaders were devoted men of God, upright and holy. You believed they were the perfect shepherds to your soul. All except for one. A tall, young priest by the name of Father Michael Langdon.

Your trepidation had no basis in outward appearance. He was by all accounts a calm, disciplined man who took great care for the disenfranchised and delivered the most impassioned sermons you’d ever sat under. He was charismatic, helpful, walking in a regal dignity one expects of a representative of Christ. Perhaps it was his looks that so unnerved you. Often when looking upon him at the altar, you would compare him to the stone and stained glass angels encompassing the sanctuary. His golden hair would glow from the streaming sunlight, casting a halo around his head. His face was artwork, not one feature ill placed or imperfect. His eyes were blue as the heavens, and could hold you fast in your place like a command from God himself. His lips…You shook your thoughts away. Father Langdon had plagued your mind for three months. You would scold yourself, commanding your body to free itself from carnal desires; but the image of his mouth, his body, his manhood hidden under black trousers you wanted to see free and throbbing-Oh God! This was your reason for going to confession today. You’d been neglecting it, but now you knew you couldn’t give allowance to your sins any longer. The Cathedral was as grand and opulent as any; white columns, golden holy imagery welcoming the searching soul. There was a smattering of people, elderly men and women praying, some deacons milling about. The left door of the confession booth opened and a middle aged man stepped out, tipping his hat as he passed you. You entered the booth, making the sign of the cross upon sitting down, and took a deep breath, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 3 months since my last confession.”

Your blood chilled when a familiar dulcet voice came from the other side, “I would have pegged you for more of a faithful confessor than that, (Y/N),” the voice chuckled.

Your legs tensed as you instinctively fidgeted with the hem of your skirt, “Father Langdon…”

The lattice of the window separating you still allowed the general shape of his blond locks to peek through, “I’m sorry, I know that’s not an appropriate thing for a priest to say at confession. I just hate how formal this has to be. I consider us friends, (Y/N),” his voice inexplicably dropped to just above a whisper, “Don’t you?”

You swallowed, your chest thumping, “Yes, but would a friendship at all impede this sacrament?”

His silence made you clarify, “I mean, for there to be bias on both sides.”

He hummed, a vibration that made your breath catch, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another. There is no one better to confess to than a friend.”

The booth was suddenly cramped, musty. Your throat dry like a desert.

“The Lord has also given me a unique talent,” he continued, “an ability to discern the darkness of human souls. Those hidden sins, forbidden lusts that wake them late at night,” his tone was penetrative, “cause them to writhe upon their bed. I can unravel their mysteries and bring them to the light.”

You closed your legs even tighter, desperately ignoring the pulse between them, “I don’t have any dark places.”

“None?” He played with every word like a cat with its prey, “If we say we have not sin, we are a liar and the truth is not in us.”

You cleared your throat, the heat beneath your skirt begging for attention, “I meant, of course I have a sinful nature, but I simply don’t possess as deep a dark place as you speak of,” you dug your nails into your thigh, “I’ve never been one to contemplate on sinful things.”

A tense silence hung in the booth before he spoke, “I can sense that in you, (Y/N),” he finally said, “A purity of heart. Yet surely you didn’t come to confession to brag about your own holiness.”

Your voice trembled, barely leaving your mouth, “Of course not.”

His smile was dripping off his tone, “What is thy sin?”

You closed your eyes, imagining it were any other priest, pushing through with gritted teeth, “I have been assaulted by the Devil in more…potent ways than ever.”

“Are these the Devil’s sins, then?” He interrupted.

You paused, caught off guard, “No, Father, they are mine.”

“Then claim them, (Y/N),” his voice was a whisper, cajoling, tender, “Tell me that you have committed sins…and have taken great pleasure in them.”

Your mind felt hazy, “I have allowed my mind to be filled with perverted fantasies against a fellow Christian.”

“How often, my child, have you dwelt on these fantasies?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say his tone was…desperate, “Months. I have welcomed sin into my heart and mind, and have let my imagination run wild.”

“Where does it run to, (Y/N)?”

“Lusts of the flesh,” you dodged coyly, “unbecoming to a young woman of faith.”

“Speak them,” he commanded.

You nearly jumped at the sudden change, “Father Langdon?”

“Tell me of your lusts,” he demanded again.

Your voice was so tiny, your heart leaped into your throat, “I don’t think-“

“Sin can only be absolved once it is fully confessed, (Y/N),” you heard him moving, his form leaning closer to the window, “Tell me of your desires. This fellow Christian, as you call them, what do you think of them doing when your imagination takes hold? Are their lips upon yours? Delighting in the sweetness of your mouth with a chaste kiss? Or are they hungry? Ravenous as their tongue dances over yours? Do they bite your lips, drawing beads of blood before licking them clean?”

Your core throbbed at his words. Your mouth hung agape, shallow breaths escaping.

“Are you naked?” Even the way he spoke the word was sinful, “Have your clothes been discarded on the floor in a heap, leaving your sensitive, aching pussy exposed to their lustful eyes?”

Every inch of your flesh was hot and riddled with goosebumps. Not simply from what he said, but how it was as if he’d plucked your own thoughts from your mind and was reading them aloud.

“Are you against the wall?” He stifled a little moan, “On your knees? Spread out on silk sheets, a delicious morsel all for the taking, for devouring? Tell me, (Y/N),” it was like his voice was right next to your ear, “tell me everything that’s in that slutty imagination of yours. Confess every sinful perversion you’ve dreamt about committing,” he chuckled darkly, “the ones you long to have committed against you.”

Your fingers slipped under your panties as if of their own will. You massaged your pulsing clit, your folds already wet with desire.

He continued in agonizing detail, his cadence falling into a steady rhythm to which you pumped two fingers in and out of yourself, biting your lip to detain your ardent whimpers.

“Do you feel their teeth on your soft skin, greedy fingers toying with your hard nipples? Where is their tongue? Is it licking your wetness, spreading it over your lips, or teasing your needy slit? Are their lips gently wrapping around your clit and sucking? Can you hear,” he paused on each word, tasting them, “the slick…wet…sounds? The growling need as they gorge themselves on your perfect, sweet, delectable cunt?”

Hot shame flooded you, but you kept going…faster, harder. What would those poor congregants think if they knew you were making such a filthy scene for the priest?And yet that made your desire grow.

“Can you feel them slide up your body, their hard cock pressing against your soaked thighs? Can you taste yourself on their lips? Do you taste good, (Y/N)?”

An obscene noise almost freed itself from your throat, but you placed a hand over your mouth.

“Do you wrap your legs around their waist like an eager little slut? Are you begging, whining to have them slam their thick, throbbing cock into your pussy over and over again until you cum all over it, screaming?”

His voice was thick with need, “Do you feel yourself stretching around them, taking in every inch? Do you like being filled?” He paused, “Answer me, little lamb.”

Barely trusting your own voice, you whispered, “Yes, Father Langdon.”

You could hear the satisfied grin behind his words, “Do you want to be fucked aggressively? Do you want me to use you as my plaything, my own personal whore to pound my cock into? Do you want to please me?”

You felt yourself climbing towards the edge, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

You sounded so pathetic, “Father Langdon,”

He changed pace, as if sensing your closeness; gently guiding you towards your orgasm, “How about I take you slowly? Whisper blasphemies in your ear while I slip in and out of your yearning pussy? Tell you how you feel like Heaven around my dick. Worship you like an idol, sweet hymns escaping my throat in my moans because you feel so fucking good. My ultimate praise spilling out inside you, anointing you as mine.”

The word was like a signal, releasing your tension as you rode the high. As you came down, your breathing slowed, and your mind gained back enough sense to panic over whether or not anyone outside had heard.

“Does that sound like your fantasies, (Y/N)?” He sounded so casual now, returned to his calm, disciplined self.

“Yes, Father Langdon,” you muttered breathlessly.

“Are you sated?”

You removed your fingers from your panties, quickly searching your bag for a tissue to wipe them on, your face painted red, “For the moment, yet they seem stronger than ever.”

He laughed, “Such is the nature of man. Perhaps we could discuss your sins in further detail at a later time.”

You froze at the implication, and scorned how it made a new wave of excitement crash over you.

“Find a way to…absolve them in a more tangible way.”

You sniffled, “Yes, Father Langdon.”

There was a knowing, excited lilt to his voice, “Peace be with you, (Y/N).”

“And with you also,” you returned quickly, stepping outside the booth and trying to hurry outside in the most inconspicuous way possible. Perhaps it was your own anxiety, but you were sure a few squinting glares were thrown your way.

You had never felt more out of place than at Mass the following Sunday from your sinful encounter at confession. Every utterance of holy Scripture burned on your tongue, the wine of communion soured in your stomach. Even your outfit, a draped white blouse and black skirt with heels felt more scandalous today despite wearing it hundreds of times before. you sat at the end of your usual pew, legs pressed together tightly and hands folded demurely in front of you. Your eyes darted everywhere, terrified that somehow the other congregants could read your mind; because all you could think about was Father Langdon’s dulcet voice as he uttered deliciously sinful words right inside the four walls of the holy of holies. Without a single touch, he’d ravaged you so completely. The hymns you sang erupted from constricted breath as you imagined him slipping his elegant fingers between your legs and bringing you to ungodly bliss. You felt hot to the touch beneath the glass stares of saints and angels. You were thankful another priest delivered the sermon today; grateful how utterly boring he was, how completely dispassionate. One of Langdon’s beautiful orations would have been a detriment to your ability to stay calm. When the service ended, you gathered your purse and hurried towards the exit, desperate to feel the chilly winter breeze.

“(Y/N)!” The voice stopped you in your tracks, “Always a pleasure to see you,” Langdon commented sincerely, walking up to you with his hand outstretched for a friendly greeting. You didn’t accept it, and words spilled out of your mouth hastily, “Father Langdon, I want to apologize for what happened at my confession. I should not have let myself give into temptation so eagerly, and in my sin I led you astray. I pray you can forgive me.”

He cocked his head, offering you a playful smile and sympathetic eyes, “Oh, (Y/N), there’s nothing to forgive.”

Your lips parted in surprise, “But…”

He motioned for you to walk with him a bit further away from the crowd, which you did reluctantly, “Human nature is such a fickle beast. If you tell it not to do something, it desires it all the more. The fruit never looked so appetizing until it was forbidden,” he looked at you, “Have you ever read Oscar Wilde, (Y/N)?”

You shook your head.

“Brilliant writer,” he stopped, your eyes meeting, “Perhaps my most favorite quote from him is, “The only way to get rid of temptation, is to yield to it.” I must confess that quote alone influences more of my theology than some parts of Scripture,” he admitted sheepishly before giving a wink, “But that can be our little secret.”

Heat bloomed in your chest, “I’m afraid I don’t really understand.”

He spoke with his hand, the member gliding gracefully through the air, “Consider what happened at your confession as an extreme form of penance. Getting the sin out of your system, freeing the mind,” he smiled, “As long as it is taboo, it dominates your mind, but when you are allowed expression, you dominate it.”

As irregular as it was, you took some comfort in the holy man’s explanation. Though, the ugly head of jealousy peeked through as you thought of anyone else being “helped” by him, “Has your extreme form of penance worked before?”

His eyes lazily rolled over your figure, smile turning impish, “Are you asking whether or not I’ve made other congregates cum like you?”

Hearing him say it aloud, even so intimately quiet, caused familiar panic to jolt through you; along with a sharp pang of desire.

“No,” he chuckled, “My methods would have me removed from the Church.”

Confused, you tucked your hair behind your ear, “Then why…?”

“Why you?” He finished for you, gazing at you with an admiring look, “You’re different, (Y/N). There’s an aura about you, I don’t see any pretense in your faith. You’re…genuine,” he stepped closer, sending a trail of goosebumps down your spine, “Hypocrisy is such a rampant plague among the faithful. In you I see the true image of God. Divinity given human hands.”

You blushed further, if it were possible, “I’ve never seen myself as anything special like that.”

He took your hand between his, the comforting warmth intoxicating, “Then you do your Creator a great disservice, for he made you with a crown upon your head,” he looked away for the first time, as if embarrassed, “And, well, I was also purging my own sins in that confessional.”

Your heart jumped, “I didn’t think you thought of me in that way.”

He laughed, low and gentle, “I’ve thought of you in every way, (Y/N).”

You had a flashing thought of him pinning you against the pew, but threw it away. “And if you are willing,” he continued, letting go of your hand, leaving a trace of abandonment, “I’d like to make good on my offer for us to discuss this in more detail.”

Your mind demanded you say no. What kind of woman were you to be alone with the priest you lusted over?

“How so?”

He held his hands behind him, “Are you free on Friday night by any chance?”

You knew it was the decent thing to say no, “Yes, I am.”

“How about dinner at around 6-6:30? I promise I’m just as good a cook as I am a preacher.”

You nodded, “That sounds great.”

He looked so pleased, “Wonderful, let me tell you my address.”

You stared at yourself in the mirror of your bathroom for an hour; your makeup, your dress, your hair, even practicing how you would say hello. “Good evening, Father,” you smiled at your reflection before shaking your head. Too formal. You gave a toothy grin, nearly bouncing on your heels, “Hi! Thanks for inviting me.” You groaned, cringing. Too peppy. You took in a deep breath and said pleasantly, “Hi, Father Langdon. Thank you for inviting me.” You sighed, frustrated with yourself, and shut off the light, heading into your room. You grabbed your purse and keys, taking one last glance in the mirror before leaving. You didn’t know what to expect his house to look like, but it didn’t come as a surprise as you pulled into the driveway. It was a modern Victorian home, painted black. A small garage sat adjacent to a set of stairs leading to the door underneath an archway. Three windows gazed over the garage in a semicircle overlook, the glass giving a peek inside. It wasn’t gaudy in any way, but it was most certainly gothic set against the starry sky. You locked your car and cautiously mounted the steps, ringing the silver button doorbell; a pleasant chime emanating from inside. After a few moments, the door opened; Father Langdon’s gracious tone welcoming you. “Hello, (Y/N).” He was everything you expected from the feet up, black boots and pants; but it shifted once your eyes drew up. He wore a black shirt, sleeves reaching to his wrists, a normal solid collar around his neck, but his shoulders and collar bones were exposed through mesh, stopping just above his chest. His smile was genuine, under eyes framed in black eyeshadow. He was a vision of something so feminine, yet radiating with power. You were hit with a bout of shock. A strange feeling formed in your chest, confusion, desire, fear all swirling together. You mumbled a hello under your breath. “I’m so glad to see you.” You managed a squeaky, “You too.” He stepped back, extending his arm, “Please come in.” You stepped inside the little parlor. Cylindrical lights hung from the ceiling, bathing the cream walls in a gentle hue; an ornate black staircase leading to the second floor. “You look beautiful,” he commented looking over your simple dress. You breathed for what felt like the first time since seeing him, “Thank you. You look…different.” He chuckled, “I like playing with expectations,” he quirked an eyebrow, “Do you like it?” You gulped, “I do, it looks…” you held yourself back from saying ‘sexy’, “Good.” He smirked, as if reading your thoughts, and invited you to the dining room. Dinner went by normally. You talked about life. How you were fairing in college, how your family was doing back home, etc. He never went into too much detail about himself, even when you would ask. He only told you that he had moved to the city after his ailing grandmother died and that he’d been a minister for five years. Nothing else, he was strangely guarded for how sociable you knew him to be at the Cathedral. Afterward, you’d moved to a small sitting room, where he poured two glasses of wine. He handed you the glass and settled into the leather chair, taking a sip, “So, tell me, if we may get down to business, pardon the expression,” he laughed, “what attracts you to me?” You stopped, your lips parted over the rim of your glass. He grinned sympathetically, “Come, there really is no point in being coy about it. And that is why we’re here,” he sipped before setting it on a small table next to him, “To exorcise your demons, so to speak.” You swallowed a too big gulp of the wine before nervously fingering the stem, “You’re…very attractive, charismatic, charming,” you glanced up at him, “you command a room.” He hummed, intertwining his fingers, “Have you often had attractions to authority figures in your life?” You thought of your youth minister back in 9th grade. He was a cute, recent seminary graduate; you became his favorite student to gain his attention. Guys your age just didn’t appeal to you all that much. “Some.” “Do you like being dominated?” He asked it so brazenly, it hit you like a slap to the face. You shrugged, stuttering, “I…I guess I have a proclivity to…follow the rules.” His voice became a commanding growl, his controlled expression never shifting, “That’s not what I asked.” Heavy heat settled between your legs at his tone; you yipped a response, like following an order, “I like the idea of it.” His hand rested under his chin, his eyes burning with curiosity, “Why? Is it being helpless?” You shook your head, your voice maintaining a tinny as you confessed, “Not helpless. Just the idea of being corrupted,” you looked him in the eyes, “Of an attractive older man taking an innocent and dirtying me up. Letting go of certain standards that keep me so rigid.” A low, pleased note rumbled behind his smirk, “Are you a virgin, (Y/N)?” You cleared your throat, “Technically I suppose, I’ve never been…penetrated.” your face was red, “I let one guy finger me, but it was kinda uncomfortable.” He tilted his head, waiting for you to explain. “Like, he was kinda rough and he sorta blamed me for not cumming.” That made his lip curl into a snarl, “What a stupid, useless boy.” Your pulse pounded in your ears, breathing becoming shallow. He remained a vision of calm confidence. He gripped both arms of his chair, leaning closer, something dark coloring his eyes, “What makes you wet?” A spear of cold shock and yearning pierced your core, “I’m sorry?” His smile grew, slightly shaking his head, as if at a young child’s antics. He leaned back, looking like a king on his throne, “What makes,” his tone was languid, “your gorgeous little pussy hungry for a big cock to pin you down and own you?” You released an audible gasp, your body trembling. You swallowed hard, “What you just said.” He nodded, “Dirty words. What else?” You felt entranced, his icy eyes stripping away your inhibitions, “Things that are forbidden, things that would make me seem like a whore.” “Hmmm…” He bit his lower lip, moving his hand; his fingers practically danced from his chest to just above his belt, “It’s quite forbidden for anyone, let alone a priest, to touch themselves while another looks on.” You watched his hand glide to his crotch, palming the growing bulge, licking your lips at his tiny groans of pleasure as he played; his knuckles were white, gripping the leather, “Do you like that?” You nodded, a bit too eagerly. He giggled, a breathy evil sound, “What’s the dirtiest thing you can think to do right now?” Your voice was thick, “Crawl on my hands and knees and grind on your cock.” He let out another chuckle as he bit his lip again, his hand palming the black fabric of his pants faster, needing more friction, “You naughty little sinner, wanting to seduce a man of the cloth like that,” he sneered, “Shame on you.” You set your glass on a counter, dropping to your knees and crawling to him slowly, your eyes wide and reverent. He held out his hand to beckon you, and you sat on his lap; releasing a choked moan as his bulge bucked against your wet slit through your panties. Your hips rocked slowly, earning you a needy groan from him; his hands grabbing your ass, “Oh, temptress, what man beset by you could resist?” He pulled you closer, making you move a little faster. His lips left wet kisses on your neck, your skin soft and flushed under the attention of his mouth. “The things I want to do to you,” he growled. His tongue licked a stripe from the curve of your neck to your ear, softly biting it, “Will you let me purge you, (Y/N)? Will you let me cleanse you of all these filthy lusts?” Your hands clutched his shirt, your head thrown back; you intended to grind out every frustrating urge he made you feel. Without warning, his hand was at your throat; gripping just tight enough to cause your eyes to be taken over by fear, then lust. “You’re such a pretty little lamb,” he muttered, his other hand sliding up your body to cup your breast, “straying from the flock of the faithful to play with the wolves,” he chuckled, rubbing his thumb over the now hardened nipple through the dress fabric, “Such a bad little saint. But you crave the wolf, don’t you?” His lips hovered just above yours, “You want to feel that wild, uncontrollable passion, you want to be left gasping, aching, the wolf’s fang marks left in your skin. So when your good shepherd finds you, you’ve been dirtied, defiled,” he tightened his grasp, “claimed.” You moved your hand to brush over his clothed cock. He wrenched you closer, your warm breath passing between your lips, “And even when you’re back safe and sound in your little pen, you’ll be thinking about the wolf and how fucking good he felt. Because no one has ever touched you like he did.” You looked like a frightened deer, doe eyes filled with desire. “Get on the floor.” You slipped off of him, your bare knees hitting the carpet. “Take out my cock,” he commanded. You undid his belt and pulled down his pants, freeing him. Hunger overtook you as you wrapped your lips around the head, sucking gently. He gasped, “Eager little slut.” You massaged his balls, taking more of him into your mouth. He groaned, fingers threading through your hair. You gripped his thighs, gagging as he hit the back of your throat. He moaned and began to roll his hips, fucking his cock in and out of your mouth. Drool poured down his shaft as you moaned gargled noises around his thickness. Tears pricked at your eyes as you pulled back, his dick making a wet pop as it exited your mouth; a strand of saliva still connecting your bottom lip to his head, now red and leaking. He caressed your cheek as you dragged your tongue over each ridge, lapping up his precum. “Come here,” his raspy voice demanded.

You propped yourself on his knees, your eyes falling to his full, beautiful lips. He tipped your chin with his forefinger, “Oh, would you like a kiss?”

You responded quietly, “Please?”

He cupped the back of your head, bringing your foreheads together, your lips centimeters apart, “How adorable, my little lamb,” he tugged a fistful of your hair, “Maybe once you’ve earned it.” His gaze focused on your glossy mouth, “Although,” he leaned in to graze your bottom lip with his tongue, “I’d love to taste your adoration for my big cock in your pretty mouth.” He pulled back with a tiny smirk, “But patience is a virtue.” He delivered a swift, hard slap to your ass, your tiny yelp making his cock jerk. “Follow me.” Father Langdon’s bedroom was as sleek and dark as the rest of his décor; but the two main attractions were the three overlook windows you had noticed outside, and the large bed draped in red silk sheets and a black leather bed frame; two decorative pikes on either side of the headboard. You couldn’t help but eye the bed with curiosity, finding that the priest hid darker undertones of his personality in his most intimate places. “Take off your dress,” he ordered. You nearly jumped, turning around to see him taking three red cords from a little black box. He paused, meeting your eyes when you hesitated. He smiled gently, raising an eyebrow, “Please?” You stripped slowly, letting the dress pool around your feet. He looked you over. “Oh, (Y/N),” he responded breathlessly, twirling the red ties between his graceful fingers, “Heaven couldn’t create a more perfect form.” You blushed, your thighs were slick with arousal as he beckoned you forward; laying the ties neatly over the box. His fingers lazily dragged down your bare stomach before slipping just inside your panties, “How about I relieve some of your tension while you strip off my clothes.” You bit your lip, starting to unbutton his shirt; your blood boiling in anticipation. He moaned as his finger slipped inside your heat, his fingertip lazily rubbing your clit in slow, wide circles. Your knees nearly buckled beneath you; desperate noises breathily rising from your throat. Your hips moved with his rhythm, slipping his shirt off to hang from his forearms. Your hands softly drifted over his toned chest and broad shoulders, nails digging in when his fingers explored your dripping core more enthusiastically. He growled impatiently, snatching his fingers away to remove his shirt. He slid down, wrapping his arms under your thighs; forcing you to hold onto him tightly as he carried you to the windows, pinning you against the middle pane. “I can see practically the whole neighborhood from this view, (Y/N),” he latched onto your neck, sucking and licking up to your ear, “Let’s give any nosy neighbors a show.” His fingers slipped your panties off, throwing them aside. The cold glass stung your bare skin, the scandalous nature of your position pouring hot, depraved passion into your veins. His thumb pressed into your clit with fast, flicking strokes while he moved two fingers in and out of you with unrelenting speed. “I’ve dreamt about this sexy, virgin pussy since I met you,” he groaned in your ear, “I’ve stroked this thick, hungry cock for you every. single. night,” he repositioned to get a better grip on your ass, “Sometimes I’d stare out from the pulpit and fantasize about sinking my throbbing dick into you right there at the altar,” he sighed out a dark chuckle, “Fucking you before God and everyone. Making vile worship pour from your lips and gush around me.” He snarled, curling his fingers inside you, “God, you make me so fucking hard.” You clung desperately, unable to keep up with him; his bulge shoved tightly back into his pants reaching to grind just outside your entrance. “You like knowing that, don’t you?” He angled his head to lift up your bra with his teeth, his tongue seeking to violate your hardened nipples, “You like knowing that while I’m up there preaching about purity and chastity,” he surrounded your nipple with his lips and sucked, making a filthy wet sound as he released it, “That all I can imagine is pounding your hot, horny little hole until I cum inside you.” You choked out a pathetic whine, “Michael, just fuck me already!” It was jarring how quickly he could stop. His eyes glared into yours, soaked fingers pulling out to roughly grasp your chin, “What did you call me?” Terror spread in your chest, “I-I-“ “No,” he pressed down on your bottom lip with his thumb, “I didn’t ask for an explanation,” his expression was aflame, “I asked what you just called me.” You trembled. “Say it.” “Michael,” you answered weakly. “Dear little lamb,” he shook his head disappointedly, “I show you an ounce of mercy, and you think you can use my name so casually, simply command me to do your bidding?” He leaned in, his whispered voice like a razor, “In this room, there is only one god; and he demands respect.” You gulped, “I’m sorry, Father Langdon.” “Oh no, you’ve lost that privilege,” he moved his hand to grip the nape of your neck, “You may call me sir, until I decide you’ve been good enough. Is that clear?” There was no hesitation, “Yes, sir.” He hummed, “Now, I’m a merciful god, my little saint,” he applied a tighter pressure, “but you’ll have to pay due penance if you want me to bury this thick cock in your cunt and save you from your greediness.” Your cold terror was melted, warm lust still coating his bulge. “Get on the bed and face the left.” He dropped you to your feet and watched you crawl onto the mattress, sitting perfectly still on your knees. He brought over one of the red cords, “Hold out your wrists.” You obeyed silently, and he tied you to the pike, not too tightly, but enough to remind you that you were at his mercy. He walked back around to the other side, taking his sweet time; making you wait, your humiliation exposed to Heaven and his eyes alone. You felt like you should be ashamed, insulted at how he debased you. But it only made the need in your pussy throb harder. The palm of his hand connected with your skin, the sting making your cry out in surprise as you tried to bite back a delighted smile. “Stick out that perfect ass.” You leaned over a little farther, presenting before him. You could feel the mattress buckle as he climbed up behind you, pulling your thighs closer and spreading your legs, one hand firmly on your ass, and the other stretched underneath to cup your breast. You barely had time to react to his warm palm on your skin before he dragged his tongue up the full length of your opening. You gasped, gripping at the cord. He lavished every inch of your needy, saturate flesh with long, deep stripes; devouring you viciously, your cries of pleasure riling him up. You heard the rustling of fabric as he slipped off his pants, fully freeing himself. You sighed as he rubbed his pulsing head up and down your slit, bathing it in your cum. “You taste delicious, my little lamb,” he slid his body over yours, his chest against your back; you barely restrained yourself from bucking against his hard cock pressed between your cheeks. “Are you sorry for taking my name in vain?” He nuzzled next to your ear. “Yes, sir,” you breathed. “Do you feel that hard dick?” He thrusted slightly, parting your cheeks further, “Do you want to feel like a really dirty whore?” Shakily, you answered, “Yes, sir.” His smile brushed against your neck, “Would you like it if I put my cock in your perfect ass?” Your mind reeled. It was filthy, wrong, sinful- “Yes, sir, please do that.” He kissed your shoulder, “Say it, (Y/N), we’re well past guarded language.” You almost screamed, begging him, “Please, sir, put your fucking cock in my ass.” He seemed to genuinely pause, taking in your words, before laughing, “Ask and ye shall receive.” He kissed down your spine, sitting up on his knees and positioning his cock right over you, taking fingers full of your juices and slathering them into your asshole, gently massaging it open. You braced yourself against the pike, already aching at the touch. You felt his soaked head stretching you out; you groaned, a slight burning sensation quickly replaced by delicious agony as he gently worked himself in, telling you how tight and perfect you were. He built up a slow, steady rhythm, which you took notice of with a pang of endearment. He wrapped his arm around your waist, using his other hand to caress your hair, “You’re being such a good girl,” he hummed, “such a good, filthy girl.” He pulled out slowly, your body feeling empty, less grounded to reality when he did. You felt the bed shift again as he stood to retrieve the two other ties. When he was in front of you, you looked up at him under innocent, submissive eyes, your lips red and swollen from your biting them so hard. He smiled, tucking messy, sweat-soaked hair behind your ear, “Come up here.” You furrowed your brows, but lifted yourself up to meet him. He pulled you close, breathing out, “You earned this.” He brought your lips together, oddly chaste; simply delighting in your kiss, the feel of your mouths meeting in a covenant of longing. He released the kiss, rubbing your cheek with his thumb, “Are you ready to cum?” You nodded, “Yes, sir.” “Michael,” he corrected, “I want you to be able to scream my name.” He untied your hands, “Lay on your back for me and stretch out your arms.” Once you had, he tied both wrists; one to each pike, and your ankles together flat against the bed so you were in the position of a crucifix. He straddled you, running his hands all over your body, “My beautiful, spotless lamb.” He parted your thighs once more, indulging in the way your tied legs kept you tightly around him as he entered you. It wasn’t long before he decided to forego the gentleness and began pounding into you against the bed, much to your relief. His cock slipped in and out at a frantic pace, the sound of your hips crashing together, wetness dripping between them, your skin slick with sweat and arousal. You were whining pathetically, wishing you could dig your nails into his back with each thrust hitting the exact perfect spot. He pulled your hair back to expose your neck, biting hard enough to puncture the skin. You cried out his name, like honey on your tongue, your breath catching in your throat, as you drenched his thick length. He lapped up the droplets of blood and around the forming bruise, moaning into the open wounds as your fluids soaked his mouth and cock. He hooked his arms under your legs as you fell back, gasping from your pleasure. “Look at me,” he snarled pounding harder, even faster strokes. You met his gaze, your eyes glassy and inundated with pleasure while his burned with dark lust; his chest and throat rumbled with deep, gravelly growls as he came. He roared like an animal, baring his teeth and sinking them into your neck once more. You squealed at the flash of pain, but welcomed his warm wet tongue soothing the abused skin. You moved your hips in tandem, slowly now, your slick heat mixing, each movement massaging it further into you. He took two fingers and gathered your cum, holding it front of you. “Open your mouth.” You obeyed and he spread his messy fingers over your tongue. “Hoc est enim corpus meum, this is my body,” he whispered before placing it on his own tongue and taking you in a passionate kiss. He pulled out, chest heaving deep breaths as he untied you. Your arms immediately wrapped around him, leaving reverent kisses on his skin; he did nothing to admonish your eager affection. You lay there exhausted, wordless. He finally gazed into your eyes, kissing your forehead. “I was right. You did feel like Heaven.”

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x fem!reader #ahs apocalypse #ahs apocalypse au #priest!michael

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