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gingerteawrites · 1 month ago

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BY THE HEARTH: CRACKLE

A/N: Welcome back for yet another installment of by the hearth!! As always please let me know what you thought of this chapter! Let's goooo. Read the previous part here.

Content: Royalty!AU, Nanami x female reader, king Nanami, Princess Y/N, Widower Nanami, Toddler Yuuji, hurt, angst. Not beta read

Word count: ~5.5K words (they keep getting longer...)

Banner by: @cafekitsune

ACT IX

Nanami was a man of habit. As he did every night, he peeled away his royal garments and changed into a long chemise and loose trousers. Then sat on the cushioned chair of the small study attached to his room.

Following his evening routine usually brought so much peace to the man. A time to unwind, sort through his thoughts. And most importantly, remind himself he was in control. But alas, this control was slowly slipping through his fingers. Fluttering away in the direction of you.

Opening up the notebook that served as journal, he brought his quill close to the paper. The pages were filled with mundane phrases, recounting the outcome of a meeting. Reflecting on new policies. Or on occasion, excited tales of new milestone in Yuuji’s development.

He sat there for several minutes, willing himself to write something that followed this usual pattern. Something that fit in the well-drawn lines of his ordinary days.

But his mind was only able to compute suggestions of you. The way your smile shone so brightly when you danced together. The fire in your eyes when you spoke to the people. The feel of you in his arms as you twirled by the blaze.

Nanami dropped the quill with a sigh. This was not going to do. He feared that if he forced himself, the only thing he would be able to pen down would be your name.

This is not good. At all. This world that he had carefully crafted to protect Yuuji, and most importantly protect himself was crumbling. And you were the culprit.

Fraught with frustration, he closed the book and headed to the giant bed. Still, his mind, that was not his to hold anymore kept wandering. And a repressed part of his being started to wonder. How would it feel to hold your hand. To truly have you. To kiss your lips…

Except he had already done the latter. That dreadful wedding day. The thought of it makes him groan, and that same repressed part of his being wished he could go back and fix things. Maybe offer a reassuring smile to your then trembling self. But it was too late for that. He shifted under the covers, shaking his head as if to shake the thoughts themselves out.

Sleep. I need to sleep.

The large study always seemed like a peaceful place. With its mahogany shelves lined with historical records. And the imposing desk behind which the king was sat. Yes, Nanami felt in his element in this room. He was the king, and the king could not allow himself to be troubled by trivial affections. He flipped through the pages of the proposed budget that the royal advisors had produced. But his focus was interrupted by a timid knock on the door.

The royal counsellor pushed in. Ichiji always seemed on edge, his thin body tucked into itself. But as he approached, the king noticed his advisor seemed even more nervous than usual.

Nanami raised a brow when the man stopped in front of the table. ”I am not expecting anyone today,” he flipped through another page, his eyes returning to the tedious document.

“I know, your majesty,” the words tumbled out hastily, “but our guest today is one I cannot turn away easily-”

He had not even gotten around to announce the name of this guest when two men barged in. The sound of guards arguing and trying to hold them back filled the room, but Nanami raised a hand in quiet dismissal.

Duke Gojo’s smirk was wider than usual, flanked by his courtier, ever the shadow of the white-haired aristocrat.

He plopped in the chair across from the king, who silently watched his actions. It was customary that people of lower rank extend greetings first, but the man before him purposefully stretched the silence. After a few moments, he finally bowed his head.

“Your Majesty,” the duke’s tone was far from reverent. From the corner of his eye, the king could see the ebony-haired courtier bow as well. “What a pleasure it is to see you after so long.”’

“Duke Gojo, It is good to see you have returned.” The words were mere pleasantries, devoid of any sense of sincerity. “I trust your tour in the province went well.”

“Oh quite well indeed,” he sat back, relaxed into the chair.

The duke was a fascinating man. Irritating and grating beyond belief to some, and the object of blind adoration to others. While he did not hate the man, Nanami had grown tired of his lack of consideration for customs, and constant antagonistic attitude.

Despite the duchy's history of hunger for power and strife with the royal family, their sole heir did not seem interested in the throne. He was more concerned with living without regard for conventions, which was its own problem. The one thing that Nanami’s father, the late king, had always expressed relief over was how lucky he was that the Gojo heir was a boy. Otherwise the crown would not have been in a position to refuse a political marriage between the two.

But then again Nanami found himself wrapped in another political marriage.

“Though I must say,” Satoru tapped his fingers on the material of his expensive trousers. “I am quite disappointed that I have not had the chance to introduce myself to our new queen.”

Nanami’s brows immediately furrowed. Gojo Satoru was not one to entertain pleasantries just for pleasantry’s sake. You interested him, and that unnerved the king. What was this feeling?

“I hear she made quite the impression at the festival’s opening…” He dragged on, and Nanami closed the file was holding firmly.

“So what is the purpose of you barging into my study, Satoru?” Gojo smirked.

“Addressing me by my first name, now isn’t that unusual…” He turned to Geto with an expression beyond amused. “If I could venture to guess, I would say the king does not like me talking about his darling wife.” The courtier sighed under his breath, looking straight ahead. Provocation was the Duke’s favorite game, and Geto was not willing to participate.

“If you inserted yourself in my schedule to waste my time, you will be escorted outside the palace grounds.” Nanami leveled him with a stern look, and Satoru raised his hands defensively. But the amused glint did not entirely leave his eyes.

“Alright, alright, no need to kick me out, your majesty,” He stretched his hand out, a silent invitation for Suguru to hand him a sizeable batch of documents. Gojo leaned over and placed them on the table before the king, whose sole response was a raised brow.

“Though the aristocracy seems to think my time away from the capital is spent slipping from one woman’s bed to another,” Gojo began, holding a hand to his chest dramatically “I actually do quite the investigative work.” His eyes returned to the king with a smile, who crossed his arms over his chest.

“And what is the subject of these investigative efforts?” He asked, making no move to read the documents placed before him. But he could already tell there were reports. Other things slipped out of the bundle, though. Receipts, permits, letters.

“The question is who, your majesty,” he corrected with a wag of his finger. “Things in the South have been getting more and more unstable, that is no secret.” He sighed, expression now turning serious. “And the duchy has considerable investments in that region, so it was only fitting for me to have a look. These papers here,” he pointed at the pile on the desk “Contain a comprehensive record of activities of what I believe is someone or multiple people in the royal court funding the rebel uprisings.”

Nanami’s eyes narrowed. Of course, after hearing Haibara’s reports he knew something was off about this conflict. The insurgencies kept popping up, even when the knights seemed to have wiped out the bases. And those who fought were either poor people who lived by the border and mercenaries. There were a lot of possible benefits to destabilizing such a profitable area, but for it to come from inside? The king’s jaw clenched.

“I will review all of this information,” Nanami finally pulled the documents towards himself. The nobles always tried to defend their own interests. And he couldn’t entirely blame them for that. Afterall, the royal family operates on protecting itself most of the time. But such insubordination was way beyond justification. His expression turned deadly, and even Gojo’s smirk faltered at the sight. He had to set an example. And uproot this problem.

“Thank you for the information,” the king conceded.

Gojo stood from the chair, giving another bow “The things I do for this kingdom.”

“Your majesty,” Geto finally approached the table and bowed again, “We can also provide you with more details concerning what our informants have found, at your request.” The king nodded and voiced his thanks before the pair left.

The dull ache of an incoming headache was already beating at his temples when Nanami pulled the documents closer. And with every paper he sifted through, so did quiet fury simmer.

It was late afternoon when he called out from his office. “Get me Haibara!” Startled, poor Ichiji scurried away to fulfill the order. Whoever was behind this was going to get hell for it.

Having returned from the flower festival, you remember falling asleep with a stomach full of butterflies. He said he adored your speech. Somewhere, a voice in your mind screamed out about wanting him to adore you.

You pressed your face into the pillows, groaning deeply. You could not become greedy.

Wishing for anything more than what was given would only hurt you. Your dreams were filled of images of the king, of the depth of his eyes and closeness that set your heart alight.

But the king had left. You were fully awake, eyes scanning through the paper you held for the nth time.

[I will be away for a time. Please inform Alma of anything that you may need. Kento Nanami]

Your mind raced with questions. If he had left in such a haste, something must have been terribly wrong. He certainly would not do such a thing on a whim, would he? Had you done something to upset him?

You barely had the time to figure out how to overthink the situation, when Riko burst into your quarters. The prince was sick. The maid responsible to getting him ready, Kuroi took note of a burning fever while dressing him, and the child fainted soon after, inducing panic in the experienced woman.

“He is such a healthy child, I do not even recall the last time he was sick,” Alma rambled while you hurried over his room, instructing a guard to find the palace doctor.

You found Yuuji laying in his bed, round cheeks flushed a deep pink and eyes closed wearily in restless sleep. Your heart ached at the sight. Seeing one who always jumped around with so much energy in this state was startling. And you soon found a permanent place by his bedside.

Days had passed, and your position had not changed. You wrung a small towel in the basin of cool water that laid on the night stand and wiped at the child’s forehead and neck, watching his breath shudder at the sensation of the cold towel against his burning skin. A small whimper followed and you cooed gently.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, touching your fingers against his cheek. He opened his eyes, look unfocused, before closing them again. The sight hurt you even more, wishing you could take the pain away. “Are you okay, baby?”

He took in several heavy breaths, seeming to not fully comprehend the words that left your mouth. You recalled the doctor’s words when he had arrived that first night.

He shows symptoms of the smallpox, your majesty. Though not fatal, he might struggle to regain his strength for a few weeks.

The doctor instructed that only those who had suffered from the infection before could take care of Yuuji, which eliminated the head maid and the Kuroi. You on the other hand, still had remembered how a short smallpox episode had wracked your body as a child. So you stayed by his side, adamant about being the one to care for him.

You wrung the towel of the cold water again, pressing it over Yuuji’s skin in a soothing motion.

His lips parted, “Mama?”

The simple word left your frozen in place. Oh no.

The fever probably made him delirious, he is confusing me for his mother.

While still deciding how to tell him he was mistaken, his hand reached over and his small fingers closed around the fabric of your dress.

“Can you… Lie down with me?” he pushed out with difficulty, and you lost the heart to correct the boy.

“Alright, my darling,” your hand brushed his cheek and you placed the towel down. As soon as you circled to the other side of the bed and climbed in, Yuuji clung to your side, resting his head against your chest. He seemed to relax into what was finally a restful sleep.

You breathed out a slight relief, but sleep would not find you. Your mind drifted back to the departure of the king. Certainly if he knew Yuuji was this sick, he would have hurried back. You had written a note be sent to him immediately after finding out the child fainted.

You had chosen to keep news of the prince’s sickness to only those who had initially found out. Unwarranted attention was the last thing you needed.

Pushing the thoughts aside, you told yourself that it was fine. If you could not even deal with a few days in the king’s absence, what kind of queen would you be? What you needed to focus on now was ensuring the prince was okay. Yuuji would be okay.

Wasn’t this part of the deal agreeing to be his mother? You held the boy closer.

Just getting to the Southern port city had taken a week. One long, exhausting week as the king rode undercover with some of the knights, only taking short breaks to eat and sleep. And one week of sleeping in the woods and being separated from his family was enough to put him in a sour mood.

They reached the Gojo estate, where they had opted to stay rather than the royal residence by the beach. The last thing the king wanted was people knowing he was here. Even so, Nanami did not like the idea of having to rely on the Duke. Who knew what favor the man would feel entitled to after this?

He turned to Ichiji, the only person informed of the king’s sudden departure along with Alma and you.

“I need you to make me a list of all the aristocrats with sizeable investments in this region,” he spoke, taking off his soiled outer garments “Funding an insurrection cannot be untraceable.”

Ichiji nodded, leaving for the town with a knight in tow. All the businesses would be asked to produce tax records and investor information, which the king intended to compare with the royal records. Something was terribly off, and Nanami would not wait until things took a catastrophic turn before acting.

“Haibara,” he called, and the head knight entered the room that served as office and bedchamber, closing the door behind him.

“Yes, your majesty,” he bowed in response. He knew not to tease the king when he was so on edge. “Take me to the prisoners captured from the previous uprising.” The king rose, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

Haibara’s eyes widened slight, “We just got here, your majesty, you need to rest. And they have not yet been put on trial-”

“I said, take. me. there.” the chill of his tone shut the head knight up, who resorted to nodding tersely. Haibara felt bad for whoever was going to be on the receiving end of the king’s wrath.

Nanami’s knuckles were covered in blood, his sleeves neatly folded above his forearms. He moved his head from side to side, neck cracking as he circled the man sitting in the center of the cell. The royal guards in charge of guarding the prison watched in horror. They had never seen their even-keeled king in such a state.

He eventually came to sit on a small wooden chair facing the prisoner. The one whom all the others Nanami had “questioned” pointed as the leader of the movement, who had supposedly organized everything and gave out orders.

“I am not going to ask another time,” his voice was low. But only an idiot would believe that its quietness was indicative of anything but pure fury. He had been in this God-forsaken place for a five days now. Five more days away from his home. His patience was running very thin. “Name,” he grabbed a towel, wiping his hands in preparation for another round. The man facing him looked up, terror evident in his swollen eyes. “And location of your master.”

A few beats of silence passed. Nanami extended his hand towards Haibara, and was handed a knife. He sighed.

“I hate having to repeat myself,” he approached the prisoner, casting a looming shadow of him. “But by the end of this, you will be the one begging for me to stop.”

Three weeks had passes since the king left, and the prince’s health was finally starting to look up. You were utterly exhausted, having watched over the sore flares and nights of difficult fever. But above all, you were so proud of Yuuji for pushing through every moment of it.

The doctor returned for his nth examination, looking over the child’s condition with relief painting his features.

“The worst has passed. He just needs to eat, drink enough, and rest. The young prince is well on the right way to regain his strength,” You thanked the doctor, who thanked you in return for all the effort you spent.

You returned to the child’s side, running your fingers along his arm. Noting the small scars left behind by the rash that had littered his skin.

“You fought so bravely, Yuuji,” you whispered, leaning down to leave a kiss on his cheek. “I’m sure papa is so proud of you.”

You had still not heard news from the king, now convinced that the note you sent never reached its destination. There was no way he would have learned that and not come back. Right?

He opened his eyes, looking at you with a small pout. “Papa is proud?” his voice was almost back to its usual vitality. You brought a hand to his cheek. “Yes, my darling, so proud.”

“Where is papa?” he asked again. “I want to see him.”

“He’ll be back real soon okay? He’s away on very important business.” You pushed his hair out of his face. “Here, you must be hungry? Alma made your favorite,” you walked to the small table behind you, grabbing the tray of food.

“You should eat too,” the child retorted when you sat down. He had noticed the way you never left his side. There was no way you could have eaten enough in that time.

“Okay, okay,” you nodded, knowing he wouldn’t eat until you conceded. “We eat both then.”

You brought the soup-filled spoon to Yuuji’s lips, who parted them without protests. Eventually, he grabbed the spoon, insisting on feeding you too. You compromised on you taking a bite for every five that he did, to which he begrudgedly agreed. Soon enough, he was well-fed and fast asleep.

You were putting the bowl away when a loud knock sounded at the door. You frowned, recalling having ordered the maids to try to be as quiet as possible around the child’s quarters. Still, you stood and headed for the door, grabbing the tray so whoever was knocking could help return it to the kitchen.

“Your majesty,” Riko rushes the moment your face appeared from behind the large door. “Alma says someone very important is here, and refuses to leave until he sees the king. He’s waiting in the courtyard”

Your brows furrowed, “Who is this person?”

You were convinced Nanami had not told many people about his departure. You had hoped for a swift return, and maybe even a word that he was well, but nothing. Radio silence. Still, you wanted to trust that he was alright.

“I apologize, I do not know your majesty. Usually counsellor Ichiji deals with these things if the king is busy. But he is nowhere to be found. Alma told me to just come find you and not worry about the king, he’s just resting. But his majesty never neglects official duty like this! Is he also sick? Oh no, that’s a terrible omen-” The maid's spiral was paused by your hand on her shoulder.

“Amanai,” you called softly, and she looked up. “Everything is fine, I will see to this issue. I won’t be long but I want you to stay around in case Yuuji wakes up and needs something.” You finally stepped out of the room. “And one more thing,” you watched Riko take your place behind the door “Not a word to anyone about any of this, understood?”

The young maid nodded with pursed lips, and you walked away in the direction of the courtyard, trying to smooth out some of the wrinkles on your dress. You had not met with anyone who did not live on palace grounds in three weeks, even sending Shoko a letter that you were feeling unwell to justify the absence. And you knew you certainly looked as tired as you felt.

On any other day, you would not have allowed yourself to be seen in any sort of disheveled manner. But the palace needed you, so you raised your head trudged forward.

As soon as you step foot in the court yard, the sight of a figure surrounded by royal guards came into view.

“Your majesty,” Marquess Kamo greeted from behind the guards who blocked the path. “It is such a pleasure to see you again.” His tone was saccharine sweet, the same one he had used at the ball for introductions.

“Marquess Kamo,” you greeted, not having the energy to muster anything beyond a polite smile. “I trust the guards have informed you of the current unavailability of his majesty,” you clasped your hands before you, “Unfortunately you will have to come at a later time.”

His expression soured, a polar shift to his previous pleasantness “I have been told that multiple times already…” he huffed “The king has already postponed two meetings with the council. If he is unable to grant me an audience at the moment, I have grounds to be worried don’t I, my queen?”

Your eyes fleeted to Alma who stood not far from the guards, lips drawn in a thin line. What was he implying?

Marquess Kamo is a cunning man, Nanami’s voice swept through your thoughts. You knew that the less you interacted with the man, the better. But you could not send him away without proper justification and let things fester. You had not been informed that the Marquess demanded an audience before. If just for the sake of appearances, you thought you should receive him.

A sudden anxious feeling crept up the back of your neck. Should you even make any of these decisions? What if all you did was make things worse in this place. You shook the thoughts away. Even if executive power had not been explicitly handed to you, doing nothing would only result in things getting worse.

“I understand, Marquess. I shall grant you a short audience in the gardens. But after today, the king will contact you when he is able to meet, so we will not expect your presence before then.” Your words were firm and the guards nod before stepping away from the aristocrat and leading the way to the main gardens.

The Marquess walked a step behind you, sending a wave of discomfort through you. The earlier this was done, the better. You sat at a small table in the middle of the lush garden, and Alma instructed servants to bring out tea and pastries. You took in a deep breath, bracing yourself for the conversation.

This is just to save face, you reminded yourself. The last thing you wanted were rumors that the king was ill or incapacitated in any way. You knew that was not what Nanami would have wanted. If servants were already thinking that, you did not know what could be going around in nobility.

“Thank you for your time, your majesty,” the man took a bite from the cake slice in front of him, making an exaggerated show of savoring it, seemingly having returned to his jolly mood.

“You are welcome, Marquess. I do not mean to sound short but I would appreciate if you would get to the point of this visit.” You forced your voice into an amicable tone, watching as the man finished the slice.

“I see you are fairly straightforward,” he put the fork down, eyes narrowing sharply. In an instant, his expression turned cold, sending a chill down your spine. “His majesty is obviously not here, so I won’t waste my time with official business.” You frowned. Had Nanami told him he was going away too? No… That did not sound right at all.

“I know you probably have many questions about this place. About the truth behind the king’s previous marriage.” He spoke quietly, causing you to narrow your eyes in suspicion. Where exactly was he going with this?

“All of which my husband has answered. I know Kaori was your daughter Marquess. I find this line of questioning highly inappropriate.” You lied.

He chuckled, a sinister sound. “Did he now? Are you sure he told you everything? The truth behind the nature of their relationship? Her death?” You went silent, eyes narrowing at the man.

“The king loved my daughter oh so dearly. Maybe that is why he is so distant now. You know what they say about losing a great love,” he recounted, timbre almost turned sappy. You could not figure this man out, but his words caused your frown to deepen.

Don’t let him get into your head.

“It is so nice of you to play nanny and try to keep appearances.” He stood, adjusting his coat over his shoulders, “I hope you don't believe the king actually cares about you. You may think yourself a queen, but you are but a glorified surrogate. A help.” The words knocked the wind out of you. The sheer audacity.

You watched him leave, escorted by the guards and leaving behind a deafening silence

Don’t let him get into your head

You repeated the mantra on your way back to Yuuji’s room. But how could you not? He had not say anything factually incorrect. Your role in the palace was to act as Yuuji's mother, even though you could never shake the shadow of the woman.

Help. That was all you were. To do what was needed for now, but destined to be eventually pushed into the background. The notion left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Pushing the chambers’ doors open, you expect to be greeted by Riko. But instead you notice Nanami sitting on the edge of the bed, hand resting on the sleeping child’s head.

“Your majesty,” you call out, staying by the door. He had returned. Finally. Relief filled your being.

“How long has he been ill?” The king did not turn around, his tone harshly breaking the silence.

The king was home. Finally. After what felt like an eternity away, exhaustion rocked his body. Unending days of riding and questioning had yielded results. He gained critical information about the insurrection. But the time away had also chipped away at his soul. He just needed to be home. To see his son. To know everything was alright. To be reminded he still had control.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his child, sick, with a panicking young maid when he entered the room. He ordered her out after listening to her unprompted ramblings about Yuuji being terribly sick. Why wasn’t Alma in there instead? Or even the royal doctor?

He had left his son. Without even the chance to say goodbye. He had neglected his duty as a father and now Yuuji was ill. What if something worse had happened while he was away? Once again he had failed, utterly so.

And in the middle of this torrent of emotions you burst into the room. So comfortably. Like you had been here countless times. Like you were the righteous occupant of Yuuji’s space. His child.

Only then did Nanami notice the small traces of you littered across the room. A pair of gloves laying on the nightstand. Your shawl draped on the other side of the bed. Your flowery scent lingering in the air.

You had crossed the line. Nanami felt control slipping from his fingers. Control over the care of his own son. The feeling only contributing to the mounting frustration he carried.

“So you’ve been in here… The whole time-”

“Could we please talk outside? I would not want to wake him now,” you interrupted, despite noting his mounting displeasure. The king tensed, but he eventually followed you outside.

You walked back to the garden where you had met the Marquess in an uneasy silence. One that sent your mind into a frenzy.

“The prince had smallpox,” you finally began when you both sat, “He feels much better now, I was with him the whole time.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you felt the need to brace yourself for this conversation. “Where were you?”

He looked up, tired eyes still holding what looked like hostility. “Away.” The curt response made your heart squeeze painfully. “Thank you for taking care of him but this ends today. I am back to take care of my son.”

You frowned at the emphasis of his words. How did he expect you to just scram after having seen Yuuji in such a state? You bit your lip, refusing to roll over and take it. Not this time.

“What does that mean? You cannot just dismiss me like this.” you tried to keep your voice even, but found it shaky. Maybe it was the exhaustion from the past few weeks. Or remnants of your previous conversation.

He sighed, rubbing at his temples. He felt a headache coming. One too many, and he did not have the patience for confrontation at the moment. “I can. And I am. Y/N I did not ask for you to do what you did.” His eyes found yours, sharp as ever. “You overstepped. And I am asking you to step back. I am his father, and you-”

“Are just a help” you finished his sentence, chuckling humorlessly. "I understand, your majesty," you said, rising to your feet, the sting of dismissal sharp in your chest. "I’ll return to my quarters, then. Should you think of any further errands befitting a servant, do let me know."

This place would never be your home. This was a political marriage after all. One you were traded into. And as you stepped away, willing yourself to not look back you reminded yourself. Beggars could not be choosers. You could not desire more than was given. And that included a place in the king’s heart.

whew this was a hefty one. As always, do let me know what you think!

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated (❁´◡`❁)

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miioouu · 1 year ago

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Studying with Captain Price

I wrote this while studying for my midterms and wishing Price would offer me incentives for every chapter I finish.

Tw: smut, age gap, a bit of dumbification, mention of marriag, f!reader

Imagine you're sitting, eyes glued to your laptop's screen, chewing at the end of your pencil as you scan through the thousands of useless words to find the overall important idea. Another huff from you as you see that you still have more than seventy pages to go through, made John tut and crack his knuckles as he gets off the couch and makes his way to you. Without a warning, stealthy like a fox approaching its prey, his hands wrap around your waist, lifting you up just barely so he could slide under you and sit you on one of his thighs. "You're being fussy, baby. Stop complaining, you need to study and get that degree so i can put a ring on that finger" he reminds you. His fingers lace with yours before leaving a soft kiss onto your knuckles. Encourages you to keep studying, pressing open mouthed kisses on your neck every once in a while, pinching your thighs at every complaint you let out, and when he sees you reaching for your phone for some distraction from the two billion pages chapters, his hips would thrust up, reminding you of what you should be doing.

And really, it should be encouraging, it should keep you focused, the promise he made about making you his after you finally graduate. But it doesn't. Instead your mind is filled with ideas. They began sweetly, thinking of the ring he'd get you, the songs that'd be playing, the night of as he peels the white dress off of your body. You hummed at the thought, staring dumbly at the bright screen of your laptop, it didn't go unseen by the big man. He chuckles, lips on your neck again, renewing the hickeys he left a few days ago. "Pretty baby, what's distracting you, hmm?"

Why was he even asking? it's obviously his fingers slipping the hem of your nightgown up, only to start thumbing at the elastic of your cute cotton panties. It's obviously the way his teeth are grazing the tender skin of your throat when you roll your head back. It's obviously how he pushes you off of him slightly to release his aching cock, only to bring you back down, moving your panties to the side so he can settle into your warm walls. "Come on, study well baby. I need to show you off. Make all the other boys jealous of my pretty, smart, kind girl, yeah?"

And you'd whine and whine and whine, whimper with each of his thrusts. He's so mean, making sure to go even deeper whenever you'd finish a slide or a page, making sure to still his hips whenever you'd take too long. He's so mean, making you cockwarm him, scolding you when you'd start to move your hips, threatening to leave you all alone in your misery. He's so gentle when you'd start to really get frustrated, tears pricking your eyes, even you're not sure if you're irritated at him or at that stupid course. He hushes you "Alright baby, need a small break?" He doesn't wait for your answer, pushing your laptop and notebooks aside, lifting you up and softly pushing you against the table, pressing your chest to the cold wood. He's palming at your hips and waist as he sets up an agonising slow pace. Is he teasing you, punishing you, or trying to calm you down? Whatever it is it doesn't last long, a plea escaping your lips is all it took for him to pick up the tempo of his movements. His pretty tip would nudge your cervix with each of his thrusts, his chest would brush against your back when he'd kiss your nape. And soon enough his sweetness would dim only to be replaced by an animalistic instinct. Your skin would bruise under his tight hold, your voice would echo loudly in the room, across the house. And soon enough, his warm praises will turn into dirty ones "So good for me. Such a good slut, taking all of me like that. Such a good slut, doesn't like to use her mind for anything other than thinking about my dick, hmm?" Oh he's so right, he's so right! How are you supposed to focus on your studies when his arms circle around your waist and push you back up, making him delve even deeper in your spongy walls? How are you supposed to focus on your studies when he's making you see stars, when he's making you scream his name like a mantra, when he's making your legs tremble from the intense orgasm? How are you supposed to focus on your studies when he keeps going, not even slowing down, even when you beg him to, not until he's satisfied, not until he paints your inside white, and make drip on your notebooks for you to remember later when he forces you to get back to studying, you want that ring right?

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #john price smut #captain john price #john price #captain price #captain price smut #smut #cod smut #cod x reader #female reader

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streamafterlaughter · 2 months ago

Text

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter VIII: Take That For What You Will

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev | diaries coming soon

songs for this chapter: sudden desire by hayley williams, two beers in by free throw, i don't care if you’re a monster by mat kerekes

summary: the day after your would-be date turns out to be less than awful, somehow.

chapter tags: dream smut, violence, lots and lots of angst, smoking, drinking, swearing yippee! | fic tags: angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | This fic is rated 18+ MDNI each chapter will have its own content/trigger warnings

a/n: hey remember that other long fic I was working on? well. it seems I have a pattern of writing bar fights. anyway, enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, this is the only account that features and contains this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. Reblog to support the author, and reply/msg to join the tag list!

You writhe underneath him, whimpering when he brings a calloused finger down to meet between your bodies. His thumb circles your clit at an achingly slow pace, forcing you to grind against him where your bodies connect. The noise that leaves your mouth is barely human. He goes deeper, dragging another guttural moan from your throat, and lifts your leg to hook around his hip as he thrust into you again, again, hitting that sweet spot inside of you every time. You move to hide your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent to keep you grounded.

“Uh uh, look at me.” It’s the voice in your ear that sends you reeling backwards, shoving at the figure on top of you. He comes into focus, a wild mane of frizzy curls framing a soft, smiling face with the deepest chocolate eyes. “There she is. My pretty girl.” The words are said between hot breaths fanning your face, pushing you over the edge of bliss and dragging Eddie with you.

–

There is an unyielding pain in your forehead when you jolt awake, hyperventilating as the images of your dream flash before your eyes as you repeat to yourself, “Not real, not real, not real.”. The sunshine is streaming into the bedroom, hitting you directly in the face. It takes far too long for you to bolt upright, realizing you’re back home, in your bed, in your underwear. You vaguely remember someone driving you home, and flopping into bed after peeling your sweaty outfit off. You glance at the pile of clothes on your floor, confirming that theory.

Stretching your limbs, you exit your bedroom, deciding against the effort of getting dressed once you realize you’re in your own home. That confidence is cut short when you hear the same voice you’d heard in your head mere minutes ago.

“Whoa! Mornin’ sunshine!” His voice is gravelly, the effects of last night lingering, and it makes your cheeks hot as he observes you, too frozen to register that you’re not wearing pants.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You scowl, failing to conceal your embarrassment, still too stuck to wrap yourself in the throw just out of reach. “Was too tired to drive home, crashed on the couch. Hope it’s alright. Good to see you upright, though.” He chirps, far too perky for the early hour.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” You frown, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, trying to ignore the way he’s staring at you; head tilted, eyes scanning your underdressed form.

“Yeah, sure. Over breakfast.”

“What?” Why in the world would you have breakfast with him?

“Yeah, c’mon. You’re buyin’ too.”

“What the hell, Eddie?!”

–

He drives the pair of you to Benny’s in your car. Another sigh of relief, followed by several more nagging questions.

“Can you at least give me a hint, so I know you didn’t kidnap me?” You ask as the waitress leads you to the booth in the corner. You’re desperate for something to latch onto, something to jog your spotty memory. You start to think maybe you shouldn’t drink anymore, because clearly, you’re not very good at it.

“Look, I’m gonna spare you most of the details. Nothing that horrible happened, I promise. You’d been bookin’ it to the bar every twenty minutes, downing everything you could get your hands on. I stayed to make sure you were okay. Macy was going to Fiona’s anyway.”

“Where’s your van?” You ask between sips of coffee.

“We took the train in, like smart people.”

“What exactly are you insinuating?”

“That people who plan on drinking when they’re out probably shouldn’t drive.” He shrugs, sticking his tongue out at you.

You huff. “Touche.”

He snorts. “Seriously? No clever retort this morning?”

You shake your head, then wince again as the lightning bolts of pain shock your nerves.

“You okay?” His expression softens, but only for a fraction of a second.

“Yeah, just experiencing the consequences of my actions.” You rub your forehead, trying to massage the migraine away.

Eddie juts his finger out at you and says pointedly, “I know just the thing for that.” “Dude, I’m not smoking weed with you.”

He sucks air through his teeth in mock pain, clutching his chest. “It stings every time, sweets. Not that, though. Let me order for you.” You cock an eyebrow at him. “You got allergies?” You shake your head, gently as you can manage.

–

It’s as if you’ve never touched alcohol in your life; like a hangover is just a ghost story told by a camp counselor to keep you from sneaking vodka into the hot cocoa again. The supposed cure? A sausage, egg, cheddar, and homefry sandwich, all of which are squished between two toasted, fluffy bulky rolls slathered in butter.

“Holy shit.” Your mouth is full of salty, greasy goodness when you say this, covering your mouth to lessen the obscenity of your manners. “This is better than–”

“Sex?”

“Let’s not get crazy.” You laugh nervously, the memories of last night’s dream flooding back. You let yourself wonder if it is better than the sex you didn’t have. “I’m assuming this has saved your own life a time or two?” You ask instead, changing the subject.

Eddie nods, stuffing another bite of his own sandwich into his mouth. It’s only when he stops, turning his head to face you and asks, “Like what ya see?” that you realize you've been staring. At Eddie. For far longer than is normal for you. You clear your throat, darting your eyes, wrongfully, to where his hand is on the table, splayed out, giving you a clear view of the rings adorning his thick fingers.

“So,” Eddie breaks the silence, not uncomfortably, “You’re goin’ to the show, right?”

You blink, the spell broken when your eyes meet his again. “Be a bit more specific.”

“Chappell, on Friday?”

“Yeah… are you?” Eddie did not strike you as a Chappell Roan fan.

“Well, yeah. Macy’s opening. She said that if it went well, this would be huge for the band. I’m happy for her.” Contrary to his words, his tone does not sound anywhere near happy. You tilt your head at him. “What?”

“Nothing, just realized you’re a really bad liar.”

He lets out a loud, curt laugh. “Wow, okay. I dunno, I think we’re probably gonna break up. No big.”

“Oh.” You don’t know what to say, you’ve never had Eddie be vulnerable with you. “I’m sorry, man. That sucks.”

He shrugs. “I like her, but I don’t know if it’s enough to do long distance. I’m a physical lover after all.”

You gulp at the words, feeling your body temperature quickly rise as your dream comes hurtling back. You’re about to excuse yourself to the bathroom when your waitress returns, placing the check in front of Eddie with a wink. You look from her to where Eddie sits across from you, eyes scanning the bill when a smile develops on his stupid, stupid face. He flips the sheet to show you what he’s beaming at: The waitress’s phone number. Obviously. Her name, Emily, written in purple pen, the ‘i’ dotted with an obnoxiously large heart.

“That’s kinda fucked up, if you think about it.” You muse, plucking the check out of his hand. “What if I was your girlfriend?”

“Sweets, that’s Emily Gardner. She was in our class, and graduated with you. She used to call me Eddie Manson. Her and her cronies poured pig’s blood in my locker on prom night.”

You didn’t know any of this. Hawkins High had been a small school, but you had separated yourself from Eddie by your first senior year, his second. Luckily you hadn’t had to switch any classes around to avoid him, but you’d always eat lunch in the library just in case it was a day where he’d decide to draw attention.

“So…?”

“So, now she wants me to call her. She has the fuckin’ balls to give me her phone number like I’d want anything to do with her.”

You roll your eyes, knowing better. “So, you’re gonna call her.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, probably. I’m only human.”

You shake your head. “One day this is gonna bite you in the ass.”

“Ooh, kinky.” He gives you a cocky grin, and you scrunch your face up in disgust as you slap your debit card on the table.

“I was joking, by the way. You don’t have to pay.”

You shake your head, snatching the check out of his hand. “Consider it payment for whatever shit I put you through last night. Now we’re even.”

He backs off, raising his hands in surrender, and Emily comes back for the bill. You swear one more button has popped open on her blouse, and Eddie seems to notice it too. You groan inwardly at the display, rubbing your temples to ward off the second wave of aching in your head.

–

“A sex dream?!” Robin squeals as she jumps beside you onto the couch, crossing her legs and turning her body towards you, like a second grader ready for circle time. “Tell me everything!” Steve’s at work, and Robin had originally invited you over to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer for the seventh time, but you had to get your dream off your chest to someone.

“Who was it? Was it Steve? Was it me?! It was me, wasn't it? I’m flattered, Bee, but I don’t wanna ruin our friendship.” She pouts at you mockingly, and you backhand her shoulder.

“No, my darling, it wasn’t you, and it definitely wasn’t Steve.” You can feel your cheeks warm as you speak, dreading to tell her.

“Okay, then who? Don’t leave me hangin’, I’ll guess everyone in our graduating class right now!”

You mumble his name under your breath, unable to meet her curious gaze.

“Sorry, I didn't quite catch that.” She leans in closer, cupping her ear with her hand.

“Eddie! God, I was fucking Eddie, okay?! Actually, he was fucking me. And it was hot, Rob.” You whine, ashamed of your subconscious for putting these images in your head, causing you to wonder what sex with him actually would be like. You squeeze your legs together despite yourself.

“Oh my fucking god. Bee!” Robin’s mouth drops open at your admission, and you clamp it shut for her.

“We do not speak a word of this, to Steve or to anyone, understood?”

She salutes you, sitting up straighter. “Aye, aye. What do you think it means?”

You shrug. You want to tell her it means nothing, but Robin wouldn’t believe you for a second. Before you can answer her, she’s typing something into her phone. “What are you doing?”

“I’m googling what it means to have a sex dream about your arch nemesis.” You laugh, but she isn’t joking. She pokes the search button, and scrolls through the links to Cosmo articles explaining what different types of sex dreams could mean.

“Find anything useful?” You half joke, but part of you kind of wants to know the answer.

“Hm. It says here that when you dream of someone, it means that person is thinking about you. Maybe Eddie was having the same dream.” She teases, and you shove her off the couch. “Hey!”

“Get it all out now, Rob, because if you utter any of this again I’ll have your head on a plate.”

She cackles, head thrown back as you seethe at her, willing yourself to be stern.

“Okay, okay. Just one question, though.” You gesture for her to continue. “Was he big?” She can’t contain herself, cackling again as you throw your head back into the couch cushions. “Okay, I’m done!” She can barely get the words out between fits of laughter, and you excuse yourself to the balcony for a cigarette.

–

Chris is behind the bar when you get to work, throwing your bag and coat on the rack behind the counter.

“Hey, sis!” He greets you as he wipes a mysterious liquid from the bar. “How’d your date go?”

“It didn’t.” You spit venom at your brother, shoving past him to get clean glasses from the dish rack.

“Whoa, what’s your problem?” He pokes at your side, and you swat him away. “Bad lay?”

“Chris, he didn’t come.” You spin to look at your brother, now wearing that stupid, bewildered expression that had gotten him out of trouble so many times. “He stood me up, okay?”

“Oh. Birdy, I’m sorry.” The childhood nickname feels like a stab wound being ripped back open. “I didn’t think he was that kind of guy.”

“What would you know, Chris? You’ve been away for six years! You don’t know fucking anything!” Sure, maybe it’s an unfair fight to have with him, but you’re tired. You’ve only just recently learned Chris was willing to abandon you to save Eddie’s ass, and you need to lash out at someone.

“Okay, okay, that’s fair. I shouldn’t have intervened. If you weren’t with Scotty last night though, where were you?”

You bite your lip, backing down. “I hung out with friends.”

He cocks his head at you. “Steve was working. I went to visit him, Rob was there too. You weren’t there.”

“I have more friends, y’know.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know anything.” You don’t answer, and you watch his face morph into a wide, gleaming smile. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Your guard is up. He knows.

“You were with Eddie, weren’t you? He was at Emo Nite. That chick he’s been seeing had a set, right? Milly something?”

“Macy, Chris. He’s your best friend, you should probably learn his girlfriend’s name.”

“Macy isn’t his girlfriend, Bee.”

“Okay, fine. But whatever they are, they’re hanging out. It’s rude not to know her name.”

“Eh, they’ll be old news soon enough. Besides, I already know the name of the one girl that matters to that kid, even if he doesn’t.”

You don’t indulge this line of conversation, knowing it will only make you angry. Eddie doesn’t care about you, not beyond being his best friend’s sister. You’re not stupid enough to pretend he does. “Whatever.” You move past him to take another drink order.

–

Scotty enters the bar when you’re still too far away from finished with your shift. He approaches the bar with an air of cockiness about him, surrounded by who you can only assume are his friends, people you don’t know well enough to indulge.

“Hey, Bee.” He greets you, leaning against the counter. You can smell the whiskey on his breath, clearly already wasted even though he’s only just arrived. “Nice to see you again.”

You’re not sure if it’s the night you’ve had, or just the sheer audacity of this guy, but you don’t feel like being an example of good customer service right now. “What are you doing here, Scott?”

“It’s a bar. I’m here to drink.”

“There are plenty of bars in Hawkins, why come to the one where the girl you stood up works?”

He bats his eyes at you, big, blue discs, empty of any shame. “Maybe I came to apologize.”

You scoff, turning to grab the whiskey from the back counter. “Something tells me that’s not it.”

“C’mon, baby, I mean it! I should have called.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Your skin crawls as he leans in closer, into your personal space as you pour his drink. “That’ll be ten dollars.” You slam the glass onto the bar. “Get the fuck out of my face.”

He looks from your angry face to the drink, then back. “Can we just talk? I can explain-”

“She told you to get out of her face, Scott.” You hear him before you see him. Your heart rate slows as if his appearance is responsible for calming you down. Eddie shoves his way towards you, past drunk patrons to lean against the counter next to Scotty, who still has not moved.

“Yeah, I heard her. You wanna turn with her, pretty boy?” His words string together, each one making you clench your fists more tightly.

“What the fuck did you just say?" The words fly from Eddie's mouth as soon as Scotty stops talking, head whipping to give him the scariest death glare you've probably ever seen.

“Heard she’s been around a couple times. Not sure if the guy that put her brother in jail would have much of a chance, though. Can’t hurt to try!” You barely know this kid, but his malicious comments hit you like a ton of bricks. How did he know that?

“I’m gonna make it hurt for you to fucking try anything in a second.” He slams his beer bottle on the counter, and you huff at the display.

“C’mon, Munson. Show me what ya got.” Scotty taunts, beckoning Eddie to swing on him.

“Enough, both of you!” You shout, bringing their metaphorical pissing contest to a halt. “I am not in the mood to mop your blood off the floor tonight. Please, take it the fuck outside.” You swipe Eddie’s bottle before he can grab it, and snag Scotty’s with your free hand. “You’re both cut off, by the way.”

Scotty groans, flipping you off before walking away. Eddie just stares at you, eyes big and glassy. “I’m not drunk, Bee. Just couldn’t let him get away with talking to you like that.”

“Eddie, I’m a grown up. I can handle it. Just, go away. Please.”

He doesn’t argue, just gives you a sheepish nod before turning around to join his friends again. Or, you think that’s where he’s going, but you keep an eye on his figure as it follows Scotty out of the bar, swinging the door shut. It takes all of five minutes before some drunk comes bursting through the door yelling “FIGHT OUTSIDE! THERE’S A FIGHT OUTSIDE!”

You throw your head into your hands, exasperated, before gaining enough composure to step outside. The door is thrown open, and you embrace the brisk weather of the night while wrapping yourself in your coat. The scene in front of you is one straight out of David Fincher’s Fight Club; two guys beating on each other for absolutely no fucking reason. As you get closer, you realize just how out of hand it’s become; the people surrounding them starting to back off as Eddie spits blood onto the concrete, laughing maniacally. “C’mon, Scotty, I know you got more in you than that!”

“I’m goin’ easy on you, Munson. Don’t want you gettin’ in any more trouble Don’t think anyone’s gonna bail you out this time.” Scotty is worse for the wear, the blood from his nose dripping right onto his white t-shirt, lip split, hair wild. He charges at the taller man, but Eddie easily dodges the punch and lands one of his own in Scotty’s stomach. You’re close enough to see Eddie, his eyes almost black with rage, hair half falling out of his ponytail. Thankfully, Chris jumps in before you convince yourself to get any closer.

“Hey, HEY! Break it up, boys.” Chris shoves the men apart, a hand on each of their heaving chests. “I need both of you to leave. I just got out of jail, I don’t feel like being questioned by the cops about why I have you two fuckers fighting outside of my bar. Go home, sleep it off.” He turns to Eddie and says something you can’t hear, and you watch as Eddie expressively responds, gesturing to Scotty, then to the bar. Chris turns to where you’re standing, meeting your eyes briefly before turning to Scott, tossing him into the street. “Call a cab, Scotty. Don’t show your fuckin’ face here again. You don’t get to ditch my sister and beat on my friends without repercussions.”

Scotty doesn’t argue, just shoves his hands in his pocket and saunters down the street. “Alright, enough. Everyone, go back inside. Nothing to see here.” Chris starts shooing the crowd back into the bar, leaving you and Eddie trailing behind.

After an extremely lengthy silence, you’re the first to speak. “How’s your face?” You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not wanting to see the carnage.

He laughs, then winces at the pain it causes him. “Hurts a little, why? ‘S it killin’ you?” You still don’t look at him. “Bee, I’m really sorry. He just pissed me off so bad, I–”

“Why?”

“What?”

“I just," You huff, "I don’t get you, I guess. Why would you do that for me?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and you finally look at him to find he’s already staring at you, his left eye swelling shut quickly. “What's to get? I'm sure you'll figure it out soon enough. Have a good night, Bee.” Before you can respond, he walks ahead of you, past the bar, and into the night.

–

tag list: @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality @munsonburn3r

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draco-dormiens · 2 months ago

Text

FOR ALL THAT IS RIGHT AND JUST - Chp. 1

auror!draco x auror!fem!slytherin reader / post-war au

a/n: sorry about my inconsistent ass. i'm hoping you enjoy this first chapter after i changed it a little, makes better sense for the story to come. sit back and relax cos this is nearly 4000 words bby ♡

warnings: talk of the war, people missing/kidnapping, strong language, mutual pining

wc: 3984

tags: @yeolsbubbles @send-me-styles @shinytalent

tag list open!!

masterlist

Ministry Mayhem

London, 1st May 2007

In the early hours of Tuesday morning, as the sun rose and began to cast it's orangey glow through the gaps in the bedroom curtains, the first ring of an alarm blared a rather unwelcome sound throughout the quietness of the small London flat that you called home. Sleepily, you peel your eyes open to read the time; 6:15am. With a soft grunt, you reach out to slam the snooze button with all the strength you could muster. A typical day, no less, was awaiting you at the Auror office of the British Ministry of Magic, and it was about to wait a little longer, too.

Besides, it wasn't as if anything was in dire need of solving. For the last ten years, the wizarding world had come to know a peace that had long escaped it. The fear and uncertainty that comes with nasty rumours, shadowy figures and the whispers of war was long over now. Harry Potter had fought and won against the most fearsome Dark Wizard in all of history, and now he was keeping the peace as Head of the Auror Office. Although, it wasn't all that exciting nowadays. The more gripping cases ranged from bewitched broomsticks to Oblivating Muggles in the wrong place at the wrong time. It certainly wasn't taking a whole team of Aurors to clear the workload, with most officers getting fidgety and frustrated. It was as if they wanted something to happen; in your eyes, you'd rather be Oblivating an elderly woman who saw a young boy riding a broomstick over London than some raging lunatic.

The clock blares again. Another tap of the snooze button. For a moment, you thought you'd heard knocking at your window. No, you think, I'm just tired. Five more minutes and I'll get up.

It wasn't your first choice, becoming an Auror. During your school years as a young Slytherin, you were certain it was Ancient Runes that you would pursue. That was long before the brewing storm started to reach its boiling point, clouding up any chance you had of finishing school. The prospect of war had reached civilians, and along with it a great fear of the unknown. It was perilous to venture outside of your home; your parents had been cautious to send you back for sixth year. The rumours were terrible. Frightening, even, especially when it was becoming clearer that most of them were true. Even the ones in your own family. A vivid memory of your father arguing in hushed whispers with your uncle one night over Christmas break, had solidified a fear that had been nagging your parents for a long while.

"You can't," your father said, almost spitting the words as you pressed your ear to the door, "don't go to him. Don't give your life away for something so ludicrous."

Your friends began whispering amongst themselves. Troublesome tales of someone you had known your whole life had started circulating around the school. A hard pill to swallow, but one you had to force down eventually.

"My parents said he's right," Pansy had muttered one night in the common room, the glow of the fire just lighting up her face, "I'm starting to think that following him is the better way to go."

"Have you seen Draco lately? He looks dreadful. His attitude is somehow worse." Daphne whispered, and then gulped, "you don't think... surely not, right? He's only our age."

"Dunno, heard his father was a follower during the first war," Blaise then added, looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, "I wouldn't hold your breath. I think he's one of them."

You stir in your sleep as if an unpleasant dream had began to plague your slumber. The clock blares its final warning, and with it, a series of sharp, jarring taps at your window that only grow in volume the longer you lay there. Groggily, you get up, slamming the alarm clock as you make your way to the impatient visitor. As you pull back the curtain, you see a familiar owl perched on the window sill with a letter secured in its beak. You open the window and gently take it from it's grip, and with a mighty swoosh of its wings, it soars off over the city. Ripping open the letter, you hadn't bothered to notice the wax seal of the Auror office, and begin to read:

Get down to the office as soon as you can. Sending this to everyone. It's serious.

From the handwriting you can tell who the sender is. Though still half asleep, you understand the urgency and begin rushing to get dressed. As you button the last hole on your blouse, readying yourself to enter the Ministry through the Floo network, you hear a knock at your door. Grumbling about who it could be and marching across the living room, you swing it open to be met with your, quite literal, partner in crime.

"Draco." You say simply, a smile ghosting your lips. He beams back, his attire as pristine as if he just walked out of the store. His white hair not an inch out of place, his black suit and white button down completely creaseless, and a glimmering Auror badge on his jacket to top it all off. He flashes a pearly white smile, leaning against the door frame with that same old cocky demeanour. Draco appears in some of your earliest memories as a child, and even now in work, he was a significant part of your everyday life. Growing up as children of wealthy pureblood families, it was a regular practice to mingle with those of your kind. Even though his personality was an acquired taste, despite your differing views and childish bickering, he was still both a thorn in your side and a priceless friend.

Friend. For as long as you can remember.

"Morning, take it you got Potters note?" He said, sauntering in to your apartment like it was his own, "reckon he's being a bit dramatic, don't you? Probably just dropped a biscuit in his brew."

"I doubt he'd send an owl all over London for a biscuit, Draco," you call back, hurrying to get the rest of your things together before leaving, "I think something is genuinely wrong, and I'm a little worried if I'm honest. We haven't had anything major in... well, forever."

"You know, if you'd told me in like, fifth year, that one day I'd be clambering out of bed before seven in the morning for Potter, I'd probably have pitched myself off the highest turret." Draco said dramatically, just after accusing Harry of being equally as ridiculous.

"Stop moaning and get in the fireplace," you said as if it were something normal people say on a regular basis, "we need to get down there and find out what's happening."

Draco, still mumbling, clambers into your fireplace and waits for you to squeeze in next to him. Much smaller than his own, he's bent doubly to get in, and ushers you to get the Floo powder before his back gives in. His moaning is only met with a rather stern look from yourself. You take a handful of Floo powder from the little bag sitting on the hearth, and take Draco's hand in yours. With a chant, you fling the powder down at your feet, and with a puff of green smoke, you both disappear, leaving the small flat empty and silent.

In the blink of an eye, you're no longer standing in your living room, but instead in the shiny, emerald tiled entrance to the Ministry. Draco dusts himself down, tutting at the slight specs of soot on his jacket, not noticing how you've become stiff with shock.

"Bloody Floo network," he mumbles to himself, coming to stand beside you, "how are you spotless? It's always me that gets-"

He stops his rambling when his eyes follow your line of vision to see the hoard of people just up ahead, swarming the foyer like ants, an incoherent jumble of noises filling the air from cries to shouts. All extremely well dressed and rather wealthy looking, you both got the impression that these people were not average witches and wizards: they were, in fact, much like yourselves - from old, pureblood money.

"What in Merlin's name is all of this?" You mutter, mostly to yourself, as your feet start to carry you towards the mess, Draco following behind. In the midst of all the chaos, is Delphina Sallow, the lady that usually operates the front desk of the Auror office. Delphina was a tall, slender woman with very dark hair and pale blue eyes, which were a striking contrast to her rather ghostly complexion. A nervous sort of woman, she was struggling immensely in a heated conversation with a man you recognised as Mr Selwyn, whose son was in your year at Hogwarts. Much larger than back then, with his pointer finger jabbing the air furiously, he seems to be, at best, enraged.

"This is a travesty, young lady!" He bellows at Delphina, who has resorted to using her clipboard for protection against the wave of saliva, "my son has been taken, taken I tell you, right from under our noses! Sleeping soundly he was; I can see him sitting there during third supper, not a care in the world, enjoying his fourth lamb chop like the innocent boy he is. I demand justice, young lady, or so help me I'll sue the entire Auror office for all it's bloody well worth."

"P-please, sir, I'm only the receptionist, I-I don't have any authority to help you-"

"No authority?" Mr Selwyn shouts with such force, his large moustache almost flies off of his round, purple face, "I do not care for your position, young lady, get me someone who can find my son or I'll be in the right mind to get you fired. I know people in high places, you know!"

"Excuse me," you interrupt as you reach them, Delphina's face washing over with absolute relief, "can I ask what's going on here? Miss Sallow is not an officer, sir. If you have concerns, please take them up with someone clearly wearing a badge."

You point abruptly to the shining Auror badge on your jacket. Mr Selwyn scoffs irritably.

"Well, miss badge, I demand you find my son. At once." He rounds on you, his large, bulbous belly almost touching you before he can get any closer. Draco appears almost instantly, standing just in front of you, the most condescending smile curling at his lips, trying and failing to hide the clear desire to swing a fist into Mr Selwyns beetroot coloured face.

"If you get any closer, sir, I may have to resort to unsavoury means. All in the name of law, you understand." Draco stood completely straight, towering over the stumpy Mr Selwyn, to which the angered man grunted something under his breath before waddling off to his next victim.

"Thank you," Delphina sighs, dabbing the sweat on her forehead with a handkerchief, "he's not the only one I've dealt with this morning. So many reports of missing persons, all within the last few hours or so. I-it's my day off, I'm only here on Mr Potter's orders."

"As are we, Miss Sallow," Draco smiles at Delphina, to which she blushes furiously, "I think you should head back up. Tell Potter we're here, would you?"

As if the Minister himself had instructed her, she scurries off to the lifts.

"Honestly, you could tell Del to jump off a cliff." You scoff lightheartedly, turning back to see a rather smug looking Draco, as he simply fixes his tie and winks down at you.

"It's the charm, darling. Don't say it doesn't affect you, too."

Before he can bask in your flustered reaction, off in the distance, amongst more distraught civilians, you spot Cerberus Langarm, fellow Auror, rushing through the crowds of people with a look of pure determination on his face. You tug on Draco's arm, inciting him to follow you, as you battle through to chase Cerberus. Amid the madness, you hear a mixture of complaints and angry voices from the hoard of people. As you close in on Cerberus, you call out to him, causing him to halt and turn at the sound of your voice.

"I take it you both got letters, then?" Cerberus says as you reach him, "didn't know what we'd be walking into, but this is something else. Somehow, I don't think it's about a bewitched broomstick this time."

Cerberus Langarm was a tall, well built man with sun-kissed, olive skin and dark, shaved hair. He kept a very neatly trimmed moustache, and under his left eye was a deep scar that covered most of his cheek. He was a man dedicated to his duty, and other aspects of his life came second to it, which Draco often made a joke about. Cerberus was a well accomplished man of the law, and highly respected amongst his fellow officers and higher ups.

Sometimes, you wondered if Draco was a little jealous of Cerberus and his undeniable ability to walk into a room and make it sing for him.

"Delphina said something about missing person reports," you being to explain as the three of you make for the lifts, "and I have noticed something; most of these people, they look like a certain group of wizards. Don't you think?"

"You mean rich, pompous purebloods who have nothing better to do than flash their money and complain about Muggles?" Cerberus said, "yeah, they seem the sort. All I know is that Potter better have an explanation for all of this."

The lifts were especially busy; people were squashed like sardines in a can, garnering irritable tuts and mumblings amongst the staff trying to reach their destinations. The three of you manage to squeeze into a lift heading for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; whispers of the going's on in the foyer filled the usually awkward silence, as the relatively short journey felt like an eternity.

Once the lift had landed at the correct floor, the three of you took no time in squeezing out of the overflowing space and into the open air. For what felt like a moment of relief, was soon overtaken by the mayhem that you were presented with. The department was practically torn apart; papers everywhere, frantic officers pacing back and forth between rooms, folded notes in the shape of paper airplanes zoomed up and down the hallway, narrowly missing your head when one bolted for the lift doors, making it just in time before they slammed shut.

"Salazar's mother," Cerberus muttered, looking back at yourself and Draco whose eyes were transfixed by the sight, "we better find Potter."

Meanwhile, inside Harry's office, stood Harry and Auror Penelope Fawley, assessing the multitude of reports from that morning. They could hear the muffled sound of panic outside, the office workers were working relentlessly to try and get some sort of order in the place. Piles of letters sat upon Harry's desk, as the two of them read aloud the contents of the reports.

"During the night we heard strange ongoings in the neighbours backyard, sounds of magic and a man's voice," says Penelope outloud, "my husband got out of bed and lit up the room with his wand, before trekking down the stairs to peer out of the kitchen window. He thinks he saw two people appartating from the neighbours garden, but his eyesight is not what it used to be. Then, at around 5:30am, we received a knock on the door. It was Mrs Selwyn. Her son was missing."

Penelope, a fair-haired, pretty woman with dark blue eyes and black rimmed glasses, ran her perfectly manicured finger across the parchment as she read. Harry, now pacing up and down the office with his chin in his hand, listened carefully to what Penelope was reading aloud. She places down the parchment and picks up another letter, tearing it open and unfolding the note inside. Penelope clears her throat and begins reading once more:

"I received an owl from my sister a few days ago. She was worried that someone had been outside her house during the night, but couldn't seem to undo the Colloportus charm her husband casts on all the doors when he works nights. She has young children, and they live in a relatively secluded place." Penelope read, and then perched against the desk, "I owled back immediately, but didn't seem to receive a reply. Then around 6:00am this morning, her husband, Blaise Zabini, showed up at our door. My sister, Daphne Zabini, was missing from her bed when he returned home from work. The children were still sound asleep and seemingly untouched."

Harry comes to a halt at the window overlooking Muggle London below. With a great sigh, he rubs his tired eyes that had been awake since the early hours of the morning. As he turns to speak to Penelope, they both hear heavy, hurried footsteps beyond the door, and within a few seconds, you burst in, all guns blazing, Cerberus and Draco in hot pursuit.

"I do hope you have an explantation, Harry," you pant slightly, "what on earth is happening? Missing witches and wizards - and what was Delphina doing in foyer; she was getting practically spat at by Mr Selwyn, and not to mention the hoard of people downstairs, and the office-"

"Thank you, officer Y/L/N, I'm well aware of the situation both outside my door and in the foyer. In fact, I've been well aware of it since three this morning, so, if you’d be so kind as to ask one question at a time, I'd really appreciate it." said Harry, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Draco stifles a laugh behind you.

"Potter," Cerberus advances forward with urgency, "any kind of light you can shed."

Harry composes himself, and then walks over to his desk, pushing forward what looked like a collection of personal files from the Ministry of Magic Archives; somewhere that a person would need all kinds of permissions to enter. It contained many records - such as historical records, every single published issue of The Daily Prophet, various magical projects and, most importantly, personal files of every witch or wizard that comes into magic across the country. Draco, his interest now peaked, gently brushes past you with a hand at the small of your back, his eyebrows knitted together in a very curious expression. He begins shuffling through them, his features relaxing into more concern than curiosity when he realises each and every one of them have a big, red stamp across the front that read: Missing.

"These," he breathes, looking up at Harry, who's expression was more exhaustion than anything else, "these are all purebloods... I know half of 'em. Nott, for one. Scrawny devil."

"They all look the sort in the foyer, too," adds Cerberus, "lots of old money and questionable bloodlines down there. Odd coincidence?"

"Not likely," pipes up Penelope, who lifts herself elegantly off the edge of the desk, "every single one of these witches and wizards have gone missing during the last few hours. All of them, and without a single trace. No signs of break ins, no signs of struggle or injury at the locations they went missing from. It's a fair assumption to say they have been kidnapped - and not by some amature."

"So you're saying that a whole bunch of wizards from pure bloodlines have just miraculously been taken from their beds in the night. For what reason, exactly?" Draco raises an eyebrow at Penelope. She doesn't look too impressed by his questioning of her theory.

"Malfoy," Harry said, not with his usual air of authority, however, it was far more pleading, "Penelope has a point. Let me give the bigger picture," Harry slumps down onto his office chair with a heaving sigh, before tucking himself under the desk and resting his elbows on the surface, hands intertwined, "I was called in by the Minister at three o'clock this morning. That's when the first report came in about a missing person. Not long after that, they started coming in troves. One after the other, we couldn't keep up. Hence why I owled," he took a pause, "Penelope was first here, and with her help, we retrieved the personal reports to further investigate the missing persons. We made the connection of their blood status quite quick, and have since then been trying to theorise as to why it only seems to be witches and wizards of a certain blood status."

"I'd say that was quite obvious," said Cerberus, who was a rather serious and right-to-the-point kind of officer, "someone out there has a grudge against them, surprisingly," he said with an air of sarcasm, "but it can't just be one person that has done all of this; there must be some sort of group or organisation. No one, even with magic, can be in all of those places at once."

Penelope suddenly gasped, and everyone looked around at her.

"What about Hogwarts? They need informing immediately. The amount of students, and faculty, that could be in danger tomorrow," she said with the utmost seriousness, "I can go, Harry. I can fly to Hogsmeade, they won't know a thing unless-"

"Thank you, Penelope, but I have already considered Hogwarts," Harry cut her off gently, and her shoulders slumped in relief, "in fact, I need to speak to Y/L/N and Malfoy. Langarm and Fawely - you go down into the foyer and tell the public to go home and rest. There's nothing more we can do right now without some more information."

The other two left, leaving Harry, Draco and yourself alone in his messy office. Once the door had been shut softly, he ushers you both to take a seat in front of him. You both do so, as Harry relaxes a little in his plush office chair, relishing of the quietness for a moment.

"As you may already be aware, it's the tenth year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts tomorrow and a memorial service is being held at the school," Harry begins to explain, "myself and Ron were invited by McGonagall as guests to represent the Ministry, and well, for other obvious reasons," he waves a dismissive hand, "however, with all this, I think it best we stay here. I'd much rather be there to support McGonagall, but I feel it's necessary that I'm accessible. So, instead, I'm sending you too to keep watch."

"Me?" Draco exclaims. Harry raises his eyebrows at the sudden outburst, "I hardly doubt they'd want me there, Potter. Can you imagine their faces?"

"I'm not sending you as guests, Malfoy," Harry reiterates, "I'm sending you as Ministry officials. You won't need to do anything drastic. I just want you to keep an eye on things. I'll send other officers too, as we might need to change protocol slightly to ease McGonagall's mind. Merlin knows she'll panic when she receives the owl I'm going to send."

"You can count on us, Harry." You say with utter confidence, "If anything happens, I'll inform you immediately. My owl is rather good at finding me in a tight situation."

"Thank you," he smiles kindly, Draco now completely silent, "now, you'll need to take the train to Hogwarts with the guests of the ceremony. I'd feel much better if you were on that train. I can't have eyes everywhere, so be my eyes. Got it?"

With a very sure nod, you rise from your seat, pulling an extremely quiet Draco up with you by the arm. You could tell he was bothered about returning to the school, even after all this time, but you had every bit of confidence in him. Even if he had none in himself.

disclaimer: i do not own harry potter or any of the characters or storyline associated with it.

#draco x reader #draco x slytherin!reader #draco x y/n #draco x you #draco x female reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy imagine #draco fanfiction #draco imagine #draco lucius malfoy #harry potter #harry potter au #harry potter fanfiction #draco malfoy #hp au #hp fanfic

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split-spectrum · 9 months ago

Text

Concessions

Chapter 3

Pairing: Obi Wan/FemReader

Tags: SMUT (MDNI), oral sex (male receiving), orgasm denial, dubcon, noncon, Obi Wan gets chained to the wall and edged within an inch of his life

Description: Obi Wan chooses to undertake a trial that prevents him from sex for one year, and asks you to serve as his witness. As his close friend, you don't mind helping him.

☆☆☆

You should end this.

For the sake of your friendship. For the promise you'd made to help him finish the Nikkama. For your own sanity. You should really end the call. But it seems too cruel, now, after what you've done.

When you'd sent the pictures, the most you'd expected out of him had been irritation. Your goal had been to disrupt his thoughts; possibly to ruin his day with distraction, the way he'd ruined yours. Revenge may not be the Jedi way, but sometimes with Obi Wan it's so difficult not to give in to the urge to tease; to toy with him. Now, the only question left is how far you're willing to go to atone.

The right thing to do would be to shut off your commlink. To look into his glassy eyes, ignore his indecent, combative gaze, and click that impossibly merciful button. But no matter how long your finger rests at it, you can't bring yourself to press down.

Obi Wan hasn't said another word. He's hardly moved. But what little patience may have remained in his expression when he'd answered is now gone. The deep blue of his irises is hidden within the gradient of the hologram, but the black of his stretched pupils is easy to pick up when he widens his eyes accusingly. As if to say, "Well?"

He's waiting, against his will, to be put out of his misery. Cut him loose; end the call, or...

"Give me a moment."

You shut off your commlink before he can respond, then dress yourself, tying your robes with clumsy, hurried fingers, and slip quietly out into the hallway.

Trying to remain true to your promise of only a moment while keeping your footsteps soft enough not to wake any of the other Jedi in their quarters, you reach Obi Wan's door, rapping twice before he opens it. You find him in a state of half-undress, trousers fastened at his waist, but mid-section still bare. He's pulled his arms through his light undershirt, still working on wrapping it around his torso and tucking it as he steps back from the door to let you in.

"You're dressed," you say, struggling to keep your voice steady as you walk forward, closing the distance between you. "I said I would only be a moment."

He finishes tucking his shirt, the open neckline still giving ample view of the soft curls that are begging you to run your hands over his chest. "Yes, but a moment for what, you didn't quite say."

You look down his body, backing him toward the corner of a wooden dresser near the doorway. You line your hips up with his, watching as he mirrors you, either consciously or subconsciously. "You're awfully clever, Obi Wan. Let's not pretend it wasn't obvious."

His bright pink lips hang slightly open when he stares down at your hands, traveling upward. The blush begins to creep into his face. "I... couldn't possibly be so presumptuous."

Your hands find his stomach, your noses now inches apart, and the soft smirk on your face evaporates when you draw your gaze back up to his. Using your thumb to peel open his shirt, you loosen it from his waistband and slide your other hand across the warmth of his skin, feeling him shudder at the contact.

Your lips naturally gravitate towards his, when suddenly a thought stops you painfully short: This isn't a passion-soaked tryst between two lovers. This isn't the closing of a romance that's long been harbored beneath the working partnership of two friends. This is you, helping him find relief, and nothing more.

You drag your eyes away from his mouth, down to his neck, and the urge gushes to taste the skin there, too. Instead, you pull back while turning your hand down into his waistband. His eyes, which had been fixed on your face, roll to the ceiling.

"You shouldn't-" He shifts, rubbing up against the dresser. "This is hardly-" he tries, not finishing either thought.

One of his hands comes up to the small of your back, touching you with a respectful lack of weight or pressure, somewhere between holding you closer and warning you off. When you slither your palm between his legs and stroke it over the hot, dribbling length of him, though, he changes his grip. He grabs your waist and squeezes, looking down between your bodies, watching you touch him.

You hadn't realized until now just how much you'd wanted his hands on you. Feeling him grip you hard, pulling you closer as his hips start to shallowly draw up with each pull of your hand - you're starting to ache. Bending the fingers of your other hand around the fabric, you start to pull down his trousers.

His hand flies to your wrist, and you freeze. His eyes are closed, his breaths shallow. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

"No," he pants. "No, we- we can't."

He opens his eyes and you nearly pull away before you catch the way he's looking at you. It's clear he's being serious. But there's also... something else. A certain kind of frustration; almost desperation.

You flatten your hand, grazing it over him, watching his eyes go foggy and his brows knead tight. He doesn't let go of your wrist, but he doesn't pull away.

Suddenly, it all makes sense - why he chose you to help him in this; to be his witness.

He trusts you. And more importantly, he knows you. He knows that when he needs it, you'll find a way to bend the rules, while allowing him to keep his lofty ideals intact. Because you've done it in the past, time and time again.

Though he'd never admit it, your willingness to compromise has often been an asset to him. You could skirt the rules, blurring the edges of the safe, moral choices, while he got to feign uninvolvement. Whether intentional or not, he'd chosen you because some part of him knew this.

And lucky for him, you know a path you can take, just as you always do.

"Obi Wan, let me ask you something," you say, enjoying the unsteady breath he takes when you slide your thumb slowly up and down his shaft. "Do you trust me?"

You graze his head, then slip your hand away, and he drops your wrist, immediately gripping the edge of the dresser behind him. He gathers himself, and eventually, he nods. "Yes. Of course."

You straighten up, fixing his clothing back in place. "I hope you're not about to change your mind. Because I have an idea."

A few minutes later, after you've convinced him into one of the small cargo ships the jedi temple keeps on hand for communal use, Obi Wan is no further enlightened on the details, and he's starting to lose patience.

"And why can you not just tell me the location?"

You force an easy smile, though your stomach is buzzing with anticipation. You need him to have faith that you know what you're doing. And you do. You convince yourself that you do. "I already gave you the coordinates."

You'd sent them directly from your commlink to the navicomputer, yet Obi Wan had insisted on flying manually. He glances down at the screen in front of him, with glowing numbers and no map. "Yes, somewhere in the Federal District. Very helpful. Is there a reason you haven't chosen to be more specific?"

With a smirk, you answer, "As I said before, you're clever enough to know the answer to that."

He glances out the window, clearly suppressing a scowl, then brings his attention back to the lane in front of him, shifting a hand to adjust his speed. "In other words, I won't like it."

You press your lips together, watching the shadows roll over him as you speed through the flashing lights of Coruscant nightlife.

"I never said that." You pause. "But you certainly wouldn't approve of it."

He shoots you another look, then brings his gaze forward again as you reach your destination. He can't take his eyes away from the monitor since he's in the middle of landing, but his scowl grows more pronounced. The Center for Republic Military Operations looms in front of you.

"What in blazes are we doing here?"

"I thought you were trusting me."

He follows you down the ramp, keeping his voice low. "Yes, but the extent of my trust is rather proportional to the circumstance." He nods at a passing Coruscant Guard solider, then catches up to you. "And at the moment, they're about even."

You just smile. "Good. I can work with that."

You turn to enter the main building, Obi Wan trailing close behind. More soliders pass you on either side of the hallway as you make your way to security check-in. You walk past the manned stations and head straight to the automated keycard wall. You find the number you're looking for and enter your security code.

"You've dragged me here to work an extra shift in the detention cells?"

At that, you can't help but smile wider. You pick up the key card when it appears in the slot, then brush past him to head down the hallway. "In a manner of speaking."

You get the attention of one of the guardsmen as you near the end of the cell block. "Officer, we're conducting an investigation and we need to inspect cell 98. Please tell the other guards we are not to be disturbed."

The guard accepts your orders, assuring you they'll be passed along, and continues on his way. You swipe the keycard and, hesitatingly, Obi Wan follows you inside. You look both ways down the hall before closing the door, double-checking the lock.

"Well, if you were looking for privacy, you've certainly found it, but that wasn't-"

"I wasn't looking for privacy," you interrupt, stepping toward him and reaching out. He looks around warily, but allows you closer. You take his wrists in your hands, walking him back. "I thought about what you said."

He raises his brows, saying nothing as you clasp around him gently at first, then start to firm your grip. "I do want to help you through this."

His eyes widen and he glances behind you to the empty walls of the cell. "You don't need to-"

"Oh, I know that," you tell him sweetly, then press his arms upward.

He pushes back, shaking his head as his back hits the wall. He hisses your name in admonishment. "The cams."

"Are broken," you assure him, lifting his arms above his head as his resistance lessens. "And the cells are soundproof, as you know."

"How do you-"

You activate the switch on the wall beside his hands. "I was down here last week with Master Sinube. We had to move some prisoners and we couldn't use this cell for that reason." The binders glow softly above Obi Wan's head. "Cams won't be fixed until next week."

He follows your gaze upward and a beat of silence passes. You wait for him to protest. You wait for him to rip his arms down and push you off. But all he does is drop his gaze and let out a low breath of air. The sound he makes, sighing softly through his nose, is disapproving, but the intensity of his stare betrays what he really wants.

You press the button, locking the binders around his wrists, then stare back at him, watching the emotions swirl in his eyes. It's like you can see him traveling through all the same thoughts you'd had when this idea had come to you back in his quarters.

In any other scenario he would be giving in. He'd be at fault for not stopping you. But now... You've taken away his choice. You've lifted that burden from his shoulders. All he can do is protest. And you're ready to see if he's willing to do so, or pretend innocence as he's done so many times before.

You sink to your knees in front of him, sliding your palms down to his thighs, then running your hands up beneath his tunic. Your fingers curl at his waist, slowly dragging his clothes down, and you feel his cock twitch when you graze your thumb over the bunched fabric. You snap your eyes up, waiting from him to say the word.

His chest is rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. His eyes are piercing you with an aching, tight-jawed, guilty look. But he's silent.

Overwhelmingly, obliteratingly silent.

You finally free him, staring with an obscene lack of restraint at the glossy river of precum soaking down the side of his dick.

"Oh," you murmur softly. "Obi Wan..."

At the edge of your view, you see his eyes flutter heavily when you say his name. You gently settle your fingers around him, enjoying his soft breath of relief. Sliding your thumb up along his shaft, you spread out the slick, coating more of his skin.

This should be a utilitarian exercise in urgency. You should be using your hand to get him off, hard and fast. But you left 'should' behind a long time ago. So you slowly turn your wrist, pumping your hand a few times, not with any real pressure, just for the pleasure of running up and down the full length of him. Then you lick your palm and do it again, listening to him suck air above you.

You swallow, caught gazing up at him, and have to urge yourself to keep going. You want to go slow; wring out of him every carnal desire he's pent up for the last several months. But you're already pushing it by drawing it out this long, and part of you is still afraid he'll ask you to stop.

When you finally lower your mouth to his pulsing, straining cockhead, you suck at the tip, flicking your eyes up to look at him again. His hairline is dark with sweat and he's panting like he's losing an agonizing battle. You lock onto his gaze and flatten your tongue to lap slowly at the slit of his cock, watching his eyes widen as your mouth drops open to swirl lazy circles.

"You taste so good," you drawl before slipping your lips around him, suckling softly.

"Ah- hmm..." That earns you a sound something like a sudden, abrupt hum. Like he's trying to get ahold of himself before words begin to fall out.

You drag your lips back up to the tip, then spread them wide and push his head inside the wet heat of your mouth. He goes rigid. Closing your eyes, you focus on giving him all the warm, soft pressure he needs. You engulf his thick head like he's going to pull away at any moment, hollowing your cheeks to suck him sweetly, realizing to your dismay that you could do this for hours.

When you open your throat and take him deeper at last, he rewards you with a loud, plaintive groan. He hits the back of your throat, making you gag for a moment, tears springing to your eyes. You squeeze your legs together, soaking between them, and swallow his twitching cock. You make a small sound in the back of your throat as you wrap your hand around him and start to bob your head, one hand pushing into the back of his leg to bring him closer and the other hand drowning in your own spit, pressed tight below your mouth and running over the length of him as you find your rhythm.

"Stars-" he grinds out. You open your throat and take him even deeper, watching his mouth fall open at first, and then watching him snap it shut to look down at you, face screwed up in a pained expression. His eyes crinkle hard at the edges and his brows pin together, a deep line creasing his face between them.

"This feel good?" you pop your mouth off for a moment to ask him. "You can tell me."

You slide him back in, falling right back into your rhythm, waiting for an answer. But he says nothing. You want to be generous. You want to keep going. In fact, nothing could possibly make you want to stop. But you need to hear him say it just once. You won't be doing this again, and you can't pass up your one chance to hear him say that he liked it. That he wanted it.

You feel his cock throb beneath your tongue, but he doesn't answer. You pull away again, pumping him with your hand.

"Come on." You lower your voice. "You can say it."

His teeth are just visible when he opens his mouth, almost baring them at you. His gaze is somewhere between warning and pleading.

"Tell me it feels good, Obi Wan." You're practically suffocating him with your mouth between interrogations, now. You squeeze him with your slippery hand, lips gliding over him in punishing, repetitive strokes.

You gasp off, panting, "Does it feel good?"

"Yes," he moans.

You're practically dripping, pulsing between your legs at the hoarse groan he lets out. You can't help it. You want to hear more. You pull off again.

"Would you like me to keep going?"

His head lolls to the side and a harsh sigh escapes from deep in his chest, as if to say you know the answer. As if he's scolding you for asking it, and desperate not to reply.

So you relent, and you give him back the slick, perfect heat of your mouth until he's bucking his hips softly with each dip of your head to meet you, and you look up again to see the wrecked look on his face. His cock is pulsing, his breath wild and ragged. It's like he's ready to come, but for some reason, he's holding back.

Then you realize it. You haven't told him, and he can't ask.

"Mmf," you mumble, pulling his cock free of your mouth one last time to tell him, "You can come in my mouth, just like this. Please. Come down my throat."

"Oh, fucking-" he spits out, then seems to melt into your grip, hips falling out of rhythm as his head tilts up-

...only to snap it back down, his body curling in and shuddering violently to a stop when the door lock clicks open.

His cock pops free of your mouth, bouncing when he jerks away, and you're already standing up and scrambling to put his clothes in place before your mind can fully register what's going on.

The door swings open just as you desperately slap the button to free Obi Wan's hands and straighten your own clothes. A pair of soldiers look extremely surprised to see you.

"Master Jedi," one of them says, trading his looks between you and Obi Wan, clearly not sure whom to address first. "I... I didn't know this cell was, um, occupied."

You take a step to the side, trying to block anything unprofessional in Obi Wan's appearance. "Yes, I checked in and gave orders not to disturb us. We are... investigating the... presence of the criminal who occupied this cell last week."

"I see," the guard answers. He doesn't seem suspicious to find you here. They both just seem put-off by your jumpy demeanor.

"Yes, so if you would be so kind as to-"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, no one told us the orders. I've escorted the security technician down here to work on fixing the cams. I'm afraid you'll need to come back later."

"Oh, I..." you trail off.

"That's quite alright, gentlemen," Obi Wan finishes for you. "We can report our findings thus far. Have a nice evening."

He gestures calmly toward the door and you obediently join him in leaving, grateful for the end of the conversation.

It's a long, stiff, quiet walk down the hallway. Thankfully, you don't cross paths with anyone else on the way out. You're nearly at the other end of the hall before you dare to lean in and whisper, "We can, um... We still have the ship."

He gives you a quick head shake in response, and you can feel the frustration in it. "For thirty more minutes before Master Fisto will be looking for it. We need to have it back at the dock before the next shift."

You take a breath, realizing that wasn't a 'no'.

"Well," you say slowly; carefully. "We still have your quarters."

Back at his quarters, he can't pretend innocence anymore, but perhaps you've pushed him past that.

You wait. And wait. And he doesn't answer.

And you board the ship. And he doesn't answer.

And when you land back at the dock a few minutes later, you realize: He's given you his answer.

A/N: The next chapter might be the last; possibly two more, depending on how long it ends up. Please feel free to comment or message me to be added to the tag list. :)

Taglist: @slinkygail @wheres-mylove @millercontracting @cacti5539 @b0xerdancer-writes

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#obi wan x reader smut #star wars #star wars fanfiction #obi wan kenobi #fanfic #obiwan #obi wan x reader

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

Text

A NOOSE TO HANG ONTO (III)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IV

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 7.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking & stalking behavior, talks of death, weapons, violence, suggestive thoughts/comments, toxic modeling standards, food issues, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Sometimes you wonder if meeting your soulmate would even matter—it would never fix the void in your heart, you know. It would be foolish to think that it would.

But there is such a drug attached to being loved as you are, despite your flaws and failings, destined to be tied in a game of commitment. Yet the simple fact showed that, while soulmates were able to bring you color, that didn’t change people's nature.

Even among those tied pairs, divorce was rampant; assaults, and murders as well.

Soulmate Psychosis, it was called. When your mind broke from having it all figured out, or even when you knew it was falling apart.

It happened to your father and it happened to millions of other spouses too. When your entire life is already decided when you look at someone, it can be…a lot.

So, part of you was happy that you’d never know who yours was unless they told you themselves—you can hope and pray that they stay their tongue and give you a chance to fall for them naturally. Because it scared you, truly, becoming like all of the rest. A statistic.

Lord, don’t let yourself become a statistic.

Nikto silently walks at your heels as you push through the front doors of your penthouse, taking off your ball cap and stuffing it into your jacket pocket.

The man at the front desk calls to you, and you raise a hand in greeting, sliding a soft smile his way.

“Seraph!” Isaak has been working at this building for as long as you can remember—the man with grayish hair and dark eyes. A face that was sharp and a nose crooked; like a chocolate-chip cookie, dark splotches along his face led to the impression of freckles.

The man was slightly older than you, lanky, and always dressed luxuriously.

“Having a good day, Isaak? Has that girl come back and given you her number yet?” You slow your pace to the elevator, digging into your pocket and peeling out one of the keys from your lanyard for your floor. You nearly drop the thing before you snap and catch onto the metal quickly. Nikto lets off something like an annoyed growl behind you at the interruption from the man across the room.

He’s impatient, you hum and send him a little glance over your shoulder. Light eyes dig with a warning. You only chuckle and shake your head calmly. One would think that for a PMC he would have all the patience in the world.

“You know I keep trying to get her to go away,” Isaak smiles at you. “The only woman I’d accept a number from is you, my Little Angel.”

Where the flirtatious comments had gotten you into bed with the man before, now they just didn’t strike you as they had before. Not…anymore.

You clear your throat and blink away for a moment before you school your expression back to an easy malleability.

“Good try.” Your focus goes back to the keys, fingers jerkily sifting through them.

Isaak’s brows furrow at your form, perhaps a bit of offense making his face twist—dark eyes slip down your body; pupils dilating.

A black form steps slightly forward, a large shoulder blocking you from view in one firm movement. Like some wolf with its neck fur standing on end, Nikto’s head is lightly bent down; eyes so intense that they render Isaak frozen in a sense of internal instincts warring with one another.

Nikto doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound—only stares and doesn't blink, immobile as a stone.

The soft music of the lobby blurs to the sound of a heart pounding.

You don’t even notice, humming when you find the correctly marked key from its slate mass and moving forward to press the illuminated button of the elevator.

“Oh!” Your mind pulls itself back to the present and away from letters and fire. “Isaak, this is Nikto—he’ll be…” A pause, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Are you okay?”

The man looks like he’s about to piss himself.

Without another word, Isaak scurries into the backroom, the door hitting so hard closed behind him that you flinch slightly and blink in shock. Standing for a moment, you tilt your head slowly right before the elevator dings, signaling you can enter.

Nikto suddenly grabs the meat of your arm and moves you inside.

“Woah!” You call, huffing. “Careful!”

“Inside,” the PMC grumbles, eyes tight and beady.

Your feet stumble when he lets you go, having to steady yourself on the back railing so you don’t fall over and hit your face on the floor. A sharp look is leveled at Nikto as he drops his duffel bag to the ground and hooks his arms at the collar of his rig, grunting and shifting his legs to set himself.

Blinking rapidly, you sigh out a fast breath.

“You know,” you begin, slotting your key into the plaque that says your floor number, twisting, and then taking a step back. Eyes darting to your side, you ease out slyly. “I’m sure people would like you more if you had the ability to articulate what you’re feeling. I’m getting the sense that you carry your emotions around like you’re trying to choke someone out.”

Nikto glares ahead, a brick wall of nothing but a harsh breath.

You smile softly and chuckle.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get you into shape in no time.” Pale eyes slowly slide to your face and Nikto’s dead gaze stays there—brows in such a straight line it’s like looking at a statue. “I always do.”

While being around your mom led you to a subdued state, you had no trouble easing back into your usual route of subtle flirting; it was natural to you, even after traumatic events. A cushion, if you will. It felt good to still be able to regulate yourself and have some level of control over your life.

The three bodies and the Stalker, that senseless shadow, still haunt the back of your eyelids but having a distraction in the light was helping. Something new to focus on.

“We need copy,” Nikto glares at you, ignoring your soft tone.

As the elevator rises incredibly high, you hum in question, smile flicking to a confused frown. He grits his teeth under his mask.

“The key, Whelp, да?” Your eyes spark.

“Oh, sure,” you shrug. “I don’t have one.”

Nikto’s shoulders move back, blinking at you quickly. “You…” he trails off into a snarl of Russian. A hand comes up from his side to harshly dig into the bridge of his hidden nose.

You have to restrain a wide smile, the muscles in your face twitching.

When the doors open, you’re led into the sight of your safe place—an entire world away from the one outside the half-closed blinds of an opposite wall of all windows.

“I’ll order you one,” you try to reassure Nikto, sending him a side glance as you let all of the tension leak out of you as you step inside. “No worries.”

The man follows, jaw tense, as he stoops down and swipes up his bag.

“How is it that you do not have a second key?” Nikto’s eyes dart around the living room, not showing the slight way he’s taken aback by the size of everything and the design choice.

It was certainly…unique.

High mass, there were knickknacks on nearly every surface—a far-off ceiling due to the open second level where the rooms must be. There were hanging beads from the stairs, and plants that grew large and verdant; Nitko blinked at paintings on nearly every surface of the visible wall. A hanging chandelier that emits light over the antique-looking furniture of wood and velvet.

Even a taxidermy deer head, with its antlers holding jewelry that glints rich and luxurious. Books and painted bits of the walls that were near sheer fabric draped as an accessory from the top of bookshelves.

“Sorry for the mess,” you utter, sincerely, “if I’d been told that you were going to be staying here, I would have gotten the spare room ready.”

The kitchen is simple and mixed in with the living room in the form of a large island piled with magazines and notebooks.

You sigh and look around, wrapping your arms around your waist as you glance around the space. Not a stranger to the confused looks you’d get from your style.

Aly described it as a fairy tale. A hut in the woods holding secrets and magic. So different than what AMA had you displayed as—a cold angel of white and sharp feathers.

A product of some great lust machine.

“Just wait until he sees the loft,” you murmur, thinking about all of the various fabrics and tailored clothes you’d had in the open space directly when you walk up the stairs. The Dress Form torso mannequins wearing dresses you’d made with pricked fingers and shaky nerves.

You hoped he hadn’t met his Soulmate, because you’re sure it’s a hideous mess of colors up there. The thought makes you pause, and you realize you haven’t asked that question to yourself yet.

Did Nikto see color?

“No need,” Nikto immediately returns to his stoic monotone at your concern over the state of things. “I make do. Step aside.”

Slipping off your shoes, you place them in the old claw foot parlor table you’d made into your entryway storage, glancing at the void as he walks around your creaky wooden floors with his heavy boots.

“Shoes,” you remind, voice light.

The beast halts, his back to you halfway onto your handmade Persian rugs. You watch his fingers twitch around his duffel bag straps, as you go to close your secondary door; hiding the gaping wound in the building as the elevator leaves. A soft click emanates just as the man grunts lowly and lets his bag slam to the floor.

In one movement, the Russian bends down and unlaces his boots in firm and quick motions, grabbing them and turning like a puppet on a string. He plants them next to yours on the parlor table and sends you a tight look with hard eyes.

Nikto’s accent flares in his quick comment. “You are strange, Girl.”

You hum and shift out of your jacket, folding it and placing it atop the shoes.

“Oh, so I’m strange because I don’t want you tracking dirt on my clean rugs? The people you live around must be slobs.”

“We do not live around others.”

You blink, staring into his eyes as your skin pulls lightly. “Then I’m sorry. That must be very lonely.”

Nikto’s muscles tense under his gear, great thighs hardening. He growls low after a moment of stiffly watching you. “I do not need pity, certainly not from you,” and then stalks off, leaving his bag in the foyer.

Lips slightly parted, you let him walk away and snoop, taking account of the rooms and the layout for his own needs. Sighing, you rub at the back of your head before letting your hand drop back down, pulling at the fabric of your turtle neck.

You couldn’t deny that you found Nikto physically attractive—the large stature and built frame made your neurons fire, how he loped along with his bulky gear. Sure, that was natural, and despite the attitude, you did feel secure around him. He had an extensive record for a reason, and your mother would only include the best in her decisions.

It also attested to the fact that you didn’t find his aggression at all fear-inducing if that made any sense at all. To everyone else, he would be the pinnacle of an axe murderer, but, for some reason, he didn’t feel like that to you. A bit loose, sure, but the knowledge that this man was entirely mission-driven sat well with you.

It confused you—why did you not entirely mind having him around?

I can live with this, you tell yourself, brushing off your sweatpants and telling yourself not to think of the bakery or about Sergi, Yefim, or Petya; Aleksandr.

But when all that’s moved away like a curtain in front of the window, the view still remains.

The Stalker.

You still couldn’t rationalize it. How could someone do that? Be so bold and brute-like? And it was all over you.

Never had you been overconfident in yourself—you knew you had the looks and the money, the ability to do what few people could, but that had never gotten into your head. It was common knowledge that every model had a shelf-life and yours would probably end sooner than later if this kept up.

Any damage to your flesh that left long-term scarring was an instant dismissal. No negative press for AMA, either.

In all of this, you were walking a very thin path of horror and reality, like a show at a circus. And you of all people know you can’t walk in a straight line.

The overwhelming feeling of being hunted was setting in and you were entirely in the woods with blood poured over your body; weighing down a dress of linen and calling the beasts to feast upon your flesh with a ravaging appetite.

Swallowing the bile in your throat, you quickly go to find where Nikto had slinked off to, suddenly very cold and not liking the silence. On the way, you flick at your record player, and the old rusty thing spits out Clair De Lune as the glass sun catchers shaped like stars glimmer from the loft’s beams.

“Nikto?” You call in question, looking around before you murmur to yourself. “Where did you get to?”

Carefully grabbing the railing to the stairs, you watch your feet as you slowly ascend, piano music in the background; fingers tight and hard as you slide it up one at a time. You only knock your foot once, two steps from the top, but quickly recover with only a huff and a tiny chuckle.

Nikto walks through the top seating area filled with your materials and fabric, glancing at every book and measuring device that you have; the half-finished pieces. You blink and watch, wondering what he’s thinking as he clicks his tongue before walking to the first door and pushing it open. Your eyes slightly widen at that.

“Well, you sure do like making yourself at home,” your voice calls to the dark figure, and you shake your head. You begin following as if he is showing you around your place and not the other way around.

“I am doing my job.” Nikto’s voice spits out from the opening as you shuffle in. He glances around the small guest bedroom quickly. “Your home is cluttered.” The Russian mutters. “Messy.”

“I call it controlled chaos.” You ease, hands slipping into your pockets beside your phone and wallet. “You’ll find I’m fond of shiny things.”

“We can tell.” Head tilting, you restrain yourself from asking why he keeps referring to himself in the first person like that.

“You’re free to take this room if you want.” There are three doors that make up the separate walls—the one you’d both just walked through, one to the adjoining library and joint bathroom, and the other to your master bedroom with a respective master bath.

All connected to one another like a train car.

Nikto grunts and slips his eyes to the bits of personalization you’d left, though not as much as the rest of the penthouse. The bed was a Full size, there was a desk with bits of lush greenery coming off from a planter, and storage for clothes in the form of a large wardrobe you’d found in an antique store.

Classy, you thought, however, your standards for decoration weren’t the pinnacle of design. A set of Russian nesting dolls from your mother was put onto shelves, and in one of the corners, a hanging oil lamp sat above a nightstand.

Gray plush duvet and a fluffy rug you were told was purple when Alyona stayed over, with large pillows that looked like bear fur.

“Again,” you send a glance to the blank stare that Nikto keeps on you. “I didn’t know you were staying over.”

“It is… sufficient.” Gruff and final, though with an air of annoyed disgust, the Russian goes into the library second to last and then heads into your room with his broad back expanding; leaving a trail of authority in his wake.

Under your breath, you quietly mock him before rolling your eyes and following. For all this, you ended up being correct. Nikto was a good distraction.

The first thing that he notices is the stuffed animals.

They take up most of the window nook, some incredibly large and fluffy while others are small and could be crushed in his palm, even sitting atop one another if the space allowed. Nikto blinks at the sight of a very large bear plushie with a small bird on the head—little felt feet sticking out in front of it.

You clear your throat, the hot embarrassment flooding your face as your smile turns sheepish.

“Just…uhm…it’s just a little bit of an addiction.” Like the rest of the house, that fairy tale feeling emanates here as well—fancy curtain holders, old tea cups holding palm-sized pewter statues, paintings, and stained-glass lamps from the nineteen hundreds.

Pale eyes tilt their gaze down to you, silent as always.

“But at least it’s not drugs!” You push out quickly, awkwardly chuckling and shrugging your shoulders.

Your feet shift from under you, the large room that you call your own not something you planned on having to describe today. There was something incredibly intimate about letting someone into your house—someone you didn’t know especially.

Nikto puffs a bit of air in something akin to a scoff, turning his head away from you but not after a slight quirk of his brow.

“Are you sure you are not on drugs?” You snap up to stare at him, falling silent for a moment as he turns and leaves.

Gaping, you stutter, slightly amused, “W-was that a joke, Nikto?” He doesn’t answer and a slow smile grows on your lips. “Hey! C’mon did you just make a joke? Awe,” you coo, “I really am good at this!”

“Stop talking.” Nikto snarls, glaring as he goes down to the ground level. “You are making my ears hurt.”

You hurry to the stairs, following after with a steady mood, chuckling.

“If you’re going to be my glorified roommate, I think talking is part of the—” A sharp gasp rips from you as your leg hits on the banister, your foot locked through the metal as you yelp loudly at the sudden pain. In a quick tilt your vision slides, a swift sensation of gravity taking over as your body takes you tumbling backwards.

You tense mid-air, mind already made up about the incoming pain of your head knocking off the hard material, your skull rattling and splitting open; blood and brain matter spilling out to coat the—

Arms snap around your waist, legs still on the top half of the stairs and back hitting a large chest as you grunt in surprise; eyes blinking wildly.

Heart hammering, your head quickly looks up only to find the piercing eyes of Nikto burning down into you. Your nose brushes his face mask, the harsh fabric of the lover half pressing into yours.

You both stay there for a moment, Nikto’s blazing gaze unphased, it seemed, by the close contact. Inside of your gut, your stomach flips, and a tightness flares in your lungs.

Upon the air, your voice stutters out, tiny, “M-my bad.” You accent it with a helpless chuckle.

Nikto’s breath brushes over your forehead, and with a quick jerk of his arms you’re set back up on top of the stares. Even here, you meet the man’s height perfectly—him a few steps below you yet still a giant.

“This will be a problem, yes?” Nikto barks out. You steady yourself on the railing and take a deep breath. “You. You are…” His eyes twitch as if trying to find the correct word in English. He grunts to himself, fingers twitching.

You tilt your head, still calming down. Your throat is tight at the heat that still emanates from where Nikto’s hands had wrapped around you.

“...Shaky?”

“Hm,” Nikto doesn’t seem like that word fits best, but he nods once firmly, folding his arms over his chest and never once releasing you from his stare. Studying you as a monster does a maiden. “Да.”

You jerkily shrug, rubbing at your neck with one hand.

“Well, I guess brain damage will do that to you,” your lips tilt in an amiable smile—trying to play off what you say as you continue. Nikto’s body goes still, yet his attention never leaves. His eyes narrow. “I should have told you when we met, but you were, eh,” you chuckle, looking away for a moment. “Pretty quick with wanting to leave.”

A strained silence falls; an unknown emotion in the air.

“I—” Your voice is cut off by your phone vibrating from inside of your pocket, and with your hand snapping to that general area, you blink in surprise. “Oh.”

Fishing it out with awkward fingers, you find the illuminated screen and a text from Alyona calling up to you.

‘Video call w AMA & managers. 5 min. Be ready!’

“Shit,” you mutter, immediately going into your professional headspace.

But before you can rush off to grab your computer and slap makeup on your face, Nikto’s hand yanks your phone from your grasp. Blinking at your empty palm, your face darts up with a swift offense growing.

“Nikto!”

“Quiet.” The man taps into your contacts and you watch helplessly as he begins slashing in his own number with his digits firmly pressing in hard intervals to the keypad.

Huffing, you shake your head and leave him there to do what he needs to do, not overprotective of a device and more concerned with the time constraint that was leveled like a noose around your neck.

You had to look somewhat good for the call, after all, they could be waiting to tell you you’re fired.

They wouldn’t do that with Alyona there, you reason as you narrowly dodge running onto a side table before you enter your room again, though this time from the main door. Not the managers either.

Your lips pull straight.

But if the CEO was on call, then you’d have to worry. He had no problem being ruthless about policy and public image, always so pretentious with his power over all of the men and women employed at Allurement.

But then again, he had always seemed to take an interest in you, anyway.

You slip out of your turtleneck and pull on a silk top that seems either white or a very very pale color—either way, they always put you in something near to white, so it didn’t matter. Since it was a video call, there was no need to show your bottom half; the sweatpants stayed.

Makeup was the hard part.

With your nerve spasms always showing up at inopportune times, it took a long time if someone else wasn’t doing it for you. You had ways to combat it, sure, but none you could get ready in five minutes.

Three, you tell yourself.

An idea hits your head like a rock.

“Nikto!” You call, rushing to your vanity and pushing aside a plush raccoon to snag your mascara. There wasn’t time for anything else. “I have a favor!”

“No,” the man materializes in the opening of your door, the backdrop of your fabric mess in the loft behind him; the clashing of shades momentarily confuses you, blinking quickly, but you recover with a huff and a plea.

“I need you to put my mascara on—my hands are too unpredictable right now.” He’s growling in the way you’re already accustomed to. This must be one hell of a day for him. “Your job is to protect me right? I need you to protect me from public humiliation.”

“Then humiliate yourself.” Nikto’s narrowed eyes lower even farther, face turned sharply to you as you walk over and hold out the stick. “This is not my job.”

You dig hard into his eyes, serious if not a bit willing. “I’d owe you.” Your tone is hard but true.

The Russian bear’s shoulders roll slightly, getting higher and more irritated. He grunts at you. After a long and heartstopping moment, he grabs onto your pocket and slips your phone back inside, jostling your body into his as you make a noise in surprise.

In that same movement, the mascara stick is yanked from your hand and fingers grapple onto your chin.

Your eyes go wide; body instantaneously tensing, as the unyielding grip moves your chin to the side and one hand unscrews the mascara with a slight pop of the seal.

“You are dependent,” Nikto’s digits are tight, but you don’t blink or pull away as the stick spreads pigment. “I do not like it, Girl. Like child running with a knife.”

“Aren’t you such a ray of sunshine?” You grumble but stay deathly still. Nikto’s body is tight against yours, leaning over you.

The guy certainly didn’t mind getting handsy if he needed to. Thinking like that makes your feet shuffle tinily under you, a heat emanating from your cheeks and your thighs momentarily becoming stiff.

His body warmth bleeds through his bulk; the grating press of his chest plate to your upper body.

“Stop breathing,” Nikto hisses and your cheek is moved to the side, knee knocking into his leg.

You feel and see the stick descend and move your lashes delicately, quite adverse to the attitude you’re getting. The Russian is attentive and set on getting his task done, even if he despises it.

“What kind of a request is that?!”

“Hush!” He barks and you both try to glare at each other as the last of the mascara is bushed on. “Get out.”

You pull back and frown up at him.

“I’m sorry you think that your attitude is appropriate, Nikto.” With your nose in the air, your hands grapple for your laptop on the way out of your room and sit at the desk out in your loft. Tossing a stack of fabric to the floor and brushing down the surface.

Behind you, there’s a plain-colored sheet hung to the wall for conferences—and you make sure it’s in place as you plop down to your seat.

Nikto’s angry eyes bore into you from the doorway, which he slowly leans against and crosses his arms heavily.

He mutters under his breath in fast Russian, shaking his head as you unlock your laptop and log in, easily clicking where you need to go and pulling up your video call with twenty seconds to spare.

Alyona’s face appears first, looking to the side, and you send a soft smile before you unmute yourself.

“Feeling better?” The woman perks up, eyes coming to you. She beams.

“Солнышко!” You laugh, tilting your head. “No, no, forget about me, how are you?” Aly gives you her full attention. “I need to come over and visit, yes? We should have a girl’s night again. Just us.”

“I’m…alright,” you simply say, fast to reassure her of her worries. There was no need to burden the model with your fears. Not when she’s still living with her own. “And that might be a bit difficult on the ‘just us’ part, unfortunately.”

She sighs but is serious in her concern.

“New bodyguard, Seraph?” Nikto listens to everything from across the loft, and you glance up at him before you open your mouth to speak in the affirmative.

“Live-in.” Alyona thins her lips, but, surprisingly, doesn’t seem off-put.

“Perhaps that is good, hm? If it’s to keep you safe, I would be willing to deal with it.” Before you can admit that it’s not the worst idea in the world, though draining, three others pop into the call.

Yours and Alyona’s managers, and, of course, the CEO of AMA.

You have to hide your curse before it sneaks out of your mouth. Everyone greets one another, and you send polite smiles and hellos in return. Corporate professionalism a virus that sweeps your features into a mask of compliance and brain-dead agreements.

Kliment Fedorov, CEO of Allurement Modeling Agency, shows his large and round face in the very center of the screen; with tiny eyes like a fly and a bald head. He’s in his office.

The man calls your name and smiles wide, pure white teeth leaning more towards fake looking than just the results of frequent brushing.

“It is good to see both of my best girls getting along. No lasting marks, I hope?” You and Aly dart look.

“None, Sir.” You both answer, still smiling and falling in line. They only speak in English for your comfort—in your manager’s box, you see his translator lean into his ear and relay the words being let out.

“Good, good! This is great news. Seraph,” you perk up, Nikto from the back shuffling while looking around his surroundings. He picks at a piece of reflective fabric on a side table with his brutish fingers, twisting it before huffing and tossing it away. He snoops as if put off by the high-mass areas, used to order and cleanliness.

Not that it wasn’t clean, but outwardly it gave off a certain impression of clutter.

“How soon can you be back? We have had even more propositions offered because of this event.” Your lungs stutter. “Mrs. Solovyova and yourself are very profitable for the company at the current time; this only made your popularity better!”

Your manager, Kostya, spits off into his native tongue with its harsh edges. Nikto’s head shifts back your way but says nothing.

Profitable? Wanted? You can’t say you’re overly thrilled at the comments. Just like you can’t say you want to get back to work when the Stalker knows exactly where you’ll be.

Who could say when he would strike again? A day? A week? Going back to AMA would make the target on your back as large as a damn elephant.

Kliment waves a hand and your manager falls silent at the sheen of anger in his fly-eyes. He continues.

“Of course, AMA had to take precautions, Ladies.” Alyona shifts in her box on the screen, glancing to the side. “We were very close to having to terminate your deal with us. Such events are…ah, dangerous for our image.”

It’s like a punch to the gut you knew was coming. The only reason you were still employed was because of companies trying to profit off of the girls who beat the odds and survived a direct attack on one of their own.

You could already see the headlines—had seen the headlines.

Aly and you know the response you need to give.

“Thank you, Sir.” Smiles are stiff, but a sheet of pleasure washes Kliment’s face.

“Well, of course, my girls! I would never get rid of such beauties, no, no. This agency is your home—I love my women like my own.” His eyes stay on you, and your body shivers even miles away. “But lovely Seraph, again, when can we have you back? Everyone has been asking, yes? Photographers lining up! But of course, you’ll keep your assigned one.”

Everyone? You swallow down saliva thinking about crowds and the peering eyes.

“Uhm,” Nikto openly stares, and you glance up at him. He offers no help above a tilt of his head; arms over his chest. “W-when would you need me back, Sir. My calendar is always free for you.”

“Good! Tomorrow, then. Mrs. Solovyova?”

“...That works for me, Sir.”

“Perfect!” You sigh and close your eyes for a moment before the CEO jumps into business—your managers taking notes in preparation for scheduling and locations. “I will send the details over to your departments and good wishes to the companies, I’ll expect to hear of you both being in tomorrow.”

He leaves the call, but not without a smirk forming on his face.

The managers talk for a few moments, getting almost everything in order before they too leave.

Aly and you release a deep breath, both sagging. The other woman is first to speak.

“Bastard.” Nikto scoffs from across the room. You peek before you rub your head and nod in turn.

“A creep, one hundred percent.” Alyona sighs, and her palm acts as a headrest as she lays her chin on it. She licks her lips, face going hard.

“You don’t think that he…” Your brows tilt in confusion before you catch what she’s trying to say.

“No, Aly, it can’t be him.” She frowns. “T-that would be,” you force a laugh, hands beginning to spasm. Swiftly you move them under the desk. “That would be insane.”

Nikto takes his phone out of his pocket and taps something into the screen, feet spacing themselves in a display of a perfect soldier.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, Солнышко.” You turn away for a moment. “Anyone could be at this point.”

“My mother said there was a break-in at the bakery before the explosion. Someone planted that bomb because they guessed on an off chance that we would go out.” You breathe sharply. “Do you know how insane that is? Anyone could have,” swiftly stopping your sentence, you shake your head to clear it. “It’s…the person who’s doing this can’t blend into normal life. It has to be obvious, and everyone’s missing it.”

“Easy, Little Seraph,” Alyona eases, showing you a hand to get you to come back to her. “We will figure this out, yes?”

A hand rubs along your face and you whisper out, “Okay.”

“I’ll see you and the new man tomorrow—you know you can call me with anything. Nikifor and I worry about you. Yekaterinburg is a dangerous place, regardless.” You have to smile at that, lightly chuckling. Aly tilts her head as her hair brushes her shoulders after a moment of quiet thinking. A lighter air spreads out like her voice from the speakers. “...Who did your makeup in so little time?”

“See you tomorrow!” You grab the end of the laptop and slam it closed as the woman yells out to you.

“Don’t fuck him on the first day!” Wanting to shrivel up and die, you avoid Nikto’s suddenly brutal gaze and quickly push a smile to your lips.

“S…she’s joking.” His pale eyes aren’t amused.

Nighttime is a strange affair between the two of you.

You jump at every strange noise—like Nikto rearranging his room better to his standards—as you think of dinner for two. Laying on the couch, back in your turtle neck, it’s hard to focus above the scrape of hardwood and the low grunts from above; the distant rhythmic stomp of feet.

You rub your eyes and groan low. This was going to be a task, even for your usually placid attitude.

“What the hell does a monster eat?” The comment is directed at the taxidermy deer on your wall as you move to stand. “Liver? The souls of my enemies?” You blink, pausing before you mumble. “Maybe that’s not so bad, now that I think about it.”

Your pantry was already sparse at best.

Tapping the cupboard, you settle on something that Alyona had taught you to make with her mother. Cabbage Soup—Schi or щи—low overall in calories but still filling when you know your limits; healthy as well as hardy. You mess with the bag of potatoes and peel out a few, turning and setting them down on the island.

With the dark night soon setting in, you push the automatic button on your wall and watch the curtains close the rest of the way with a soft buzzing sound. Sighing, you flick on the lights and get to work as the gray blobs of potatoes fall apart under your knife, set to the side.

Cooking, while you still had a complicated relationship with food, did truly make you calm down. The tremors eased up, your feet stopped moving so much—you even felt yourself getting hungry as the ingredients were roughly chopped and dropped into a pot to boil.

If you allowed yourself it, you wouldn’t have minded growing up to be a cook instead of some form of greed and envy. But the thought of that now made you lose your appetite entirely.

When you’re half done with your tiny bowl, water on the side with nothing else, Nikto stalks down the stairs.

He takes one look at your bowl and speaks lowly.

“Щи.” You hum, recognizing the word that Aly’s mother had said. He grunts, chest jerking as he comes around the island to the boiling pot; his back now to you. “You will starve with that small of a portion, Whelp.”

Blinking, you sip down some of the broth from your spoon and furrow your brow. That nickname still makes your eyelids narrow in slight disapproval, but you let it go.

“I don’t think so, Nikto. It’s the last bit of calories I need for the day.” Pale eyes watch over his shoulder, pulling smaller.

“I find that insulting.” His hand grabs the ladle, bringing it up to stare. The Russian’s shoulder blades pull out at the motion, the line of his spine most likely showing through his skin under all that gear. You should tell him it’s okay to take it off, but you highly doubt he ever does outside of sleep. “Pointless.”

“You try being a model,” you remark. “You’ve got the body for it, at least. I know a few people that would swoon over the height alone.”

Nikto’s visible skin pulls, biceps tense. “Swoon, Girl?” The accent makes it sound like a bark from a dog.

You take your last spoonful, covering your mouth with your hand as you speak.

“Like,” pausing, you swallow, “actually I don’t know what that means. Become emotionally affected, I guess?”

“I do not care if people become ‘emotionally affected’ by my height.” Nikto pulls a bowl from the cupboard—a large one. “Such things are below me. All that matters is the mission.”

“Sounds boring,” you huff. “Sour cream is in the fridge.”

The light from the machine greets you as the condiment is taken out and emptied into a nearly overflowing bowl of cabbage soup. Blinking at the amount of food that would burst your stomach if you ate it, you shrug and clean out the last of the broth by bringing the lip of the bowl to your mouth.

Nikto huffs, looking down at the soup. He pauses.

“Where is баранины?” Your confusion must be plainly stated on your face because he seems to clench his jaw and say through his teeth. “Lamb.”

“Alyona never made it with meat,” you answer, hopping off your stool and moving to put your dirty dishes in the sink. “But I’ve heard everyone makes it differently depending on where you grew up. Was that how your parents made it?”

When you turn back around he’s already walking away from you. Watching, wide-eyed at how silently he cleared the room, you make a small sound in the back of your throat as he disappears upstairs.

The silence wafts back in, only the small noise from the record player dancing in your ears.

You lick your lips for the remaining taste of food and clean up with a still-growling stomach, shaking your head at the strange character living with you. Hoping this doesn’t drag out any longer than it has to and you’re able to find the stalker soon, you hear your phone go off on the counter as you mull over your predicament.

After you put the last of the leftovers away, you pat your hands on your pants and reach for your device, flipping over the screen and reading what will probably be a text from Aly for tomorrow.

You pause.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

‘Why won’t you let me love you?’

Staring, whatever sense of normalcy you had from cooking was snatched away. The blood in your veins halts with a blockage of iron and fear. Instantaneously, adrenaline spikes, making your pupils go small and your jaw clench.

Hands shake. You almost drop your phone.

With a quick punch of your fingers, you delete the text and block the number—tossing your device back to the counter and moving away from it until your back hits the cupboards.

Spasming palms slap to the stone countertop, grip tight.

You stare at the phone for a very long time, hearing nothing but the dull drone of the piano, the sounds of the city outside, and the pulse of your veins. Static was in your ears.

Gasping for a sudden deep breath, you clear your throat and turn away to finish cleaning, your body unable to stay still.

That night, like the ones previous, you find trouble sleeping.

The room was only illuminated by the fairy lights you’d strung from the ceiling, a soft fade and reentry like twinkling stars hanging in a black sky. You stare at them with open eyes, laying on your back surrounded by a multitude of quilts and blankets—pillows that crowd with doughy insides.

Nikto was turning in his bed, and the movement was setting you on edge.

The PMC had ordered you to keep the door between your rooms open at night, in case something was happening he would hear you better. You held your tongue on the fact that if this creep managed to get into your penthouse then it was already over for you. Regardless, now you could hear every shift and grunt—every huff of annoyed air.

No doubt the Full bed in the spare room was too tiny for him, nothing compared to your King.

Sighing and covering your eyes with your forearm, you call out sleepily.

“Are you sleeping alright?” The shifting stops. You wait for a response but get none. “Nikto?” Nothing.

Sitting up, your large silk pajamas hang off one shoulder as you yawn; covering your mouth you stand and steady yourself on the oak bed frame. Standing so you can get your bearings, you decide to do what you normally do when you can’t sleep.

Grabbing your phone’s flashlight, you flick it on and head to the kitchen—being extra careful and taking the stairs at half the speed you normally would. In the kitchen you grab at the stacked teacups and pick one with flowers on the sides; giggling to yourself at the thought.

Magnolia Tea.

Its smell burns into your nostrils as you prepare it in near-darkness, like a beacon of light the liquid shimmers. You remember your mother making it for you after the accident—helping you to sleep and stave off the nightmares; the insomnia.

You finish your cup in the kitchen but bring the second back up with you. Spilling only a little onto the tea plate, you go through the main door to your room and then turn to the blackened opening of Nitko’s doorway.

“I made tea,” your voice echoes. But no sound.

Maybe he was already asleep now.

“No need to drink it, but it helps me when I can’t sleep. Magnolia, if you’re curious.” You chuckle, fairy lights illuminating your face. “Sorry, I’m keeping you up. I’ll leave it in the doorway, okay?”

Silence, but perhaps a tiny huff from inside the lion's den. Good or bad, you have no clue. Slipping back into bed, you try not to think about what you’re sleeping above—the letters from the Stalker’s gifts.

You’d never opened them, and you never would. Inside that lockbox is where they would stay.

Your phone vibrates on your nightstand, and even with the tea in your stomach, it is a long, long, time before your eyes flutter closed.

Yefim’s body dances like a puppet on a string, a shadowy figure pulling the cords and letting his decimated corpse sway; jewelry stapled into his burnt neck like a collar. A noose that your desperate fingers try to hang onto.

How long could you keep this game up?

TAGS:

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traumatrios · 11 months ago

Text

her eyes invite you to approach

pairing … luke castellan x daughter of ares!reader

word count … 1.5k

warnings … vv suggestive, alcohol, luke is a perv, but it’s ok bc you are too 😊, not proofread

a/n … this chapters songs are: no1 party anthem by arctic monkeys and eyes without a face by billy idol

They were glowing, despite the dark brown hue that adorned his iris’. Luke’s eyes drew you in, halting the search for your sister your own eyes had been intent on finding.

The tool shed was used most often as a hotspot for parties instead of its intended use of holding tools for the strawberry fields and weapons for friendly games. The decorations of axes and spears settle a comfort in your body.

But those eyes; the way they had been fixated on you. They’d been staring at you for so long you began to feel the phantom pain of burning on your face. The muscles in your body tensed when they began to enlarge. You realize it’s because he was moving closer to you.

Sure, you were used to stares and pointed looks from other campers, it was a frequent response to your parentage. Being an Ares kid automatically meant you weren’t going to have many friends outside of your cabin. Your father’s reputation preceded you too much to not intimidate anyone.

But it didn’t seem to work on Luke Castellan. In fact, he was intimidating you. This is what he was known for; his daunting smirks and undeniable charm. It was no wonder he was the son of Hermes. But people knew better than to connect the dots to his face.

Soon enough, the tips of his worn black converse and your pointed boots were touching, as he nearly teleported in front of you. You were too lost in the clouds of your thoughts to pay attention to his stealthy path towards you.

“Luke,” you greeted, a friendly smile at-first-glance painted across your face. The fire that fueled the beating of your heart and the flow of your veins hidden behind the deep tint of your lips.

The sound of your name coming from his lips already caused a ripple of nerves to weaken in your thighs. “I saw your sister walk out with my brother a couple minutes ago.”

You shrugged, adding more product to the pre-existent lip marks on your cup as the liquid trailed a burning sensation down your throat. “Unsurprising, they can’t keep their hands off of each other for more than 15 minutes.”

A cash register ding sounded in your mind as you began daydreaming about the smooth surface of 20 bucks being smacked into the palm of your hand when Clarisse realizes you won your bet.

“You won’t be able to last 15 minutes in that shed,” you remember your remark to Clarisse a few hours before the party.

“Wanna bet?” she commenced your inevitable win. “Only if you wanna lose, Lisa,” a shit eating smirk spread across your lips as your fingers curled around the other’s palm in a handshake.

“Gods, stop calling me that!”

Luke’s laugh rumbled through his throat and touched every corner of the contained space and brought you back to the present. It made you realize how small the shed was. A chill ran down your spine.

Your eyes began to travel down the veins that bulge under the skin of his arm, disappearing behind the dark denim of his jean pockets. The other hand was clasped around the rim of his red solo cup. You realized this was the closest you all would get to regular teenagers.

“I haven’t seen you in the arena recently, finally scared of me?” Luke tested, pulling your gaze from his arm. You tilted your head at his assumption.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been too busy having a life. Why, you miss me?” The comment causes a blush to adorn both of your faces, though you believe his was much deeper— it was pretty dark.

“Just miss beating you, s’all,” his voice quieted down to an intimate volume. And from the mere distance (or lack of), you knew it was one only you and him could hear.

“Uh-huh,” you rolled your eyes playfully. The leather of your jacket sleeves rubbed against one another when you crossed them, peeling your eyes away from him to spectate the party. It was a weird combination— your cabin (Ares), the Dionysus twins (whom you could identify by their pale blonde curls), a gaggle of Aphrodite girls in the corner seducing a poor Hephaestus kid, a couple Hermes kids (including Luke) and you could’ve sworn you saw a few Athena kids rolling blunts through the window to outside.

Luke followed your gaze, the indistinct yet noisy conversations filling the air between your two. Then, he looked back at you. His attentive eyes swallowed in the sight of your dazzling vanity. He could see glitter shimmering on your eyelids and a few strands of silver tinsel blending into the texture of your hair. Your legs were bare, pressing together as the cold winter wind managed to slip between the wooden walls of the shed and torment your skin with goosebumps.

He imagined what his hands would look like gripping the skin.

Your leather jacket (covering what he wanted most to see) was black and worn at the elbows from your extensive use. He can recall every time he’s seen you wear it; the quick descent from stiff, shiny leather to its now dull and scruffed material. Luke’s eyes trailed back up to your face, but not before tracking across the supple and pure skin of your neck.

“Y’sure you aren’t a child of Aphrodite?” His voice startled your head to whip back to his, nearly knocking your noses together from how close his face had gotten to yours during your people watching.

When it registered, the compliment sent heat to your cheeks despite the feelings you had towards the cabin.

You didn’t mean to be stereotypical but they were serpents wrapped in pink bows and itchy glitter. Don’t let the compact mirrors eclipse their strategy for trapping others. Your mind flashes back to the time an Aphrodite kid legitimately caught you upside down with a rope rubbing against your ankle and the other end tied to the thin limb of a tree. Their giggles echo in your ears.

“No. I’m not,” your response is cold, causing the short conversation to fall flat. Luke raises his eyebrows at the bite in your voice, pressing his lips to the cusp of his drink to hide the amused smirk that spread across them. “I know you have a certain bond with them, though.”

Luke scoffed at the dig. Yes, he had a reputation with a few (multiple) girls at camp, but that wasn’t a big deal. You try putting a hundred kids together in a confined camp and see what happens.

“Sounds to me like someone’s jealous.”

Oh please, he was just trying to rile you up at this point. Your eyelids fell to shoot him a (hopefully) menacing side eye, only being met with a prideful grin and his wiggling eyebrows. He followed it with, “Am I right, spitfire?”

The nickname made the hairs on the back of your neck stand and the, once cold, feeling of your bare skin melt into a flustered heat. He knew just from the near-petrified look on your face that it would live on forever between you two.

“Nooo,” you drew out, scrunching your nose in spite of the boy. Tilting the red plastic, you funneled the rest of your drink into your mouth. shuffling your feet across the dusty floor of the shed to crush your plastic cup and throw it into the garbage, feeling Luke’s burning gaze melt into your frame (and how the thin fabric of the tank top underneath your jacket pinched against your tits). Luke licked his lips, seeing how the peaks of your nipples poked through the fabric.

“Uh-huh,” he mocked your attitude from earlier in the night, causing an irresistible smile to break across your face as you hit his chest in reprimand. He caught your hand in his before it could fall back to your side, pulling your bodies together. His breath fanned across your face, the tingling smell of beer (courtesy of the Stoll brothers’ sneaky escape from camp) and minty toothpaste filling your senses. You could swear your senses detected the slight aroma of cherry chapstick as well.

You admit it, you wanted to kiss him.

“You know it’s true, spitfire,” it was as if he’d read your mind, “you want me.” His voice was hypnotizing, you weren't sure if that’s what made the statement true or your honest feelings towards the boy. “And what if I do?” you pointed an eyebrow up, your eyes staggering around his face until they had nowhere else to go but his eyes– where he was already looking into yours.

He didn’t say anything else, only jerking his head towards the exit of the shed and provoking a nod from your side of your shared bubble. With Luke’s hand on the small of your back guiding you through the crowd, you realized you had been another victim of Luke Castellan’s charm.

loverschatbox, 2024

#luke castellan fic #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #della writes

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sinsinsininning · 1 year ago

Text

A little bit softer

Chapter 2.

Eustass Kid x crew mate!fem!reader

TW: depictions of DV, descriptions of medical terms and procedures, not as smutty

A/N: I don’t know why but l always have to make my reader inserts or OCs a medic in some way……It’s probably bc I’m a vet tech.

~~~~~~

Kid felt… guilty, which wasn’t a normal thing for him. Suspecting you were scared of him was one thing. But knowing you were scared of him was another entirely.

He wanted to shake himself some days, you were just a rookie. Not his lover. Not his partner. He didn’t owe you anything. But then he’d ruin his own pep talk by thinking of you and your face.

After your conversation with Heat, Kid walked on eggshells around you. The entire crew was still trying their damnedest to meddle with him, so encounters with you had ramped up a lot. You both still did your best to avoid eye contact or speak to him. But it was clearly starting to wear on the crew’s patience.

“You need to handle your shit.” Killer said to him one day in his workshop. Kid couldn’t even pretend not to know what he was on about.

“You need to fuck off!” He shouted, feeling his shoulders shake.

“Just talk with her, you never know, maybe she likes you as well.”

Kid burst out in hysterical laughter, needing a few moments to catch his breath.

“She’s terrified of me Killer,” He coughed. “She thinks I’m gonna hit her or something. I heard her telling Heat.” Killer cocked his head, thinking.

“All the more reason to clear the air. What’s more is I can’t have the crew keep trying to pair the two of you up, it’s getting in the way of their tasks.” Kid fixed him with a glare.

“Newsflash, asshole! You were the one who started that shit!” He turned back to his table. “Besides the fuck am I gonna say to make her feel better? Huh?”

“That’s true, you’re not good with words.” Killer nodded and began approaching him. “You’ll just have to use your actions.” Kid laughed.

“Oh yeah? How am I gonna do that?” He asked sarcastically before a sharp pain flared in his right arm. “Ow what the fuck?!”

Killer had cut his arm, a deep laceration at least 5 inches long. The masked man shrugged at his shouting.

“She’s in the med bay, go up there, tell her you got cut while working. Ask her to patch you up.”

“Fuck you this stings!” Kid pressed a used rag to his arm. “I’ll fucking stab you.”

“She won’t be there much longer. Tell her you can’t find me and you can’t stitch yourself with one hand.” Killer took that moment leave, Kid stood there fuming for a moment. Part of him wanted to just stay down here and fix it later, just to piss Killer off.

But a stronger part of him wanted to see you, hopefully you wouldn’t run or hide. He made his way slowly to the med bay, almost hoping you’d be gone. As he entered he saw how unlucky he was.

You had your back to him, wiping down the machines that sterilized the suturing materials and other rudimentary instruments. He coughed to get your attention, keeping his injured arm hidden behind the doorframe.

“Hip are you don- oh!” He hated how tense you became, you soft stomach clenching in worry. “Sorry captain, I thought Hip was done with the mop. What can I do for you?” He showed you his arm and felt a small bit better as you gasped with worry.

The rag he’s used to staunch the bleeding made it look worse than it was, but it had dried a little and was now stuck to his skin. You motioned for him to sit on the chair by the table.

“How’d that happen?” You asked, trying to gently peel the rag off.

“Was working and it just kinda happened.” He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to lie to you. “Don’t know where Killer is and I can’t sew with only one hand.” Still not lies technically.

“Gotcha.” You’re all business and he feels a little flush at the sight of you zipping around the room gathering materials. “Well it’s not too bad, really deep though. I’ll numb it, suture it really quick and you should be on your way.” Any trace of fear or anxiety was gone, your posture alert but relaxed, you soft face was focused.

“Take your time.” Kid drawled, enjoying the view, didn’t hurt that your ass looked good as you bent over to grab something under the desk. Your ass always looked good he decided. “Got nowhere to be.”

“Not true,” You return with a small syringe, some type of numbing drug he assumed. “You’re the captain, you probably got plenty of stuff to be doing.”

He didn’t respond, the injection you gave him stung so he had to bite back his swears about it. Neither of you spoke as you worked. You had to stand pretty close to place the sutures, your hands cold but soft as you touched him.

You shivered at one point and Kid realized, horrifically, that he’d leaned to far forward to watch your hands. You glanced up at him, caught his gaze and shuffled a bit further back. He wanted to growl as he saw how tense you’d gotten, your soft apology only making him more frustrated.

You were halfway done and he couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“So.” You tensed again, he could see it in your neck especially. “I never did ask… who was your old captain?” You jabbed the needle a bit harder at the question, obviously not on purpose as you profusely apologized. He ignored and continued to stare until you answered.

“His- um. His name is um… It’s Badger. Captain Badger.” You try to focus once more.

“How long did you sail with him?”

“2 years.”

“How big was the crew?”

“About 15.”

“Where’d you sail?”

“West Blue.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“Um.” You were almost shaking, he almost hesitated.

“Why’d you leave his crew?”

“What does it matter?” Oh that was a response, he grinned, anger was better than fear. At least in his book.

“Answer the question. It’s important for me to know.”

“You never needed to know before. Why now?”

“Because I’ve been watching you.” He leans forward more, meeting your heated glare as you tied the final knot. “You’ve got some peculiar habits, I’d like to know more about that.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

He nodded.

“Like on deck or like…. In my room?”

“Not like that you pervert!” He can’t help but shout, you don’t flinch though. A small grin on your face as you successfully get him off the topic.

“So not my room or the showers? Just to clarify.” He knows he’s blushing but he still growls and stands to his full height. You step back but he follows you, a look of fear in your eyes takes over the glee. But he can’t stop himself from continuing.

“You’re clever, but I still need an answer.” He crowds your space, placing both hands on the counter behind you, caging your body with his. He leans forward, letting his breath fan over your ear. “Why did you leave?”

You stay silent, face red and a little sweaty, he pulls back just enough to admire the sight. He can’t make a reassuring face to save his life, but he tries as tears fill up your eyes. Still, he can’t stop, he needs this. You need this.

“If you are unhappy with my performance or skills, tell me and I will fix them. I haven’t brought any bad habits on board. I assure you.” You finally answer, your words felt warm against his face, he grinned some more.

“Uh-uh you see, one of those habits, the only one really,” His grin drops from his face. “Is that you’re scared of your captain.” You pale at his words and start to shake a little. He continues, drawing back slightly.

“That’s something he taught you, right?” He tilted his head a little. “To be scared of your captain. Because you never know when he’ll just up hit you, right?” He parroted your words from the bar back to you. Your eyes are wide with recognition.

“I’m sor-“

“Save it,” He cuts you off. “I know I’m scary, it’s my whole deal. I’m a scary pirate who murders and pillage. But my crew is mine. Understood. I don’t let anyone harm them, especially not myself.” You lean back into the counter more.

“You hurt Wire. You made him need staples and you didn’t even seem sorry. You didn’t help patch him up.” Kid knew this was coming, he still didn’t know what to say.

“It was a mistake,” He said. “I didn’t mean to hit him, but you’re right. I should’ve check on him and made sure he wasn’t hurt.” It was hard to admit he was wrong, but in the small medical room, to you, it was a little easier.

Both of you stayed quiet for a while. He made no move to let you go. And you made no move to try. He wasn’t sure if he would’ve actually stopped you if you did. Finally, the tension in you jaw and shoulders eased, just a little.

“Badger… was bad. He didn’t just hit us. He stole from us and wouldn’t let us leave, even if some managed to escape they’d have no Beris. It’d be like starting from scratch, but worse because if he caught you he’d kill you.” You paused, taking a big breath, turning to stare at the wall. “I was secretly saving Beris, to hopefully run off and be able to hide from him. I didn’t have much, barely anything. One day he came and told me he wanted me to be his… wife.” Kid stood up straight, leaning back like he’d been struck, you continued barely noticing him.

“I told him no, I should’ve said yes and bided my time. Maybe I could’ve taken more people with me, but I was an idiot.”

“No that’s not-“ You cut him off.

“He threw a fit, tried to kill me. His devil fruit power nullifies weapons, so I couldn’t fight back. I tried to stage a mutiny, but everyone was too afraid, he’d never lost a fight. Eventually I jumped over board and swam to shore. I hid on a marine ship, I never had a bounty so I just pretended to be some girl who wanted to travel. I flirted with some of them and got a ride to a port a few islands over.” You sighed, a long exhale that seemed to deflate you. “I had no Beris or even clothes. But I overheard some rookies talking about joining your crew. I figured it was the safest option. So I spoke with Killer and here I am.” You trailed off quietly, tears still hadn’t fallen yet, it was almost impressive.

Kid didn’t speak for several long minutes, just watching you hold your breath. Finally he pushed off the counter, giving you both some breathing room. He began to exit when you called out.

“Captain what are you doing?”

He turned with a scowl.

“I’m setting a course to go murder that asshole.”

“What? Why that’s so far off our course.”

“I told you, you’re my crew. We’re gonna go murder him, then if any of your old friends wanna join the crew they can.” He laughed at your shocked face. When he’d caught his breath he turned again to leave.

#one piece #one piece smut #eustass kid #eustass x reader #kid x reader

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runa-falls · 1 year ago

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scratches and bites - 4

pairing: miguel o'hara x spider-girl!reader

cw: suggestive scenes, insecurities, a bit of cussing

wc: ~2.1k

a/n: god i am SO sorry how long this chapter has taken. i'm not the type of writer to have multiple chapters in a series done before posting them every week, i literally post chapters right when i finish them lol. thanks for sticking with me and being patient!

series masterlist | main masterlist

----

Miguel is still a grumpy man, sneering at anyone who dares to get in his way, still stressed out about keeping the multiverse on track and recruiting capable Spiders to assist him, but at least you’re no longer the main culprit of his frustrations.

Well, you’ll take that back, you’re no longer the one being yelled at.

Your transgressions are dealt with in another way…

Miguel is…insatiable to say the least. Since the day he reprimanded you through very unconventional means, seven suits have fallen victim to his desperation, shredded until they slipped into a pile below you.

Before he could destroy another one, you demanded a nanotech one of your own, tired of having to wait days in between for another one to be tailored, but he refused to give you one because he’s concerned about the unstable WIFI.

Eager fingers tug at the neckline of your suit. He groans, listening to the delicious sound of his claw tearing at the fabric. Red eyes darken as he watches each thread give out to the sharp point of his claws, slowly revealing the supple skin of your throat. He only gets down to your collarbone when you suddenly move away with a huff.

“Mig! Stop.” He frowns when you pull away from his touch, confused as to why you’d reject his advances.

“Sweetheart?”

“You’re always tearing up my suits.”

He’s still confused. You’ve never complained about it before. Actually, you seem to enjoy it, flushing with desire when he uses his claws on you.

“Look, I’m done wearing the extra shirts you keep in your office, Miguel. It’s…awkward having to navigate through HQ to get home without real clothes.”

Miguel’s frown grows deeper. He loves seeing you in his shirts, watching how your smaller frame practically drowns in the fabric and brushes against the softness of your thighs. There’s a hint of domesticity in a sight like that, one that he’s longed for since losing his family. It brings out a whole new side to him and he’s stubborn to let it go.

“Plus, all the Spiders wear their suits 24/7 so it’s even weirder that I’m only in a shirt!” You don’t seem to notice how lost in thought he is, how much your words are impacting him. “...so how about getting me one of those nano-suits? That way I don’t have to worry about bothering the seamstress for the fifth time this week…”

Miguel’s hands pull you closer, cradling the back of your neck as his thumb fiddles with the small tear against your throat. “Mm…no, nanotech isn’t super reliable…” His hand drifts down and cups over one of your tits, “and I’m not letting anyone see what’s mine under here.” He squeezes gently, watching avidly as your lips part with pleasure.

“Yes, but–”

“No ‘buts,’ honey. This isn’t up for discussion. You know exactly what I’m talking about…”

It’s true, you’ve seen the risk of technologically powered nano-suits first-hand when Miguel gave the Spiders a glimpse of his impressive *cough* stature *cough* during a debriefing meeting.

Needless to say, he was the talk of the city for reasons other than being the grumpy boss…

“Okay, fine. But still…I’m serious about the suits.

That’s when you established the first ground rule of the relationship: no ripping suits unless there’s another one ready to go.

Sure, Miguel sulked about it for a week, making sure you saw his pout when he’d peel your suit off you, but he still made an effort to follow it, carefully evading the sharp tip of his claws when he’d get too eager to see what’s underneath.

You weren’t surprised when you returned to your apartment a few days later to boxes full of suits. Miguel stood there with a proud grin, fangs and claws ready, eyes glowing like rubies. You barely got in the door with your suit still intact.

You also made another rule: no touching during work hours.

You were surprised that you had to make the rule as Miguel is universally known as a strict boss, but similarly with your shredded suits, sometimes he just can’t help himself.

There were enough instances of almost being caught and having to scramble for one of his shirts (or tug on the biggest piece of suit left on the floor) because Miguel forgot to lock the door, that you had to put your foot down.

You grumble as Miguel attempts to pull you onto his lap.

“You know the rules, baby.”

His arms loop around you as you stand between his legs, “But it’s five o’clock!”

“Mm…check again.” He looks up at the holographic clock, you were right, it isn’t five. “It’s four fifty-five.” He raises a brow, unamused.

“Hm…” He yanks you against him causing you to fall over his seated figure, “Fuck it.”

“Miguel!”

—

Sure, being with him is hot and fun, but Miguel isn’t exactly ‘boyfriend’ material.

But it’s not like you’re any better.

Back in your dimension, you were never interested in relationships. You preferred to coast through flings and crushes rather than get emotionally involved with someone.

So this, whatever it is, is all new to you.

That being said, you had zero expectations when it came to this thing between the two of you. You’re like an eager puppy, enthusiastically taking everything he gives you and returning it tenfold. This could mean everything…or nothing.

You assume it’s been a while since Miguel has been with anyone. He’s…hesitant with you, sometimes, like he’s holding a part of himself back. Like it would be too much if he were to fully commit to you and show you what he wants deep down. There’s a constant push and pull with Miguel and it’s either very intense or barely there at all.

It’s a dynamic you’ll never get used to.

Sometimes you spend hours curled up on his lap, content with enjoying his company without a word exchanged between the two of you as he works on his computer, matching anomalies to dimensions and answering messages from different Spiders.

It’s peaceful and oddly domestic. You can almost forget about the collapsing multiverse, the worries that loom over all Spiders, and pretend it’s just you and him.

But then, there are the other times.

Moments that you’d like to forget.

Sometimes he needs space. He needs time to methodically plan out missions and brood in his office until it gets late enough that you know he isn’t coming to your apartment.

Sometimes he disappears for days, or even weeks at a time, never giving you a hint of where he’ll be, just an, “I’ll be back,” thrown over his shoulder. And then you’re left at the entrance as he shuts the door behind him, desperately waiting for him to return so you can be happy again.

You don’t know why he turns cold, and you’ll probably never find out because he doesn’t talk about his past.

It could be your fault.

You never ask.

You never push him to tell you about that little girl whose photo floats on his desktop, or the ring that sits in a drawer right beside his side of the bed.

Sometimes you wonder if you should. If that’s what you’re supposed to do in a ‘relationship’ like this. If you deserve even a crumb of vulnerability from him. But you’re too afraid to lose the fragile thing you have.

You left everything for Miguel. Without him, you’d just be a girl floating in a sea of spiders.

For some reason, you’d rather constantly be on the edge of your seat than lost without him. Because that’s how it would end. You convince yourself that the good times outweigh the bad.

Your infatuation blurs the blue waves and disperses the confusion and hurt until it barely feels like a pinch. He buries your seeds of worry with delicate kisses and numbs the creeping feeling of defeat with the heat of his touch.

With every cold shoulder comes a warm embrace, and you’ll wait weeks in the chill if it means you’ll be in his arms again.

—

Hobie is back, again, despite claiming to quit a couple of weeks ago. Always expect the unexpected with Hobie because consistency is not in his (very British and barely decipherable) vocabulary.

“Oi, Black-Widow, long time no see, eh?” His eye must’ve caught on to your new outfit, a custom dark-gray suit with nano-tech details. Miguel finally reimbursed you after carelessly shredding through your one and only suit.

It’s really nice, and you’re finally more recognizable with this one than the old red and blue traditional you sported before. You turn, spotting his iconic hair and piercings.

“Hobie! You’re back!” You practically jump into his arms, and he catches you easily. “Where’ve you been?”

“Ah, you know, here and there.” A cleared throat echoes through the room and he sets you down on your feet before slightly stepping away from you. Right, you’re still in his office. Whoops.

“Brown.” Miguel acknowledges Hobie, barely, despite talking directly to him. Hobie looks between the two of you, picking up on the change almost immediately. Whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t show it.

“O’Hara.” He replies with an amused expression.

“Ready to get back to work?”

He shrugs, clearly not shaken in the slightest. “S’why I’m here, innit?”

“Good. Go report to Drew, you’ll be leaving in 20.”

“Right…” Eyes back on you. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Yeah, we can catch up later! Be safe.”

“Will do, Spider-Woman.” You catch Hobie sending Miguel a teasing smirk as he draws away from the two of you and leaves the room.

Freaking bugger, he’s trying to rile him up!

“I don’t like that guy.” He says it after a few seconds of silence.

You sigh, “I know.”

You turn to face him, meeting his signature scowl as he continues to glare at the door.

“With you.”

“I know.”

—

You’re still trying to do things your way, which, in your opinion, is the right way. And Miguel is still webbing you to any convenient surface and telling Parker to watch over you so he can get back to work.

“Not today, sweetheart.” You tug against the wisps of glowing red webs, nearly growling in your struggle. He’s clearly upgraded their strength after you’ve been able to escape and secretly tag along behind him.

“Wait, but, Miguel–!”

“This operation is especially sensitive. I can’t have you window shopping in a crumbling mall again.”

“That was one time! And we weren’t even on a mission.”

He raises an accusing brow, “Exactly.” He starts to walk away, ignoring your groaning and moaning. “Don’t forget you’re still on thin ice after you disobeyed orders last time.

“Ugh! C’mon, that was eons ago. I think I’ve proven myself.” He walks away, clicking a few buttons on his watch before a portal appears.

“Yeah, on unauthorized trips.”

“Still!”

“Brown, you ready?”

Hobie pushes off the wall he is leaning on and gives Miguel a teasing salute, “Aye-aye, sir.”

“What?! I’m stuck over here, but he gets to go?” The Brit sends you a teasing wink.

“He’s dispensable, cariño.”

“Ouch.”

You look over to the other side of the room where Peter sits.

“Okay, and what about him?”

“He's on babysitting duty.”

“Really? We’re still on this?” You raise an annoyed brow.

Peter holds his hands up in surrender, “Don’t look at me, look at your boyfriend. You’re not the only one suffering from this arrangement.”

“Boyfriend? More like father…” You mumble grumpily.

Hobie’s mouth quirks up, “Father? More like d-”

“Don’t fucking finish that sentence, Brown.” Of course, this doesn’t discourage him, if anything, the low growl only makes him smile wider. Miguel sighs, releasing the sudden tension from his body with a quick roll of his shoulders. “Alright, we should be back in a handful of hours.” He begrudgingly looks over at his mission partner, “Let’s go.”

“Okay, call me if you need help!” You yell as Hobie disappears into a flash of neon lights and pulsing sounds.

Before Miguel follows and slips through the portal, he stops and looks back, not at you, but at your babysitter, “And Parker,” He pulls his mask on, always ready for battle, “Make sure she behaves.”

“Oh, come on–”

Peter grins and sends Miguel a half-hearted thumbs up, “You got it.”

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o’hara smut #scratches and bites #atsv

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blueraineshadows · 6 months ago

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Sebastian Sallow 🔺️ F!MC 🔺️Leander Prewett

Chapter 12 - Tangled

Tags: NSFW / PTSD / Angst / Violence / Blood / Dark Wizards /

Chapter Master List and Ao3

Chapter Twelve: Tangled

When it came to dramatics, Rookwood had the flair for being unfailingly civilised whilst delicately peeling the skin from your back with his icy words. Dressed like a true English gentleman, there was not a speck of dirt on his coat, his top hat carefully balanced atop his head, his hands clean despite the dirty work being attended to. Rookwood had no need to accumulate grime under his fingernails, or risk a stain on his fine waistcoat when he had lackeys all too eager to do the manual labour for him.

The young man on his knees in the middle of the prisoner tent was sobbing. His hair was a mess, filthy and limp, the skin of his hands and feet black with dirt, his clothing rumpled from several days in lock up. Saliva and blood trickled from his mouth, dripping from his chin to stain his trousers as he tried to choke back the croaky sobs. He shook as he tried to keep his head up, but another booted foot slammed into his ribs and sent him sprawling across the packed dirt floor of the tent.

Rookwood grimaced as though disgusted, throwing a look up at the faded cloth of the tent roof and sighing. “It’s such a shame that it must come to this,” he mused, shaking his head, his tone borderline sympathetic as he looked down at the pitiful sight. “I consider myself a fair man. I treat you well here. There is food to eat, whores to rut with, and a place to rest your head, and yet…and yet, you still betray me.”

To the rear of the tent, MC felt herself stiffen as she watched the scene unfold before her, sick to her stomach at how Rookwood truly believed himself to be some kind of saviour to these Ashwinder followers. Most of them came from troubled backgrounds, seeking a place to belong, and following a darker path because there were no other options for them. The few days she had spent in this Ashwinder camp had brought forth memories of long days in the orphanage, the hollow eyes of hungry children in those dark winter months. Little to live for, and yet you fought to hang on to every moment. It was every man for himself despite the appearances of this being some kind of “family”.

This was no family.

The man delivering the kicking was the camp Executioner. A man-mountain with a mask covering the lower half of his face, his eyes cold and brutal as they peered above the cloth. His arms were thicker than MC’s legs, his neck solid, and his feet deadly when aimed at one’s ribs. The man on the floor was clutching his side, his breath wheezing dangerously as blood trickled from the side of his mouth. The glitter of eyes above the mask were those of a predator, the scent of fear and blood inside the tent was palpable, and yet it seemed to rile up those present. Aside from her.

Glancing sideways, she caught the eye of Sebastian, his look dark and brooding as he stood with his arms folded. He met her gaze with the merest hint of a headshake, warning her to keep her mouth closed. It was safer that way, he would say, not wanting her to risk any more attention than she already received from the other camp members. Despite their efforts to maintain an outward appearance of distance between them, Sebastian was still the over protective menace he always had been.

Rookwood paced the floor, slow and deliberate, his forefinger and thumb gently caressing the neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard on his chin. “It is not respectful to bite the hand that feeds you, boy,” he said icily, his eyes like flint in the glow of the lamp. “Let this be a lesson learned. One more toe out of line, and I won’t be so gracious next time.”

The young man merely sobbed and wheezed, barely able to nod his agreement as he tried to get back up onto his knees. Even now, his eyes were turned to Rookwood with pleading, trying to gain some ground by almost worshipping at his feet. MC had to turn her head away from it all, fixing her gaze on the entrance of the holding tent, ignoring the chains and table laden with instruments of pain.

Footsteps approached her, the delicate scent of cologne reaching her nose as fingers gently took hold of her chin. Resisting the urge to flinch, MC let the hand turn her head back to the room, meeting a pair of cold, blue eyes. Eyes she had thought closed forever by her own hand.

“Come now, sweet one,” Rookwood said, smiling as though this was some kind of social tea party. “That’s enough drama for one evening, wouldn’t you say? Time for us to have that proper chat I’ve been promising you. Shall we?”

He offered out his arm, the very image of genteel behaviour, whilst his eyes sent shards of ice down her spine. MC swallowed hard and kept her chin lifted, maintaining a cool expression as she nodded. Hating every moment of this, she put her hand into the crook of Rookwood’s elbow, her eyes daring to glance towards Sebastian once more as she was led towards the tent entrance.

A muscle was twitching in Sebastian’s jaw, his eyes ablaze with barely contained aggravation as he had no choice but to watch her being led away. In the brief seconds they had eye contact, she could feel his frustration, and tried to convey her reassurance. It was all part of the plan, it was all game play. She had to be the epitome of willing and pliable in order to fool Rookwood. She could do this.

The cool, night air hit her cheeks, the freshness of it soothing after the stench of the tent. Rookwood led her across the camp, past fires and gang members huddled under thick cloaks, whilst a cold moon looked down upon on them.

“I hope you find your accommodations here with us suitable, MC,” Rookwood said, strolling along with ease. He flashed a suave smile. “Although, I am sure anything beats the comforts of Azkaban. Our humble tents must feel like palaces in comparison.”

A pallet on the floor of a tent shared with a female Ashwinder who snored louder than a Graphorn could hardly be described as luxury, but she managed a smile in return nonetheless. “I manage just fine, thank you.”

“No trouble from other campmates?” He asked, one eyebrow raised. “I call us a family, however I am not so much of a fool to believe that bad behaviour won’t take place. The disappointing scene in the tent just now merely proves my point.”

“I can handle myself,” she said firmly, her face hardening.

Rookwood’s smile dripped with cold delight. “Oh, I know, sweet one. I know. I also know that despite your murdering little hands wiping out his uncle, Sallow seems rather taken with ensuring your safety. He was most keen to have you out of Azkaban, and assured me that I would be in need of his assistance should you choose to resist joining my crew. It’s a curious little set up we have here. It makes one wonder where loyalties truly lie.”

Arriving outside the larger, and far more elaborate tent that Rookwood used, MC fought the tight feeling in her chest as she maintained her careful indifference.

“I’m loyal to myself,” she said, the words falling from her mouth with surprising ease. When she met his cold, enquiring eyes, she didn’t flinch. “When you spend years alone in a prison cell, you have plenty of opportunity to think. I’ve been let down all my life, and I’m not about to expect anything different any time soon. Sallow is one of those who let me down. If he wants my loyalty, he will need to earn it, just like everyone else.”

Rookwood narrowed his eyes as he studied her. “You are a cold little thing, aren’t you?”

MC shrugged and took her hand from his arm, stepping away from him, and her face remained hard. “Can you blame me? Even you need to prove that this is worth my time. You know better than anyone how easily I could wipe you off the very ground you stand upon. I could have this camp ablaze in seconds, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. I’m here because I choose to be. Now, what’s it worth?”

His smile was slow, the greed in his eyes shining brighter than the moon above their heads. His chuckle was low and dark as he lifted the tent flap and gestured for her to enter. “You are delightful. Please, do come in. We have things to discuss.”

Enchanted to be a most luxurious and stately residence, Rookwood’s tent was like a home from home with all the comforts one could wish for. He strolled in and gestured towards a chair decorated with lovely wooden scrollwork, the cushioned seat plush and inviting. MC sat, her back straight, her hands placed loosely on her lap where they were in close proximity to the wand strapped on one thigh, and a silver dagger on the other.

“You know, I remember you when you were a slip of a girl in her Hogwarts robes, sipping butterbeers in Sirona’s bar. It was quite the wholesome little scene,” Rookwood said, casually fetching a wooden chest from a sideboard and carrying it towards the table where she sat. “You are still a slip of a girl, but not so much of the wholesome anymore, hmm? A cold blooded murderer, and an ex-convict. I wonder if those charming townsfolk would still be so quick to jump to your aid these days.”

His eyes were knowing as he brushed back her hair to reveal the prisoner number tattoo on her neck. A shiver swept over her and she glared at him. Did she not shove those very fears deep inside of herself every day?

“I knew nothing about the power I had back then. Things are different now. I can take care of myself.” In trying to maintain control, her words sounded brittle to her own ears, her mouth tight and almost grim.

“Indeed,” he smiled, opening the chest on the table with a flick of his wand. He reached in and pulled out some scrolls, the parchment yellowed and faded. “This ancient power you possess is quite remarkable. After seeing it first hand, I was rather intrigued to say the least. After everything with Ranrok, I decided to keep things much closer to home this time around. Doing dirty work for goblins can leave a rather sour taste in the mouth, however, there are benefits to be reaped if you know where to look.”

He held up the scrolls and proceeded to open one with a flourish.

“These I acquired from a ruined dwelling in Feldcroft, sacking the place for Ranrok in his search for those repositories. It was quite the adventure at the time, the locals having that same annoying wholesomeness as those in Hogsmeade. They came to try and stop us, but as you know, I’m not one to let people stand in my way.”

MC narrowed her eyes. As much as she felt deep bitterness towards Anne Sallow, it was still a terrible thing that happened to her. “I have heard the stories. Even cursing children doesn’t seem to be too much of a bother for you, just so long as you get your way. Children should be seen and not heard, right?”

“Absolutely,” he said, the flash of teeth sinister as he grinned. He leant to spread the parchment on the table top, a frown appearing on his brow. “I had to teach a rather annoying brat a lesson when I got my hands on these, actually. Quite the feisty thing, babbling on about taking things that didn’t belong. She tried to stop me, even dared to raise her wand at me, but I put a stop to that.”

MC stared at him, trying to picture a healthy and furious Anne and realised it wasn’t too hard to imagine. Like Sebastian, she had fight and stubbornness. MC had to be careful with her words here. Revealing that she knew the child he had cursed would open up questions she couldn’t answer. Not just because of the pact she had made with Sebastian, but for their own safety within the gang. After years of earning Rookwood’s trust, she couldn’t blow Sebastian’s cover for being here.

“How does one teach a child a lesson exactly?” She asked, tilting her head as though curious. In all honesty, she was curious. If she knew what Rookwood had done, it could help Sebastian find a cure. “Did you kill the child?”

“Not exactly,” he said, a smug smirk twisting his lips as he glanced at her. “A rather handy curse of my own design. No instant death for that little brat. No, a slow and painful one for her. I wonder if she is still suffering? Perhaps she thinks twice before crossing someone she shouldn’t these days.”

He had the audacity to laugh as he pondered these thoughts and MC felt her stomach twist with nausea, wondering how a man could so casually cause such trauma towards a child when he had a daughter of his own. Anne had not learnt her lesson, though, happily throwing MC into Azkaban to serve her own selfishness. It would appear she had not learned a lesson despite her pain, and MC found she could not hold on to her sympathy for long, her own blood crackling with vengeful desire.

“No cure for such a curse, then?” She asked, her gaze dropping to the parchment on the table.

Rookwood gave her another sinister smile. “No cure. That’s the beauty of it. A curse of my own making, all those I have chosen to bear it will suffer until their death, or mine, and I have no plans to leave this mortal realm just yet.”

“You are quite the villain, aren’t you?” She said, and not in an impressed kind of way.

He laughed, loud and heartily. “Why, thank you.”

Of course, he took it as a compliment. Hardening her resolve even further, she gestured towards the parchment on the table. “So, what’s next in your twisted little games? I’m going to assume you need my help with it. Why else would you want me here?”

“Straight to the point. I like it,” he said, satisfaction gleaming in his smile. “This scroll belonged to Isadora Morganach. You and I both know the significance of this particular witch, so there will be no need for any pretending here. We also both know that Isadora spent a considerable amount of time researching your ancient magic, and this is what appeals to me. My family was involved with this power once, and I intend to continue that tradition. That’s where you come in, sweet one.”

MC knew this would be coming, Sebastian had warned her, and Rookwood had shown his hand all those years ago when he had snatched her from the street outside Ollivander’s. Swallowing tightly, MC leaned over to take a look at the parchment, recognising the inked hand of Isadora. It was, indeed, a part of her research, outlining the deposits of ancient magic that seemed to store themselves in locations scattered across the land. MC felt a sinking sensation as she read, anticipating where this was headed.

“You are interested in locating more deposits,” she said flatly, looking up at him.

So smug. The greed was sickening as he smiled at her. “You catch on quick, sweet one,” he nodded. “You’re the only one who can see these deposits, and once absorbed, they will increase your capabilities. Imagine the power you could possess, the deeds you could achieve.”

“I am fully aware of these deposits and what it could mean, Rookwood,” she said, shrugging. “I have come across them before around the Highlands. I fail to see how this benefits you, though.”

His eyes narrowed. “With your power, and my connections, imagine the team we could be. Greatness, MC. Who could stand against us?”

“Us? You want me to work for you?” She needed to hear him spell it out, let him spill his lies whilst he aimed to collect her like one of his relics.

“With me, MC. I wish for us to work together,” he said smoothly, placing his hand against his chest as though this was heartfelt. It sickened her stomach. “Together, we could build something truly remarkable. I would fulfil a birthright, standing beside you, a pillar of strength that would see you reach your full potential, and therefore, claiming your own birthright. Do you not wish to finish what Isadora began? Together, we could finish her research, delve even deeper into what this magic could mean, push the boundaries out and achieve greatness. Does that not sound like something that could fulfil you? Claim back what you deserve, MC. After the darkness of Azkaban, this could be your light.”

The silence of the tent seemed to press in upon her, heavy with the weight of his words that were spoken with only his own selfish intent in mind, and yet the temptation of what he implied was undeniably tangible. It almost brought tears to her eyes how he was cleverly appealing to what she truly did desire, her own redemption in a way, a path to walk that would finally give her the sense of belonging she craved.

The gut punch of it all came when faced with the darker agenda he had planned, to build her up only to tear it all away from her and claim it as his own. A truly twisted game that he had every intention of winning. But, he couldn’t win. She wouldn’t let him. She had to play the game harder and slicker than him, draw on everything she had learned in order to survive, and she wouldn’t do it alone.

Knowing that she had Sebastian standing at her side helped to keep the steel in her spine as she stared at Rookwood, even if Sebastian, too, had his own selfish reasons to help her, she knew he would have her back, just as he always had. There was also the knowledge that she had the British Auror Office in the wings, her very own Auror waiting for her in London who had already proved just how far he would go to help her. Despite feeling like she didn’t deserve it, she was grateful to have Leander in her life. She only hoped she could pay his loyalty back and pull this off.

“You paint a pretty picture, Rookwood,” she said, tilting her head, considering him. “I won’t deny the appeal of it. But, I’m not so foolish as to trust you. You have form, something you don’t even deny.”

He gave a nod, a pretty image of respect that didn’t do anything to make her think he meant it. His showmanship was a smoke screen she saw through well enough. “Is it not enough that you would hold all the power? As you so rightly said, you could end it all with one flick of your wand, and I would be useless against such a display. I merely intend to be at your side, a guiding hand if you will. My Ashwinders will be of assistance whilst you seek out these deposits and uncover your potential. Your guardian army, you might say.”

He was a dreamer, a man who aimed high, and believed he could get there by using any means necessary. Not to take anything away from his cunning, and his clear skill at leading people, but MC suspected there was a weakness in there to press on. His greed and desire for greatness could be his undoing, his ego something to be stroked. Her barriers were firmly in place, but her mouth smiled at him as she touched her hand to Isadora’s research paper.

“Then I guess I have some reading to do,” she said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. “I don’t see the harm in seeing where this could lead. I might have some requests, though.”

“What do you need?” He asked, holding out his arms as though he could grant her any wish.

“If we are going to hunt down these deposits, then Sallow comes with me. He aided me as a girl, we work well together, and he has experience in helping me with my magic.”

“Is that so?” Rookwood’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you think he can be trusted with this?”

She summoned every scrap of determination she could muster as she made her voice cold and seemingly uncaring, whilst her blood burned to utter such words. “He knows if he betrays me I could wipe him from existence, just as I did his uncle. He will help me. He is almost as enamoured by my magic as you are, he won’t be able to resist it.”

Rookwood’s look was calculating as he studied her, his fingers stroking at his beard. “Imagine how different life could have been if you had taken this opportunity when I had offered it to you outside Ollivander’s that day, the deaths that could have been avoided, a prison sentence not served, the greatness you could have achieved already.”

His words hit like blows to the gut, and she fought the urge to cower against the breathtaking twist of grief that slammed into her chest as she thought of Professor Fig fading in her arms under the school. Guilt was cold and cruel, no forgiveness great enough to appease the horror of that moment, something she struggled with day by day. She fixed her gaze on the parchment, the words blurring through the haze that descended over her eyes as she fought to keep control of her emotions. The wounded dark of her heart threatened to spill forth, but she choked it back, blinking furiously as she focused on each breath, in and out, clinging to calm.

Her choices had been her own, and she had tried to avoid the temptation of darkness, but the fear that a piece of it lingered within scraped tempting claws through her soul. It whispered to her, weaving the spell of temptation and calling her home. It was in her blood. It was her birthright, was it not?

No. There was always a choice. Ominis was her proof of that and she held it tight, close to her chest. She had the power to make her own choices.

Stiffening her spine, she turned hard eyes towards Rookwood. “I guess it all comes down to timing. That, or, everything happens precisely when it means to, regardless of how dark things may be.”

“You believe in fate?”

“We live in a world of magic,” she said, lifting her eyebrows at him. “I’ve learned to accept that anything is possible. Now, let’s see if we can’t find a starting point for our search, shall we?”

….*….

The night held a chill that seeped into your bones, the camp mostly quiet, guards posted at the borders keeping watch for any sign of trouble as the rest of the Ashwinders sought rest or sustenance. MC sat huddled on her straw pallet, a cloak wrapped around her despite the casting of a warming charm, her tent companion snoring loudly beside her. Surrounded by people, the loneliness held a stealthy position at her shoulder, the weariness of having to mask her truth bearing down upon her.

Agreeing to walk willingly into Rookwood’s trap had set a course she needed to hold despite every instinct telling her to run. It was a dangerous game, but it held promise. Rookwood had been right about one thing. Her truth, her power, it was all connected to Isadora, and any evidence gathered was another step towards discovering who she was. MC had to snatch every opportunity that came her way, even if that meant dancing with the devil for a time.

Feeling the pinch of the lonesome darkness, she retrieved her secret parchment and laid it flat against a book, tapping her wand to the blank paper but revealing no new words. Swallowing down the disappointment, she felt that warmth she had shared with Leander slipping further into the shadows. His contact had been brief and polite for the last few days, words seemingly professional and distant, a mere touching base that covered her required check in with Aurors and nothing more. The wrench of missing him cut a fresh scar in that soft part of her she hid away, and even though it was for the best, she couldn’t help but grieve for what she was allowing to slip through her fingers. She, too, had been withdrawing away from him, and it had proved harder than she had expected.

The urge to see him swelled to the point that she was reaching for her quill, summoning the words to send off to him, a craving to see the warmth of his honey brown eyes making her bite her lip as she began to write. Whilst keeping her words as professional as he had set the tone for, she suggested a face to face report, an opportunity to look upon him once more before setting off in search of ancient magic deposits. Tapping her wand to the page, she watched the ink fade and vanish, knowing he was unlikely to see it until tomorrow. She imagined him safe and sleeping in his bed at his flat, drawing comfort from the image, a soft smile curving her lips. She couldn’t help but cling to the life line he had thrown her way after pulling her out of the frigid dark.

Putting her quill and parchment away, MC eyed the lumpy pillow and shifted on her hard mattress, missing the soft warmth of Leander’s bed. Perhaps it was a step up from the stone ledge of prison, but the snoring beast of her companion took away the peace and privacy, and she doubted sleep would deign to visit her tonight. Sighing, she clambered up and out of the tent, pulling her cloak around herself as she stepped out under a star sprinkled sky. Looking up she breathed in the crisp night air, filling her lungs with mountain breeze, camp fires and woodland. The promise of freedom lingered in that scent, but she was just as chained as ever, bound to a fate that could have been laid out before she had even entered this world.

Putting one foot in front of the other, she focused on the promise of being able to make her own choices, lost in her own head as she came across a dark figure in the shadows. Halting immediately, her hand hovering near her wand holster, she remained poised as Rosier stepped towards her. He was so very handsome, his smile designed to lure in unsuspecting souls for sure. She relaxed her hand, but left it hanging loose near her thigh, nodding in greeting.

“If it isn’t our chosen one,” he said softly. “Where are you slipping off to at this time of night?”

“The usual,” she shrugged. “Always assume I’m up to no good, it avoids disappointment.”

He chuckled and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Want some company whilst you raise mischief and mayhem?”

“A tempting offer, but one I must decline,” she said, pouting her lips in an image of regret.

“Of course,” he smirked, slipping his hands into his pockets and nodding towards a tent at the other end of camp. “He’s alone in there. I will be gone for a few hours. Make the most of it, darling. Go make mischief.”

Pulling her gaze from the tent Rosier shared with Sebastian, MC stared at him, the knowing glint in his eyes making her stiffen slightly. “Make the most of what, may I ask?”

He smirked and moved to step away. “When eyes speak as yours do, there is no need for words. Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. Sebastian is a good man, one of the best in this shit hole. He has been good to me. I won’t betray him.”

MC stared at him, keeping her silence as she shivered under her cloak. What did her eyes reveal? Had her mask slipped enough for others to see her truth, too? Turning her gaze back to Sebastian’s tent, the danger that hung over their heads felt like strings pulling them in every direction with no escape. So much for that freedom.

Rosier paused, turning back to her, his hand touching lightly to her elbow and making her face him once more. “Oh, and be careful,” he murmured in a low tone. “Luella. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating her. Don’t turn your back for a moment. Understand?”

MC nodded, her throat tightening as he brushed the pad of his thumb across her arm, that alluring smile soft on his face as he turned and walked away from her, vanishing into the night as though he had never even been there at all.

Of course, her feet led her to Sebastian’s tent, no matter how many times she told herself that she needed more time, that he needed to prove that he was worth the wait, she returned to him regardless. Lingering at the entrance, she debated the wisdom of going inside. Ever since they had slept in the cottage at Feldcroft, she had kept a reasonable distance between them, offering up the illusion that they were acquainted before the other camp dwellers and nothing more, whilst in reality their blood sung for each other in a way only they could understand. It led her here to his presence, answering a call that appeared primal and basic in its instincts.

Lifting the flap of the tent, MC stepped inside, the interior lit with a single lamp. Two bunks on either side, a chest, and a battered wash stand provided minimal comfort. It was basic and threadbare, but she could feel the warmth of magic lending it a far cosier feel than appearances would suggest. Sprawled on the far bunk, his nose in a book, Sebastian appeared relaxed, his hair a tumbled mess and his shirt open at his throat. Jacket and waistcoat were discarded, and an empty bottle of butterbeer sat on the floor by a stack of books. He glanced up as she entered, sitting up immediately at the sight of her, snapping the book shut with a warm smile.

Oh, how that smile seemed to chase the loneliness that persisted at her shoulder, pushing back the shadows that reached with long arms in their efforts to conceal her.

“Am I disturbing you?” She asked softly, glancing over her shoulder to ensure the tent flap was closed behind her. “I checked nobody was nearby before entering.”

“You’re always welcome,” he said, reaching for his wand. He cast a silencing charm, warding the tent to avoid any eavesdropping before beckoning to her. “Come in, take a seat.”

He patted the bed bunk, smoothing the rumpled blanket as he shifted to make room for her. MC unclipped her cloak, pulling it free from her shoulders as she moved to sit. His eyes never left her as she got comfortable, a softness lingering around his mouth. It wasn’t the look of a violent Ashwinder, just the boy she had once known.

“What were you reading?” She asked, gesturing towards the book he had abandoned.

“Tales of King Arthur and the Round Table,” he said, picking it up and handing it to her. “I wanted to refresh my memory on what Muggles had written about Merlin. They do love to embellish their legends. Their ideas about magic are rather amusing compared to the real thing, however, some of their words hit a little too close to home sometimes.”

MC smoothed her fingers over the book cover, absently following the embossed title. “What prompted the idea to read about Merlin?”

“You, of course,” he smiled. “Or rather, your ancient magic. Do you remember helping that witch, Nora Treadwood? She published her research on Merlin and I read a copy recently, intrigued by the possibility that Merlin could have been a host of ancient magic. Those trials we completed in the Highlands seemed to come naturally to you. I thought it might be worth reading up on it all.”

She couldn’t stop her smile as she looked at him. It hadn’t been a lie to request his presence at her side in order to help her seek out ancient magic deposits. His enquiring mind and ability to maintain vast amounts of knowledge were invaluable. It came easy to admire him for it, and she knew he was wasted here in this camp of criminals. He should be working for the Ministry, or teaching as a Professor somewhere, not thieving and committing acts of brutality.

“Did you learn anything interesting?” She asked, flipping the book open to a rather colourful illustration that caught her eye.

Sebastian leaned closer, peering down at the open pages. “The character Morgana is of particular interest I think. She is presented as an apprentice to Merlin, and then a villain. Some have suggested she was a lover, perhaps, but she is always cunning and powerful. I’d bet a few galleons that she was a Slytherin.”

Their eyes met, that inexplicable tension crackling between them. “Maybe she was. Perhaps she slept in the same dormitory as me. It’s strange to think of it.”

MC looked down at the artwork in the book, the robed drawing of Morgana seemed oddly familiar and she couldn’t place why. She had not seen this book before, she was sure. When she had read the legends of King Arthur, her copy had been a rather battered version she had smuggled into the orphanage, and she didn’t recall any artwork inside.

“Not that strange,” Sebastian murmured, looking thoughtful. “Some of the greatest witches and wizards of our world walked the halls of Hogwarts. What I would give to be able to sneak into the restricted section of the library one more time. I bet there would be something down there about her worth reading, something hidden from the muggle world.”

MC bit her lip, her finger tracing the artwork of the legend herself in the book. Her next words could potentially start something she might regret, breach a trust that had been placed upon her in order to help her, but it could also further her quest for more information. Looking at Sebastian now, the temptation to utilise that brilliant brain of his was so strong, that she was speaking before she could change her mind.

“What if I told you that I could do one better than the library at Hogwarts?” She said, lifting her eyebrows and fighting back a smile at the spark of interest in his gaze. “What if I told you that I had someone doing a little digging in the Ministry archives on my behalf? I could whisper Morgana’s name in his ear and see what turns up?”

“Who would do that for you? Not Prewett, surely?”

“No, not Leander,” she shook her head. “But, I’m not going to name who it is and risk him being caught out. He is doing me a huge favour gathering information at the risk of his own neck. I’m not going to unleash the chaos that is Sebastian Sallow on to him for his trouble.”

“I am not chaos,” Sebastian scowled, puffing out his chest indignantly.

She smothered a chuckle, recalling the similar jest Ominis had made at their last meeting, and nudged her shoulder into him. “I beg to differ.”

His lips twitched and he huffed with amusement, his fingers gently encircling her wrist, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her pulse point. “I’ve missed this,” he whispered. His brown eyes lifted to meet her gaze, the warmth in them seemingly boundless and undeniably alluring. “I’ve missed you.”

Her chest swelled with an ache so fierce she had to catch her breath for a moment, staring into his eyes and knowing without doubt that she had missed him too, missed these chats and picking each other's minds about things. Such simplicity, but it meant so much.

“You know, it was moments like this that kept me sane in that place,” she said, her voice a little hoarse. “When the cold and dark felt like it might swallow me whole, I would allow myself to think about times we had spent together, just doing silly things like studying, or walking around the Black Lake at the weekends. Thinking of you chased back the darkness for a moment, but then I would have to suppress all thought of you, hide you away in my most secret, put away heart so that the Dementors couldn’t steal all trace of you from my mind. They were drawn to any happy thought, and I think I might have died if they had taken you from me.”

Fighting back her own tears, it made her stomach twist to see his eyes burn with his own sadness, the devastated look on his face painful to witness. He cupped the back of her neck, pulling her closer so that their foreheads touched. “I can never repay the debt that I owe you,” he said, his voice pained. “You should never have been sent to Azkaban in the first place, and I will never forgive myself for it. Hearing what you had to endure in there…”

He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to finish his sentence, his grip on her neck tightening. “I’m so sorry.”

They were words she needed to hear, and she did believe him. She had seen him at his most vulnerable, held him at his lowest points, and she did not imagine for one moment that this was anything but genuine regret. It might not make up for what she had lost, or take away any of the horror that she had suffered, but it did ease some of the ache in her chest to hear him say it. Lifting a hand to his cheek, she soothed him with a gentle caress, trying to show him that she appreciated what he was saying to her because words would not come past the tightness in her throat.

He opened his eyes, his head still leaning against her as he stared, gaining some control over his emotions. “I thought about what you said,” he began, his fingers trailing down her neck and back up again. “You said the pact that we made held you just as captive as your cell did, and you were right. I never intended to trap you with it. I just wanted us to never feel lonely again, to always know that we had each other no matter what. I hate that it only managed to keep us apart for so long, trapped by its bond, you were forced to remain in darkness or die. That’s not what I wanted, not at all.”

“I was angry when I said that,” she said, stroking back his hair. “Yes, I was bound by it, but I also clung to that bond whilst I was in there. It was my only link to the outside world. Knowing we were bonded meant that I wouldn’t be forgotten, although I did used to wonder if you had moved on with your life without me. I could only hope that you would be waiting on the day of my release. It’s what made finding out about Luella so gut wrenching.”

“I never moved on,” he said vehemently, holding her head so that she was angled perfectly to look at him, his eyes ablaze with emotion. “I could never move on. I was always waiting for you to come back to me. I held on to that bond, too.”

He shifted, digging into his pocket to pull out the amulet, the delicate silver charm encasing the blood red stone of their spell. He held it up between them, the lamp light catching the stone and making it shimmer to life.

“I would look at this every night, terrified that I would forget your face,” he said, smoothing his thumb over the stone. “This means something, MC. It will always mean something. I am yours, and you are mine.”

Slowly, MC touched her fingers to the stone, remembering vividly the way their blood had entwined and solidified to create it in the flickering candlelight of the Undercroft. Too young for marriage, they had turned to darker magic to pledge themselves to each other. Their youth had perhaps impacted on their choice of words, rendering them so bound to each other that it had trapped them. In another way, they had perhaps not linked themselves deep enough. Despite this pact, they had both taken another lover, given themselves to someone else when that shouldn’t have been possible. When you’re young, you don’t even consider the consequences, or anticipate extreme circumstances, you just rush headlong in with passion and the strength of will that comes with youth.

“I am yours, and you are mine,” she repeated softly, testing the feel of those words on her tongue.

A hopeful smile curved Sebastian’s mouth as their fingers touched around the stone. “Turn around,” he said softly. She gave him a curious frown, but he merely let his smile widen as he motioned with a finger for her to do as he asked, holding up the amulet.

She shifted on the bed, turning so that she had her back to him. Gently he gathered up her hair, and she helped him hold it up, shivering as he leant around her. His breath was warm as it fanned across her neck, his fingers fiddling with the amulet as he arranged it so that it lay over her collar bone. Closing her eyes, she felt the delicate brush of his fingers as he fastened the silver chain that held it, a soft sigh leaving her mouth as she felt the warmth of his lips at the back of her neck in a lingering kiss.

“I’ve been the sole guardian of our pact for too long,” he said, his mouth so dangerously close to her tingling flesh. “It’s your turn to take care of it now. Wear it, and remember how much you mean to me. Feel it against your skin, a reminder and a promise.”

“What kind of promise?” She asked, tilting her head as she held the amulet in her hand.

“My promise to you that I will never stop fighting for you,” he said, resting his face against the back of her neck, his breath hot and his lips teasing as he spoke. “You said you needed time, and you shall have it, but I will be here waiting for you. It will always be you, MC. Always.”

Her heart seemed to skip a beat, thudding hard against her ribs and stealing her breath. Turning to him, she met with his addictive gaze and he was unflinching, constant and set on his course. She let the amulet rest against her chest and his gaze dropped to it, his finger gently curling under the slender chain and dragging along the sensitive skin of her collar bone, making her breath catch in her throat.

“It looks good on you,” he whispered, a satisfied smile curving his lips.

“Thank you,” she murmured, still touching the amulet, the blood red stone warm under her fingertips. All too aware of how dangerously close they were, the scene intimate and loaded with tension, she wondered if perhaps it was too much, too soon. “It’s late. I should get back to my own tent, I suppose. You can get back to your reading.”

“Stay,” he said, a finger caressing under her chin. “You can make yourself comfortable while I read, just like we used to years ago. No pressure, no expectation. Just you and me.”

Once again, she found herself unable to say no, reluctant to return to that cold, uncomfortable tent and her snoring companion. With him settled back with his book, she curled up beside him, their bodies snuggled close on the narrow bunk, her head on his chest where the steady rhythm of his heart both soothed and comforted so close to her ear. He was warm and solid, his arm naturally draping about her waist as he began to read.

Tomorrow loomed, and all the tomorrows that would come after, but for now she felt safe, the tension gradually easing from her chest as she lay there. They had lain together like this so many times, quite content in each other’s silence, and it was perhaps no surprise how easily they had resumed this closeness. Nothing was ever that simple, though, not really. But, she would take it, her hand curling into the fabric of his shirt as her eyelids grew heavy. Sleep had come to claim her after all, her mind embracing the darkness whilst she lay safe in the arms of a guardian.

Leander

Pale sunlight filtered through the kitchen window and illuminated the parchment placed neatly on the table top. Delicate swirls of steam curled upwards from a freshly brewed tea, and the distant crash of Atlantic ocean waves stole the silence of the morning. Leander had arrived at Shell Cottage early, checking the property and taking the time to stroll the coast path to breathe in the clearer air. It was always good to escape the oppressive smog of London and refresh one's head. Everything here was as it should be, and yet the sense that things were all out of kilter clung annoyingly along his nerves.

There was a flutter of anticipation in his tummy as Leander allowed his gaze to lift once again to the ticking clock on the mantel. It kept good time, and mere minutes had passed since he had last checked, but the seconds appeared to drag on endlessly as he waited. It had been a few days since MC had left to seek out the Ashwinders, and whilst he had tortured himself with possible scenarios of what she could be doing in her absence, the bottom line remained the same. He missed her.

In the short time they had spent in each other’s company, she had embedded herself so thoroughly into his life that it seemed a struggle to traverse the path of his days without her. No soft humming from the other room, the floral scent of her perfume was fading from his flat, and his bed had never felt so large and empty. There couldn’t be a clean break from her either, not unless he handed her case over to another Auror, and there was no chance of him wanting to do such a thing. It had become personal, no matter how many times he told himself that it couldn’t be. He had to continue, and the new information that Larson had managed to pull up were missing pieces in the history of what made MC such a unique witch.

His long, freckled fingers touched to the file on the table beside him, handed to him only yesterday by Andrew. He had kept it tucked safely in his robe away from prying eyes. It exhausted him trying to be this double agent, working diligently to assist his fellow Aurors on the team, and yet keep secrets from them to help MC. Whilst dreams as a boy of thrilling adventures had seemed like the ideal way to live, actually having to experience such things was another matter entirely.

But, would he stop?

Absolutely not. There was more to this, he could feel it. His instincts told him not to give up. Not on MC, and not on the case.

The only other snag in the works was his enthusiastic partner, Ivy Montgomery. The new recruit had been accompanying him on all investigative outings, her sharp eye and quick thinking proving to be quite the asset. But, this meant that she would be astute enough to pick up on any details concerning MC should she be given the chance to get too close. Details that were far beyond the necessary realms of the case. Not only that, but after McKinnon’s betrayal, the wariness to trust again lingered.

Touching his fingers to his tie, he straightened it and swallowed, remembering how awkwardly he had to rebuff Montgomery's eager anticipation when she realised he would be meeting with MC today. She had looked up at him, her bright eyes keen, her cheeks pink from hurrying to catch up with him as he had left the office last night. It was out of the question to bring her to Shell Cottage, and he had put her off the meeting, suggesting she attend the next one instead. Her deflation had made him want to squirm, and he had sent her off to enquire after a lead on the missing Boleyn necklace today. A chance for her to work on something alone to appease the denial of meeting MC face to face.

He could understand the fascination, of course, the lure of the exceptional, the chance to sink her teeth into the heart of this case as a newly fledged Auror. Leander had taken the responsibility of MC’s covert role into his hands, and now felt a reluctance to let anyone else interfere. The mantra that this had nothing to do with the emotional attachment he felt towards MC seemed like a waste of energy, and yet he still foolishly told himself that it was the case.

Had he not told MC that this was more than just a job? They had been his exact words. He carried the secret parchment they shared messages on within his pocket, and checked it regularly for any word from her. He was just being careful, of course. Her mission was a dangerous one, placing herself in the company of some of the most notorious people in the country. It would be remiss of him to not be vigilant. It was his responsibility to ensure her safety, and know of her whereabouts after all. These were the words he comforted himself with when he lay awake at night thinking about the softness of her lips, the way her eyes darkened in the candlelight…

Tapping fingers nervously on the table top, his leg bouncing under the table, he tried not to let his anxiousness take over. Fighting back his affections for her, he had tried to maintain a professional manner, his written communications with MC presented as polite and focused on the Ashwinders. Behind that, he ached to hear her voice, have her close, despite knowing it was futile to dwell on any dreams of more. It meant he would likely say something foolish, and the little time he had with MC couldn't be wasted on such things.

Even so, when the crack of Apparation sounded from the living room, he was on his feet in an instant, the chair scraping back across the floor as he hurried towards the door. She turned towards him, her face pale and tired, her hair braided and her clothing dark. In one piece, and with no sign of injury, he felt some of the tension ease from his muscles.

“Hello, Lee,” she smiled, her eyes captivating in the light flooding through the window.

Where was his professionalism now? What use were his manners? Her smile, her warm gaze, her hands reaching out towards him, and he was across that room in a few strides. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close until he could feel every inch of her, the scent of clear air, wood smoke, and something else he couldn’t quite place, filling his nose.

“MC. It is a relief to see you safe,” he said, his hand finding its way to cup the back of her neck. “How has it been, really? Are they treating you as well as we can hope?”

“I am alright,” she replied, giving him a most welcome squeeze before slowly withdrawing. She placed her hands on his arms as she looked up at him. Such bravery she held firm on her face, that stoic way she had of keeping everything else tucked away. “The time spent within Ashwinder territory is useful despite the company I must keep. We knew it wouldn't be luxury, but I can manage. You should not worry about me.”

“I would find it easier to stop breathing, I am sure,” he said, his eyes drinking in the sight of her knowing time was short.

“I would rather you remained breathing,” she said softly, her hands gripping his arm. A shadow passed across her pale face. “I don't ever wish to place you in danger. You must know that. It is regrettable that Sebastian knows that I lay with you, but when confronted with him, I am afraid that feelings and tempers got the better of us.”

“You fought with him over us?” Leander felt his chest tighten, trying to imagine how that would play out. Sebastian would not have taken that news well.

She glanced down at her left hand, fingertips touching her scar. How he detested that mark on her skin. “In a way, yes,” she said, making a fist. “Let's just say it was messy and ugly, but done now.”

“What does that mean?” He frowned.

Her face became resolute, her chin lifting in that stubborn way of hers. “In order to move forward, to get this done, I need to face the reality that my fate and Sebastian’s are tangled up in ways I cannot begin to explain. I have to find peace with it, or lose my mind trying to fight it. It's complicated, but however things play out, I am bound to him, and him to me.”

Leander dropped his gaze, that tight, sickening feeling beginning to swirl in his stomach as her words sunk in. It would always be Sebastian. No matter what.

“But, I will not allow him to hurt you,” she said, her countenance softening as she touched a hand to his cheek. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, and found that warmth he had always craved from her. “He is angry, and jealous, but if he dares to cast at you, I will take whatever punishment the bond will throw at me to stop him.”

”There is no need for you to do that. Not for me. I can look after myself. I have been fighting against Sebastian for years.”

”I know,” she said, sighing. She shook her head, and winced. “I fear I may have made things worse between you both.”

“It was mutual consent, MC. It took the both of us to become intimate, and on more than one occasion,” he reminded her, his mouth curving in remembrance. His fingers had found their way to her jaw, caressing upwards to the softness of her cheek. “Don’t regret it, for I could never. Not with you, no matter the consequence.”

”Lee,” she whispered, her eyes turning glassy. She shook her head, her face shadowed as she caught hold of his wrist. He could see it in her eyes, she was withdrawing from the affection, throwing up her barriers. “You shouldn’t be saying such things.”

”Do you regret it?” His brow creased, that cold anxiousness clinging to him. Perhaps he was pushing her too hard, and perhaps he shouldn’t be saying such things, but his mouth always had a habit of speaking before thinking.

“No,” she replied immediately, shaking her head. Her gaze was resolute. “I don’t regret it.”

He waited, sensing the inevitable ‘but’ hanging between them. The haunted look she gave him ripped his heart a little, and he knew it would tear further with words she would speak. “I know,” he nodded sadly. His thumb ghosted her jaw, desperately trying to pretend to himself that this didn’t hurt. “It was never intended to be forever.”

Her lips parted as though to speak, but he couldn’t bring himself to hear the words. “No, don’t say it,” he begged. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to those pretty lips, allowing himself the luxury of lingering there, filled with the familiar, aching longing, before withdrawing.

“Lee, I’m sorry…”

“It’s alright,” he said, cutting off her plea by touching his fingers to her mouth. He managed a smile as he stepped back away from her, that little tear in his chest pulling sharply at the sadness in her eyes. It would never be alright.

“Come, I’ve made a pot of tea. I’m sure there is time for a cup as we talk. You can tell me about your meeting with Rookwood, and I have some information from Andrew about ancient magic. It probably throws up more questions than answers, but perhaps it will mean something to you.”

Sitting at the kitchen table, they turned the conversation towards the Ashwinders. He noticed her careful avoidance of mentioning Sebastian too often, but his shadow loomed over it all nonetheless. Hearing the plan to uncover deposits of ancient magic, Leander felt his concerns crowding in, his gaze taking in her small frame. She was stronger than she looked, but absorbing more power only for Rookwood to try and take it made him uneasy.

“This is a trap, MC,” he said, resisting the urge to place his hand over hers. “There are so many things that could go wrong with this plan.”

“It’s the best path we have right now,” she shrugged. “Plus, I really could learn more. If Rookwood has more of Isadora’s research, then I need to get my hands on it. Sebastian says that Rookwood is a collector, and he has stores of valuable artefacts and books. If I can discover where he hides this stuff, it would be like discovering a gold mine.”

“You truly believe Rookwood will ever let you get that close?” He lifted an intrigued eyebrow.

She smiled. “I don’t really have much of a choice but to believe it. He is greedy, and he covets what I am. I let him think he can collect me, take what I want, and then we break him.”

Her coldness sent a shiver down his spine. Her gaze turned towards the window, her jaw tightening as the shadow of her thoughts passed through her eyes. It still gave him pause to think of the horror she could be capable of, but he refused to accept that the hardness was all she could be. The Auror Office and the Daily Prophet painted her in such a cruel light, but he clung to his faith in that soft part of her she kept so carefully hidden away. He had seen it, he had slept beside it, had felt the flow of what her heart could offer. He just wished she would open herself up to what life could give her. What he could give her.

“Here, maybe this will help in your quest for answers.” He slid Andrew’s file towards her. “The Ministry archives are patchy when it comes to ancient magic. It would seem they either don't understand it fully, or they are covering a lot of it up. Andrew suspects that the Department of Mysteries has a hand in this, but he has no access to their files, and they would definitely refuse permission to look. Unspeakables are a unique breed. Professor Hecat being a prime example.”

Leander couldn’t help the slight frown that creased his brow. Whilst Hecate was a capable and forthright tutor, he always thought she had a particular dislike for him.

“I quite liked Professor Hecate,” MC said, her smile turning wistful for a moment, and chasing away that cold mask. “A conversation with her usually proved rather interesting.”

“Teacher’s pet,” he grumbled, taking a sip of his tea.

MC smirked and picked up the file. “Thank Andrew for me, I know he takes risks to find this information,” she said. “If he hasn’t already, suggest that he look into Merlin regarding ancient magic. He had an apprentice named Morgana who might prove fruitful, too.”

Leander lifted his brows with interest. “Like in the tales of King Arthur? What made you think of that?”

A slight flush of pink coloured her cheeks, and her eyes dipped away. “Actually, it was Sebastian who brought it up.”

“Of course it was.” His muttered words sounded bitter to his own ears. Getting to his feet, he collected their cups and placed them in the old sink, pulling out his wand to set them to wash. His jealousy threatened to overspill, and so resorting back to cool professionalism seemed the best option in order to maintain some control. “So, when do you want to make the next report? Will you manage to travel by Apparating, or would you prefer Floo points?”

He heard her get to her feet, but kept his back to the room, staring out towards the wide expanse of ocean through the window above the sink. If he looked at her he might crumble again, and that would only prolong the ache that lay heavy in his chest. He had to remain in control. He had to let it go.

“I will remain in constant touch with the parchment,” she said, her footsteps coming closer across the flagstone floor. “I know the terms stated a daily meeting, and I can manage it if you so wish, but I don’t want to make Rookwood suspicious should he be watching me. He already suspects something after I requested that Seb come along to help me search for deposits. He helped me back in our school days, and he has a wealth of knowledge I can make use of. Could we meet in a few days?”

He nodded, his face tight knowing that Sebastian would be a constant at her side. “Of course. Just send word via the parchment when you are ready, and I will meet you. Oh, and I should mention, it’s likely I won’t be alone. I have a new Auror with me for a while. She took McKinnon’s position, and I am showing her the ropes as they say.”

“She? What’s her name?” Her tone was sharper, almost as though she disapproved.

Leander turned from the sink, moving the now clean cups to the draining board, pondering that thought. “Auror Montgomery. She is astute and bright, so I suggest we keep things strictly professional in her presence. I would rather she didn’t pick up on any over familiarity between us.”

The coolness of his words felt stiff and awkward on his lips. He hated this sense of detachment. It was a breaking, a chasm opening up between them, but his fingers couldn’t bear to loosen their grip. Unable to fully look at her, he moved back towards the table to gather up his notes and straighten his chair, careful to avoid brushing past her where she stood. His foot bumped the table leg clumsily, and he dropped a piece of parchment in his anxiousness, eager to tidy before leaving.

“If you are that concerned, why can’t we continue to meet alone?” She asked.

His fingers clenched around the handle of the tea pot, his gaze remaining averted as he turned to place it near the stove. He could feel the burn on his cheeks and knew he must appear flushed. “I’m not sure if that will be appropriate moving forward,” he said, swallowing hard. “You did warn me not to get too close, MC. That will be easier if we maintain a professional stance on things.”

“I really am sorry you know,” she said, her voice low and laced with regret. “I meant it when I said that I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He couldn’t stand the idea of her pitying him, his teeth clenching at the bitter urge to cry. He really was a pathetic fool. Taking a steadying breath, he blinked a few times.

“Like you said. You are bound to things in ways you can't explain,” he said, his words tight and weighed down with the weight of his loss. He looked at her at last. “I just hope he is worth this unfailing loyalty you hold for him, MC.”

She stared, her eyes wary as he turned to fully face her, stepping closer so that she needed to look up at him. The unspoken shadow of Sebastian cast over them constantly, and speaking of it was always risky. She bore the weight of Sallow as much as she bore the weight of her own trauma, and all the time that she did, there would never be room for anything else. It consumed, darkened any light he tried to bathe her in, and as much as he wanted her to accept it, she constantly held him at bay. He would have to be the one to break this thread that held them, but he didn’t have confidence in his ability to do it. How could he? His heart had other plans.

“You should know, that if you were to allow it, I would love you until the very end of existence,” he continued, his throat raw with the truth of it. “I would give you everything within my power to make you smile. I got you out of that dark cell where you were fading away. I couldn't bear seeing you in there, trapped in that gods forsaken place for something you didn't even do.”

Her face paled, her eyes darkening with a cold fear. She shook her head, and even took a step back. “What are you talking about?”

“Don't say anything that's going to hurt you,” he said, shaking his head and grabbing her left wrist. He held up her hand, that vivid red slash on her palm so obnoxious against the paleness of her flesh. “Don't say a damned word to defend him, but I know, MC. The fear on your face at spilling the truth in that interrogation spoke louder than anything you could have said to me. This binding blood pact you made to him, it just sticks in my throat how much you defend Sebastian when he did absolutely nothing for you in return. Do you want to know what I think? I think he killed his own uncle, not you. Sallow always was a self-serving prick, as was his sister, and you would rather run back to him than take a chance to be happy for yourself.”

“Stop it,” she gasped, attempting to pull her arm free from his grip. She had gone deathly pale, the ghosts of her secrets stark in her eyes. It pained him to see it, but it ripped him up inside to know she would never love him like she loved him. “You don't understand.”

“Oh, I think I do, MC,” he said, letting her wrist go. “I just hope you know what you're doing.”

“You make it sound so black and white, but it’s not,” she insisted, backing up away from him. The paleness of her face contrasted against the darkness that lingered in her eyes. It made him think of dark angels, tragic souls doomed to sorrow, and he immediately regretted saying anything. Her lips trembled, but he watched her stiffen, slamming up those walls she hid behind. “You think it’s easy, a simple matter of choosing between you and him. You think you want me in your life, but trust me, that is the last thing I would wish for you. I would destroy it. I would bring darkness down upon your head, and then you would end up hating me. I couldn’t bear it. Don’t ask me to risk it. I can’t…”

“I could never hate you,” he denied, clenching his hands in frustration.

She held up her hands, shaking her head, still backing up. “It would be easier if you did,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “Perhaps you are right. We need to take a step back.”

In defiance of her words and his own insistence that they should do just that, Leander took a step towards her. The thread was stretched to breaking point, she was before him, but it felt like she was slipping away, an apparition that would dissipate into the air and leave him with nothing.

“Where will you go?” He felt the bite of his fingernails against his palms as he clung to the last shred of his self control.

“Scotland first,” she replied. “After that, I am not sure, but I will send you updates. I won’t let you down.”

“Be safe,” he said softly.

The look she gave him tore the crack in his heart until he thought he wouldn’t be able to draw another breath. Her eyes had always held this magical power that hit levels high above anything he had ever known. Just to lock gazes with her could render him speechless, in awe of her, his whole soul belonging to the myriad of flecks and shadows that shone in those blue orbs. Perhaps she had bewitched him, and for a short time, he had held her. She had almost been his.

How was he supposed to let that go?

As she vanished with the sharp crack of her magic, he had thought perhaps there had been a tear escaping from her eye, but he couldn’t be sure. He would likely never know. She was gone, and he stood where he had first kissed her, realising it would likely be the last, too. The kitchen was now empty. The roar of the Atlantic still sounded in the background, timeless and relentless, whilst he was left with broken dreams and a torn hole in his chest.

Sebastian

The tension in his shoulders and arms felt like taut ropes pulled to their utmost, his chest rising and falling with each strained breath, as though a weight pressed down upon him. In his mind, his thoughts spun on a carousel of torture, imagining Prewett laying a hand upon her. The very idea of them being alone together made his blood burn with tumultuous, jealous fury.

In what world could he have ever imagined that MC would feel something for that irritating Gryffindor. Denying it was pointless. He had seen it in her eyes when she spoke of him. She had some kind of affection for Prewett, and it was proven further by her adamant refusal to let him go to the meeting with her. She knew he would annihilate him with a few handy hexes for daring to put his hands on her.

Pacing the space inside his tent appeared to not ease any of his tension, and his hand dipped into his pocket, a moment of panic seizing him as his fingers grasped empty fabric. His gaze darted to his bunk, and his mouth dared curve into a slight smile as he remembered last night. The amulet now hung about her neck, placed there by his own hands. The longing that pierced him as he thought about how she had lay down with him, her body relaxing into sleep against his frame as he had continued to read. So many nights he had ached to do just that, and now she had been beside him twice. There had to be many more times like that, the idea of spending another night apart from her unthinkable now that she was here. He rubbed absently against the scar on his palm, and turned to pace once more, ruffling the unruly strands of his hair and waiting for her return.

The tent flap rustled and Rosier appeared, a smug smirk on his lips as he wandered towards his bunk and sat. “I thought you and your little witch might have still been cosied up together in here,” he said, his eyes roaming over Sebastian’s rumpled bedding. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, because he didn’t know where MC had gone to meet with Prewett.

“Maybe she is off somewhere stewing over this,” Rosier smirked, holding up a copy of the Daily Prophet that he’d had tucked under his arm. He waved it under Sebastian’s nose. “We ought to be careful, mate. She isn’t long out of Azkaban, and I wouldn’t put it past Aurors to have eyes on her.”

Sebastian felt the blood freeze in his veins, and he snatched the newspaper from Rosier’s grip, unfolding it to look down at the front page. A moving photograph of MC with her prisoner number board stared up at him, her young face haunted and broken. Pushing down the memory of those days when she had been taken from him, Sebastian scanned the article written about her release, and how she could be a potential danger roaming the country with all that power at her fingertips. Of course, the Ministry have made their assurances that everything is under control, and they wouldn’t have allowed her to be free if they thought her an immediate danger, however, the reporter had laid it on thick about her ancient magic abilities.

Sebastian glanced at Rosier, an uneasy edge piling on top of his already agitated nerves. “Have any of the others said anything to you about this?”

“Not yet,” Rosier shrugged, drawing a cigarette box from his coat pocket. “But, how long before Rookwood has his doubts, if he doesn’t have them already? She is a dangerous little thing, your witch. The Auror Office would be foolish not to keep a close eye on her.”

If Rosier were to discover who MC was with right now, this inflammatory article would carry a lot more weight, and it would make the rest of the camp uneasy. Sebastian dropped the newspaper down onto the bunk beside Rosier and began to pace again.

“If Aurors are watching, then they must be rather bored by now,” he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair. “Once MC and I leave to seek out ancient magic hotspots, the heat will be off the rest of you. I’m sure there is nothing to worry about.”

“Not even Lulu?” Rosier gave him an enquiring glance, tucking a cigarette between his lips.

Sebastian’s eyes darkened, his mouth tightening as he shook his head. “I haven’t seen her. I will be leaving with MC today, so she shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Never underestimate a woman scorned, mate,” Rosier said, the glow from the tip of his wand illuminating his handsome face as he lit his cigarette. “You dropped her for a more powerful pretty, she isn’t going to just forget about it. Just watch yourself.”

Sebastian frowned, the feeling that Rosier was probably right sliding down the back of his neck. All the more reason to get things moving as soon as possible. He moved towards where he had packed some essentials into a leather bag, checking the contents and glancing around to ensure he remembered everything. MC’s bag sat on the bunk, neatly packed and ready to go.

A sharp crack sounded behind him, and he turned. MC stumbled slightly as she arrived, her face drawn and pale, and she wiped her hand swiftly across her cheek. Her eyes were glassy and he wondered if she had been crying. Gaze darting around the tent, she spotted Rosier and she stiffened, striding towards Sebastian’s bunk with a hard look on her face.

“Is everything alright?” Sebastian asked warily, exchanging a look with Rosier, who merely shrugged.

“Fine,” she snapped, grabbing up her bag and throwing it over her shoulder. “Let’s get going. We have already lost precious hours of daylight, and the deposits won’t find themselves.”

Sebastian stared at her, noting the taut way her shoulders were held, the tight line of her mouth. The meeting must not have gone well, and curiosity burned as he wondered what Prewett had said to vex her. “I’m ready when you are,” he said, fastening the strap on his bag.

“Good luck,” Rosier said, giving him a wry smile.

MC remained tight lipped as she wrapped a warm, woollen cloak about her shoulders and stepped towards him, linking her arm around his. “Are you sure you know where to go?”

Sebastian met her gaze, answering the cold hardness that she used as a shield with a smug smirk. “Of course, sweetheart,” he said, subtly tugging her closer. “We will start at the top of our list and work through it. Hopefully, we will strike it lucky.”

With a nod towards Rosier, Sebastian held her firmly and twisted them through darkness, whisking them both away from the camp and right into a cold, blustery wind that cut right across the west coast of Scotland. They both gasped against the force of it, clinging to each other as her cloak snapped and twisted, a fine mist of rain coating their faces.

The small island of Staffa lay surrounded by the swell and crash of the ocean, bleak and deserted, isolated from the mainland unless one dared to reach it by vessel. With the power of magic, they had arrived at the remote location, a place steeped in myth and legend with the locals. Sebastian glanced around them, the rough grass dropping off the cliff edge towards the rocks and surging waves below.

“The cave is below us,” he shouted against the wind, still holding on to MC as though the strong gusts might carry her away. “It’s tidal, so let’s hope the sea is on our side.”

She leaned forward, staring at the drop, her face still cold and hard. “And you really think there could be ancient magic here?”

He shrugged. “It’s worth a try. The legend of the giant, Fingal, is a well known Muggle story, but it is based on some truth. If we do find ancient magic here, then it might be worth hopping across to Ireland to investigate the other end of the Causeway for more.”

“Let’s just get down into the cave and out of this wind to start with,” she shouted, pulling her cloak closer.

Taking a good look at the rocks below, Sebastian gripped her tight and closed his eyes. The rocks below were slippery and shaped like perfectly cut tiles creating a pattern along the cliff base. Waves surged forwards, coating them in spray, and he felt MC’s fingers bite into the back of his jacket as they picked their way along. Columns of rock in identical neat rows wrapped around the cliff face, giving it the appearance of being man-made, the mouth of the cave yawning dark and foreboding with a channel of ocean flooding into it. A pathway made up of the strangely cut rock looked like a winding slab of honeycomb, coated in green weed rather than golden honey.

“Easy now, and watch your step,” he urged. “It’s wet and slippery all the way in to the cave.”

They carefully stepped their way along, MC still holding his arm despite remaining tight lipped and tense as they moved further into the gloom. The crash of waves echoed against the rock, the scent of the sea pungent as the darkness began to claim them. Pulling out his wand, he held it up. “Lumos!”

MC paused, as did he, their mouths parted as they gazed around at the cave, the walls continuing in row upon row of rock columns. “It doesn’t make sense,” she murmured, tilting her head right back to look at the patterned roof. “Do you think it’s true that a giant built this? I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to reply, but the words died on his lips, goosebumps spreading swiftly along his arms and his hair standing on end as a haunting sound echoed through the cave. It was like a humming, or a chanting voice, twinned with an ethereal acoustic that sent shivers cascading through him. He looked at MC, and saw the way her eyes widened as she looked deeper into the maw of the cave before meeting his gaze.

“What is that?” She whispered, some of the hardness slipping from her features in her surprise. “Mermaids?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so…”

Not impossible, of course, but he had neither heard nor read of any mention of mermaids being seen here. He stared into the blackness, the eerie sound blending with the roar of the ocean behind them. Instinctively, his arm circled MC’s waist, holding her against him protectively. “Do you feel anything? Could there be magic here?”

She remained silent, and he turned his attention away from the rear of the cave to look at her. Her gaze was lifted to the sound, her eyes glassy and full of shadows. There was pain in her expression, something lost and haunted that pulled sharply deep within his chest.

“MC? What is it?”

Her throat worked and she gently shook her head, staring up at the stunning rock face. “There is no ancient magic here. Only ghosts.”

When she finally looked at him, he caught a glimpse of her raw and exposed, but then she slammed down her shields, her eyes flicking away from him. As quickly as that, she had hardened her shell and closed him off. Something was wrong.

“What happened this morning, MC? You’re different. What happened with Prewett?”

She wouldn’t look at him, and she pulled back from him, placing a distance between them whilst still keeping their arms linked. “Just get us out of here, we are wasting time,” she said, her mouth tightening as she shivered.

…*…

The Fairy Pools, Loch Ness, and the Standing Stones of Stenness, all locations of myth and legend and yet, they turned up nothing. The pull of each act of Apparation and taking MC with him was beginning to drain Sebastian. He felt weary, and his head was feeling fuzzy. Frustration hung like a tense cloud, hovering over them and feeding on the icy mood that still clung to MC.

Clipped sentences and hard faced, her mood plummeted as the day wore on. These locations were beautiful, steeped in lore and history, and such visits should have been enjoyable, but there was no spark at all. Not one smile graced her mouth, and her eyes remained distant and seeking out horizons that didn’t include him.

“We should make camp,” he suggested, looking up to the skies. Thunderheads were rolling in, and the air felt thick and heavy, the tops of nearby mountain peaks vanishing into the misty clouds. “Would you prefer to return to the Ashwinder camp, or make our own?”

The rush of a nearby brook babbled and gushed, the scent of wild grasses and old woodlands heavy in the air. The breeze was chill, and MC held her cloak about herself as she stepped through the spongy bog of ground towards the swift moving stream. Taking out her water skin, she crouched to fill it. Sebastian waited, the long silences that followed any time he spoke were starting to grate on his nerves. It felt like she didn’t wish to speak with him at all, that he was a loose part there for travel convenience and nothing more. The closeness he had felt having her asleep in his arms last night was long gone.

“There is something I need to do,” she said finally, replacing the cap to her refilled skin as she stood. The wind pressed the loose strands of hair from her braid across her face as she turned to look at him, her features firm and resolute. Even in this frosty atmosphere she had weaved today, he couldn’t help but feel drawn to the sheer beauty of her. “Do you think we could pay a visit to Ominis?”

“Ominis?” He frowned. “How can he help with searching out deposits?”

“This isn’t about the deposits,” she said, her gaze following the stream as it wound down the hillside towards the thick cover of trees. “I want to talk to him about the owl he sent me.”

“Ominis is sending you owls now?” Sebastian frowned and folded his arms as he studied her. “How very cosy.”

She gave him a look, loaded with antagonism. “Don’t tell me that makes you jealous, now, Sebastian. I know the Gaunt family like sharing their blood, but don’t worry, I’m not in the market for a husband, cousin or otherwise. Besides, Ominis already has a wife, doesn’t he? Were you ever going to tell me that he married your twin, or were you saving that loaded whizz cracker as a big surprise?”

“I wasn’t saving it for anything,” he muttered, striding towards her, heart in his mouth. “What do you mean by not wanting a husband?”

“I mean exactly that,” she said, a humourless smirk twisted her face. “Seb, I’ve just got out of Azkaban. I am surrounded, once again, by dark wizards and danger, my mother is alive out there in the world somewhere, and my head is fucked up between all of that and all these feelings trapped in my chest that I cannot even begin to comprehend! The last thing on my mind is fucking marriage, and yet, that is what you took from my words!”

Her voice reached squeaky levels of fury, her cheeks flushing, and her eyes blazing with a temper that flickered white and blue. Turning, she stomped her little booted feet across from the stream, marching with a rigid frame towards the mountain trail that led into the forest. Her angry muttering about selfishness and priorities carried on the breeze, and he felt his own patience begin to split and fail.

“Hey, where are you going?” He called after her, hurrying to catch up.

“Anywhere away from you,” she snarled over her shoulder.

“What the fuck did I do?” He huffed, reaching out to try and catch hold of her arm and missing. “I thought things were okay between us now.”

She whirled to face him, catching him off guard with a sharp intake of breath as his booted feet slid on a patch of mud. Thunder rumbled over the mountain, low and menacing, as she screwed up her face in frustration and thumped her fists against her thighs.

“That’s just it, isn’t it? Everything seems to be alright, and then I start to doubt myself,” she sputtered, eyes dark with agony. “Sometimes I wish I could just turn it all off, stop all this tangled web of feelings inside of me and just exist without any of it having to be so bloody complicated.”

“You are preaching to the choir, princess,” he said, shaking his head. He jabbed a finger into his own tight chest. “How many times have I wished for something similar? There is a whole cavern of fucked up shit inside here that torments me every single day. I want to shove my own hands inside my chest and just rip it all out sometimes. Drink doesn’t do anything, only numbs it for a while, and gods forbid I ever try and get a good night’s sleep. No, at night, when the world is quiet, my head is screaming at me, reminding me of all the bad shit I can never run away from. So, I get it. I really do.”

Shoulders slumping, she put her hands to her head and looked up at the heavy sky, pain etched on her lovely face. An agonised sound tore from her throat. “What do I do, Seb? What should I do? We found nothing today, nothing! Rookwood is going to be wanting progress, and Leander…”

Her words rasped from her throat, desperate and harsh, but her voice cracked when she mentioned Prewett’s name. She squeezed her eyes closed and turned away from him, still holding her head.

“What about Leander?” He asked, taking a slow step forward as the first few drops of rain began to fall from the swollen clouds. “What happened this morning, MC? You can tell me.”

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. She brushed back loose strands of her hair and looked up at the sky, drops of rain landing on her cheeks. “I don’t want to talk about this morning. We should go. Take us to Ominis before we become swallowed by the storm.”

He didn’t know why it scared him so much, her reluctance to talk about Leander. The agony on her face, it spoke of strong feelings, and he wondered what torture she meant about the emotions in her chest. Did her affections for Prewett really run that deeply? Fighting the urge to grab her by the arms and demand answers he wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear, he stepped up and merely gently took her arm instead, taking the soft approach as though taming a skittish beast.

“Alright, we will go to Ominis,” he said, keeping his voice level and calm. “Then we will make a plan for tomorrow. We must be missing something, but we will figure it out, just like we always do. We can read over Isadora’s papers again, and think back over the deposits you found before. One day at a time, MC. That’s how we do it, one day at a time.”

Pressing her lips together, her eyes glassy and dark, she nodded. “Gods, I knew there was a reason I asked for you to come along with me,” she sighed, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. “You are a pain in my side, Sebastian, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m not entirely sure how to take that,” he muttered, pressing his lips to her bowed head.

“Well, it’s the best you’re going to get today,” she mumbled against his coat.

Smiling into the soft sweetness of her hair, he held her close. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”

Leaving a stormy Scotland behind, he whisked them away to a smog filled London, and the warm glow of the hearth in Ominis’ kitchen. The warmth of the fire bathed his damp cheeks, raindrops glistened like beads of glass in MC’s hair, and he could smell a rather delicious meal cooking as he glanced around the room. Ominis stood near the mantelpiece, lifting his wand with a curious expression as Sebastian helped MC steady her feet on the wooden floor.

“Hello, old friend,” Sebastian greeted, his heart lifting at the sight of Ominis in his neatly pressed shirt and tie. “I have brought a visitor.”

Ominis smiled, moving forward with his wand aloft. “I was wondering when you would show up.”

MC left Sebastian’s arms and moved toward Ominis, the first shine of hope in her eyes all day lighting her face. “Ominis, I received your owl. You said you had visited with your parents. What did you discover?”

A shadow crossed Ominis’ face. “I did indeed, and I am afraid they were rather closed off on the matter of Aunt Elizabeth. Father claims she is a traitor, and they have not seen her for many years.”

Sebastian bit his lip, seeing the disappointment of another failure darken MC’s face. “They could tell you nothing at all?” He asked.

“It matters not,” Ominis said, moving toward a briefcase on the table. A tap of his wand made the catches unclip and he reached inside to retrieve an old, leather book. He held it up. “Where my parents are a closed book, I turned to the one person who used to never let me down, and even in death, she is there when I need her. Aunt Noctua kept journals, journals that are kept in her house in Norfolk. A house that now belongs to me. A quick trip there, and I may have managed to find some answers for you. Here.”

He held out the book and MC took it with trembling hands. Sebastian moved to her shoulder and watched as she opened the pages yellowed with age.

“I had read some of her journals once I obtained ownership of my aunt’s property, but not all,” Ominis explained. “I knew that she had been close with her sister when they were children. She often spoke fondly of her to me. Of course, Elizabeth was already gone by this time, so I never met her myself. Therefore, I chose some diaries that dated previous to my own birth, and discovered that Elizabeth had confided in Noctua over personal matters. You might find dates during the summer of this journal particularly interesting, MC.”

“What is this?” Anne’s sharp tone cut through the room like a blade. Sebastian tensed and turned to look at his twin standing in the doorway, her arms folded, and her face set into a look that would have put his mother to shame in its level of disapproval. “Tell me, dear husband, why is she in my kitchen?”

“Anne!” Ominis frowned, aiming his wand towards her direction, the red tip blinking. “Now, now, my love. There is no need to be rude.”

Sebastian immediately put a protective hand to MC’s back, meeting Anne glare for glare as she marched into the kitchen, her hand dipping into her pocket for her wand.

“No prizes for guessing who brought her here,” Anne scowled, her eyes flashing towards Sebastian before landing on the journal in MC’s hands. “Is that Noctua’s?”

MC grasped the journal close to her chest, and Sebastian could feel the tension in the muscles of her back. He was immediately on high alert.

“We didn’t come here looking for trouble,” Sebastian said, holding up his other hand. “You certainly don’t need your wand, Anne.”

“Then, why are you here?” Anne snapped, stubbornly tilting her chin as she raised her wand even higher.

Ominis sighed and pressed fingers to his brow. “Anne, please. Don’t do this.”

“You know how I feel about this woman, and now she dares to step foot in my house,” Anne glowered. “Did she not learn her lesson the last time she tried to get her feet under my table? You are not welcome here.”

Anne aimed her wand towards MC, her mouth a bitter line. Sebastian immediately stepped between them both, hands up, desperate to diffuse the situation.

Anne’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I won’t hex you to get to her?”

MC’s breaths were harsh at his back, hissing through gritted teeth as she pulled out her own wand and aimed it around Sebastian, both of his girls squaring up to fight with him in the middle. It was the stuff of nightmares.

“You are not going to hex me,” he warned, daring to place the palm of his hand on top of Anne’s wand and gently lowering it. He then moved his hand towards MC’s wand with a pointed look. “Nobody is going to be hexing anyone.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blast you both out of here,” Anne huffed. “The absolute nerve of you to bring her here under my roof.”

“Hark at you, playing the victim,” MC sneered, aiming her wand straight for Anne. “If anyone is to start throwing hexes around, then that would be me, and I have a very good reason to be here under this roof.”

“I can think of no reason to welcome you here,” Anne hissed.

“Tell her, Ominis,” Sebastian sighed. “I am assuming she doesn’t know yet.”

Anne’s eyes widened as she looked towards Ominis. “Tell me what?”

Ominis appeared to brace himself, as always, maintaining that dignified air that made his very presence dominate a room. “No, she doesn’t know. Now, Anne, please try to be reasonable here. It has come to light that MC is, in fact, my relative. Her birth records prove her to be my Aunt Elizabeth’s daughter, and therefore, she is my cousin.”

Whatever colour had managed to manifest on Anne’s pale face now disappeared, draining from her flesh as she stared aghast. She shook her head, eyes wild as she glanced around at them all. “No,” she breathed. “No, that cannot be. She can’t be a Gaunt… I would know.”

The last three words tumbled from her lips in a stunned mumble, but Sebastian caught them. His heart jumped, and then stalled in his chest as he seized his twin’s arm in a vice grip.

“What do you mean, you would know?” His voice was low, dangerous, and his sister turned her big brown eyes up towards his face, all signs of her rage seeping away to be replaced by shock.

“Indeed, a question I was about to ask myself,” Ominis said, moving slowly forward. He tilted his head, his wand scanning his wife. “Why would you think that you should know this? Because I certainly did not until MC showed me her birth record.”

Accustomed to usually having the upper hand, Anne floundered for a few seconds, her eyes darting from one to the other. Sebastian savoured her being at a loss. She usually had a quick tongue, which meant that she was searching out a reply, a lie to cover tracks she had not anticipated. He honed in on this vulnerability, his instincts kicking in to delve and uncover.

“Well, well, it looks like I’m not the only one who has secrets,” Sebastian crooned, poised to pounce. “What have you been hiding, sister dearest? It wouldn’t have anything to do with our parent’s research, would it? You know, the information that you were so desperate to hide away from me.”

Anne stiffened, her eyes hardening as she stared at him. “It will stay hidden,” she said, nodding as if confirming something to herself. She pulled herself up straight, her eyes sunken into her pale cheeks, a waif of a thing, but capable of being formidable still. “I don’t have to explain myself, especially in front of her. Just as I predicted, it did not take long for her to sink her hooks into you again, and now you are running around like her little errand boy. You think this is love, but it is nothing but a toxic obsession. You are entranced by her power and what she can do, but it blinds you to the danger she is to everyone. I warned you, Uncle Solomon warned you, and now here you are. It will be a cold day in hell before I let her get anywhere close to that research, and wherever you are, she isn’t far behind you. It stays hidden!”

“I have just as much right to that research as you,” he bit out. “And, what of Ominis? MC is his family. If there is anything in those files concerning her, then it could affect him, too.”

Anne’s eyes darted towards Ominis and she took a few steps backward, her wand arm shifting in agitated arcs. “How long have you known she was your blood?”

“A few days,” he admitted. “I needed some time to think it over, and speak with my parents. It was never my intention to keep it from you.”

“And yet you did,” Anne said bitterly, her rigid facade cracking a little. “Do you agree with Sebastian? Do you think I should let him see the research?”

Ominis bowed his head in thought, the room stretched taut with tension so thick Sebastian fancied he could smell it. MC was silent beside him, his hand easing up and down her tense back in soothing strokes.

“What could be in that research that is so terrible, Anne? Would your parents keep it from one of you, but not the other? It hardly seems fair to me.”

Anne’s face scrunched in fury, a low growl of frustration bursting from her as she clenched her fists. “You do take their side! You agree with them over your wife! None of you understand. I have lost so much already, and yet you push me to risk losing even more. I blame her! I blame that bitch for coming into our lives and ripping out the very beating heart of it, and I will never, ever forgive you for it. Never!”

Sebastian gaped at his twin, the fury on her wan face was staggering as she jabbed her wand towards MC with a shaking hand. Ominis stepped towards her, his face distressed, but she backed away from him, shaking her head.

“She had better be gone when I get back,” she spat, her eyes narrow slits as she glared at MC. “I hope never to see you darken my door ever again, and you should stay away from my brother. If there is a shred of decency left in your conscience, then you will do as I ask, before you destroy him.”

Sebastian could feel MC shaking, but his eyes were fixed on his twin as he tried to process the fury and hate that spilled from her mouth. Could it be the curse making her speak in such a way? His sister had been the other half of his soul his whole life, her hand had always been there to hold, her words a comforting whisper in his ear whenever he would cry as a child. He did not recognise the girl before him now, and he thought perhaps a part of himself was dying right there as she tore at a person who was so important to him. She was cutting him off from his parents and their life work, holding secrets, and acting so ugly that it made his eyes burn with hot tears.

“Anne, please…” His broken plea came out as a sob, and she met his gaze, a moment of regret quickly shielded as she backed into the doorway, her wand aimed into the room as though they were the enemy.

“No,” she said through gritted teeth, and then she was gone. A swirl of black and Anne vanished, taking her fury with her like a storm that blew in and out again on the shore.

Sebastian turned his gaze to Ominis, who held his head in his hands, and then to MC, who met his confused misery with those mesmerising eyes draped in shadow. If she even dared to listen to Anne and abandon him, then hell itself would cower from his rage. How many times could he keep himself upright on his own two feet and watch as someone he loved disappeared?

His hand gripped the back of MC’s robe as if to keep her there, the fear that she would vanish too made his throat close. Perhaps she sensed his fear, for her hand sought out his and she grasped it in a tight grip, and then she was reaching for Ominis and taking his hand, too. The three of them stood, hands clasped in the ringing silence of the kitchen, as the skies above London burst into a downpour of rain.

Taglist: @eternalremorse @slytherin-paramour @writing-intheundercroft @marketfreshfics @evaslytherpuff @loving-him-was-red13 @sevprince-91 @lucy-withthediamonds-inthesky

#hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow #mc x sebastian sallow #leander prewett #leander prewett x mc #blueraineshadows #blood bound

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psychedelic-ink · 2 years ago

Text

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐬 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐝

pairing: pre outbreak!joel miller x f!reader, one sided tommy miller x f!reader

genre: angst, smut, romance, slow burn, mutual pining, secret relationship

series summary: After your grandfather’s passing, you find yourself moving into his home in Texas. You meet the Millers; Tommy, his older brother Joel and his daughter Sarah. With time, you and Tommy become close friends and Sarah visits you often. But Joel…Joel keeps his distance. The reason for this is due to one crucial fact you don’t know but he does; Tommy has a crush on you. Which means you’re off limits no matter what. But as your own feelings for Joel grow, things start to get more and more complicated.

word count: 3.7k

chapter summary: you have your first girls' night out with Olivia and of course, Joel is at the same bar— waiting for his date.

warnings: alcohol consumption, piv sex (between joel and ofc!asha sorry y'all but don't worry reader and joel are gonna get there... eventually), a bit of hurt/comfort vibes, sex for comfort

Chapter Three || Chapter Five

The bar is much more crowded than you expect, but then again, you haven't been going out much so you wouldn't really know. Despite the sweaty crowd, the fans do a good job of circulating the air and it smells nice, like strawberries.

Olivia is sitting across from you. There’s a small wooden bowl of unshelled peanuts on the table, she reaches over and takes one. You’re a bit nervous. You're barely paying attention as you absentmindedly shove the nail of your thumb into the pad of your forefinger, lost in thought. Your eyes lift to Olivia just in time to see her dark brows furrow with concentration as she deftly peels the thick shell off the nut, a bit of tongue peeking out above her glossy bottom lip.

She looks nice, you observe. Her white knitted tank top accentuates her breasts, and the mustard yellow ring around her waistline draws your eye to her curves. You can see a shimmer to her dark skin, little specks of gold that catch the light. You assume it must be the body spray she's wearing. Meanwhile, she pushes a successfully deshelled peanut between her lips. You suddenly feel uncomfortable with your own outfit.

You had made an effort, mostly because Tommy had insisted, but you couldn't imagine going out in sweatpants anyway. You're wearing a burgundy dress, the sleeves going all the way to your elbows and the neckline delightfully deep. The dress is a bit too short for your comfort, and you find yourself tugging it down whenever you stand up, but it elicited a whistle from Olivia when she first saw you, so you decide the trouble is worth it.

When Olivia throws the remains of the peanut shell to the floor, you frown.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to litter.”

“Look around babe,” she answers, taking another peanut. “It’s the concept.”

Suddenly you’re abundantly aware of the peanut shells on the floor acting as decor, your lips form a simple oh. Before you turn back to Olivia, you see multiple people throwing their shells to the floor. The waiter appears before you can get the words out.

“What can I get you, ladies, on this fine evening?”

“I want a long island ice tea,” Olivia smiles, her green eyes flitting to you.

In contrast to Olivia's effortless smile, yours is awkward and forced, the corners of your lips trembling slightly.

“A greyhound please,”

“Anything else?”

Olivia throws more shells to the floor, “Are you hungry?”

“A bit.”

She proceeds to order a mixed plate of deep-fried everything, which your stomach has no objections to. When the waiter leaves, you finally reach out and grab a peanut for yourself.

“I see you every day, can you relax?”

“Sorry, it’s just…” you swallow. “It’s been a while since I went out. I’m just a bit excited. I’ll return to normal, promise.”

“I bet you’ll feel much better after we get some alcohol in your system,” she leans closer, and so do you, your nail ferociously battles the salty shell of the peanut. “You don’t go out much with the boys?”

“Boys?”

“Duh, the brothers,” she grins, tapping her nails against the table's surface. “Tommy and Joel, don’t they ever take you out?”

“Not really. I mean Joel is mostly busy with work and Sarah. Tommy comes by to fix up the room.”

“Ohhh, that’s right, you two were working on that little project of yours,” the waiter comes back with their drinks, leaves them, and moves to the next table. “How is it like spending time with him?”

A soft chuckle falls from your lips, “He actually wanted to come tonight, but I said no,” when Olivia shoots you a confused glance you grin. “Girls only.”

“Hell yeah it is!” she exclaims which is followed by a cheerful woo, she lifts the cold glass to her lips and takes two gulps. Her red lipgloss stains the rim. “How is the room going by the way? Have you managed to paint anything yet?”

“We barely started, last night we cleared out the room,” you rub the side of the glass with your thumb. “And no. But that’s enough of me, what about you?”

Olivia’s face lights up at that. Her parents recently came to visit from Boston and she was quite excited for them to meet Pyrrha. The two had been dating for two months but their chemistry was instant. Olivia had described it as love at first sight when she came to work the next day— she never even believed in love before, her words not yours, and it took her by surprise.

But Pyrrha, she said that day, They’re different.

You’re confused as to why the memory makes you think of Joel but it does. The heat of alcohol burns your cheeks. You force yourself to smile at what Olivia is saying. You catch her train of thought mid-sentence. The meeting with the parents had gone without a hitch. You’re happy for them. Olivia is one of those rare people that genuinely deserves to be happy. And you’re just about to say that. Your lips part, and at the same time you reach for a peanut, with the corner of your eyes you notice the waiter coming to your table with a large plate—

Then you see him.

Joel fucking Miller.

At the bar.

Alone.

His eyes are glued to the door, his leg bobbing up and down. When the waiter lays the plate in front of you both, you can’t even look to thank him. Olivia does it for you and follows your gaze. Her eyes go wide, bringing her half-full glass to her lips.

“Holy shit is that the Joel?” she lets out a soft whistle. “I wasn’t aware he was the type to wear a leather jacket, it suits him.”

“Yeah that’s new,” you mutter, balking. “Why is he even here? Should I say hi?” you ask frantically, eyes moving back to Olivia.

“Only if you want to,” she clicks her tongue, looking amused. “And it looks like you really do,”

“Do you think he’s waiting for someone?”

“Well he’s alone now so go on, he won’t bite—unless that’s your thing, I bet he has some nice chompers,”

“Ha ha very funny—”

He catches your eye over the shoulders of a group of people moving past, and for a moment, time stands still. His eyebrows slowly raise, his gaze intense. Your heart pounds in your chest, every muscle in your body taut.

You blame your reaction on the two sips of the cocktail you had. Joel’s eyes flit to the entrance one last time before turning to you again and smiling, a slow nod made as a greeting.

It’s supposed to be left at just that. You’ll smile back and the whole interaction will be over.

However, you forgot about Olivia.

She turns towards him, arm casually draped over the back of the booth, and waves in an animated manner, “Hey, Joel!” she calls out, you nearly laugh at the way he jolts, confusion etched between his brows. “Why don’t you come over?”

Seeing no other choice, Joel grabs his beer and walks over. You’re left in slight surprise when he sits next to you, the close proximity forcing your legs to press together. He has a kind smile when he looks at Olivia.

“Hi, I’m Joel,” he says, offering his hand. Olivia takes it with a grin. “But I guess you already know that.”

“I do,” she coos. “I’m Olivia, the designated best friend.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Olivia winks at you, her wide smile providing comfort, “Nice to know she talks about me.”

“Only good things,” Joel chuckles. “You two havin’ a girls' night out?”

“You know it!” she laughs, fingers moving around the rim of the glass. “Also, this poor girl tells me you guys never go out? Is there a reason for that or are you guys just hermits living under a bridge?”

“Olivia!”

She waves you off, bottom lip pushed out. “I’m only kidding, he knows that. You don’t mind, do you Joel?”

You’re surprised at how relaxed he is. You've forgotten that he's actually a pleasant person, capable of engaging in a conversation. It's not that you ever thought of him as unpleasant, but he just never seemed to be that way with you. His booming laughter rattles through the air, and the familiar lines of his face that you've come to admire smooth out in the presence of Olivia. You can't help but admire the power she holds - the power to make anyone feel at home, as if the world is nothing but a playground for them to enjoy. The only time you've seen Joel act differently was during the moment you shared on the porch, a moment that has never been repeated.

You realize you never really saw him after that.

“I don’t mind at all, darlin’,” he tuts, throwing an arm over the back of the booth. The heat his arm radiates makes you straighten, little needles prick into your skin. “Why didn’t you tell us you wanted to go out?”

It takes you a second to notice the question is directed at you. You lick your lips before meeting his gaze to answer.

“I don’t know actually. I guess I never thought about it. Besides, you two are busy.”

You don’t expect to see his eyes soften, you shiver at the feeling of the tips of his fingers brushing alongside the back of your neck, “We would’ve made time.”

“We should all do something together one day,” Olivia chimes in. “Like we should have a dinner party or something. Anyway—” she suddenly slaps her hands over the table and pushes herself up from the comfort of the booth. “Need to use the little ladies' room. BRB.”

You watch helplessly as Olivia leaves, the air around you two grow uncomfortable, like cold air filing a hot room from a window crack. Joel’s fingers are still moving over your skin, a feather-light touch. A soft sigh parts your lips and you close your eyes.

You don’t know what to think.

“Seems like you’re in good company.” he hums, tilting the beer bottle to his lips.

You’re disoriented by the remark, you assumed he felt the awkward energy too, but maybe it’s just you making up things that just aren’t true.

“She’s the best,” you answer as you force your body language to relax. You lean into the back of the booth, allowing his palm to loosely cup the back of your neck. “I think she likes you, which is good. I want her to like you.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do,” you finally turn to him, his dark gaze bores into yours, a soft expression of surprise painted over his face. “I mean, who doesn’t want their friends to get along? That’s pretty much a universal want, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“So why are you here? Your schedule is so packed that I’m surprised you give yourself the time to breathe.”

“Tommy complains a lot about it, huh?”

You grin behind your glass, cold condescension smooths over your lips. A chill settles at the base of your spine. “Maybe.”

There’s an awkward pause after that, you can’t quite place why. He takes two long sips from his beer as if waiting for the ground to swallow him. He only speaks when you start to shift in your seat, not really knowing what else to do.

“He set me up on a blind date,” he blurts out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s why I’m here,”

“Tommy…set you up with someone?”

“Well him and Isaac,” he swallows. “Is that bad?”

You turn to him, eyes widening momentarily, your heart sinks into your stomach, “No, of course not. Why would that be bad?”

Joel starts to peel the sticker of the beer bottle with his nail, a hum echoing from the back of his throat. A chuckle drops from your lips.

“I think it might be good, yeah? To have some fun, to meet someone? Tommy and this Isaac might be on to something,”

“Yeah, I guess…” he clears his throat. “It’s been so long, I don’t think I’m any good at flirtin’”

“You’ll do just fine, Miller. You’re quite charming when you want to be.”

You playfully slap him on the back—which in hindsight probably didn’t look as playful as you thought in your head. He stiffens at the gesture, and you quickly pull back your hand, wrapping your fingers around your glass.

You don’t expect him to stare at you, which forces your gaze back to him.

“You think I’m charmin’?”

His question lingers in the air when you notice a woman walking in. She’s mesmerizing, your eyes following her like a moth to a flame. It’s downright impossible for your to tear your gaze away from where they had fallen. Her dark skin glows under the bar light, and her wild, curly hair frames her sharp, angular face. A nose ring glints in the light, catching your eye. You can't help but notice that she's incredibly tall, even taller than Joel and Tommy. With pinched brows, she looks around frantically. Joel’s gaze is still glued to you and your cheeks heat up.

“I think your date arrived,” you murmur and he finally follows your gaze. “She seems nice. And for the record, I don’t think you need to worry about the flirting part,”

Joel swallows his body somewhere in between getting up and wanting to continue to sit. You finally nudge him in the shoulder, giving him the last incentive to get up and go before she leaves.

“Go,” you smile. “I’ll see you later.”

He leans in and your heart stops beating—the moment is a pocket in time, a memory you’ll always remember until your bones mix with the earth. His lips touch your cheek, warm, slightly wet from the beer. Your lips part with a gasp, mustache tickling your skin. There’s a brief moment where he pulls away and holds your gaze, only an inch away from your lips, his gaze drops to them momentarily.

“See you later, neighbor.”

Joel was against it, simple as that.

But when Tommy and Isaac basically cornered him, saying that he needed to relax and let out some steam—whatever the hell that meant—he didn’t really find it in him to say no. He did need a distraction. From you, mainly, but that was beside the point. He felt tense, his knees ached, and a night out didn’t seem too bad when he put two and two together.

So he begrudgingly accepted to go out. And rolled his eyes when Tommy and Isaac high-fived each other.

What he wasn’t expecting, however, was for you to be there. With his luck, he shouldn’t have even been surprised, of course you would be there, life loved making a mockery of him.

You were with a friend—Olivia, he recalled from Tommy’s stories—and opted to just nod as a greeting. That was what normal people did right? Just briefly greet each other and move on.

A minute later he found himself sitting next to you and officially meeting Olivia. He was sweating through his damn leather jacket.

When Olivia left to use the restroom, you asked him why he was there. He didn’t want to answer. In fact, he didn’t even want to go on the date anymore. He wanted to stay with you, spend the night drinking and laughing.

At that point in time he didn’t care that he was placing himself between a rock and a hard place. He just wanted to spend more time with you, get to know you. Because frankly, he didn’t know much.

It was mostly his fault, he distanced himself. But he had to when Tommy’s pupils were forming literal hearts whenever he talked about you. Joel could see it. He wasn’t stupid.

He had to go on the date. No matter how warm your skin felt under his fingers tips, he had to. For his young brother’s sake, he couldn’t allow himself to succumb to whatever he was feeling. It wasn’t right.

The kiss had happened unexpectedly. You looked so soft under the dim lights, so kind, he couldn’t help it. He saw disappointment lingering in your eyes. It made him fear something he never allowed himself to think about. A kiss to the cheek among friends, it was normal, it was nothing.

He was only imagining the way you gasped when his lips touched your cheek.

But if that’s the case, why is he still thinking about it?

Asha has her arm wrapped around his, the leather jacket he heard so much shit about draped over her rounded shoulders. Her sharp rings dig into his arm, a welcomed sting to pull him away from his thoughts. She’s a nice person, a bit stubborn, independent. He learned that she was a journalist, and loved her job, but it meant that it was hard to find good dates. And one day as she was browsing through the hardware store she bumped into Tommy, they became fast friends.

Honestly, he can’t even blame Tommy for wanting to set him up with Asha. By all means, she’s a great woman.

“You didn’t have to walk me home by the way,” she says with a charming grin. “But I do appreciate it.”

Her steps slow and Joel mirrors the speed. Asha squeezes his biceps before pointing towards her home, “This is me,” she wets her lips, and he noticed her shoulders going stiff. “Would you like to come in? I can show you my vintage turntable?”

Joel finds himself nodding, allowing him to get dragged by the hand into her home. The first thing he smells is wood, a familiar scent that makes him feel at home. It smells fresh. And when he looks around he can see why; the living room is littered with wooden furniture, some of which looked handmade rather than store-bought—which impresses him almost immediately. There are multiple large green-leafed plants, a couple he recognizes because Sarah would point at them whenever they visited Ikea, asking for one. He often said no.

There’s a divan pushed against the wall, soft looking pillows thrown haphazardly on top. Asha reaches for the light, a soft yellow brightening up the interior.

“Sorry for the mess,” she says, though she sounds unbothered. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“Do you have beer?”

She smiles, “I have beer.”

Apparently, the turntable was in her bedroom.

Neither of them spends much time talking about it—not that there is much to talk about a turntable. It’s nice, it looks cool, and that’s pretty much all Joel’s vocabulary and come up with. Asha scans her collection of vinyl records until her gaze rests on Nina Simone's "I Put a Spell on You." She grasps the record and slides it out of its sleeve, placing it gently on the platter.

The plaque glints in the dim light of the room, casting an ethereal glow that seems to complement the sultry, bewitching notes of the song now filling the air. Asha closes her eyes and lets the music wash over her, feeling the haunting vocals of Nina Simone wrap around her like a warm embrace. Joel watches with amazement as she starts to sway with the music. She takes his hand and guides him into a slow dance.

Looking up, Joel’s eyes linger on her glossy lips. She smiles fondly, brushing a lock of hair away from his face. His hands feeling too sweaty for comfort, Joel grabs her hips, squeezing tenderly as the dance leads them to the bed. They strip each other slowly, eager kisses being traded in between. Her lips find his collarbone, sucking a bruise into his skin and dragging her tongue up his neck. A shudder rolls up his spine.

It’s been long since he’s been intimate with someone. Very long.

He feels a mixture of guilt and pleasure, he can’t stop thinking about the way you gasped when he kissed your cheek, but at the same time, Asha’s fingers around his cock are a beautiful sin. He needs to stay away from you anyway— and let Tommy navigate through the relationship how he sees fit.

Her strokes are fast and hard, eager. Joel lets out a groan before crashing their lips together, he licks into her mouth, swallowing her moans and thrusting into her palm. It’s a much different kiss from the dreams he had with his neighbor, dreams he didn’t allow himself to think about when awake.

She gasps when he buries himself into her, she’s tight, warm. His body melts into her, sloppy kisses pressed into the swell of her breasts. She answers him beautifully, a symphony of delicate moans, she doesn’t talk much, in fact, she doesn’t speak at all, not even when Joel asks if it feels good—she only moans and whimpers.

Asha wraps her legs tightly around him, pushing him as he thrust forward. He moves faster, his strokes deeper. Her back arched beautifully, her nails digging into the slope of his shoulders. Beads of sweat gather at his tailbone. His built-up tension from the past years bleeds into her, all his frustrations, anger, all of it pushes him to move his hips faster—harder.

The skin above his stomach grows taut, Asha quivers underneath him, legs trembling against his back. She squeezes him dry, cunt pulsing around his dripping cock and holding him there. Joel grunts into her skin, his teeth sinks into her spasming flesh.

Only then she whispers the first she’s spoken since they stumbled into the bed, “Come on my face,” she breathes heavily.

He’s never been asked that before, it lights something inside of him, something primitive and animalistic. With his cock in his hand, he straddles her chest, stroking himself until he stains those soft lips and pretty face with his spend. He squeezes his eyes shut, nostrils flaring as he stifles the pleasure that rakes painfully across his back.

When Joel opens his eyes, it feels like someone has poured cold water on him, all he sees is you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x y/n #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller x f!reader #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #hbo the last of us #the las of us #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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