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alicechess · 3 years ago

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The new night guard (Yandere Springtrap x f!reader) Part 6

Tw: Murder, gore (Will add warning before the scene)

He watched contently, observing you yet again. The way your hair fell onto your dull face, bags strung underneath your eyes. That small little sparkle that was in them the day he saw you was diminished when he got his hands onto you. Not much was left of you from the continuous stress, shattering what little hope you had for a good future. Though he has done this many times, destroying the small amount of joy some had left. The mothers who weep deeply, the innocent people he's taken; he felt no guilt for his sins. Everyone was a pawn to him, using and throwing away whenever he pleased. All for a selfish hope for becoming immortal. Everything came crashing down, all turning into rubble. Cursed to live in this suit he and Henry created for eternity. He truly had nothing left, so he thought he might as well enjoy the last small thing he derives pleasure from;

You.

He was correct in believing that if he took you he'd experience some sort of happiness. He could care less how you feel about this, as every reaction your produce is intriguing. He wanted to know what made you tick, what freaked you out. He wanted to know everything.

So, out of curiosity, he leaned down and moved a strand of hair out of your face. The sensation startled you, making you open your eyes. Looking to your side, you saw Springtrap sitting beside you, grey eyes staring intently at you. Eyes widening, realizing that you were still in this hell. 'Shit, I must've fallen asleep.' You cursed at yourself mentally, who knew what he could've done while you were so weak? He could've tied you up, tortured you. You shuddered at the thought.

You sat up and scooted further away from him to the edge of the bed, hoping he'd just go away. You were bored, all you've been doing while sitting here is think for hours. There was nothing to do, you couldn't even attempt to leave because he was here all the time. You hated the feeling of being watched constantly, you hated that he was always so close to you. You just hated him.

Annoyingly, you had to go to the bathroom, which was awkward as you didn't want to. How were you supposed to walk so far without your crutches? You sighed, of course, everything just has to get even more difficult for you. Can't you get a break? You threw your legs over the edge of the mattress, using the wall to balance yourself. Slowly, you stood up, the stickiness of the wall made you feel sick. But unfortunately, you had to use it. Once you reached the bathroom you shut the door, using the flimsy lock that's practically hanging off of the wall.

You went to the toilet then flushed, you then stood up and placed your hands onto the sink and stepped forward. You turned the tap, washed your hands, then splashed water on your face, trying to wake yourself up. Glancing at the mirror, you noticed the scratches have almost healed, though your face looks the same it has been for the last week. Large bags still hang under your eyes, which is unsurprising. When will you get a nice sleep for once without the dread for the next day? Now's even worse, you have to sleep in fear, hoping this monster won't lay a hand on you.

Digging your nails into the sink until they hurt, you were becoming more frustrated with the situation.

'This isn't fair, what did I do to deserve this?' You thought, 'I'm no one special, just a normal person trying to live their life. I don't want to get hurt, I don't want to die.'

You collapsed against the door, hoping he'd just leave you alone in here. Hugging your knees against your chest, you simply sat there, pondering what you could've been doing. After a few minutes, you heard a loud knock on the door. It startled you out of your thoughts, once you realized who it was you groaned.

"Out, now. It's been 10 minutes." Springtrap commanded, though in a surprisingly calm tone.

You ignored him, you just wanted a few minutes away from him. Can't you at least have this? Though you were afraid of what he'd do if he was angry, you didn't want him to hurt you again.

"Doll, come out. I don't feel like breaking the door down." He mumbled from the other side of the door, a dark undertone in his voice.

He wouldn't, would he? Oh god, you don't want to face him. You shook your head, covering your face with your hands. 'No no no, I can't, I just can't.' You thought to yourself, running your hands through your hair. Starting to tremble, a wave of fear flooded through you.

"One last warning, darling." He drawled, attempting one last time to reason with you. He didn't want to break the door down, it would make the place even filthier. And this could also make you more panicked, which although it's beautiful the way your face looks when you're afraid, it would make it harder for you to get used to being here if all he does is scare you.

Slowly, you stood up, shaking like a leaf. You unlocked the door, then placed your hand onto the cold doorknob. For a second you froze, is this really what you want to do? A few what-ifs came across your mind, though you pushed them away. Either way, he can get in, it's better to at least try not to anger him, right? You don't want to get hurt again. You were tempted to just sit back on the floor for some peace, but the potential consequences weren't worth it.

Turning the doorknob, the door creaked as you slowly opened it, coming face to face with him. His stare was icy cold, which made you shift uncomfortably. He placed his hand on your shoulder, which made you flinch. He muttered out "Good girl."

Wasn't it easier for you to just listen?

His hand slipped to your arm, then he pulled you out of the bathroom. You nearly tripped because of your still broken leg, so you placed your hand on him for support; which he didn't mind. Oh, in a sick twisted way he loved how you had to rely on him. Maybe he could make you even more reliant...

He then guided you back to the mattress, to which you reluctantly sat down. Though you didn't like it, he also joined you on the mattress. All you did was sit in silence, you weren't sure if you liked it or not. In a way it was peaceful, but that also means you could overthink. That's the last thing you need right now, after all, you don't want to stress too much. You pondered on whether or not you should ask him something, you don't want to anger him. But the more information you have, the easier escaping would be.

"What do you plan on doing to me?" You questioned, not looking at him.

He didn't respond for a few moments, which made you feel a little nervous. You never knew what was going in that thing's mind.

"We'll see." He replied, staying oddly calm.

This annoyed you, as what was the point in taking you if he didn't even know what he wanted to do with you?

"What was the point in all of this? You could've killed me at that place, it would've been much easier than bringing me here." You then gestured to your surroundings. Though this place isn't much at all, it's pretty bare. But the fact that he took you from that place, installed locks, and brought in the bare minimum seemed odd.

It went silent for a few seconds as he stared at you. "Entertainment." He murmured, placing his hands onto the mattress.

Is that seriously it? Entertainment? Did he take you away from everything that meant something to you, just for his pleasure? Your face scrunched up in disgust, he was twisted in so many ways. It was a shame that you became his doll, his new obsession.

"How am I supposed to entertain you? Why do I have to be the one to do this shit?" You spat, becoming more aggravated by every word he spilled. Though your words and glare didn't bother him, this is exactly what entertained him. He tilted his head back, a loud chuckle escaping from him. After a few moments, he placed his hand on his chest and coughed. He looked back at you, head leaning to the side. "Oh, doll." He mumbled out, "Everything you do is satisfying. No one else has made me so..." He glanced at the ceiling, thinking of the right words. "Intrigued, maybe even happy?" He continued, finding it difficult to describe how he felt. Emotions are such a difficult thing to explain, so many words, so many feelings. Regardless of whether you understood or not, it didn't matter to him. He was fine as long as he knew what he was feeling.

This was not what you expected at all, but nonetheless, you accepted his answer. Nodding in response, you glanced at him, "Are..... you going to hurt me?" You whispered out, feeling worried about if he'd become angry at that question. The fear of what happened that day occurring again was overwhelming. The way his eyes lighted up in joy at your screams, the feeling of that piece of metal smashing onto your leg. The ringing of as it fell onto the ground. Bile rose to your throat at the thought, yet you swallowed it down trying to stay calm. You simply looked ahead, tapping your fingers onto your knees.

He watched your every single move and expression. Over the years he has picked up a lot on how humans react to certain situations. He was quite charismatic years ago, manipulating the people around him to get what he wanted. Apart from doing that was observing people's body language and their tones of voice. He could tell when people were lying by such small details, like the way some fidgeted or their eye contact. Some people's tone slightly wavered or they spoke a little faster than normal. Everyone was different, though many had similarities. This made it easier to put people in groups. Occasionally he came across people like himself who didn't fit into these groups, rather they act almost perfect. That's when he knew that person was a con artist.

Unfortunately for you, he picked up on nearly every detail about you within the past week. For him you were so easy to read, he already knew you were nearly broken from what has occurred. He had to play more gently and nicer, after all, he didn't want you to snap. He took you because you were entertaining, he didn't want a lifeless doll.

"I don't plan on doing so." He replied, not an ounce of anger in his voice. You sighed a breath of relief, that was good to know.

"Unless you try to leave." He added on, a smirk creeping onto his face. Of course, he knew you'd try to leave eventually, it's just human nature to try to escape captivity. However, it would make it easier if you didn't, though it would be intriguing to see how far you'd go to be "free."

That's when you froze, escaping would become a lot more stressful as the threat of him hurting you was a likely possibility. Though you hate to admit it, this animatronic wasn't stupid. It knew what it was doing and it was very aware of its surroundings. It would catch on quick if you acted even slightly differently, you had to play carefully

The place went back to being silent, which gave you time to ponder on what to do next. Now getting that code won't be easy, that bunny knows what it's doing. The only way to really figure that out would be to try and take a peak, which would be difficult as he won't just allow you to watch. It's obvious he has the keys on him at all times, though you just weren't sure where. When he leaves next you'll have to find where he takes them from. Then you'll have to figure out how to get the keys off him.

Another option would be to slowly earn his trust, pretending to be more comfortable around him. You hated this thought, having to become closer to him. The thought of allowing him to touch you made you disgusted. It doesn't deserve anything from you, but to get free from his grasp it's something you have to do. Once you've escaped you'll make him pay, you aren't sure how but you will.

'I'll make him feel the pain he's put me through.' You thought, a crazed smile forming on your lips. You will break him, you'll make sure of it. You aren't even sure if he feels anything, but even just destroying his happiness the way he did you would be enough. To see him suffer, begging on his knees-

You were startled out of your thoughts by heavy footsteps, you glanced around, noticing Springtrap wasn't beside you anymore, rather he was moving towards the wooden door. The rattling of metal came from the locks, which instantly made you tense up, heart starting to race. You tried to take a peek as you heard the clicking from one of them, but he was positioned in a way that you'd have to be right next to him to view it. The anger you felt made you want to scream, having to bite your tongue to not let the words of how you felt spill out.

As you watched him open the door, you felt the urge to just run out, but you knew better. He would easily be able to take you down, you're weak when compared to him. Before shutting the door he looked at you, directly in the eyes. "I'll see you soon, doll."

The door closed, the clicks of the locks accompanying it. You heard his footsteps as he went up some stairs, the loud creaking getting fainter the further he went.

Now you were left here all on your own, left with nothing but the deafening silence and your thoughts. Occasionally you heard the dripping of the water, though it was rare. This place was unsettling, the dim light that flickered didn't help. You leaned back onto the mattress, not bothering to move your legs onto it. You stared ahead at that ceiling, wondering where you even were. How did he take you away without being caught? Wouldn't have someone spotted him? 'He's a big ass fucking animatronic, there's no way someone didn't at least get a glance.' Groaning, you covered your face with your hands. All you had on your mind was him, is that what he wanted? It wouldn't surprise you if he did. You continued to think about what was going on outside of the walls, what your family was doing, whether they were trying to find you or not. What about your boss? You laughed dryly, 'As if he could care.'

He's probably more worried about losing a "precious" animatronic, the fact he couldn't have someone slaving away for minimum wage. Though at least you had something to look forward to once you escaped, you wouldn't have to work for him anymore.

--- (Tw: gore, someone getting brutally murdered.)

The echoes of the animatronic bunnies' footsteps didn't alert a soul, the surroundings of the place were dead silent as the people slept peacefully. None the wiser to the fact a murderer was wandering down the street, a knife in hand; waiting to find his next victim. The streetlights barely lit the roads, moths practically blocking most of the light. It made it easier for him to not be seen, and having to clean the spilled blood was annoying as it stains. Hiding the bodies was difficult as they were bulky and smelt rotten after a week. But he didn't have to worry about being identified and imprisoned, after all, he's a walking corpse.

Once he arrived at the place he was looking for, he crouched down, sneakily walking to the gate that lead to the backyard. Grabbing a lockpick, he placed it in, wiggling it until it unlocked. He removed the padlock, throwing it to the ground. Slowly he pushed it open, thanking the fact it didn't creak.

The only thing he heard was the chirping from the crickets with rarely a car driving by. The backyard was filthy, the lawn was overgrown, weeds spread throughout the whole backyard. A large tree was sitting in front of one of the backsliding windows, which was open just a crack. A large branch reached just under the window, which was just open a crack.

Springtrap went over to the tree and started to climb, making sure to not slip or create noise. Once he reached the window, he peered in, noticing the room was bare. The only piece of furniture was a desk, which had a laptop sat upon it. He stood up, leaning against the brick walls for support. Using one hand to slide open the window, he slowly crept in then pulled the window closed.

Jumping down silently, he made his way to the doorway, peeking around the corner to see if it was empty. After confirming, he walked down the halls and checked every room, trying to find where the owners were. A lot of the rooms were filled with furniture, some seemingly not been touched in years. The air was filled with dust, the carpet riddled with stains. Though the carpet helped to cover his footsteps, he didn't mind.

Light snores came from the last room at the end of the hall, which meant the people were home. He went over and walked into the dark room, the moon the only thing to illuminate the place. It was just enough that he could see a person laying down, sleeping peacefully, clueless to the murderer who stood right beside them. He didn't think twice as he raised the large knife, plunging it straight into the person's throat. The sudden pain awoke the person, loud gurgles came from them as they choked on their blood. It wasn't satisfying for him anymore to murder others, he became numb to the screams and the pleas for help. Though he hasn't done it for so long as he was stuck in that hell for years, it still didn't give him that spark of joy he was hoping for. This was the second murder after he had taken you, but it still felt the same as the one that occurred a few days ago.

Sighing as he watched in boredom as the person scratched at their throat, trying helplessly to do something to get air. It took longer than he expected for them to finally fall limp, their hands simply falling to the side. The expression of horror and fear still shows on their face. One that will haunt the person who discovers their body. Though before he walked away, he noticed a bracelet which was on the persons wrist. He quite liked it, so he reached over and took it off. He would love to see you wear something like that.

He then walked over to the dresser, not caring if he makes any noise. After all, it was just him in the house. He slipped the large backpack off and threw it onto the floor, then pulled the draws open, grabbing random pieces of clothes that he'd like to see you wear then stuffing them into the bag. Once he was satisfied with what he stole, he was about to leave when he noticed a jewellery box which sat on one of the nightstands.

He opened the box, skimming through all the bracelets and necklaces. Many of them were boring, something you'd see any random person wearing. A lot of them were plain, no pretty designs or uniqueness. Just before closing it, something caught his attention. There was a small ring underneath all of the other jewellery. He picked it up, twirling it around with his fingers, admiring it. A large diamond was on the ring, two slightly smaller ones sat beside it. Ingrained onto the sides were swirls and other designs, which he thought to be beautiful.

He raided the rest of the house, getting other necessities you'd need.

He could hardly wait to give his doll his gifts, regardless of whether you liked them or not.

---

I wasn't sure if this was too dark or not, please let me know if it was. But regardless, I hope you enjoyed it.

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere fnaf #springtrap x reader #yandere springtrap

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kingdaddydaichi · 3 years ago

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Scent ⁘ Kakashi Hatake x f!reader ⁘ NSFW

( Source )

Got another one for y'all for my husband's birthday...💙👑💍

MINORS 👏🏼 DO 👏🏼 NOT 👏🏼 INTERACT 👏🏼

A/N: Kakashi's sensitive sense of smell and your arousal. This is some raw, primal, feral, filthy Kakashi. If you're looking for soft, sweet, sensitive Kakashi, keep scrolling please, negl.

Warnings: scent kink, drunk sex, lots of sexual bodily fluids (m & f), face fucking, slight dubcon, squirting, facial

Word Count: 1.8k

Asuma and Kurenai are hosting one of their infamous dinner parties at their home. These things always end up the same way. Lots of friends come over, eat, then proceed to drink bottle after bottle of sake while playing drinking games until the music starts blasting and everyone loses several brain cells and have a great time making complete fools of themselves. They truly are the absolute best parties.

Kakashi doesn't frequent these parties, but you do seeing as how Kurenai is your sister from another mister. She knows about your long-time crush on Kakashi and winks at you when she sees the two of you hanging out together, talking, laughing.

His fingers brush across your arms or back every chance they can. You know exactly what you're doing when you lean forward with your arm crossed under your bosom. And Kakashi knows exactly what you're doing too. Sure enough, you're getting turned on just by talking to him and exchanging flirty looks, words, and touches.

You excuse yourself to go to the restroom, adding a little extra sway to your hips knowing he's watching you walk away. It's not the first time he has smelled the scent of your arousal, but his inhibitions have been doused in alcohol and he decides to make his move.

When you open the door to leave the bathroom, Kakashi just so happens to be waiting on the other side. You smile and twirl your hair, feeling yourself getting wetter. Your inhibitions are down as well, the alcohol giving you the courage to taunt him a little.

"Wow Kakashi, if I didn't know better I'd think that you followed me back here". He closes his eyes and takes a couple of deep breaths through his nose. "Kakashi, are you okay?"

He opens his eyes, his pupils blown wide, and stalks closer to you. You step backwards into the bathroom and he closes the door behind you.

"I can smell you".

"Oh?" You remember his ultra-sensitive sense of smell and begin to panic a little. Oh god, do I smell bad?

He takes another intentional whiff of you, your scent now more concentrated due to proximity and close quarters, never mind the fact that you're steadily getting more and more turned on by him.

"Mm...you smell..." He takes another deep breath. "...amazing".

"Really? I'm not wearing perfume or anything-"

"It's not that. Better than that. It's your scent".

"W-what do you mean?"

You watch as his lusty gaze dips from your eyes to your center. "I can smell your arousal".

Your mouth opens and you take a step back. "Y-you can?"

The edge of the double vanity is now directly behind you, so when he pushes himself against you, there's nowhere else to go. You're surprised to feel him so hard already, looking down to see the material of his pants being pushed out by his erection. Hell, you can even see the outline of the head of his cock, his bigger than average size making itself apparent.

"What are you gonna do, Kakashi?"

He smooths his hands along your thighs and hips, pushing your short skirt up before picking you up and setting you on the edge of the counter. The cool granite contrasts with your bare heat since you're not wearing any panties. The excitement, the fear, and the need for him all mix together in an exhilarating juxtaposition of desire. You hadn't been expecting this at all, but you don't want him to stop. Now that it's happening you're too curious to see what he's going to do next. How far will he go?

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, and you open your mouth to suck it in. You close your eyes and swirl your tongue around his digit before he pulls it out slowly and places it against your weeping slit, dragging it back and forth over your clit, pulling a moan from your parted lips. He looks you dead in the eye, pulls his mask down, and it's his turn to bring his thumb to his lips, swirling his tongue around it before sucking on it. "Mm fuck, you taste good too".

God, he's beautiful. Your gaze dips from his slate grey and red eyes down to his pretty lips, which are punctuated by a soft beauty mark just below the left corner of his mouth. You wouldn't have thought it possible, but now you want him more than ever. You squirm against the counter, smearing your slick on it as you seek relief from the hard surface pressing against your opening. At the same time, Kakashi's been grinding his cock against the cabinet below, seeking some relief of his own.

He pulls his shirt over his head before reaching down to unbuckle his belt. He unbuttons and unzips his pants before pushing the waistband of his boxer briefs down enough for his large cock to spring free, slapping the skin just below his navel, leaving a string of precum in its wake along his silver happy trail.

He breathes in deeply again, the combination of your scent and flavor making him crazy. He pulls you to the edge of the counter until you think you might fall off, but he catches you. He pushes his thick cock against your wet little cunt, pushing himself inside of you inch by delectable inch until he is fully sheathed within you.

He holds himself there as a long, throaty moan escapes your open lips, your walls already clenching down around him. You arch your back, jutting your tits out as Kakashi pulls the tiny straps of your camisole off your shoulders. He pushes the fabric down until it's bunched up around your waist along with your skirt, your tits now free to be licked and sucked on by his hot mouth with his cock still buried deep inside of you. You push your fingers into his thick hair to pull him closer and throw your head back when he flicks his tongue over one of your hard, wet nipples.

"Hold on to me", he says in his low silky voice. You obey, clutching his shoulders as he hooks his arms behind your knees. He pulls you off the counter and begins gliding his slick cock in and out of you, using the momentum of his hips and the bounce of your ass to boost the impact of his thrusts.

"Oh god, Kakashi...your dick..."

"Yeah, what about it?", he asks before licking your exposed throat.

"Nnnhhh feels so good, gonna make me cum already. So soon!"

He can indeed feel your walls closing in tighter around him as he pumps his hips even faster, digging his fingertips deep enough into your butt cheeks to leave bruises. You adjust your hold on him, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to keep from slipping as if he wouldn't catch you anyway.

"Yeah? 'S that right? You gonna cum all over my cock?" He breathes right up against your ear.

Your pussy clenches tighter at his words. You want him to fuck you harder and you tell him as much. He's now slamming his cock into you, his breath quickening.

"Mmhmmm gonna cream all over your fat cock, 'kashi!"

Your scent becomes more and more intoxicating to him the closer you approach orgasm. His legs start to shake, but the adrenaline and testosterone coursing through his body ensure that he's able to keep pistoning his cock in and out of you at speed.

"Ahh fuck, your pussy smells so fucking good. Can't wait to taste it after you cream all over me".

Hearing those words in his deep voice does you in. Every muscle in your body seizes up as you cry out. "Ka-ka-shiiiii!"

He pushes you up against a wall and pounds into you mercilessly, your back pitching up and down the wall with every powerful rut of his hips.

"Cum for me, (y/n)! Yeah, cum all over this fucking cock, right fucking now!"

"Hahhhh that's it, 'kashi! Yeah, slam your cock into my sweet little pussy hahhh! Cumming...cumming...FUCK!"

You explode all around him, spraying your liquid everywhere.

His eyes widen when you squirt all around him and he loses all composure, bucking his hips wildly. "Oh fucking shit! Fucking yes! Oh fuck that pretty cunt of yours is coming apart around my fat cock...oh god, (y/n), I'm gonna fill you up with my fucking nut! Shit, here I cum! Here I fucking cum!"

He's still reaming you with his meaty cock when his seed starts dripping out from your opening, too much of it to hold inside. He sets you back down on the counter and you fall back, unable to even hold yourself up, while he dives face first into your cunt. He wants it all. Your cream mixed with his cum. God it is so fucking hot his dick doesn't even get soft. He wears you out with his mouth until you're ready to cum again, squirting all over his face.

Your body goes limp on the granite, every muscle including the ones in your eyelids completely spent. You can feel him pull your bottom back down to the edge of the counter before burying his hard cock deep inside you again, thrusting with wild abandon, using your body like a fuck doll as your eyes roll back in your head. You're all but unconscious as he pounds into you, wet skin clapping hard against wet skin. Pretty soon he's on edge again.

"Oh fuck, I'm gonna fill you up with my cum again, (y/n)".

He looks down to see your body moving in time with his thrusts, tits bouncing, body sliding up and down over the now slippery surface. Kakashi is fucking you raw in a pool of your slick and his semen.

"Ahh come here, I wanna cum all over your face".

He pulls you down, catching you just before your knees hit the hard tile. He stuffs his cock in your mouth and fucks your face while you try to push back on his trembling thighs. But it's no match for his strength as he uses your hair to guide your mouth along his cock. You gag and choke, saliva pouring out of your mouth, but that only seems to egg him on more.

"Oh fuck yeah, fuck yeah! You look so pretty when I fuck your face like this. Shit!"

He continues throwing his hips forward as his balls tighten up so much they're not even hanging anymore.

"Ah fuck, (y/n), I'm gonna cum so fuckin' hard! Gonna cover your face with my seed, yeah! Fuck, here it comes!"

He keeps a fist in your hair when he pulls out of your throat. You choke and spit and fight for air while his hot sticky semen splashes across your face with every jerk of his fist. You stick your tongue out, licking him from your lips.

"Yeah, that's right baby, eat my fucking cum," Kakashi says, using the head of his softening cock to spread his cum into your open mouth.

He draws a hot bath before stripping you down, helping you into the soothing warm water. You watch as he takes the rest of his clothes off, slipping in behind you. He washes your body, then his own before holding you back against his front, slowly stroking your hair. Comforting you. Kissing you. Caring for you.

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sanyu-thewitch05 · 3 years ago

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A New Fairytale: In Which There's A Bit Of Witchcraft

Chapter 1: The Girl Who Captured A Star

Now that I have a magical amulet, how do I use it? How do I use magic when I'm magicless? I guess looking in the library would be a good start.

Yuu walks toward the library and takes the occasional glance of a Crowley reading a romance book. She steps inside and heads for the magic spellbook section.

Let's see, Evil Spells That Twist Your Heart, A witch's book for beginner witchcraft, The spellbook of the greatest sorcerer's spells from good to evil. I'll take the beginner's witchcraft book and see how it goes.

Yuu checks out the book and heads back for Ramshackle dorm. She goes to her room and opens it to the first chapter.

"For a novice witch to start her magic, it would be a good idea to start all spells with a pentacle within a circle of white salt. As you advance in your magic, these steps will become unnecessary. First, collect some local fauna and gemstones," Yuu reads, looking at multiple diagrams. "Into the Woods, I go!"

Yuu gets a basket and ventures into the woods to find herbs, flowers, and berries. She collects flowers from Snow White's cottage and walks further down a thorny path. She sees a castle and tiptoes near it as she hears a woman crying.

"My mirror! My mirror! Someone took my beloved mirror!" The woman cries, and she weeps, becoming louder.

"Um...excuse me! Maybe I could help find your mirror?" Yuu yells, stepping near the castle's entrance.

The castle's door swings open, and a tall woman that looks like she's in her mid-twenties but has grey hair appears.

"Really?! Can you help me find my mirror?! Come! Come inside! It's been so long since I've had visitors!" The woman exclaims, dragging Yuu inside. "You see, I lost my mirror about 30-maybe 70 years ago! It was a magic mirror! You ask it a question, and the man inside would answer it!"

"That sounds eerily familiar. Wait, what's your name?" Yuu asks, sitting down in a cobweb-filled chair.

"My name's Queen Grimhilde. But you can call me Hilde. Or you may already know me as The Evil Queen. One bad mistake during a mental breakdown, and everyone abandoned me, except for the other villains my age. They don't really like visiting the island much. Do you want some tea, dear?" The Evil Queen asks, taking out a china cup and filling it with water.

Her mirror! That Birdman probably took her mirror and used it as a sorting tool!

"No, I'm good. I know where your mirror is. I'm sure you'll be glad to know the people who took it to adore you and your villain friends. By the way, what happened to your castle? Cobwebs are everywhere," Yuu answers, looking at Hilde's sunken features.

"Oh...I just haven't had time yet. Spring cleaning misses me every year. Besides, what's the point? Nobody visits me anyway, and everyone from my former kingdom migrated to Snow White's kingdom. There's no point in ruling an empty kingdom!" Hilde answers, throwing her hands up in the air.

"I'll visit you. The people in Pomefiore will visit you. Plenty of people like you, even after what you did. So let's clean this castle up and get your mirror back!" Yuu replies, standing up and twirling around.

Yuu helps Hilde organize her potions and spellbooks. Then she chases the spiders away, cleans the cobwebs, and scares away the dust bunnies. After they finish cleaning, Queen Grimhilde puts on a cloak with denim jeans and a navy crop top.

"Sweetheart, do you think my hair looks good? The grey streaks are clashing with my raven hair," Queen Grimhilde asks, pulling up the grey strands of hair. "I'm not as vain as I used to be, but I still take pride in my hair and body."

"Your hair looks fine, though if you want to dye your hair, then I can do that. Do you still have any hair dye?" Yuu replies, looking at the shelves of potions.

"There should be a bottle of hair dye on the bottom shelf of the bathroom," Hilde answers, finding a pair of gloves to put on.

Yuu puts Hilde's hair under the running water, applies the dye product, and watches as Hilde's hair turns from raven black to blueberry blue.

~~~~~~

"So basically, the headmage of Night Raven College has your mirror and is using it to sort the students into their dorms every school year," Yuu explains as she walks back to Night Raven College. "It looks into your soul and decides what type of magic you have that best suits the type of dorm you should be in."

"I didn't know the mirror could do that," Queen Grimhilde says, raising an eyebrow.

"Yuu, my love!" Phillip exclaims, jumping onto Yuu and kissing her on the lips. "I got worried when you weren't in Ramshackle!"

"Phillip, I'm fine. Besides, I have to get this lady her mirror back," Yuu answers, patting Phillip's head.

Phillip looks at The Evil Queen's face, and he pales. He pulls Yuu away from Queen Grimhilde, putting a hand on his sword.

"Yuu, where did you find this lady?" Phillip asks, gripping Yuu's waist hard.

"I know who she is, Phillip. She's changed," Yuu answers, trying to calm down Phillip, "It's ok, Phillip. It's all fine."

"Princess, you keep saying that, but danger always follows right after. I can't help but be nervous whenever you say that," Phillip replies, taking his hand off his sword and hugging Yuu. "I love you too much to let anything bad happen to you."

Phillip lets go of Yuu and watches as she goes to Night Raven College with The Evil Queen.

"I'm not ready to see you leave yet," Phillip whispers, nobody around to hear his words of sorrow.

~~~~~~

"Headmage Crowley, I brought The Evil Queen," Yuu says, entering Crowley's office.

"I can't believe it! One of the Great Seven came to visit our school! Whatever do you need, oh Queen of Evil!" Crowley exclaims, holding Hilde's hands.

"I'd like my magic mirror back. I think an earlier headmage took my mirror and used it as a way to sort the students into their dorms," Queen Grimhilde says quietly. "Please, give me my mirror back."

"Absolutely! I'll show you where the mirror is!" Crowley exclaims, taking Queen Grimhilde's hands and flying into the air with her.

Wait a minute? I know that look. That's the same look Sophie Hatter gave Howl Pendragon in the Howl's Moving Castle movie! Crowley even looks like Howl with the jacket over his shoulders. I guess stories repeat themselves here.

Yuu runs to the hall of mirrors and walks straight into an argument between The Evil Queen and her mirror.

"You're my only friend! You can't just leave me like this!" Queen Grimhilde screams, tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I can't leave with you. I can't do that, especially after how I manipulated you as a teenager through adulthood. I shouldn't have told you better choices. I shouldn't have messed with you and our soul like that. You're a good person. I am not. I'm sorry, Grimhilde. I can't leave with you for your own good," The man in the mirror says, his dark eyes filled with sadness.

Queen Grimhilde sobs some more, and Yuu heads back to Ramshackle. She flips through her beginner's for witchcraft book and finds a spell for happiness.

"Cast this spell, and true happiness will come to you. You will need amethyst, rose quartz, citrine, smokey quartz, clear quartz, Felicia, a red Rose, sunflower seeds, and rosemary. Light 5 candles, each to symbolize every element, and say YOUR own words for a spell to happiness," Yuu reads aloud, pulling out the required ingredients. "The only thing I don't have is white salt. I could go to Sam's store for that."

Yuu leaves for Sam's store and purchases the white salt, leaving Sam with a confused smirk. Yuu returns to Ramshackle and looks for chalk to use for the pentacle.

"Come on! Ghosts, is there any chalk or a pen anywhere?" Yuu asks, pulling out drawers.

"There's some chalk in the upper drawer. Malleus made it out of some mysterious liquid," The skinny ghost with a top hat answers, pointing Yuu to the drawer.

"Thanks!" Yuu replies, taking the red chalk out of the drawer and running back up to her room with the salt.

Yuu makes a circle out of white salt and draws the pentacle with the red chalk. She sets up the five white and orange candles with the herbs and flowers mixed in on top. Then, she places each gemstone on the side of the pentacle. Finally, she lights the five candles and begins to say a spell that she made up on the spot.

"Umm...happiness and positivity

Make your life a bit easy,

Who said everyone can't have a happy ending!" Yuu chants, not noticing her body levitating a bit off the ground.

The pentacle burst to life with a purple glow with the salt circle. Yuu's body goes about 6ft in the air, and her eyes turn purple. The gaseous ring around her amulet flows to the pentacle, and a magical explosion happens. A purple blast ring goes through the Isle of Sages, giving a happy ending to the Evil Queen. Meanwhile, Yuu's body is on the floor with her head bleeding.

Chapter 3: Another Love Potion Is Made

Taglist: @pookiedragonfire @lizzileth @hipsterteller @nerdy-diamonds @kingfargas @marrondrawsalot @justarandomhumaninthisworld @otaku-explosion @shi-mel @nai17 @iwant2dienow @naughtybodypillow @felfei @tinnyflute @r-0-tt-3-n-m-1-lk @iamfriedpotato @sweettooth-87 @otaku-twistedwonderland

#twisted wonderland fanfic #twisted wonderland #love potion apocalypse au #the evil queen

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dontbipanicjonsa · 3 years ago

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Been thinking about Dark!D*ny and

I think for me, it comes down to two things:

The utter hypocrisy re: her supposed abolitionist ways

The escalation of her power and the destruction she wreaks

Because I can't really fault her for smothering Drogo. I can't really fault her for letting Viserys die. I can't really fault her for murdering the shit out of Kraznys. I can't fault her for freeing slaves (as if). I can't even fault her for wanting revenge.

Let me explain-

I think if we compare the capture of the Lhazareen and the capture of Meereen, it paints a very clear picture of where D*ny is headed.

The Lhazareen

Ok. First, the whole 'D*ny has no power' argument has to stop. She's the khaleesi. Her husband is the khal. Of course she has power.

I'm NOT saying Drogo isn't absolutely monstrous to her. I'm not saying she chose to marry him. I'm not commenting on their relationship at all.

In a patriarchy, (upper class) women gain property/power/control over others in exchange for sexual/reproductive service. So D*ny, simply by virtue of being the khal's wife, or simply because she's pregnant with his kid (neither of which were her choice) has power.

For comparison, Cersei, who is abused by her husband, the king, still derives power from her position as Queen and mother of the princes/princess. See what I mean?

?? Drogo decides they're gonna sail to Westeros and gives his rousing speech because D*ny was almost assassinated. The attack on the Lhazareen was done in service of D*ny's conquest of Westeros. Let's repeat.

The Lhazareen were attacked to further D*ny's interests.

No, it wasn't for Rhaego, he's a fucking foetus he doesn't HAVE interests. It's not for Drogo, he doesn't give two shits about Westeros. IT"S FOR D*NY. And that is her 'power' in action. Her power, that she derives through her husband, because PatRiarChy. But power.

And you know what? Sure. It's fine. She didn't know what a bloodbath it was going to be. That's not her fault. And yeah, she IS ready to accept the bloodshed as necessary collateral. That is...a bit more questionable. But she does try to help some women.

Does she only help them because she can see their suffering? Probably. There's plenty of suffering not in her direct line of sight that she allows. But ok. Sure. It's not her job to save everyone (nevermind that they're suffering to further her interests).

The whole 'save them by marrying them to their rapists' thing makes me more sad than enraged. It's tragic. It's D*ny, making women marry their rapists in the same book where she married her rapist...thinking she's ok, thinking they would be ok too. It's the cycle of abuse in motion, right before our eyes.

This is an explanation I accept. All that bullshit about how powerless D*ny is? Pls. Women and children are being enslaved right there on the same page, so D*ny can win the IT, and she's powerless ?? stfu

Ok. I get it. She's not powerless, but how far does her power extend? COULD she have gotten away with getting all the newly enslaved Lhazareen freed? We'll never know. Does that absolve her?

Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver's Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne.

NO.

This- the capture and enslavement of the Lhazareen people- is a direct consequence of Viserys' ambitions, which is a torch that D*ny has now willingly taken up. THAT ^^^ is a price she's willing to pay, or rather- make others pay.

Buuuut it's fine. She's inexperienced, and her power is certainly limited, and hey she tried. Sure. Moving on.

Meereen

(TW: mentions of rape)

Fast forward four books and D*ny is approximately 100x times more powerful than she was in the Lhazareen scene. Let's see how she does now-

A boy came, younger than Dany, slight and scarred, dressed up in a frayed grey tokar trailing silver fringe. His voice broke when he told of how two of his father's household slaves had risen up the night the gate broke. One had slain his father, the other his elder brother. Both had raped his mother before killing her as well. The boy had escaped with no more than the scar upon his face, but one of the murderers was still living in his father's house, and the other had joined the queen's soldiers as one of the Mother's Men. He wanted them both hanged.

I am queen over a city built on dust and death. Dany had no choice but to deny him. She had declared a blanket pardon for all crimes committed during the sack. Nor would she punish slaves for rising up against their masters.

xxx

A former slave came, to accuse a certain noble of the Zhak. The man had recently taken to wife a freedwoman who had been the noble's bedwarmer before the city fell. The noble had taken her maidenhood, used her for his pleasure, and gotten her with child. Her new husband wanted the noble gelded for the crime of rape, and he wanted a purse of gold as well, to pay him for raising the noble's bastard as his own. Dany granted him the gold, but not the gelding. "When he lay with her, your wife was his property, to do with as he would. By law, there was no rape." Her decision did not please him, she could see, but if she gelded every man who ever forced a bedslave, she would soon rule a city of eunuchs.

SO anyway how is D*ny rating on the 'tried to prevent rape' scale?

She even went so far as to summon Irri, hoping her caresses might help ease her way to rest, but after a short while she pushed the Dothraki girl away. Irri was sweet and soft and willing, but she was not Daario.

Oh look she's in the negative :/

How's she doing on the slavery front? She's got all the power now...

"Your slave Missandei." Jhiqui had a taper in her hand.

"My servant. I have no slaves." Dany did not understand. "Why does she weep?"

xxx

There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves.

...

D*enerys spends five books gaining power. How does this affect the condition of her people? Is the condition of the Meereenese better than the condition of the Lhazareen had been, all the way back in the first book? No. It's worse.

People have still been raped. People have still been enslaved/remained enslaved. People have starved. People have been brutally murdered. And at a much larger scale than book 1.

This is what it comes down to. D*ny is a villain because her climb to power is characterized by death and destruction, always. Isn't that the trademark of a villain?

D*ny is a girl who truly believes in her own PR, but when you look at her words and actions-

"The Good Master has said that these eunuchs cannot be tempted with coin or flesh," Dany told the girl, "but if some enemy of mine should offer them freedom for betraying me . . ."

"They would kill him out of hand and bring her his head, tell her that," the slaver answered. "Other slaves may steal and hoard up silver in hopes of buying freedom, but an Unsullied would not take it if the little mare offered it as a gift. They have no life outside their duty. They are soldiers, and that is all."

xxx

"No," she pleaded. "Save him, and I will free you, I swear it. You must know a way … some magic, some …"

...how much of her actions are truly altruistic? How much is performative?

Despite her anti-slavery rhetoric, D*ny consistently benefits from slavery- and slavery flourishes.

Despite her 'oh no I don't wanna bring death and destruction anywhere', her actions continue to bring exactly that- and it never stops her from doing it all over again the next time.

Not to dismiss her internal struggle. But really. Being upset at the thought that you might be a bad person doesn't make you a good person. For that matter, being worried if you're going mad or not...doesn't mean you're not (not that I'm saying she is). Seriously, where did that logic even come from? Ultimately, her internal struggle makes her a more compelling character, sure, but it doesn't actually make her a better person.

The point is, her story is absolutely rooted in hypocrisy. Her destructiveness only escalates with her power. Her so-called good intentions never pan out- because her own actions undermine them. And because she has the self-awareness of a pigeon, she never gets better.

She IS the villain who thinks she's a hero. She isn't just a villain because she's done bad things, but because she's utterly unaware (or deliberately obtuse) of the bad things she's done, and so she's incapable of learning, and so she's only getting worse.

Take a step outside her POV and it suddenly becomes clear.

Let's recap.

D*ny has-

Wayy more power in Meereen. Less in Lhazareen

D*ny did-

Less to prevent rape in Meereen. More in Lhazareen

D*ny benefitted from-

Slavery in Meereen. Slavery in Lhazareen

D*ny was-

A slaver in Meereen. A slaver in Lhazareen

D*ny wreaked-

Death and destruction in Meereen. Death and destruction in Lhazareen.

D*ny, riding high on her power-

Ordered the murder of children. And much more.

Power is NOT good for D*ny.

#dark!dany #anti daenerys targaryen #d**y stans do NOT interact #yea I censored her name twice just to be sure

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lyallblacklupin · 3 years ago

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Just like fire.

After years of regrets and sorrows, Remus tries to apologize to Sirius for his own mistakes, despite the fact that he has been hurt by the very same person who he wants to say sorry to. The years of damages has passed, should they give each other a chance, or start fresh with new people in life to forget their old wounds?

Tags: Heavy Angst, Fluff, Post-Azkaban, Angst with Happy Ending.

Sirius walks in the kitchen, completely heedless of Remus’ presence—or he pretends to be heedless after he catches the sight of Remus. He walks promptly, not limping but flinching at his aching bones. This is how Sirius Black has become: broken. And he has not just broken out of thin air, it has taken fourteen years which includes the twelve years of unjust imprisonment and two years of being a prison escapee, and Merlin knows how many more to go.

Half of Sirius’ time is spent in thinking about death and longing for it. Remus can tell because he has witnessed the hunger of dying in his eyes when he’d sit alone with himself, and the other half is always occupied in worrying about Harry Potter who is last person keeping him from dying out of misery; his dear godson only. Otherwise, he’d have been free.

He stops at the stove and boils the water on the kettle. He doesn’t have his wand so muggle way it is. Muggles have been growing on him, a lot. He keeps talking about them with Arthur. Remus is glad that if there is anything Sirius is looking forward to the order meetings is for the conversation with his new friend Arthur Weasley, who also attains the equal amount energy for the same subject. It makes Remus happy to witness that they have any reason to—even temporarily—lit up in the times of war. However, Sirius never smiles. He nods, or makes a funny face. He only smiles when Harry visits.

“If you want for yourself, it’s still in the kettle.” Sirius says without looking, and begins to walk out of the kitchen but Remus rises from his chair.

“Sirius.” He stops but doesn’t turn to face Remus.

“What?” His voice cut through Remus’ heart.

“I was hoping we could have tea together?” He tried, his heart hammering in his chest.

Sirius finally turns and hold his gaze. After a lingering eye contact, he nods and brings Remus’ tea with pink mug that has a David Bowie on it. He is slightly hopeful that Sirius has kept it because Remus gave him on their sixth year Christmas holidays. But he highly doubts that Sirius remembers it. Sirius sits across Remus’ seat. The silence is irksome.

“I want you to know that I’m sorry for…all that—“

“Define ‘that’, Remus?” Sirius’ facial expressions are blank but very grave.

“For believing the murder of Lily and James was because of you.”

Sirius scoffs, and Remus wants to scream because deep down inside he doesn’t feel he deserves it. He suffered too for twelve years. Even so, he tries to sustain the ceasefire he is trying to build between them.

“I should have believed that you would never have done anything like that to the Potters. You loved them more than anything in this world and—“

Remus pauses because Sirius is shaking his head with a manic smile playing on his lips.

“Wrong. I didn’t love them as I was supposed to. It wasn’t that I didn’t, but it was more like I couldn’t. My fucking stupid heart belonged to just one person that time as if my life would end if I stop centering my life on him.”

Remus swallowed. He knows that no kind of eloquent words are going to be good reply to what Sirius has said, so he says, “You did. Love them, that is. I know that.”

“Oh what did you know!?” He shoots up so violently that the chair collapses down on the floor that Remus inhales sharply, “You were out there kissing Dumbledore’s shoes!”

He knew that this will happen, that he will be humiliated again just like the times in the first war when Sirius would scream at him for going on the secret missions and not giving a clue about when and where he would go and come back, and for not being there for his friends and family. But in reality, all Remus did was to protect the order, and the people he loved. However, the questions still pops in his head, ‘for what? How did he not see it that they were breaking apart?’ It feels like he was watering a dead plant over and over again during the severity of lacking water, but the plant didn’t revive, and the precious water spilled into filthiest vain. Despite of that, Remus shuts his mind and chooses that pettiest way to get back at the person who endured twelve years of imprisonment for the crime he never committed.

“Don’t you dare!” Remus rises from his chair too, leveling up at Sirius, “Don’t you dare go down there again after all these years!”

“WHY NOT!?” Sirius yelled anyway, “YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO THIS NOW! YOU NEVER BELIEVED ME! EVEN BEFORE YOU THOUGHT I BETRAYED JAMES AND LILY!”

“WHEN DID YOU BELIEVE ME!?” Remus is now few inches away from Sirius. He wants to slam him against the wall and put some sense into him because he still cares about him, no matter what.

“WHAT!? You made me this way! You build this mistrust with your hands! Don’t you dare forget that!”

“I did!? Or was that you!? Who didn’t believe me when I said I was not allowed to tell to anyone!”

“I WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ANYONE!” Sirius’ voice breaks poorly that hits like a dagger in Remus’ heart. Sirius holds himself by the chest and leans down to rest his torso on the kitchen table, breathing heavily. Remus instantly feels the stinging in his eyes, and followed by the hot tears spilling from them. He comes behind Sirius, and places a hand on his back.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Shut up. Just shut up.” Remus whispers, and pulls Sirius up in his arms. He sobs and sobs, and Remus sinks down to the floor with him, squeezing him tightly in his embrace. “You are right. You were never just anyone. You were never…” He tries to put his feelings into words but Sirius interrupts him.

“You stopped loving me.”

Remus feels his stomach twist but what comes out of his mouth is a laugh. An empty laugh.

“Hell, I didn’t even stop loving you even when I thought you killed James and Lily.”

Silence.

“I was disgusted by myself. I used to feel so filthy. To want you even after believing you ruined my life by walking away so brutally, killing my friends. Killing my reasons to stay on this planet. I wanted to hate you. I couldn’t. I didn’t think that I even deserved to go to their funeral, you know…because I thought I’d be downright hypocrite to grieve for their loss when I was actually grieving the loss of you. I’d dream about you. The only thought keeping me sane and alive. Sirius, I’m not sure if this makes sense to you…I don’t even know if I’m asking you to love me back or what, but I have always loved you, mostly when I shouldn’t…”

Sirius is staring at him with his tears streaming so rapidly down his cheeks. He is trembling as sobs are racking through his body, his breath hitching every now and then. Remus’ heart breaks to see him like that. It is like Sirius is cleansing himself with all of the unwanted darkness off his soul by spilling all the expanse of pain in form of tears. Remus can see that he is not stopping himself from weeping. He seems lost somewhere, with his eyes shut and his hand on his mouth.

“I am not defending myself,” Remus whispers once he notices Sirius is just sniffling and wiping the dampness from his face, “I never meant to bring that up. I just want to let you know that whatever you went through had not even a single place or moment you deserved to be at.”

Sirius looks up with wide teary eyes, staring at Remus’ hopefully. He looks innocent and raw.

“Tell me,” His voice rough with tears but still a whisper. He clears his throat, “that I deserved all of that.”

“That is not true.” Remus says instantly, his hands grasping Sirius’ wrist instinctively, fearing he might fade away with the wind swooping in from the kitchen window.

“It is,” He says in the weakest voice, “My mistakes brought me here. For not trusting you enough…”

No words comes out from Remus’ mouth but they are caught in his throat like a lump. He can feel their prickling. The silence stretches on, smoothly breaking by the sounds of fire battling the wind filling the kitchen. There is also some faint sounds of dripping water from the tap into the basin. Someone must have forgotten to turn it fully. Huh, wizards.

“You are one celestial presence on the world, Remus Lupin, aren’t you…” Sirius chuckles softly, leaning back on the paddles of the chair to rest his back on them. Remus doesn’t understand but Sirius continues, “You are…this sacred or a saint-like wizard—half-blood werewolf whose father committed suicide because he thought he was the reason for his son’s affliction, and whose mother faded away with grief…”

Remus’ heart feels fragile in his chest, fearing it might break again after the poor mending.

“Merlin puts a very heavy price on people to pay who hurt Remus Lupin, who mistrust Remus Lupin...who thinks little of Remus Lupin.”

There is something strange in Sirius’ eyes. There is surrender and envy but Remus stares back into those glistening, and almost-silver orbs with courage to find what he wants. And he does. There it is. Love, swirling into the diffusion of grey and blue.

“I paid twelve years of losing myself and my family for mistrusting you, Remus.”

“I’m sorry…” He doesn’t expect his voice to whimper but it does because his chin is trembling and he is trying hard to gain composure. He is trying so hard with his clenched jaw, and balled fists in either sides of his lap. But Sirius put a thumb under his chin, and he shudders.

“You’re so stupid, Moony.” Sirius whispers when he is just an inch away from his lips.

“I know,” And just as those lips touched his, he feels a tear trickle down his cheek before Sirius has completely captured his mouth. They move languidly but cautiously, scared they might break each other again with haste and roughness. They don’t trust themselves to be firm either. Remus doesn’t. But when Sirius pulls back a little, he comes back and kisses him again decisively on the lips.

“I don’t know if it is still worth it,” Sirius says when both of them are resting their foreheads against each other, breathing in and out one and other, “But I want you to know that I don’t blame you for anything. Maybe I did. Just to keep myself sane by pretending to believe the lies I made within my already suffocated brain.”

Remus lets out a small laugh, which follows by Sirius’ arms wrapping his waist.

“I hope you can still accept me despite of everything, Remus.”

Remus hold his jaw, and tries to smile at him because he still feels like it is not enough. Nothing is enough with Sirius Black. It is always so much, even in this flickering flame which is almost dead. He knows that it will ignite again to fiery life once they become one. They are dangerously perfect for each other. He leans in to kiss the back of his ear, and inhales a whiff just like the wolf would do when Padfoot would return on first full moon after the summers, to recognize his mate. Sirius smells of rain and cigarette, mixing the aroma of the tea that has been sitting out in two mugs before their argument.

“I do. And I hope the same from you for myself?” Remus cringes after he realizes how lame they sound next to Sirius’ words. After few minutes which feels like hours to Remus, Sirius gropes his hands to hold both of his wrists, with his eyes still locked with Remus. He then bends down to press a lingering kiss on the right, and then on the left. Remus just looks at him, feeling utterly weightless in Sirius’ hands.

“I will not fail you again, Remus.”

“I trust you. I love you,” Remus says with all of the broken words spilling out his mouth, “I love you so much. I will not let you go. I will not let you be alone.”

They embraces each other again, just enjoying the warmth and the closeness. It reminds Remus of their time at Hogwarts when their limbs used to be wrapped around each other at every possible free period, smoking cigarettes at the Astronomy Tower.

“Don’t make such promises, my dear Moony.”

“You’re just saying that because you’ll be annoyed of me for sticking around you all the time.” Remus wipes his tears, and Sirius helps him too with his sleeve, shaking with silent laughter.

“Yeah, maybe. Just don’t follow me in the bathroom.”

“Can’t make such promises, my dear Padfoot.”

Thankyou for reading!

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eyrieofsynapses · 3 years ago

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i’ll be your god of loss

(from “The God of Loss” by Darlingside, which will make you cry.)

so I was thinking about the trio and kids. Because these people, you know, they adore kids! they’re great with them! And they might not admit to that, they may not believe it, but we know it, we see it with Eliot and Molly, with Hardison and Trevor, with Parker and Josie, with the kids from The Stork Job and The Fairy Godparents Job and their clients’ children and so very many more.

Most of all we see it with Breanna. We see how they mentor her, how they provide advice, how they encourage her, how they build her up, how they laugh with her and speak of teaching her and telling her stories from the beginning. they unashamedly adore her. And they are so very good with her—they know how she looks up to them, they know they are always watched, and they behave like it. They are truly wonderful with her.

We know they love kids. We know, too, that they see the foster system’s flaws, and we know they fear for the children they save from bad situations. We see how they instinctively nurture the kids of the clients who have lost a parent. We watch how they will lift up the children of the marks who do not treat them well.

But they are not meant for white-picket fences.

These are not the kinds of people who settle down. They do not get tired of what they do one day and say “perhaps we’d best end this now.” They never get tired of it. They adore their work, they adore their life, they cannot imagine anything else. They will never willingly stop.

But there is a point where need eclipses want. There will be a day when they cannot do it anymore.

This is a known fact, but it is not a loved one.

The years trickle by. The time of Redemption comes and goes. They raise team after team, create an ever-reaching map of International, help people by the thousands and by the singles. And they are not the management. They leave that to the capable people they have trained, the ones they trust with their lives and more, and they keep doing the jobs, they stay involved, they get their hands dirty. Because there is nothing else for them. They began this doing what they loved, after all, and that love has not faded. If anything it has only grown.

Parker cannot sit still in an office all day, and Eliot cannot watch others fight and listen to them take the blows that he should, and Hardison will never be able to see all the things his algorithms raise and all the troubles that pass in the media and not do anything about it himself. This is against their very nature.

But the years go on and on, decades pass, and Hardison realizes one day that this cannot go on forever.

It is Hardison, because it is him who sits in the headquarters or the van or the discreetly close location with his laptop open and monitoring frequencies. It is Hardison, not Eliot or Parker, who can pay the most attention to the every soft grunt and caught breath and withheld noise of pain.

It is Hardison who realizes, one fateful day, that those moments increase day by day, job by job, and his injury logs have grown exponentially thicker in the last year. He watches their medical supplies drain away faster and faster even as he replaces them. More and more there are mornings when the other two linger between the sheets for longer than they used to.

It is he who watches Eliot squint ever more at the files and sees his glasses come out of his pocket with unusual regularity. There is a box full of spares in the bottom drawer of their wardrobe for when they break on the job. Hardison begins tipping the lid more often when he starts hearing the crunch of broken glass in his husband’s jacket pocket. They disappear faster these days.

(One day Hardison has had enough. He makes the toughest case he can and slips it into Eliot’s jacket pocket the night before a job. Eliot never says anything, but it lays on the bedside table sometimes when they’re off, and the glasses stop disappearing from the box so often.)

It is he who notices how Parker reinforces her rigs more and more, how ropes and straps support more than they used to and stretch further. The vents don’t thud so often these days. She has hung a hammock high in the rafters of their house, and he sees her less in the harness and more tucked away there.

(He adds padded bottoms to some of the vents and larger places to rest. Parker never says anything, but the vents rattle a little more often.)

It is he who observes how Eliot isn’t at the punching bag as regularly anymore, how he wraps his hands so carefully when he is, he who sees how Parker does not stretch quite as far as she used to, how she painstakingly plan jobs where she does not have to do a backbend or a particular contortion.

It is he who watches every time they step out—not jump out, no, not anymore—of the van, carefully holding on to the sides, and thinks to himself as he watches them walk away—

Is this the last time I will ever see you?

It’s Hardison who, whenever he finds a new job for them to do, eyes the circumstances and determines whether it’s something he can ship off to another team or not. His algorithms are prioritized now to chances of harm rather than potential jobs, attuned to the ever-growing injury logs. Their jobs begin to skew further to grifts and simpler building plans. But that never stops him wondering: Will this be the last job we ever take?

Will I send them to their deaths today?

For it is not his hair that fills with grey streaks faster and faster. It is Parker’s. When he sits behind her on the bed with her brush beside him, carefully separating her hair into strands for braiding, he finds more and more of them silvering.

(He watches her braid it every day, but some mornings she slips before him anyway. She was delighted when she discovered he could do it, courtesy of too many little sisters and not enough time in busy school mornings. It brings a grin to his face every time he thinks of her sunshine smile.)

It is Eliot’s, for there are late nights when Hardison finds him stretched out and half-asleep on the couch, and when he comes back with a blanket Eliot will be sitting up and waiting. He always sits beside him. Sometimes, Eliot lays back down with his head in his husband’s lap and lets him card gentle fingers through his hair. Those cherished moments become bittersweet when he finds that it is not so thick nor as deep in color as he remembers (though it is always soft).

And it is Hardison who bolts awake in the midst of the night with the ringing of the comms in his ears, clutching at the sheets to reassure himself he is not in the van he is not in the headquarters he is not on a job he does not have the earbud in his ear he is not listening to his lovers dying.

These nightmares plagued him from the beginning. He cannot count the number of times he has dreamt of sucking death-rattle breaths, the crack of spines, the sound of screaming in his ears, cannot count the times he has dreamt of searching and searching for bodies. Sometimes he does find them, staring eyes and crushed ribs and mangled limbs. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes they aren’t dead at all—but those times he never finds them. He can never figure out which is worse.

But the nightmares have never been so bad as they are now.

Other nights he does not sleep. Other nights, he sits awake and watches his lovers’ scarred chests rise and fall in deep slumbering breaths, and wonders when will I lose you? A year from now? Two? Or only months, only weeks?

What if it’s tomorrow?

He wakes to the others’ weeping often. But he thinks they are the ones comforting him more these days.

Finally Hardison has had enough.

They can’t do this any longer. He can’t do this any longer. Hardison cannot live without them, these two lights of his life, his sun and moon and bright diamond stars—but he knows he will die last, should they continue down this path, and he will die alone and many years from now.

For it is not he who takes punch after punch from men decades younger than himself, who climbs into stories-high elevator shafts where one wrong button-press could end it all, who stares down the barrels of guns without one himself, who hangs off the sides of buildings by his fingertips, who pushes and pushes and pushes his body day in and day out. His husband and wife are resilient. The odds say that they should have been unable to keep doing this a decade ago—and the odds are wrong.

But Eliot and Parker are not the kinds of people who can merely stop. There will never be a day, Hardison knows, when they will sit down with him and say we do not want to do this anymore. They will push and push and push themselves till they break.

Hardison knows what their breaking will look like. His dreams have told him so. Hardison will not, will never, let that happen on his watch. He will have to stop them.

If he asked, they would. It would take coercing, it would take shouting and arguing and probably many hours of the two of them off on their own and thinking, but they would.

But Hardison turns this over in his mind as he forges paintings and writes code and sends out emails to the teams, tries to picture stopping, and it makes him go nearly as cold as the thought of breaking does.

Stopping means no more jobs. No more jobs means…

Well, it means a lot of time spent volunteering, he supposes, and overseeing International’s teams. It means a lot more nights spent at home and not hotels. More of Eliot’s home cooked meals, he guesses, and more movie nights, more trips for fun. The medical kit wouldn’t have to be refilled nearly as often. Eliot’s box of glasses would never have to be replenished again. It means fewer days spent watching his partners hobble around and deny that they need to sit. Hardison wouldn’t have to plan jobs around the weather that makes their bones ache, or watch Parker wince as she drops out of a vent, or notice how Eliot needs the volume in his comm brought up higher than he used to.

There would be no heart monitors that spike and fall on the screens.

Hardison thinks of this, and then he imagines Parker and Eliot in their house, day in and day out, and it brings a shake to his breath rather than a steadiness.

Ever-moving Parker and Eliot, his never-stopping always-going wife and husband, for whom he has to fill the house with distractions to keep them from pacing and snapping and looking for trouble. Parker has vents and climbing systems and a room full to the brim of boxes of locks, safes, puzzle-boxes, books of riddles, absolutely anything and everything that could challenge her.

There’s a small gym for Eliot. Hardison always puts new gadgets and cookbooks in the kitchen, and he’s found that there are indeed some books that Eliot will spend hours reading (assuming he can find his glasses). A guitar found its way into the living room one day, and now books of music pile up on the nearby shelves. He keeps a closet specifically for outdoor gear.

But there are only so many meals that can be cooked. Parker is already bored of most of the puzzle room. More than that, they both have to move. Challenges from books and puzzles and games have never and will never be enough for them.

Hardison thinks of them in that house, day in and day out, growing wearier and wearier of what they have, growing tired of what life has to offer, and it sends a racking shudder through him.

He goes on, day in and day out, and he watches them, and they push themselves, and he worries and he wonders and he dreams and he fears.

And then, one day, it hits him.

They’re sending off yet another kid to the foster system. Hardison will track them and make sure they find the right place, but it always aches a little to watch them go. He’s been through that hell. There is nothing he wouldn’t give not to help them. The three of them always see them off, but it never feels like enough.

This time, though, he’s rushing, running to meet them. The kid is already leaving. Parker and Eliot watch them go, tension laced in their shoulders, and it occurs to him that he rarely ever watches them watch the kid.

They look with the same love in their eyes he saw so many years ago. In a moment he is struck with memories: listening to Eliot teaching Molly how to hit balloons with a dart in the mirror, Parker putting her hands over Josie’s ears as she taught her to break into a car, the worried love in his husband’s voice as he searched for the girl he had known for mere hours, the outraged passion of his wife’s protectiveness over the teenager she had seen so much of herself in.

There is the ringing of Parker’s half-choked declaration they’ll wind up like me. There is the way Eliot had spoken of Cory, a boy who still carried his father’s lunchbox while he worked in a mine for his family. There’s the kid from the boxing ring and the kid whose father was killing himself in the ice rink and the children tackling Eliot in the school and, and, and—

—and Hardison remembers teaching bright, precocious Trevor about hacking when they were trying to steal a goddamn potato of all things. And of course Breanna, wonderful, perfect Breanna, who leads International now. Breanna, whom he spent so many long, long days and nights teaching how to hack and how to build software and hardware and engineering and whatever else she asked of him. Breanna, who called even when it was four in the morning for her, just to hear his tales of the crew. She still calls. Half the time it’s only to hear their voices.

With her comes the loud, bustling noise of Nana’s house, the shouting echoing off the walls, the warmth of his little siblings on his hip, the attention and focus it took to put braid after braid in his sisters’ hair. Nana was forever busy with the kids. He still loves coming over as often as he can to help. One thing never changes—her house is forever noisy. There are always new kids around, and there are always lessons to be taught: how to fold laundry, how to dance along to a song without worrying whether you’re doing it right, how to complete all of your schoolwork for the night, how to speak kindly, how to work together, and the most important one of all:

Love yourself.

Nana’s work is never done. She is always busy.

Eliot and Parker cannot stand to be still. They need to be doing something. But most of all, they have to be helping someone.

The puzzle snaps together like a flash of lightning. As the thunder rolls, so does his mind: he knows precisely what he needs to do.

First there’s the matter of housing. Their house is big, but not that big, and anyway, the only home that matters to them is each other. Nana’s only one person, and she can manage plenty of kids on her own. Between the three of them, Hardison is sure they’ll wind up with quite the brood.

There are any number of mansions lying around the States. It’s shocking how many there are. They’re not small, either: most of them could fit a whole extended family in them, though most of the time they’re just bought by too-rich people who can’t hope to fill a quarter of the space. Hardison should know. The crew has infiltrated plenty of them. But he knows they’ll find a way to put one to good use.

He searches for the ones that are unlikely to be bought and only takes up space. There’s a lot of them, half too damaged to be good for anything, but one sticks out: secluded with beautiful grounds, an area with good (but not too good) schools, a half-decent price point, and a bit of a fixer-upper.

Standing on ladders and driving in nails isn’t not physical, but it’s a lot better than dodging punches or dropping two stories off a building. Giving Eliot and Parker a project right off the bat will help ease the blow of quitting the jobs.

Then he hunts down research. He already has shelves upon shelves of books on psychology and parenting and foster children and anything else that could be helpful, but there’s always more to read. A refresher course is important.

While he’s got algorithms searching for that, he sets some to hunting down more details on the local area as well as building renovations, then begins building a plan. He’ll have to introduce the idea slowly. Parker and Eliot won’t be opposed, per say, but getting them to completely agree will be a challenge.

It takes a few weeks, but it’s going well, and Hardison’s almost ready to present his idea to them.

Then his world shatters.

It’s another job, another day, another time when he watches his lovers head out the door and wonders will it be this time?

Except then will it be this time? changes to oh God, it’s this time.

Eliot’s breaths choke off at the same time something crunches.

Parker screams his name so loud Hardison’s ears ring. Or maybe that’s him—maybe that’s him screaming so hard that the taste of blood coats his throat—but it doesn’t matter because Parker’s cut off with a jerk and the comms go dead and they are dead dead dead and—

The world spins and drops out. The next few hours are black but for agonizing pain.

His only memory is not of sight or sound or hearing. It’s touch, the thready warmth of two pulses flickering under his fingers.

They tell him later that he found them in the nick of time: two unconscious bodies collapsed side-by-side in a back alley, and him, clutching their wrists with 911’s number still glowing on the phone beside them. Apparently he rode in the ambulance, because they couldn’t get him away from the other two without restraining him. Every time they tried they feared they��d hurt him.

What he remembers next is this: waking in a plastic chair, head dizzy (with sedatives, he learns later), an ice-cold knife of grief sunk into his heart and tears coating his cheeks, to the steady paired beeping of twin heart monitors.

They survive. Miraculously, they survive, somehow with only minimal injuries. Hardison knows it’s only because of the advancements made within the last few years. Three days later they’re out of the hospital and back home, Eliot on crutches and unhappy about it, Parker complaining at length over the stitches in her arm. Hardison can’t even be annoyed by it. They’re here and they’re alive and they’re still here.

He gives them the evening. But the next day he’s up even before them, spreading papers on the table and making breakfast at the stove (because you learn some things when your husband is a world-class cook) when the two of them come to the table.

When they ask, he doesn’t bother to soften the blow. This is the last time he’s doing that. They’re done.

Eliot and Parker look at each other, then at him. They nod.

He blinks. Just like that? he wonders, and then asks it aloud.

“We don’t want to hurt you again,” they answer, and his heart could break with relief.

When he presents the plans they answer with all the joy he had hoped for. They’re worried, of course—will they be fit to care for children?—but Hardison only rolls his eyes and reminds them of Breanna and Josie and Molly and Cory and all the rest, and they relent.

Two months later they move out to the mansion. It’s a difficult project. Even Hardison didn’t anticipate how long it would be (though Eliot grumbled at him about how much harder this would be than it seemed, dammit, Hardison, what have you gotten us into this time?) but it’s good work, hard work, busy work. He doesn’t have to watch them pace in a hotel room with boredom. There is no angry snapping born of too much time spent sitting around. They work and Hardison blasts music and the other teams chat with them over voice calls.

Some nights Eliot sits in the central hall, the ceiling four stories above them and laced with Parker’s rigs, and plays new songs for them on his guitar. They all sing along when it’s one they know. The acoustics of the room are perfect for echoing and strengthening their voices.

Other nights they curl up on a pile of king mattresses spread three-wide and two-deep, blankets heaped high, and whisper stories to one another before falling asleep to the songs of morning birds outside the windows.

Hardison still wakes screaming. Eliot and Parker do too. But it’s not every other night anymore, and now that they aren’t on jobs, his nightmares begin to recede.

(Of course there’s always the recurring one that did happen. Sometimes he sleeps with their wrists in his hands or his fingers pressed to their necks, just to reassure himself their hearts are still beating. If Eliot and Parker are still awake, one of them will pull him close and press his ear against their chest, and he falls asleep listening to their heartbeat.)

Some of the International people show up to help. They come with suggestions and ideas that get put to good use. Breanna delights in helping them pick out the tools for a massive workshop. His other siblings come too, and he puts them to work. Nana is too old for traveling these days (though he knows she’ll outlive them all), but she talks to them over video calls and gives them tips on how to make everything work.

“How on earth are you going to handle so many kids?” some of them ask. “You’re looking at a school’s worth.”

The three of them just smile. They’re up to the task—and besides that, there’s a number of people from other crews who are also on the brink of retirement. An entire section of the manor is planned for incoming helpers: they won’t be alone for long.

Finally the mansion is done. Or, well, done enough. It’ll always be a project. There will always be a room that needs repainting, or a sink that breaks out of nowhere and needs repairing, or a piece of roof that’s leaking. But it is more than livable—oh, so beautifully livable, the best home Hardison has ever found for them, filled to the brim with all they could ever want.

There is a library with shelves that stretch two floors up, filled with more books than he could read in a lifetime and skylights flooding the room with sunlight. The gym has endless features: a dance studio, a martial arts room, weights, gymnastic mats and bars, a goddamn ball pit because Parker loved the idea, and slides to go with it. Eliot has the biggest and best kitchen he could have ever dreamed of. There’s even a walk-in fridge and freezer.

(“The hell do you expect me to be cooking for, an army?” he asks once, and Hardison laughs.

“Worse. Kids.”)

They’ve made the bedrooms a little plainer than usual, though they have rooms filled to the brim with furniture and curtains and decorations of all shapes and sizes. It will be the kids’ home too. They deserve to decorate their own rooms, no matter how long they’ll be staying.

There are movie rooms, and rooms of pillows and couches and blankets, hidey-holes aplenty (Parker knows them all), games, puzzles, music (Hardison’s pretty sure a band could set up shop in there), art, writing spaces, closets and closets waiting to be filled, bathrooms with tubs big enough to be small pools, a real pool both indoors and out, and Hardison sometimes loses track of what else. They make sure all but some reserve rooms are used and functional. None of them will let this space go to waste.

Getting everything up to code is a job and a half, but there’s plenty of disabled International people (and Hardison’s siblings too) who give them pointers and let them know who the right people to call are. Hardison delights in picking out elevator music. Eliot informs him that programming them to play The Imperial March every time he uses them is not as funny as he thinks. Parker plans little puzzles in Braille and puts them in all sorts of places.

She, of course, has rigging all over the place. The high ceilings are her dream. There are hammocks everywhere. Eliot adores the greenhouse and gardens, spending hours mulling over plans and determining precisely what will work best. Hardison watches the lawn service mowing the massive yards and mulls over the best use for them. There are paths aplenty for running and walking. Eliot’s got a whole space mapped out for an orchard. Parker’s claimed a not-insignificant section of it for mazes and a high ropes course (which is going to be godawful hard to build, but he can’t wait to watch the kids on it).

Hardison’s read a lot of books and seen a lot of research supporting animal-raising as an excellent activity for kids. And he’s always wanted a dog.

When they visit the local shelter they end up with three (because Eliot’s a softie for them) and two cats. He plans a chicken coop in the back and goes to long-term planning for more farm-type animals. Parker has come to love horses over the years, and he knows Eliot’s fondness has never faded. Maybe a stable or two.

Their adoption and foster papers process not long before they’re done. (Hardison technically already had them, but they hadn’t been done the legal way, and though the law is pretty stupid about this whole thing he still wants to do it right.) Then it’s time to get to work.

They’re careful, of course. They begin with two siblings in the summer. Both are teenagers, that age where it’s hard to get them into a foster home, let alone to adopt. (Of course the three of them aren’t looking for adoption unless the kids want it. They’re human beings: they get to choose their own parents.) Both are quiet and wary, looking overwhelmed as they stare up into the manor’s heights.

Parker and Hardison exchange glances, wincing. They’d known from experience that this might be tricky.

They start small, relegating everything to a single wing. It’s around the size of an ordinary house, maybe a bit bigger, and while the three of them have their own rooms elsewhere they make sure to sleep nearby. (That’s something else the kids look at them strangely for: there aren’t many polycules who foster kids, after all. There aren’t many polyamorous couples visible in the media period, though that’s changing with Breanna’s generation. )

When Eliot loads one kid’s laundry into the machine (and oh, they need to go shopping so badly for these kids), he finds a worn dress at the bottom of a pile of boy’s clothes. The same kid, he recalls, who had shaken their head a little when he had asked them about haircuts, whose hair was already brushing their shoulders. It’s fraying at the edges, obviously well loved. There’s a hole in the skirt. When he brings the laundry up he takes out the sewing kit (well, a piece of it—there is a truly enormous area of the arts room dedicated to material arts) and makes sure to fix the hole before he puts everything in the closet. The dress goes first and foremost, hung delicately on a special hanger.

The days go by, the kids become more open, and a routine falls into place. They fill closets with dresses and scarves and put boxes of pins with pronouns in their rooms. Eliot teaches them to chop vegetables and shows them basic self-defense. He helps them walk the dogs, and when he offers they let him teach them meditation.

Parker takes them to therapy (a tricky conversation, but well worth it) and shows the younger one how to climb. The older one is more interested in puzzles, and she happily complies, bringing out a massive box full to the brim with puzzle-boxes.

Hardison, for his part, puts together movie nights and video gaming sessions. He shows off the library and makes sure they know where to find everything, as well as the rules of the house. When one of them shows an interest in fandom, he makes sure they know where the cosplay stuff is. One day he starts a DnD campaign with all four of his family members.

Four becomes five, five becomes seven, the school year begins and some choose homeschooling and others choose public. Homework is done, meals are cooked, dogs are fed, cats are befriended, lightsaber battles play out in the yards and Nerf gun fights are had in the halls (Eliot still prefers a shield), pillow fights go down, tears are cried and arguments ring out in the halls, the fridge doors and pin boards and walls are covered in artwork, kids eight, nine, and ten show up, conversations about queerness are had, a Pride parade is attended, there’s therapy and therapy and so much therapy, sports teams are joined, clubs are attended, problems occur and they handle it, they handle it, they handle it all no matter how hard it is.

Hardison isn’t sure he’s ever seen the other two so happy. He, for one, cannot contain his joy. The children are hard but they are wonderful, bright sparks ready to go out into the world with no one to dim them.

There is a baby one day that International directs to them. The rest of the kids dote on them. The work is hard, but they manage anyway, and there’s three of them to get up when the little one cries. There is nothing more endearing than watching Eliot asleep with a tiny baby crooked in his arm or Parker carefully climbing with them strapped to her chest.

One day, as he’s sitting on the porch with the other two at his sides and watching the kids play, he glances to the sides and realizes that his partners have gone fully gray. He himself finds his joints creaking more and more these days.

The International retirees are doing fantastic and Breanna is the perfect heir to their throne, directing teams with all her brilliance while getting her own work in on the side. She’s mentioned she thinks she might hand it off to one of her own proteges, just so she can go back to some of the old work.

We built a legacy, he thinks, and then, We built a legacy, and we are here now, and they did not die and leave me here alone, and we are happy.

He realizes Eliot and Parker are looking at him with that we know what you’re thinking expression. They smile at him when he notices. Parker kisses his cheek and Eliot pulls him closer on the porch swing, and though they say nothing at all, he knows they’re all thinking the same thing:

We got our happy ending, and we made sure everyone else will too.

87 notes · View notes

oh-katsuki · 4 years ago

Text

Payback: Part 1 (Armin x Reader x Mikasa)

Pairing: Armin x Reader x Mikasa

Word Count: 2.1k

Content: Smut, fwb, alcohol consumption, oral sex (reader receiving), praise, they get caught, finger choking

Content Warnings: Drunk sex, drugs, semi-public sex, slight dacryphilia, slight dumbification

A/N: this series is probably gonna have about three parts, so enjoy part 1. Archive Fic

Part 2 | Part 3

You and Armin had been friends for a long time. Everyday for the past six years, Armin had been a part of your life and you had been a part of his. The one catch is that you and Armin also happen to have sex… a lot. Don’t get it twisted, you both are strictly friends, but that doesn’t stop you from going at it whenever you can. That’s why the look Armin gave you tonight from across the circle didn’t alarm you in the slightest.

It wasn’t unusual for your friend group to get together on Wednesday nights to drink, in fact, it happened almost every week and constantly resulted in Jean being late to his Thursday morning lectures. Still, you all gathered at Sasha, Connie, and Jean’s place every Wednesday to sit in a circle and drink yourselves stupid. Tonight was no different.

You all sat in the living room of the trio’s apartment in a sloppy circle. A few more people had been invited tonight, so the group was larger than usual, bleeding out into the crevices on the sides of the couch to attempt to fit everyone into what now looked like a lopsided oval. On one side of you sat Mikasa and on the other sat Jean, who was nursing a cup of god knows what from the previous round of rage cage that he’d lost. In the center of the circle sat a green bottle that was a dead give away to the new game the group would be playing.

“Seven minutes in heaven!” Connie called, adjusting the bottle in the center of the circle. “Since it seems everyone has had ample alcohol,” He shot a glance at his best friend, Sasha, who was a giggling mess in the arms of a blonde man you’d seen around campus a few times. “I think it’s about time we get the game started.”

“Man, shut up. You’re just looking for an excuse to makeout with someone.” Jean spoke up from beside you, giving a laugh into his drink as he made eye contact with the grey haired boy. You couldn’t help but let out a laugh from beside him, taking a sip from the beer bottle at your side.

“Yeah Connie, why is it that you think tonight’s the night you’re gonna get lucky?” You spoke up, leaning back on one hand and raising your eyebrow and snorting slightly.

“And with who?” It was Mikasa now who spoke up, the usually quiet girl’s lips pulling up into a wry smile as she glanced to Connie, Jean, and then you, where her gaze lingered for a second too long.

Connie gave a huff and rolled his head back before speaking up. “How about ____, huh?” Jean broke out laughing at this and you shook your head, letting out a good natured laugh. “Oh cmon, you don’t think I could? I’ve seen the marks on her. Can’t tell me she doesn’t.”

He slurred his words slightly as he spoke and you gave a laugh. It was no secret you had a fuck buddy, the marks all over your body would be enough to prove that to just about anyone, but what your friends didn’t know as you shifted your eyes to the blonde on the opposite side of the circle, was that it was someone they knew intimately. Armin’s eyes were clouded over, slightly hazy with the buzz of the alcohol and you could see him mouth the words “five minutes” to you, tossing him an affirmative nod before returning your attention to Connie.

You feigned innocence, giving an exaggerated shrug and a cheeky smile as you let out a laugh. “Haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”

“What? Fuckin’ liar, c’mon Armin. Dude you gotta know.” Connie turned his attention to Armin. Now both him and Jean were curious, their bodies leaning forward slightly in anticipation of his answer.

“I haven’t heard anything about that.” Jesus, you could tell why Armin was so popular with women. His voice was so deep and gentle and genuine. The way his soft lips curled slightly into a smile and the way his eyes shimmered slightly had you wondering why he was still single. Connie and Jean muttered curses to themselves, becoming absorbed in another subject of conversation, but Armin’s eyes lingered on you a little longer. They flicked up and down your figure slightly before he exhaled, standing up and breaking eye contact with you as he left the room, tossing you a knowing smile over his shoulder.

Fuck. You could feel your breath catch in your throat as you stood up to follow him. Everyone was far too absorbed in their own conversations to notice the two of you leave, and even if they had, it wouldn’t be unusual since you both are often seen together. Still, you made your way out of the room casually, your hands clenched in your pockets as you anticipated the moments to come. You found Armin leaning against a doorway in the kitchen, his head picking up once he’d heard you enter and his classic friendly smile spreading across his lips as you approached him.

“You’re pretty good at getting the memo.” He spoke, tilting his head slightly as his hand found your waist. “You sure no one’s following?” Armin’s eyes flicked behind you for a moment before coming back to rest on your lips. He licked his own subconsciously as you nodded.

“Mhm, I’m sure.” You spoke, letting him guide you by the waist into a small closet in the hallway. Before you knew it, he’d shut the door to the closet, pushing your figure up against it and bringing his lips to yours eagerly.

He wasted no time in slipping his tongue past your lips, a groan escaping him as he licked into your mouth, one hand gripping the fabric at your waist and the other buried in your hair. Armin pulled at the delicate skin of your bottom lip with his teeth and you let out a shaky breath against him, rutting your hips against his to relieve the ache between your legs.

He quickly lifted your shirt over your head, letting his gaze follow the bare skin of your collarbone. His eyes fell on your breasts and you could ear the faint “fuck me…” that fell from his lips as he attached his mouth to your tit, sucking your nipple eagerly.

Your hands found their way into his hair, a small whimper escaping your lips as you tugged at the soft blonde strands. He groaned, looking up at you.

“Y’look so pretty for me tonight.” Armin kissed up your neck quickly, his hands dipping into the waistband of your jeans. “Just for me, hm?” He hummed against your neck as you brought your hand to the growing bulge in his jeans.

You nodded, already feeling how desperate you were for him as his cock sprang free from his pants. Your mouth watered as you looked at it. Armin was pretty everywhere, his dick was no exception. It was long and a pretty shade of pink with one delicate vein running along the bottom and curved upwards. His dick always hit those perfect spots inside you.

Upon seeing it, you let out a whine as he took your mouth in his again. You took his dick in your fist, pumping him slowly as you shimmied out of your jeans. Armin brought two fingers to your clothed slit, earning a whimper as he applied slight pressure. He could feel the wetness from your panties on his fingers and he let out a low chuckle in response.

“So wet for me already, hm?” He gingerly pulled your panties aside, speaking into the base of your neck. You nodded again, bucking your hips against his hand.

“Please, Armin.” You gave him a breathy exhale, meeting his eyes. “Need more of you, please.”

“Fuck, okay. C’mere.” Armin hissed, taking you by the hips and placing you on a shelf about hip level from the ground. You were now facing the door and Armin’s back was to it as he hastily got on his knees for you.

“Gotta make this fast, pretty.” He was now face to face with your cunt and each word he spoke caused his breath to fan out over the place you needed him most. After meeting your desperate eyes one last time, he licked a long stripe up your pussy before burying his face in it, his lips circling your clit before he dipped his tongue down into your weeping hole. “Wouldn’t want the others to catch us.”

He spoke into your cunt, the words sending vibrations through you as he buried his nose into your clit, his tongue flicking upwards inside of you. It was enough to make your knees start to buckle and to cause a needy whine to fall past your lips.

“Tsk tsk. Gonna have to be a little more quiet.” Armin buried a finger in you as he spoke, curling it upward into the spongy spot inside of you. “Unless of course, y’want them to hear you.” He brought his mouth back to your clit, sucking on it and circling it with his tongue in unison with his fingers.

Fuck you wanted his cock so bad. His fingers and mouth were great, but you wanted to cream on his dick, feel your walls tighten around him as he fucks into you. You begin to whimper as you reach out to grab his wrist in an attempt to fend off your impending orgasm.

“Wanna cum on your dick. Please, please.” You were always stupid for him whenever he touched you. Something about the way he looked at you made you dumb, made you such a slut for his cock. His eyes clouded over as you spoke, pulling his fingers out of you and reaching up to push them past your lips.

You could taste yourself on his fingers as you swirled your tongue around his digits to collect yourself off of him. Armin groaned and pressed gently on the back of your tongue. You could feel tears begin to prick at your eyes and saliva pool in your mouth as he gagged you with his fingers. Upon seeing you gag slightly on his fingers, Armin lined his dick up with your entrance with a new found urgency.

“Fuck, fuck. Beg for it again, baby.” Armin’s dick throbbed and pressed gently against your entrance. You grinded against the head of his cock, your eyes meeting his as your mouth sucked harder on his fingers at the feeling of the head of his cock so close against your entrance.

“Please, Armin. Need to cum on your dick. Please.” You plead with him, letting his digits fall from your lips. The sight itself was enough to have him twitching. It drove Armin crazy the way your eyes looked so desperate and worried, as if he wasn’t about to give you what you wanted. As if the sight of you, hoisted up against the cabinets, brows knitted together, eyes fixated on his dick, lips wet with your own slick and spit, wasn’t enough to make him think he could cum from looking at you.

Without any warning, Armin bottomed out inside of you, throwing his head back and giving you (and himself) a moment to adjust. He quickly picked up a ruthless pace, the boxes on the shelves behind you rattling slightly as he fucked you into the wall. His fingers stayed in your mouth and with each thrust he pressed the back of your tongue. It was enough to have your eyes welling slightly with tears.

“Fuck, you’re so t-tight.” He groaned, pulling his fingers from your lips and threw his head back. Armin brought his lips to yours and sloppily licked into your mouth as he continued fucking into you.

“So big. So big.” You spoke between thrusts, each one earning him a high pitched moan. Neither of you cared about noise now, you could hear the music from the living room in the closet and the sound of voices floating through the house. It was loud enough now that you could whine all you wanted. “S’close, Armin. I’m so c-close.”

Your body shuddered as he brought a hand to your clit, rubbing tight circles into it. Your legs shot straight out, toes curling as your knees pressed against his sides.

“Can feel you squeezing me. Y’look so pretty when you’re cumming.” You wrapped your legs around him, throwing your head back in a whine that sounded a bit like his name.

Your first orgasm hit you like a truck, your toes curling and legs shaking as you let out a tempered moan that came from somewhere in your gut. Armin kept up the ruthless pace, a drawn out “fuck, there it is” escaping his lips as he fucked you through your high. At least that’s what would have happened had the door to the closet not swung open right as you came to reveal a wide eye’d Mikasa.

336 notes · View notes

cornacopicimagines · 4 years ago

Text

A Rose Blooms │t.h

pairing: prince!tom holland x princess!reader

words: 8.4k (WHOOPS)

warnings: arranged marriage, SMUT (we been knew), slight praise kink and 10000% breeding kink, therefore unprotected sex, swearing, slight cockwarming & good lord there is so much

summary: Perhaps God does have a sick sense of humour. To allow such misguided souls to one another. Souls that shouldn't be allowed to feel the sense of happiness he can provide, that should accept their dire situations. The Prince of Wales and his new bride can attest to the quite well.

a/n: what do y'all mean a historical prince au!tom holland with major smut and breeding kink is not a thing. i know the sluts want it, even if they never ask for it. i must provide it.

masterlist

━━★✼☆｡

y/n of Burgundy was a splendid piece of artwork. A sweet and humble French Princess with a huge dowry and a bright future. It was as if DaVinci had casted the girl from Venus's shadow and gifted the baby to displeased parents. Parents who so wished for a boy, that the arrival of a healthy girl is so overlooked that the girl is better off dead. The sadness is heard across not only France but the entirety of Europe. Poor y/n of Burgundy! The Unlucky Princess of Burgundy! It's all she hears; she is deemed a tragedy before her life is even written. Perhaps that is her greatest misdeed in this life, that because she is born the wrong sex to what is expected she is casted to the side as a woman destined for slight and anguish for her entire life. Even if this is the case, y/n wished to think of herself as unwritten for the moment being. A woman waiting for a calling no matter how big or small. A woman who's only current wish to sit atop this windowsill, letting the cool September French breeze kiss her flushed cheeks. Alas, even this is stripped from her.

"Get off the window, y/n!" her mother's shrill voice shrieks as The Duchess yanks y/n to the floor. It's harsh and frantic, as if an arrow is to fly through and hit her. Her tightly coiled chest hit's the wooden floor hard. It knocks the only wind y/n really has left, a wasteful shame.

"I am sorry mama," y/n responds quietly, her hands desperately pat to find a piece of wood that will not cut up into her as she attempts to regain her balance. Though her room is filled with four maids not a single one offers their own hand to help her. She knows it is because of her mother's cowl. If they dare so move in a direction towards her, The Duchess will become a Fury of Hell himself.

"The breeze is so sweet at this time of afternoon." Finally, y/n does place her feet back on the floor with a small clack of her heels. She takes a moment to take in the state of her gown. While she has countless others, something about the pure white of the satin being destroyed by the inevitable dust that has collected is disheartening even to her. The pattern of bright red roses now looks more of a dull blood grey than a true flower.

"The breeze is something so frivolous my dear," The Duchess is suddenly content with her surroundings. "Busy yourself with something more intelligent, it makes for a much better bride."

"Thank you for the wise advice mother," y/n snaps, her fingers gripping the ruined material of her gown. "I'll be sure to not engage myself in something that gives me the slightest bit of freedom in the lifeless castle," it was no louder than a whisper. Her braided hair still muffling the sounds.

As if her words seemed to not even reach her, The Duchess mumbles in agreement before taking her leave. The door shutting loudly behind her, the air was finally safe to breathe. The maids immediately begin to swarm her. Like flies to honey; they grapple her, prod at her and pinch her. It was too much. It was as if a million ants had swarmed her body, nipping at any piece of flesh they could just because it was what they were meant to do. An instinctive need to draw more blood than necessary, it was overwhelming. They inspected her perfectly capable hands, wondering if their incompetence has cost them their heads because y/n of Brittany split her blood and The Duchess refused to let them help. She was suffocating.

She didn't mean for it to slip, it just did. Her voice raised, "Get out." It was softer at first. "Get out," they still didn't move, still abusing her. "I said get out!" Everything stopped for a moment, the air her mother had ensued had now come back. The maids all took a single step away from her. y/n felt the tears threaten her, warning by dancing across her lower lashes. "Do none of you listen, get out for Christ’s sake!" That's all it took, in a matter of seconds y/n was finally alone. She could hear the faint song of the trees whispering to her, it was calm, but she couldn't appreciate it. She dropped to her knees and began to softly weep into her palms. The groans muffled by the skin of her hands and the tears halted from falling by her fingers. In this moment and forever ahead of her, she was desolate.

But like all things, even this bleak minute of sorrow was cut to an end by the deafening sound of her father's boots storming down the hallways towards her room.

━━★✼☆｡

Tom spectated as the pole shattered into a thousand pieces. The splinters hitting ever edge of the arena. He watched as the knight fell limp and as his horse rode on through the chaos. The young prince roared out of his seat, his knees hitting the harsh wood of the royal box. His name echoed on the young knight's medallion above his breast. He had picked the winning side and rightfully so, Sir Harrison had never been defeated. For a moment, Tom turned around to face his beaming mother. A woman who loved the games, Tom always relied on his mother to accompany him to these festivities but his father. The Prince would always ask graciously but was refused every time. Constantly belittled for the consul of old men with a working cock between them, it was a joke. The King had many failed efforts to rile the English people to cause, Tom had offered a large gathering to help inspire the people. The King told his son this would cause nothing but useless panic and many painful deaths. Scoffing, Tom waltzed back to his seat. It was uncomfortable, it felt as if ants hand made their nets below the seat's support. He wished to ride alongside them.

"You cannot and you will not," The Queen smiled at him, waving to squires as they led the horses away. Tom's head swivelled around to meet his mother's. "I refuse it my son."

"I had said nothing mother," Tom replied quietly, he too doing his duty to the lower noble men who had come out today. Each one sweatier than the last. "Perhaps you are hearing things, 10 childbirths can change a woman's mind," Tom stifled a laugh, too which he received a slap on the arm for.

"Don't play smart with me son," The Queen spoke coolly, her countless rings clanged as she rose from her seat. Tom followed suit, allowing a hand for his now middle-aged mother for gracious help down the impossibly large stairs. "I almost lost your father to one of these silly little cock shows, I will not go through it with you my boy."

Tom raised an eyebrow, watching his mother's golden trim become bleaker by the stain of the grass. "I had half a mind to believe you enjoyed these silly little cock shows," Tom played. The Queen peered up at his through hooded lids. It was dangerous waters even for him, a man who has seen the blood of war. He allowed his mother and her ladies to return to Windsor, watching as if to wait for the shark to disappear.

"Your Royal Highness, if I may have a word," a soft voice called out from below the podium. Tom paced to the edge and stared down. Constance, he thought to himself as he smiled wickedly. She was a short and mildly plump woman, with wild unruly hair that had to be constantly shoved out of her face. He remembers her name because of how sweet his name sounded dripping from her tongue. Countless nights spent in the throes of passion, wearing moonlight as cloth. Tom knew he had dishonoured her just by bedding her, but he couldn't help himself. She was the first woman who really took an interest in him. Still, he had to come to her aid on multiple occasions. While he likes the way, she grips at his biceps, he however, doesn't like when her father comes storming into court demanding his daughter's honour back because Tom had prayed on her. Perhaps, it was the odd lack of ladies that would flock to his side or maybe it was simply because he wanted a little bit of fun before the inevitable.

"You may, my Lady," Tom smiled widely making his way to her side. He could tell the mud was ruining the polished leather of his boots, he completely forgot about his favourite riding boots he had put on in hopes that he may indulge himself in the sports. Still, he pushed the though deep down at met her eyes. He not an unusually tall man but the way he almost dwarfed her was delectable. As he watched her squirm, he wondered as to why she would speak with him where anyone could see. There was no danger for him, but the world's eyes were on her.

She played with the small ring on her pinkie finger, riding it up and down the skin. "Why did you not tell me," she whispered, refusing to look up at him. Tears began to well.

"What on earth do you mean?" He queered, genuinely curious as to what had got her all worked up. His hands went to stroke her cheek gently, but she abruptly pulled away from him. This time her eyes did meet his, the salty liquid glossed over her eyes.

"It is bad enough that I am called the Prince's Whore but now they are cursing my name because I have ruined the royal couple!" she cried out, her deep green dress swallowing the mud below. "That a stupid maid slut has stolen you away from the beautiful French Princess!"

Tom saw nothing but red. Not because of Constance but because of what she said to him. He had begged his parents to let him choose his own wife. If he was to rule England after his father's passing, he wished to at least have a woman whom he truly loved by his side. He said nothing to her as he stormed away. The small drizzle of rain hitting his skin as he picked up his speed. He knew that his father was in a council meeting alongside his mother. Perfect opportunity to unleash his rage. He faintly heard her calling after him, that was muffled by the buzzing in his ears.

He had been told who he was meant to be and what he was meant to be from the moment he was born. Hardly ever seeing his mother or younger brothers because he was eldest, never knowing true companionship because he would be constantly cooped up listening to his advisors and tutors as they taught him the art of war and foreign policies. This was his one chance to spend his life with a woman who understood him and would grow a loving family much in contrast to what he had.

His hands pushed the heavy wooden doors, they hit the walls with a large smack. The entire council stood for the Prince, with the exception of his mother and sickly father. He walked past them with ease and took his seat at the opposite end of table. His eyes focused solely on his father as he absently noted the appearance of his son.

"Wonderful of you to finally join us," The Duke of Essex smiled weakly, in any attempt to deflect the tension elsewhere.

"When were you going to tell me?" Tom spoke, his voice barely above a whisper and laced with venom. His elbows digging into the cool wood of granite of the table. He watched his father finally face him; the man was a wreck. His greying hair stuck to his hair with copious amounts of sweat, his brown eyes had sunk deadly back into the sockets and his skin was pale and filled with wrinkles. "When were you going to tell me father?"

"You were spending too much time with that scullery maid," The King respond calmly, still flipping through royal documents. Tom was on the verge of an explosion. If the Prince was known for something, it was his anger. Much like Mount Vesuvius, he didn't get angry often, he hated how it affect those around him. The times he is pushed to the breaking point however, he was destroy everything in his path. "We had to put an end to it."

"We?" Tom pushed.

"Your mother made the arrangements; she is being brought here as we speak." Once more, the King had no interest with the devastated look on the Prince's face. Too caught up in an attempt to stile a cough.

"You promised me my own choice of bride," Tom seethed. He faced his mother, if the King wouldn't listen perhaps the Queen would.

His mother sighed; the silk of her sleeves draped over the arms of the chair. "That was before you had instinctively made the choice, we hoped that perhaps you would have fallen for the daughter of a Duke or at worst an Earl. You were going to marry that girl, after everything her family has done against the court. We couldn't allow it."

Tom jaw clicked. "Who is she?" He was done arguing, done protesting.

"You'll marry the granddaughter of the French King; y/n of Burgundy," his father spoke up before his mother could sugar coat it. "The family sent a portrait of the girl as the first payment of her dowry; it has already been placed in your room. Hopefully, you can find the slightest bit of attraction for your new bride before the wedding."

"Will I get to meet her beforehand?" He at least hoped to see the girl with his own eyes before calling her his wife. Finally, the King met his eyes. He dropped the quill on the desk as locked his eyes, leaning towards him.

"Did you really think you'd get that luxury?"

━━★✼☆｡

The sea breeze prickled at y/n skin as she sat atop the deck. She could tell they were getting closer. The wind went from a soft tone to a howling scream, something her great aunt had told her all about. English weather could go from a perfect sunny day to god's worst mood. In all honesty, she preferred it to French. It was wild and unpredictable, something she so desperately needed.

She remembered how she got into this predicament as she lay down a 9 ace on the table. Waiting for the ship to land.

"You'll leave tomorrow, it will take you a good couple of days to get there." Her father exclaimed, picking a raspberry from the plate and eating the sweet fruit. y/n stood in silence, still reeling her tears back into her eyes. She refused to weep in front of the Duke. She moved around the large room, in order to hear his words. "You'll make a fine queen," he smiled, placing his hands atop her cheeks. y/n smiled warmly before raising a concern.

"How do you know this will be different than the last?" she asked quietly, staring down at her shoes. Her father sighs before picked his coat up from the chair.

y/n placed her bets, her hand is exquisite. Three queen and a pair of Kings. If she doesn't win, it's as if God is going against her. The men that sit beside her raise their brows in confusion. She's not backing down.

"Because, you know their language and their culture from Great Aunt Mary. You were her favourite after all," her father tells her, the memory of the old lady teaching her English brings a curve to her lips. That was not the answer she was looking for, however. Her father knows it as well, he knows the answer she wants but he cannot give it to her. "Trust me pumpkin," the endearment is wonderful. Unlike her mother, y/n's father has always been kind to her. She doesn't know if it because she is his eldest daughter or because her brother is a lousy boy and she is the only child with a head still attached to her shoulder blades.

She releases her tension; she knows whatever comes out of this she must go along with it. She must accept whatever situation is handed to her and accept her duty as a future queen and mother to the English Throne.

y/n squeals, her hand's won. The rest of the chips are placed in her corner, she is asking if they want to go another round but instead, they all huff and walk away from her. y/n feels her heart sink into her stomach. Perhaps the English wind has turned their moods sour. Soon enough her worries are washed away as the boat docks into Brighton and y/n hears the cheers for her. She can't exactly make out what they are saying. Sadly, she doesn't get a chance to even greet her new subjects as her new English ladies are gently pushing her towards the carriage. The only thing she can do is wave and smile at them, hoping to instil a fraction of hope for the new royal couple. As she steps into the carriage, a huge white dress follows her. The abundance of ladies and herself are stuck in the cramped space for a little over an hour before they start agreeing to change her dress into the one being coddled.

"Why? This is dress is perfect as it is," y/n laughed gently, her fingers playing with the pearls that lace the neckline.

"Forgive me, my lady, but His Majesty; The King has requested that you wear a white gown." One of the younger girls pipes up. Sighing, y/n nods her head to agree and goes to stop the carriage.

While they don't completely undress her, she knows that the smock under her dress is shear and leave nothing to the imagination. Quickly they strip her of the current dress, even unlacing the corset before adding another one. As they place the soft silk of her veil over her head, she can hear the ringing bells at Westminster. It hasn't completely dawned on her what she is exactly going through. Marrying a man she has never met. Marrying a man for all she knows could be a tyrant. She's heard quite a few English Monarchs fall under that said category. Her heart started to jump now; she could fell the beat thump against her vocal box.

The people began to line the city. Countless bodies waved at her as she strolled through the city of London. The abbey somehow seemed ten times bigger in person. White rose petals fell through the air as the coachman opened the door for her. The walkway was paved with red velvet. Her heels felt as though she was ruining the beautiful material as she walked.

Tom can physically hear her pounding heartbeat from where he stands. He can't exactly make out her face, but he can see the white gown strutting towards him. It's the same patterns as the dress his mother wore more than 20 years ago. He's seen it in countless paintings, his mother scowling as she attempts to salvage any positive thing out of such tremendous pain. Harrison lays a hand on his shoulder; the contact makes him jump.

"I heard she looks like a siren," he joked, dusting a small particle of fluff off Tom's shoulder. "Perhaps she'll sound like one too," the comment was enough to grant the knight a hard whack on his arm from the Prince. He truly did wonder if she would as beautiful as the painting which depicted her. A small red rose for his house in her fingertips as she grinned softly. It was as if she was staring into his soul.

Tom reached out to allow her aid in getting up the stairs. She graciously accepted muttering a small thank you as her other hand lifted the countless layers of fabric to mend her steps. Her touch was soft, something he wasn't used to. The gentle touch of a noble woman, even if it was only upon his fingers. The entirety of Westminster Abbey went silent as the faced each other.

y/n could barely hear anything over her rampant anxiety. Though she was eased slightly as she blindly grasped at his fingers, she was afraid she gripped a little too tightly. Finally, she stood in front of him. The gown dipping down the stairs to end in her ladies' hands. She wondered what she looked like to him. Wondering if it was a glorious sight to witness a new bride waltzing towards him. Or if it was one of dread, to be in holy matrimony with someone you've just met for the first time. She's still trying to decide between the two.

The ceremony was beautiful. A simply yet elegant affair, as two young royals wed. She knows that she is marrying the Prince of Wales, a worthy husband for any noble woman. Yet she can't help the dread that builds as the Archbishop drones on. The hymns falling deaf ears. She tries to pay attention, but she can’t, all she can hear is the drumming of her heartbeat. It pounds against her ribs, creating echoes in her head. Before she knows it, his hands reach for hers. There was no strength in his grip unlike beforehand, it was soft and gentle. As if she was a beautiful yet delicate doll, that she would completely shatter if he pressed just that bit too hard. Their fingertips locked; her skin fell into the ridges of his knuckles.

“I proclaim thee, y/n of Burgundy to be my lawfully wedded wife from now until the end of my days,” he hesitated. She could hear it in his voice. “She shall sit beside me as I rule the kingdom.” The ring passes down her skin, the metal biting at her finger.

She repeats him. “I proclaim thee, Thomas – Prince of Wales to be my lawfully wedded husband from now until the end of my days. I shall sit beside him as he rules this beautiful country.” She smiles at the end, though she never intends to. y/n thanks her ladies that they cover her grinning face behind the thick white lace of her veil.

The entirety of Westminster Abbey is silent, no one dares even breathe as Prince Thomas coils his fingers around the tipping of the lace. He lifts it over his now wife’s face. He taken aback slightly. The painter wasn’t paid enough, clearly. She was even more beautiful standing in front of him. The same clear complexion now glistening in the soft sunlight of England. He doesn’t pry of course; it would be rude of him. Just to stare at his bride, as if they were the only people in the hall. Good lord, does he wish it was.

His hands reach her cheeks. Tender once more, he brings her forward. She shifts on her feet as they meet. A quaint and soft kiss, unlike anything either of them has felt ever. He can’t remember the last time, it was this – well, gentle. Thomas doubts he has ever kissed a woman of such luxury in his entire life up to this point. y/n is the first to pull away, her fingers resting lightly on his raised wrists. Their eyes meet for a moment, a short moment.

Westminster Abbey erupts into celebration. Red rose petals fall from the ceiling and music begins to flood the area.

As she stared around, y/n began to think to herself. I do not know what will come out of this, but I already can see that joy my presence brings to these people. I shall not let them down.

Prince Thomas of England, Heir to The English Throne and y/n of Burgundy, Granddaughter of The French King had been wed. They were now locked in holy matrimony, a feeling unlike any other. Both horrendous and hospitable.

━━★✼☆｡

The Hall is a grand party. Laughing and singing is heard from every corner, mugs of beer and wine are flung across tables and scraps of food are being thrown to the dogs. y/n has never seen such a scene unfold. Too contained by the prudish French court. The most scandalous thing she has seen is a risqué dance meant to be for a married lover.

That is what she always despised about the French Nobility. Their secrets. Whispers and Rumours spread faster than fire. If you had committed some heinous act, the entirety of France will hear about it by the end of the week. Perhaps that is another reason why she felt so trapped in Burgundy. y/n could never do a single task on her own before her ladies’ loose tongue would find their way back to her mother. A delicate little flower, such a waste of potential.

Tom noticed her prodding, her fork twirling the few peas left on her plate. He hadn’t said a word to her all night and yet he looks at her if she’s unwillingly to speak. Does she know any basic English? Perhaps not.

“How are you liking the food,” Tom asked her, leaning into her. She smiled up at him, he spoke to her in French. It made her heart swell for a second. y/n turns to face him, smiling warmly. Tom wishes he could keep that smile forever.

“It’s is very well Your Grace,” y/n replies to him. Her flawless English rolling off her tongue with a petite French accent. It’s like heaven to his ears and he’s taken aback. “My Great Aunt was an English Countess, I loved her very much. I was fluent in English before I was 8.” She explained, almost as if she had read his mind.

“You need not call me Your Grace,” he teased, it was somewhat natural for him.

“Then what shall I call you?” y/n queered.

“I am your husband now, whatever pleases you pleases me,” Tom replied, turning back to his empty plate in an effort to hide the rising red flush on his face. y/n knew she should leave it at that, so she turned her attention elsewhere.

“Are royal weddings usually this,” she paused, “loud?”

Tom laughed quietly, he too turned to face the ruckus crowd. Men laying in the laps of maids, dogs feasting over food that had been flung across the floor. Loud chants to the beat of the music filled the hall. He would have been completely embarrassed by the state of his people in front of his new bride, if he hadn’t seen the amused look on her face. “Not usually, I have only been to one other wedding and that was extremely sombre.”

“How so?” she asked, sipping from the freshly poured wine.

“I went to my uncle’s wedding a few months ago. He had also married a noble woman like yourself, but the poor thing was only 11. My uncle was 35 and counting.” He wishes it was different but like all things in this world, he is powerless to the wills of those who think they are higher than others.

He peered at her; y/n was already looking at him. An eyebrow and a lip raised in disgust. It was quaint.

“I wish I could be more repulsed by that,” Tom wondered if she was joking or if she was serious. He couldn’t tell just by the use of her tone. He did however note her wit. Something he so longed for. They talked for hours, sitting by one another and discussing anything that arrived at the conversation. Tom can’t decide whether it’s her honey-like voice or her banter but it’s making him feel things no one should for someone they are being forced to wed.

Just while they are comparing the contrasting jousting techniques, the joyful music suddenly stops. It’s a quick snap and the entire hall is now dead quiet. The Earl of Salisbury mounts himself on one of the tables. His cheeks red with drunkenness.

The Earl points directly at y/n and Tom as they sit in confusion. “The final tradition, an honour for any noble man. The Great Bedding!”

y/n turns to Tom, clinging slightly to his sleeve. He takes immediate notice. “Thomas, what is The Great Bedding?” There was great concern in her voice as she watched all of the men rush towards them. He didn’t get to answer as the women abruptly hauled him out of his seat and down the hall, away from her.

y/n didn’t fear too well either. At least a dozen grimy hands placed themselves all over her body, pulling harshly as they brought her into the air. Dancing her down the halls. She constantly whacked their hands, to no avail of course. They only dropped her once they got to a dimly lit room.

It was already buzzing with people. Hustling around a single bed, covered by finely woven silk. The men dropped her gently, placing her feet against the ground. y/n tried to turn around to give them a piece of her mind but was stopped as her corset began to become loose around her waist. Incredibly uncomfortable, y/n looked up to distract herself in any regard and found Tom at the other side. The maid’s hands undoing every buckle of his coat, tiny fingers unthreading the lavish ropes across his body. y/n blushed at the sight.

Tom was trying his hardest not to look at her, not to stare as countless men of the court undressing her. He could hear the bulky wedding dress hit the floor of the room, he could feel her eyes on him, and he could see the variety of unknown nobles swarming them in any hopes to achieve the right to gossip tomorrow morning. It was despicable.

He climbed in first, the cotton of the blankets itching his skin as he settled. The only comfort he found was in the softness in his unkempt hair. Not restricted by the gel he was forced to wear.

y/n slowly followed his lead, it was dead silent. No one dared breathed as the new Princess of Wales found her spot next to The Prince. All the while, the exact same priest Archbishop chanted away, and priests flung holy water at the bed. Some of the liquid found itself on her skin. Finally, the crowd bowed to the couple and began to take their leave.

Tom watched in peace; he would be alone. He closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, perhaps he would be able to get some well needed sleep. That seemed achievable until he felt a cold grasp around his wrist. His eyes shot open to find his father’s glare directly at him. “Don’t let the spring pass, I hope to see a grandson in the next few months,” The King spat.

It had been hours since the quarry of guests had left the room but the the monarch’s words etched themselves into his mind. Echoing nonstop, getting wilder as Tom felt y/n settle herself next to him. The mere presence of her alongside the duty he had to fulfil was too much for him. Tom shot up and quickly gathered his things, hauling his boots and clothes. He couldn’t be near her for another moment, too afraid of what he might do if she was subject to this sort of cruel punishment. Tom quickly decided he was sleep next door, just far away to have the thoughts no longer plague his mind but not too far that he would impose the wrong meaning on her. He reached for the door when she chimed in.

“Where are you going?”

He halted instantly. He wished that they could have gotten along like most royal couples should. A cold and initially distant meeting, then hopefully something would blossom over the years. Instead they had gotten along quite well, too well in fact. He was used to going slowly, taking his time in bedding a girl. A constant glaze over the court every few days, then promiscuous banter and in the span of months he would have her melt in his hand with a simple word. Now, he was feeling flustered and out of control and all of it was happening over a single night. Tom pressed his forehead against the wood, taking a deep breath. He turned to look at her, just like a painting coming to life. Her hair was down, unlike anything he had ever seen. Not grimed with sweat and dirt nor was it pinned underneath a headdress or away from her face. This time, the soft curls framed it. The nightgown clung to her shoulders; the fabric dangerously close to falling off. It made his life that much more difficult.

“I am sorry. You are a beautiful woman, but I just cannot fulfil the expectations that are placed upon me tonight. I will be sleeping in the room next door if you need me,” Tom blurted out. He waited for a response before he could speed out. She sat there, like a perfectly sculpted statue. It was torture.

y/n sighed, “nothing has to happen tonight.”

“But they will ask, they will pry like they always will,” he countered.

“Who says we have to tell the truth?” y/n giggled. God, it was a symphony to him. Tom watched her leave the bed, waltzing around to meet with him at the door. He wanted the tell her to stay exactly where she is, not to move even an inch closer but with ever step she took, his breath hitched higher in his throat. “I would prefer to spend the first night of my marriage with my husband, whether something happens or not.”

He swallowed thickly, “you are incredibly calm.” He now met her, his full attention on y/n as she chuckled in delight.

“I am filled to the brim with anxiety, just not that same fear that you are feeling,” she told him as she sat down the small longue in the middle of the room. She took the wine from the table and poured each of them a glass. Tom was hesitant at first, still wishing to flee the room and into the safety of his own solitary. Still, he found himself pacing towards her. Taking soft and flinching steps until he sat beside her.

“Then what is the fear?” He took the other glass, quickly chugging the alcohol. y/n said nothing but just stared at him in confusion. “The fear you feel, why?”

It was now her turn to become flustered. He looked genuinely curious as to why she was feeling doubtful, but she was unsure if he truly wanted to know the answer. Her father made her promise never to speak of it to anyone, a shameful secret that would ruin her future if it was released. But Tom was now her husband. They were bonded by law, a thought she really didn’t wish to dwell on. Surely, whatever she told him wouldn’t cause them any stress? Still, it would be rude of her not to tell him the reason after he had just clearly demonstrated his own fears in the commitment. “You must promise not to become angry.”

Tom nodded his head gently, even more intrigued then he was before.

y/n quietly exhaled, avoiding looking at Tom. “I was married once before, he passed from the sickness 3 months into our matrimony. Perhaps it was God way of guiding me to a better future, but it ruined almost everything. His death caused create strain for my family as they attempt to rebuild myself as if I was not capable of it myself. I am terrified that I am cursed, that I shall find myself falling in love with you only to be weeping over your coffin months later.” She had poured her soul out, shared such a personal section of her life. She was ashamed to see his face. Too afraid that pure anger and disgust would paint his face.

“Who was he? The man whom you had married?” Tom asked her again. His voice calling out as she stared directly at the purple velvet beneath her dress.

“The Prince of Spain,” y/n squeaked.

“That inbred!” Tom joked, suddenly becoming relaxed by the mere mention of the Spanish Royal Family. “I am surprised you got three months and not three days, that kid was on death doors for his entire life,” Tom was now in a fit of laughter. It wasn’t directed to her but more that they allowed such a beautiful woman to be the wife of such a dull man. y/n peered up, thoroughly embarrassed as she gave him a light whack. Tom finally came down from his laughing fit, staring directly at her. “You are cursed Princess; you are just coddled. Forced into a life clearly not meant for someone like yourself.”

The mere mention of the cradling of her life got y/n riled up, “that’s another thing! The Spanish constantly treated me as if I was some porcelain doll ready to shatter if they dared even look at me! I felt like a child trapped in a woman’s body and he touched me like that as well. God, I was finally ready to truly live my life and then he just was too soft, I wanted something much mor-” Oh. Oh God. She had run her mouth too far, dug her own grave with her rambling. Her hands clamped against her mouth as a heat rushed to her face. She could see the French ships arriving for her next month, giving her passage because she was not in pristine condition. Hopefully Tom didn’t pick up on what she was inferring.

“You aren’t a virgin?” his voice was quiet, almost dark. She felt her entire world shatter. Tom scooted towards her slowly, it was completely unnoticed. She was too deep in panic to recognise the growing flirt rising in the Prince of Wales. y/n shook her head feverously. “That little tick took you?” When he put it like that, it made her stomach tingle. She had never heard such a sentence used in that tone. She was drowning in thoughts.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, that’s why I was so unsatisfied,” she tried to explain, her hands now bunched up the fabric against her knees. “He was just so soft, too soft and I wished he would have-”

“Would have what?” he toyed. Tom doesn’t quite know why he was acting like this. So intent on prying her little secrets out of her. Usually, he would have just simply got straight to the point but now, seeing her become red with frustration was a view causing him great pleasure. Any abstinence he hoped to place upon himself earlier in the night had been thrown out the window. He finally felt back in control, something he longed for. Something she was serving to him on a silver platter.

“I..” she began but the words got caught in her throat. Her tongue stopped completely, almost refusing to finish the damning sentence. She wanted him to be rougher with her, she wanted him to treat her like a woman and not a girl. “What happen to you wishing to keep your hands to yourself?” She attempted to change the topic, trying to flee but to no avail as he quickly caught her wrist in his palms. Their skins igniting on sight.

“Don’t try to change the subject Princess,” he purred, standing up to meet with her at the side of the bed. Her title now held a completely different meaning, it wasn’t being used to describe her. It was being used to utterly destroy her; a nickname only meant to be whispered in the dim light of a dozen candles. “I can see right through you,” Tom’s calloused fingers met the loose fabric on her shoulders, dancing over her collarbone. It was soft but held meaning. “I can see that you wished he touched you differently. Touched you like a real woman, rougher and passionate.”

His words were damned. She should feel ashamed that she was feeling light-headed just by the grazing touch of his fingers above her perked breasts. “Yes,” it was the only thing she could get out. The only single three lettered word that allowed itself out of her mouth. Tom pressed his lips to her neck, underneath her jaw.

“Perhaps, he too was inexperienced.” He spoke through small pecks. “Allow me to show you something different, something better,” it was barely above a whisper, but y/n heard every word. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair as he peered at her.

“I would enjoy that very much,” y/n responded just as quiet, all the gentle touches he currently had placed upon her turned darker. He pulled her into his embrace quickly before tripping her feet from under her and ending atop her on the messily made bed. His hand instantly found the inside of her thigh, his finger bruising her skin. It was delightfully, the slight pain sending shivers down her spine.

Their lips met, gentle at first. Her hands moulding themselves against his jaw, moaning into his mouth as he pushed her deeper into the mattress. She wished she could stay like this forever, wrapping in Tom’s embrace as they mended together. Alas, he pulled away from her. Lips separating with a small pop and a soft whine from y/n underneath him. Tom took a distinct look at her; she was sprawled out and whimpering for something more. Did she give this look to him as well? Did she use the melody that was her voice to beg him to do anything? Tom didn’t particularly wish to replay the thought in his head but yet, he couldn’t help himself.

Her nightgown quickly found itself discarded; her nipples perked in the cold. His lips immediately latched on, massaging the soft tissue. He never knew something could feel this smooth, without any flaws or imperfections. Even though he knew he could spend an entire night between the valley of her tits, he too longed for something more.

In a matter of moments, he found himself staring directly at her sex. A glorious sight to behold, glistening with her arousal in the pale moonlight. She was practically dripping onto the sheets below her. He placed a soft kiss to her pelvis, she jumped at the contact. “If you feel uncomfortable, you need to tell me,” he told her all the while his fingers toyed at her hot hole. Dipping even so slightly into her heat. She was already in euphoria just from the slightest bit of pleasure. y/n nodded her head before locking eyes with him.

He didn’t waste another second, quickly licking a fat stripe through her folds. The taste was pure heaven, he didn’t give her a moment to register the feeling before diving right back into her juices. Sucking and pulling at her, wasting the night away feeling her thighs clamp around his head every time he flicked her clit coupled with a singular finger prancing in and out of her.

y/n wasn’t quite sure how loud she could truly be. She knew that even though they were in the far south-east of the castle, there could be a dozen scullery maids listening right outside the door. Or if someone was trying to achieve some sleep right beside them. At this very moment though, with Tom’s head in between her thighs devouring every inch of her throbbing cunt, she couldn’t give a single fuck. y/n allowed the string of curses and praised to tumble from her lips as she clasped onto the bed sheets for dear life.

“Such a dirty mouth,” Tom remarked, releasing her for a few seconds, “for such a pretty and delicious pussy.” He chuckled darkly. y/n wanted to bite back at him, but she was cut short but the addition of another of his digits sliding into her tight entrance. y/n clasped down hard on her hand. A foreign feeling began to drive itself into her stomach. While unusual, it was not at all exotic to her. It was thrilling, feeling her walls contract around his fingers as y/n began to instinctively rock her hips against his digits.

“God,” he purred, “that’s it, make yourself cum on my fingers Princess. Let me see that gorgeous face while you do it.” Tom had now retracted his mouth from her, completely mesmerised by the way her eyes screwed shut as she reached her peak. A cacophony of beautiful and dazzling sounds stumbling out of her mouth as he felt her climax all over his hand. Such a tantalising sight for any man.

y/n was too deep in her own return that she didn’t notice the retraction of his presences from the middle of her legs. So, when he felt his hands roughly pull her to the edge of the bed, she almost choked. The exhilarating feeling of his strained cock rubbing against her drenched folds made her forget her place. Made her speak before her mind could catch up. “I want you to fulfil the expectation.” She told him, her eyes never wavering from him.

Tom halted all his movements. It was painful but he needed absolute clarity before he did anything without her reassurance. “You need to elaborate Princess,” he told her darkly. He knew exactly what she was asking of him, he knew exactly what she desired.

“I want you to come inside of me,” she spoke as if she was a different person. y/n doesn’t quite know whether it’s the shift of mood or her own personal feelings but either way, she wanted to feel their juices mix and then leak out of her. Wanted him to fill her right up to the brim until the possibility was certain.

“You want me to fuck my seed right into you?” his words were dirtier than she expected but so was he as he slid in and into her. His naval hitting hers with a loud smack. He refused to move until he had played with her just that tad bit more. y/n’s head thrashed into the sheets behind her. She was so full, never has she felt this complete in her entire life. He wasn’t even moving but she could feel every inch of him deep inside of her.

“God yes,” she whimpered. “I need it so bad,” she was going to drive Tom insane. Just by a simple sentence, he was going to lose his mind and cum right now without even doing anything.

“Want to carry my child, our own Prince or Princess,” he pulled back out of her and slammed right back in, knocking the wind out of her y/n. It was so profoundly dirty, just discussing it. It thrilled her to the very core, child-bearing was meant for women not girls. Perhaps that is why she is so drawn to the talk, the talk of something so primally feminine set her entire body on fire. She couldn’t speak a coherent sentence instead she just let out a continuous plea.

He began slow, hips rocking to find that perfect beat. He revelled in the only sounds in the room, the sound of his cock hitting the divine spot inside of her over and over again and her delirious moaning. It was a symphony he was lucky enough to hear. He wanted to hear more, listen to the pure sounds of him railing into her. So, he picked up the pace. His thrust became not only deep and harsh but fast.

God, if he could immortalise this feeling he would. The feeling of her walls constricting around him as he pounds right into her, the feeling of her legs wrapping around his constantly thrusting hips and the feeling of her sweating skin underneath his fingers as he grips for support. It’s like the Lord himself made her tight little cunt just for him.

“You’re so big,” y/n praised mindlessly. He’s never had someone say that to him without it sounding forced. It’s so raw that he can’t help but go even harder into with each praise that falls off her lips. “Fill me up, I want to feel you all inside of me.” It’s a dangerous game, she’s tapped on something so feral inside of him it hurts.

y/n wants to prop herself up and explore his body while he pounds into her, but she simply can’t. Her limbs give out with every thrust. Her entire body spasms each time he hits the perfect spot inside of her. She a moaning mess, trying to maintain any sense of normality but failing miserably. It’s a constant state of pleasure, she’s afraid that she’s lost track of time. That is until the faint, but all the desirable fit finds itself lit in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m almost there,” she whispers, it’s the only thing she can get out. His thrusts, that once had gained a steady and harsh rhythm are now falling. He’s losing focus with each grip he receives. With her words though, he gives her the final stretch. No longer does he has some form of structure but instead he’s just railing her like a wild animal.

It’s an explosion and neither knows why but it’s addictive. y/n climaxes around him, her toes curling as her final orgasm hits her long and violent. Shaking underneath, him as she unknowingly milks his own finish out of him. Tom’s fucking his cum right into her, he doesn’t stop for a second. Too focused on the goal ahead of him. Placing it where it counts. It’s a feeling he wants to never forget, better yet it’s a sight he wants permanently etched into his memories. As he pulls out of her, their climaxes tumble out of her. Dripping down her leg.

“Hold your legs up Princess,” he teases as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I heard it works wonders.”

The rose blooms only for those who care properly for her.

━━★✼☆｡

a/n: please don’t flop, omg this is so long and no one asked for this shit. please don’t flop chile 🤡

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missdawnandherdusk · 4 years ago

Text

Ten Things I Hate About You

Muggle!Born!Reader X Draco

Summary: Request: @thelostandweeping If it is possible may I request a Draco x Muggle reader. Reader is really bad at potions so Snape has Draco tutor the reader. The reader doesn't like Draco but he finds her bluntness and her ability to be aloof interesting and tries to win her over. She later shows she's actually very kind and sweet. They become best friends and later together.

A/n: Okay this... but add a bit of Shakespeare and ABBA and you’ve got yourself a deal. This is super cute and a bit angsty and 100% pining. Let me know what you think! It’s currently 2am and I’m crying over these dorks. Love you guys so much

“Not Malfoy!” I distressed, standing. “Professor, please. I need to pass this class,”

“And you will do so, if Mr. Malfoy tutors you,” Snape hissed. “I don’t have to do this Miss Y/l/n, I could watch you fail and be quite fine with it.”

Clenching my fists, I took a deep breath and sat back down. Snape’s eyes narrowed at me.

“You and Mr. Malfoy will meet here every Friday afternoon.”

“Yes, Professor,” I sulked. “Thank you, Professor,”

“Now get out of my sight,” He snapped, and I stood, huffing out of his office and into the hall, nearly running over Malfoy.

“Watch it, mudblood,” He snapped, shoving me aside.

“Watch yourself,” I snarled, shoving him back.

He looked surprised at me, as if no one had dared to ever retaliate against him. Stupid self- righteous prat. That I needed. I made me loathe him more. I growled and stormed away, throwing my stuff onto the table in the Great Hall, sitting beside my friends.

“Well, that’s not a pretty face,” Ernie gave me a teasing look. “Snape that bad, huh?”

“He’s making Malfoy tutor me!” I lamented. “I think I’d rather fail,”

Shocked gasps rose around my small group of friends.

“Look here he comes,” Susan nodded to the door and sure enough, the blond prick was storming his way over here with murder in his eyes.

“You!” He sneered, stalking up to my table.

“What about me?” I gave him a cold look.

“You’re a filthy little mudblood who just ruined my Friday afternoons!” He shouted.

“And you’re a heinous misogynistic asshole who I have to deal with every Friday afternoon instead of going to Quidditch practice so forgive me if I’m not weeping at your feet begging for forgiveness,” I snapped, standing, my arms folded.

Onlookers of our conversation let out a low gasp of surprise as Malfoy stammered for the next thing to say. I raised an eyebrow at him, waiting.

“Cat got your tongue?” A smirk spread across my face. He drew his wand, pointing it at me. I didn’t flinch.

“Mr. Malfoy!” I heard the familiar voice of McGonagall. “Wand away! Unless you wish to serve detention,”

My smirk grew to a grin as I watched Malfoy stomp his foot and storm out of the room, shoving a few first years out of the way. A few clapped and cheered at the encounter before getting scolded by McGonagall.

I dreaded Friday. More than I dreaded anything. I’d rather never listen to music again if it meant I didn’t have to listen to Malfoy teach me about Potions. Okay, well, maybe the situation wasn’t that dire... but I was considering it.

“You’re early,”

I hadn’t even closed the door and he was already snapping at me.

“Hello Malfoy,” I gritted, turning to see him already standing over a cauldron, ingredients laid out around the table.

“Let’s just get this over with?” He nodded me over, his eyes still trained on the knife and leathery skin in his hands.

I shed my robe and rolled up my sleeves, going to hover beside him.

“Can you tell me what this is?” His voice lost some of the snap to it as he slid the crushed hide into the bubbling brew.

“If I could do you think I’d be here?” I huffed, grabbing my textbook and notes, flipping through the pages.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin,” Draco snatched the book from my hands.

“Give it back!” I shouted, reaching for the textbook.

“You won’t get better if you’re cheating,” He disappeared the book with a wave of his hand.

“That was my book! Malfoy, I swear to god!”

We were toe to toe, inches from each other. There was a calm, careful, infuriating smile on his face and anger on mine.

“Now, tell me, little mudblood,” He took a careful step back. “What potion is this?”

I narrowed my eyes at him and with a deep breath I looked over at the grey sludge that boiled in the pot. My eyes took inventory of the ingredients that were laid around the desk.

“Knotgrass?” I guessed, picking up a jar inspecting it.

Draco gave a seldom nod. We went on like that, until I had named all of the ingredients that were before us.

“I know this!” I groaned, rubbing my face. “I should know this!”

“Well, why don’t you?” Malfoy smirked. “It’s quite simple,”

“If it was simple,” I gritted out. “I wouldn’t be here,”

My book was suddenly back in his hands.

“It’s easier to find a potion by looking at the index. You know the ingredients, find them and cross reference,” He handed it back to me.

“That’s... actually really smart,”

I took the book and flipped to the back. It took some time, but I eventually flipped to the page I felt was right: Polyjuice Potion.

“Well done,” He didn’t smile, but he wasn’t quite scowling. “Perhaps there is hope for you yet, little mudblood.”

“Watch it,” I growled. “I’m still not above punching you,”

“What would you like me to call you then? Little shrew? Spitfire? Gorgon?” His smirk was back.

“Oh, kiss a dementor, Malfoy,” Grabbing my things, I ditched him and the Polyjuice Potion, heading outside into the setting sun to clear my head with some fresh air.

______________________________

Draco sat back, leaning against the table, watching you storm out. Your adamant hatred for him was quite amusing. The fact that you needed him to pass Potions and your loathing of him, made him laugh to himself as he began to clean up with a quick flick of his wand.

“I am to glad to see that my office is still intact,” Snape mused, flowing into the room. “I can’t say I had high hopes for you two,”

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” Draco admitted. “She’s... bearable.”

“Is that sentiment I hear Mr. Malfoy?” Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Not at all,” Draco scoffed. “A challenge.”

“You’re absolutely daft!” Pansy dismayed later that night in the common room. “You really think you can tame that shrew?”

“Do you doubt me?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Besides, I wrangled you in, and I put up with Crabbe and Goyle, and you have not been to a family dinner of mine. Y/n? She’s a piece of cake.”

“Ten galleons says you’re wrong,” Pansy held out her hand.

“You’re on,” Draco grinned as he shook it.

The next Friday, you just as riled and furious as you had been last Friday, and it was almost enough to make Draco laugh. Every other girl seem to... how did you put it? Weep at his feet begging for forgiveness? That seemed about right. But you? Oh, he was right, you were a little spitfire. Especially when you were frustrated because you couldn’t figure out how to brew Sleeping Draught. He left that tutoring session smiling to himself, watching your livid form head down the hall.

The next day Draco wandered down to the Quidditch Pitch, surprised to see you out there alone, running drills. You had mentioned giving up practice to let him tutor you. Thinking back to his bet with Pansy, he shed his robe and grabbed his broom from the closet, changing quickly, and headed out into the air after you.

“Bloody hell!” You screamed, nearly falling off your broom. “What the fuck is wrong with you Malfoy!?” You hovered feet from him, covered in sweat and dirt.

“Well, at the moment, the chance of losing a bet,” He grinned.

“Shouldn’t have taken it then, asshole,” You rolled your eyes, balancing on your broom as you stretched out your arms. “But I meant why are you here? Are you following me now?”

“Not particularly, I leave my stalking abilities for Potter. Nothing to waste on a mudblood.” Oh, he loved watching the fire grow in your eyes as he called you that.

“Piss off, Malfoy.” You snapped, flying away from him, taking a lap around the pitch.

He followed. You sped up. So did he. When you pulled straight up, it was all too easy to follow. He could hear your aggravated growl as he chased you around the pitch. You stopped short and he nearly ran into you, having to swerve out of the way. Your face was a mask of calm and disgust as you shook your head and landed, heading for the locker rooms.

“How’s the shrew?” Pansy asked later that week. “Still think you can tame her?”

“Patience Pans,” Draco chuckled. “These things take time,”

It wasn’t hard to figure out your schedule that week. It was even easier to make sure that he was there just long enough for you to notice him and then watch your mood sour as you stalked out of whatever room the two of you shared.

“Hey there, Spitfire,” Draco grinned leaning against your table at the library.

“What?” You snapped, not looking up at him. “Oh, I’m sorry I forgot, in this society, being male and an asshole makes you worthy of my time.” You shot him a deathly glare. “Bugger off, Malfoy,”

“You hate me, don’t you?” He smirked. “I get under that muggle skin of yours,”

“I really don’t think you warrant that strong an emotion,” I leaned back in my chair.

“Maybe another strong emotion then? Because they say if a girl constantly rips of a guy it means she likes him.”

“Am I that transparent?” Your face fell flat with you tone. “I want you. I need you. Oh baby, oh baby.” Rolling your eyes, you went back to your book. “Go find some other girl to fuck, Malfoy,”

“Ooh, see but that, there. Who needs affection when I have blind hatred?” He grinned and sat beside you, taking your book.

“Malfoy!” You hollered, only to be scolded by Pince. “Give me my book.”

“Now where have I heard that before.” Draco flipped through the pages of your book. “Ugh, a muggle book, I should have known,”

You snatched it from his hands and cradled it to your chest.

“You wouldn’t know a good book if I hit you in the face with it,” You snarled, grabbing your bag and storming off.

The few students who were watching the encounter quickly turned back to their work as Draco glanced around the shelves of books, noticing the missing space your book left in the shelf and the plethora of similar books.

“Shakespeare?” Draco mused, drawing a book into his hands.

________________________________

“He’s obsessed! He won’t leave me alone!” I cried in frustration. “I wish he’d go back to stalking Potter because I’m sick of it!”

“Have you ever considered that maybe he likes you?” Hannah asked.

“Likes me?” I snorted. “Ah, yes. Because calling me a mudblood, or a shrew is just a tell of flirting,”

“He called you a mudblood?” Ernie demanded.

“Calm down, I can handle myself.” Rolling my eyes, I sulked, standing. “I’m going to the pitch, anyone wanna join?”

There was a resounding chorus of ‘no’s. Which was probably a good thing. I needed some time alone to think and blow off steam. After a few hours of running drills I headed back to the locker rooms. Wiping my face with a towel, I jumped nearly a foot when I saw that I wasn’t alone.

“For the love of god, Draco!” I shouted. “What are you doing?”

“Well, hello to you too,” He smirked. “And I do believe I have quidditch practice,”

I pursed my lips and slammed my locker shut. His irritating casual conversation still had the ability to make my blood boil.

“I hope you fall to your death,” I snapped, heading towards the girl’s showers.

“Well, there’s a way to get a bloke’s attention,” He smirked, leaning effortlessly against his locker.

“My mission in life,” I smiled cheerfully. “And I’ve obviously struck your fancy, so the world makes sense again,” I sighed wistfully and deadpanned.

“See you Friday,” He smiled politely.

I let out a sound of disgust and shoved down the urge to go back in there and punch him in his perfect face. The days until Friday seemed to fly by, mocking me with their abruptness.

Taking a deep breath, I walked into Snape’s office, where Draco was waiting for me, the same lazy smile on his face. I didn’t say a word as I shed my coat and rolled up my sleeves, taking out my book and notes.

“What in the bloody hell is that?” Draco stammered, almost knocking over a vial of Wormwood—I think.

“What?” I looked around then behind me. “What are you playing at?”

“Around your neck!” He gestured, annoyed.

“Headphones?” I chuckled, easily sliding them off. “You know... music? Your lot do have that sort of thing, don’t they?”

“I don’t see what... headphones—” As if the word was foreign to his tongue, “—have to do with music,” Draco scoffed.

“You can listen to music anywhere?” I slid them off from around my neck and pulled up my portable CD player from my bag. “Have you really never seen a CD player or headphones?” I was baffled. “I don’t know what I’d do without music,”

“CD?” Draco frowned at the player in my hands.

“Yeah, Mom just send me ABBA’s Gold album and I’m a bit obsessed,” A slight pink touched my cheeks. “I’ve been wanting it so long,”

“ABBA?”

I laughed and shook my head, shoving both my headphones and CD player into my bag. “Maybe I’ll show you one day,”

It took less time than expected for me to figure out that he had a cauldron of Veritaserum in front of me. And maybe I genuinely smiled at Draco and fought the urge to hug him because, Potions really was making sense to me now. I would never understand how he managed it, but he could teach it in a way that I understood.

“Hey Draco?” I paused at the door on my way out. He looked up from cleaning, his careful blue eyes meeting mine. “Thanks,”

I hated that I wasn’t annoyed at him when he found me in the library again.

“So, is this for Muggle Studies then?” Draco nodded to my book, sitting the incorrect way in the chair next to mine, resting his arms against the back, almost nonchalant.

“No,” I rolled my eyes, slipping off my headphones, pausing the CD. “On contrary to popular belief, we muggles aren’t uncivilized. I do enjoy things like reading and art and music,” The annoyance in my voice was false.

“I’m aware,” Draco grinned that lazy smile again.

“Oh, so you think you know me then? Have enough from stalking me these past weeks?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Not like we’ve spent the last few Fridays together...” He drawled. “And I think I’m getting there.”

“The only thing you know about me is that I’m muggle and suck at potions,” I muttered, turning back to my book.

“You’re interesting,” Draco shrugged, causing me to backtrack and frown.

“Is that all I am to you? Something to ogle at? Maybe get a laugh in here and there with your pureblood buddies?” My voice went back to being venomous. “Just because you're pureblood, doesn't mean you can treat people like they don't matter!” I grabbed my belongings and stormed out of the library, fighting tears.

________________________________

Draco hated that you were right. And he hated that he almost made you cry as well. He hated that you could see right through him. And he hated that he felt any of this at all.

“The bet’s off,” Draco hissed to Pansy.

“You know what that means...” She grinned mischievously. “That means you have to do my homework for a week, and you pay up.”

Draco forked over the coins, not missing them in the slightest.

“She too much for you then? Not able to tame our little mudblood shrew?” A wicked grin curled on her face.

“Don’t call her that,” Draco snapped. “You don’t know a thing about her,”

“She’s a mudblood, Draco,” Pansy sat up, looking concerned. “Don’t tell me you actually have feelings for her?”

Draco didn’t have an answer for that.

He didn’t have an answer for any of this. As he laid in bed that night, staring up at the satin green that draped over his bed, all he could think about was the hurt on your face and in your words. It was different from your remarks before, those he could brush off easily. But not the tears in your eyes or the betrayal in your voice. Pansy was right, he shouldn’t care at all. You were beneath him. A mudblood, muggle born, shrew.

But he fucked up.

Because now you were so much more precious than that and he let you do it to him. He gave you the place in his heart where you resided.

That Friday he almost didn’t expect you to show. When you did, after the initial shock, there was an apology rushing to his lips, but held back by his pride. You barely looked at him that day. Your movements were muted, gentle. You murmured soft answers.

“Why are you doing this?” It was the first thing you said to him that wasn’t some ingredient.

“Tutoring you?” He raised an eyebrow.

You shook your head and took a deep breath. “All of it—what's in it for you?” Your eyes met his and he felt like you were reading him like one of your books. “What’s your game, Malfoy?” It hurt more than he thought as you switched back to the use of his surname.

“So, I have to have a motive to be with you?” He snapped back defensive.

“You tell me.” The tone of your words had him weak at the knees, gripping at the table for support.

“Can’t I just enjoy your company?” Draco snapped, slamming the book closed. “We’re done for the day,” He shook his head, looking down at the table beneath his hands.

You left without another word, but a glance back to him that had him reeling. He wanted to call out after you, but the words were trapped by fear and uncertainty.

Draco still watched you in the halls and in class whenever he could steal a glance. You seemed to always have your headphones in and your head down, nose in a book. Snape informed him about mid-week that your grades were adequate and that the tutoring would end promptly. He should have been happy about that. And a month ago he would have been more than glad to be rid of you... but he made a huge mistake.

He fell for you instead.

And you hated him. For everything he was and is. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry that you closed yourself off from him. He didn’t blame you. Things were as it should be, and the world could spin around and not threaten to implode.

It was absolutely ludicrous. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t be doing this.

Every night, he slipped on headphones, and fell asleep to ABBA singing about love and loss behind the safety of his closed bed curtains. Sometimes he could almost hear your gentle voice whisper the lyrics, broken and defeated. Maybe he whispered a few back to the memory of you. Maybe a tear or two slipped out.

Maybe he sent you a note in class. Maybe it said that he was sorry and understood why you hated him. Maybe he deserved to watch you crumple it up and shove it into your bag and not give him a second glance.

Maybe enough was enough.

Determined, one crisp spring morning, Draco rose. After tucking away his guilty pleasure, he didn’t bother with house colors as he pulled a jumper over his dark wash jeans, scouring the castle grounds for you. It shouldn’t have been that hard, he had your scheduled memorized for Merlin’s sake, but still you evaded him.

To be fair, you didn’t evade him at all, he just wasn’t paying attention to your curled-up form in the Quidditch stands.

He called your name and gritted his teeth when you didn’t look up. He tried again.

“Go away,” You pulled your arms tighter around yourself.

He didn’t. Instead he sat down beside you, not saying a word. You two sat in silence that about killed him when you spoke up again.

“Did you win... your little bet?” Your voice was broken. “Did you tame the shrew?”

“You knew?” Draco gaped.

A soft shrug fell from your shoulder. “I know what people say about me...” A sigh escaped your lips. “And Pansy’s always one to hold anything she can over me. She’s my cousin, you know... my mom was a squib...”

A frown fell on Draco’s face at the new information. How had he not known that? Pansy was always near him and well, he did stalk you for about a month. Maybe you had been right, and you were nothing more than a spectacle to him until that last week...

Your careful eyes were trained on the empty pitch before him. No emotion was evident on your face... maybe an air of melancholy.

“I... I’m sorry,” Draco glanced down. “You were right about me... about everything.”

“I really don’t want to talk about...” You sighed. “Things we’ve gone through...”

A smile tugged at Draco’s lips. He knew those words. And it was so like you to quote them at him. He wondered how many other times you had gotten away with quoting song lyrics at him.

______________________________

I could feel Draco’s eyes study my face and the small smile that rested on his. I glanced over at him an eyebrow raised in question.

“You can’t just quote song lyrics at me,” He toyed, the familiar irritating smirk on his lips.

“I can do whatever I please,” I snapped, my cheeks flushing that I had been caught. Then it dawned on me. “Wait—”

A laugh escaped his lips. A wonderful sound that I had never heard before. One that I wanted to hear again.

“I was curious...” He shrugged, nonchalant seeming.

“You... listened to ABBA? A muggle CD? And you... know the words?” I gawked at him. “Who the hell are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?” I couldn’t help the smile on my lips.

“I’ve been asking myself that for about a week now,” He grinned, then looked down, his smile dropping.

“Draco?” I asked softly, reaching out for his hand. His blue eyes met mine, hesitant. “It’s... you don’t have to... I know you can’t...” Fumbling over my words, I couldn’t find the ones that seemed to fit right.

He reached out, the hand I had seen for weeks on end delicately handle ingredients and potions, just as precisely reached out and tilted my chin up.

“Tell me,” He whispered. “Have I messed up so badly that you can’t forgive me? That you won’t take a chance on a... how did you put it? Heinous misogynistic asshole?” There was a teasing smile on his lips that somehow moved to be inches from mine.

“Who’s quoting song lyrics now?” I mused softly, “And what kind of idiotic question is that?”

“That’s all I needed to hear,”

His mouth was on mine then, and I couldn't fight him. Not because he was possibly stronger than me—but not by much—but because my will crumbled into dust the second our lips met. So, I kissed him back. His hands memorized my face, the same way mine were tracing his, and, in the brief seconds when his lips were free, he whispered my name.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” He breathed out. “I’ll do better,”

"Don't promise me anything," I whispered softly, my hands falling to his shoulders. “Next week you might change your mind... or Pansy might—”

His lips were on mine again, silencing my words and doubts.

“Will you please try to hear what I'm telling you? Will you let me attempt to explain what you mean to me?” His stark eyes pierced mine as he cradled my face. “I am so sorry. I know I’m an asshole, and I know I’ve fucked up—” I started to protest but his thumb brushed over my lips, keeping them closed “—I have. And for a while I thought it was because I fell for you, but I see now is that it was because I didn’t fall for you sooner,”

“Sap,” I mumbled against his thumb, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

His hands fell and I drew him into a hug. He held me close and for a moment, I just let him hold me. No fears, no doubts, no malicious thoughts, no blood status, no magic. Just two teens and something that might be love.

.................................

“Pansy is actually going to kill me,” I whispered, hesitating outside the Great Hall doors.

“Not while I have a say in the matter,” Draco pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head. “And besides... what’s the worst thing that could happen?”

I walked into the Great Hall, hand in hand with Draco. There was the clatter of dropped dishes and silverware and a collective gasp that fell into a hushed silence. Hundreds of eyes were on us.

“Well, that could have gone worse...” Draco muttered under his breath and I snorted a laugh, shaking my head, letting him pull me to a nearby table.

Nervous chattered and hushed whispers filled the hall. I guess they had good reason though. Draco and I had both tamed the other shrew.

Tags: @coffee-addicti @msmcsmutt @ravn-87 @artemismohr18 @whygz @crazywritingbug @fuzzy-panda @bitemebro522 @zombiesnips-blog @savingdraco@welcometomyworldwithoutrules @akari180 @slytherin-emerald@memalfoy-spidey @queenfeatherwings @fanficflaneuse @go-whovian-universe @spicyshenanigans @darling-im-not-okay-i-promise @dietkiwi @katsukink @takemetothekingdom @strangerr-things @tmnt-queen @hxneybgb @justsomerandomgur@belcvayelena @moviesbooksandfandoms @howdycharlie@xtrashmouthxtozierx @cocochanelthepupper @ninacotte@braelynn-j @jiggllyy @honeymarvel @darcypottah@atomicpunkrock @thiccheerioss @lottie289 @boredashaeck@beautiful-pegasus @tceedlmao @deadlynyghtshayde@iconjuresnapeingrandmaclothes @anonymous034 @bi-andready-tocry @lunna-does-real-doodle @dragonsandbread @okaydraco@the-queen-of-hell-things @cmxreader @alienmotel @oh-itsnothing @sunflowerxsadnessw @fattycooter@angelotakunerd08 @thisisahugemistake @fanficsigottaread@gweaslvy @strawberriesonsummer @gaysludge @cleopatera@ray-of-sunrise @artist-bby @shadowsingeraxolotl @peters-legos@quillsareforwriting @ghostlytoadalmondhairdo @wollymalfoy@lilpieceoftoast @paper-cats @floweryjh @sdicapriox @slothgirl22@peachesandpinks @monimillion @hufflautia @livize75 @annie-mcl@riathearora @live-like-luna @justathoughtfulangel @coconutdawn@skteaiy @wannabeskinny-thinspo @naughtygranger @queenofmankind @dragonsandbread @abundantxadorations @moony-artnstuff @myforeveryoungblog @and-then-a-girl-with-luv @1-800-luvsick @pandas-rice-field @strawberriesonsummer @jjustsomerandomgirl @mrvlfangirl3190 @loverbbgirlsblog @in-slytherin-we-trust @emmaa-t

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chaseatinydream · 4 years ago

Text

pirate king (1) || atz

The sounds of the waves crashing against shore, the white sea foam like clouds of the sky.

Salt touches your tongue as sea spray catches the light of the sun, casting a beautiful rainbow across your cheeks.

Seagulls circle in the clear blue expanse above, their cries ringing out for miles.

Rain lashes against your arms and droplets clings to your eyelashes. They resemble tears.

Lightning splits the darkness of the clouds and thunder akin to cannon shot rolls overhead, but there is no fear.

You smile wide, eyes closed, but then something in your chest weighs you down.

Suddenly, you’re yanked into the depths, water filling your nose and lungs and all at once, you cannot breathe. The weight in your chest drags you down, down, down, and no matter how hard you flail and thrash about, no matter how desperately you reach for the surface…

There is nothing but darkness.

Drip, drip, drip.

Your eyes flutter open softly, like a new butterfly’s wings. You’re lying on something wet and rough beneath your body, and to your horror, when you instinctively try to rub your eyes, your hands are bound together by a coarse, thick rope.

Right in front of you is a puddle of water and drops of water keeps falling into it, forming tiny ripples. You try to sit up as your eyes instinctively follow its path, up the grime ridden stone walls to the crack in the ceiling were rainwater seeps through. A spider lazily weaves its web in a corner and for a moment, you’re spellbound by it.

Crack!

You flail backwards at the deafening sound of a thunderclap, but your hands are tied together and you’re sent crashing to the ground painfully. Luckily, the ground is wet so the fall isn’t as painful as it could have been, but you still feel a tenderness in your hip where bare skin got dragged across uneven stone. You suck in a breath.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. Sit up again.”

Exhaling carefully, you roll onto your back, ignoring the pain of the small rocks digging into your side, and finally heave yourself up with a haphazard effort of numb limbs. Your bound ankles come into view, along with dirty, calloused bare feet. They’re tied with a thick red cord that there’s no chance you can cut through or untie, and when your mind finally screams at you the obvious, your heart stops.

“You’re in a prison.”

Your head snaps to the right, metal grills lining the tiny window in the room. To your left, the only exit secured with heavy metal bars, kept locked by three iron chains, each with a metal padlock at the end. Whoever locked you up here wanted to make sure you had no chance of escape. Before you can think any further, the sound of chattering and clanking metal wrenches you back to the present.

“-some woman down here.” The sound of heeled boots echoes down a flight of steps. There’s a soft squeak of leather and the man curses. “Damned stairs, what was that bastard Arthur thinking, holding a public execution today? Justice calls, my ass. He probably just wants to get rid some whore that heard his mouth running when he was drunk-”

“Quiet, Mannon!” Another voice, higher and hushed this time. “You never know if someone could overhear you! The governor will have you hanged!”

“Ha!” A derisive snort. To your mounting horror, their footsteps seem to be drawing nearer to your cell. “As if his men are going to lug themselves here to check on a mere prisoner. Lazing about in their offices all day, doing nothing but paperwork, afraid to get their hands dirty- Oh, she’s awake.”

Your face jerks upwards, but seconds later you flinch away from the light of the torch in the men’s hands. Slightly disoriented, you try to regain your bearings. That’s when the shorter and slightly rounded man pulls out a set of key from the pocket of his crimson uniform, moving towards your door. Your hope bubbles in your chest like a warm spring.

You watch, fascinated, as the chains slither away from the bars, landing in heaps on the floor. The man that resembles a bamboo stick draped in an ill fitting uniform steps forward and with a quick swipe of a pocket knife the ropes fall from your ankles. Warm blood rushes to your feet as if it’s the first time and you let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.” You say gratefully, but the men simply stare at you, one unsympathetic and stone cold, the other won’t quite meet your eye. The portly one shakes his head, hand reaching down for the cord that binds your hands behind your back and tugs you to your feet carelessly.

“Don’t thank us for dragging you to the gallows, girlie.” The man snaps, unceremoniously shoving you forward. Before you fall, the other man catches you by the shoulders, steadying you. He’s warm.

“Mannon, stop doing this, alright?” His voice echoes somewhere far, far away, as if you’re underwater. You don’t register what he said.

Gallows?

“Yes, gallows, the place where people get hung, idiot.” A voice in your inner subconscious rings out, surprisingly clear even through the white noise that had filled your mind from panic. The insult manages to slap you back to your senses.

“Idiot?” You repeat to yourself under your breath, almost offended as the two guards pull you out of the cell and march you up the stairs with your hands tied behind your back. This laughingly pales in comparison to the actual trouble you are in.

Then it hits you full force.

You are walking to the gallows. Walking to your own death.

There’s a moment of serene peace for a moment, then you’re panicking, trying your best to recall what exactly has led you to this. What had you done to be deserving of the death penalty? You wrack your mind desperately for some some sort of answer, some sort of reason, but nothing comes forth except a blank, white canvas where your memories should be.

Where are your memories?

Fear floods through you like a tidal wave, rising and sweeping throughout every corner in your mind. It’s so real it’s palpable, clawing at your throat and stealing the breath from your lungs. There is nothing in your memories, no smiling parents, no first birthdays, no new pretty dresses, no favourite foods, nothing but white noise and the sound of waves crashing against shore.

How old are you? What did you eat yesterday? Why are you here?

Who are you?

You can’t even begin to fathom the answer to that one question.

“Hey, move it.” The rounder guard behind you shoves the small of your back forward, your bare feet dragging along the cobblestones of the street. The sky is dark and grey, as if weeping for all that you cannot remember and you see the townspeople peering at you and whispering to each other from tiny cracks in the doors and windows, no doubt wondering who it is unlucky enough to suffer the wrath of the official of the town. But there is not an ounce of recognition, only sympathy. Nobody cries for you, nobody tries to stop you as you take one step after another to the gallows. Nobody knows you.

You are alone.

Suddenly everything becomes so real to you. The feeling of cool rainwater as it trickles down your cheeks, the stone against your bare feet. The crisp cold air of a storm. The colour of the rain clouds. In another few minutes, you will be completely devoid of all sensation.

“I refuse.”

Like any thunderclap, the sound is deafening, it makes your eardrums ring and if your hands weren’t tied you’d clap them over your ears. But most thunderclaps don’t split buildings or cause massive screaming and mayhem.

“The official’s building!” The skinnier guard cries out in horror at the sight of the roof on one of the larger buildings on a hill collapse in on itself. There’s another ear splitting boom, and in the next second, your eyes manage to catch a glimpse of a round shape flying through the air before in plunges into the already collapsing building.

“Pirates!” You hear someone scream, his voice cracking with desperation and fright. “Pirates at the harbor-” His voice is abruptly cut off just as the clanging of a bell fills the air.

“Hurry, Philip! We need to get there!” The guard, Mannon, yanks on his partner’s arm and without a second glance back at you, they sprint down an alleyway, pulling sabers from hip sheathes.

You blink.

You’re free, just like that.

Your eyes dart around for something to free your hands with, but there’s nothing and you can hear the sounds of screaming getting ever closer. Townspeople are fleeing into buildings, doors being slammed shut, candles being extinguished, bolts drawn. From where the official’s building, you hear the click of several heeled boots pacing down the street in double time.

Between them and the pirates, you’d pick the pirates.

So with your hands bound behind your back, you dash down the same path your two captors took.

The sound of cannon fire fills your ears and there’s smoke everywhere. Your eyes sting, but you force yourself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, one step at the time. There’s another earth shaking boom and suddenly the ground next to you explodes. You bite back the scream in your throat and continue running, you can’t afford to fall now. There are people all around you, dressed in the distinctive red coat of the law authorities here or in a motley array of tunics and breaches, both hold weapons, and both are dying.

As you move forward without looking back, there’s the sound of clashing metal, musket fire, screams of the wounded or dying. A man suddenly falls in front of you, blood pooling like a blossoming rose across the white of his undershirt, matching the vibrant red of his uniform. You leap over the corpse and turn back, staring open mouthed at his unclosing eyes, still wide in his shock, the slack muscles in his cheeks and jaw unmoving.

He’s dead.

You look up, almost instinctively. There’s a young man standing there, a long spear in hand. He’s wearing a sandy brown shirt over a white linen tunic and long, white pants that only accentuate his height tucked into knee high leather boots. His eyes, a soft brown beneath matching curls, meet yours for a split second.

Then you run.

You sprint as fast as you possibly can, feet flying over fallen swords and broken planks. You cannot stop. Through the acrid scent of smoke and gunpowder, you can finally smell it.

The sea.

In the harbor three ships are docked. One, with the emblem of a crimson rose embroidered onto its flag, has had its mainsail torn to shreds and the deck peppered with holes. Majority of its crew lie dead or unmoving, and even as you watch one of the last gun crews are blasted into the sea by a round cannonball, which shatters upon impact with the deck to form tiny, flying pieces of shrapnel that take out the gun crew beside it. The other ship, presumably a merchant vessel, is looted bare as its crew watches helplessly. Pirates heave chests of salted fish and silk cloth onto the third vessel.

The third ship is a large, ocean going vessel. Above its three sails on the mainmast flies its flag. A plain black design with the word ATEEZ in bright, bold orange, you immediately know this is the pirates’ ship. The harbor is chaos, clamoring of two sides to get the upper hand, but you can’t stop now. Taking a deep breath, you dash forward.

A blade narrowly misses your neck as you continue running with all your might, sliding under the business end of a swinging club. You barely feel the sting of your skin tearing as a stray musket ball nicks your upper arm, adrenaline pumping through your veins like a drug. You feel something warm and wet soak into the fabric of your sleeve, but like hell you’ll let that stop you now. By sheer dumb luck, you finally reach the gangplank of the pirate ship and dash up it, the wood creaking beneath your feet. They might be bleeding after that mad dash through town, but you’re here.

Now what?

Fighting is still going on all around. Pirates work in small groups to fight off boarding officers as they try to swarm the pirates. You hear a voice shout out “Fire in the hole!” over the din, and the five subsequent explosions send the boat rocking from side to side.

You’re still not safe.

Glancing around desperately, your eyes fall onto a small hatch in the main deck. Dodging the end of an ax on the path of its back swing, you leap for the trapdoor. Thank heavens you’re barefoot, because only with your toes you manage to nudge the bolt open and pull the hatch open. It’s stairs, leading down into the gloom of the storage hold, and from what you can hear, relatively quiet.

You’ll take your chances.

With a painful grunt, you take the stairs two at the time and your legs give out at the last moment. You crash to the floorboards just as the hatch closes over your head, throwing you into darkness except the faint shafts of light coming in from the cracks in the upper deck. Your ankle throbs with pain, but you don’t have time to worry about that. You frantically drag yourself behind a few barrels in the corner, out of sight of anyone coming down the steps and huddle down, praying for the ship to sail as fast as possible.

As if the gods were listening, you hear someone above deck shouting commands. “Weigh the anchor! Unfurl the sails! Wooyoung, fire the retreat flare!”

The voice is deep as the ocean and has an unmistakable air of command. You hear the pirates scrambling to carry out the orders, footsteps thudding across the deck and from the screams and splashes next to you, they are tossing the town officers overboard too. Not a second later another massive boom rocks the ship side to side, you knock your head on the barrels and a bundle of sackcloth falls onto you.

“Oww…” You mutter under your breath feeling something warm trickling down your temple, but then suddenly you hear the same, deep voice issuing commands again.

“Raise the gangplank, make way!”

There’s a sudden jerk of movement as the wind fills the sails. You gasp as you are almost thrown forward, barely regaining your balance at the last moment as the ship begins moving away from the harbor. The furious cries and jeers of the town officers fade away, replaced the sound of the sails beating in the wind and the lapping of waves against the side of the ship.

Home, your mind tells you.

As if all the fight has left you in a single moment, you slump back against the wall, the energy thrumming in your veins evaporating like steam, leaving only a sore ache in your limbs. You should really tend to the cut on your head or find some way to free your hands, but the overwhelming exhaustion crashes over you. The sackcloth is really warm, and you need to be properly rested before you can think of a plan.

“Maybe I’ll just close my eyes for a few seconds.” You tell yourself as your eyelids slide shut and your breathing slows. You sink into a deep sleep.

It feels like you’ve barely closed your eyes when a voice shakes you out of your slumber.

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suoyou · 3 years ago

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[wip] 真金不怕火炼; true gold fears no flame

incomplete wip. 2744 words, rated t.

originally drafted for the wangxian weddings for maubrey collection. a sequel to baby’s first wangxian fic 蓝色生死恋; a blue love (to live and to die for)

Wei Wuxian wakes up the morning after his wedding a little cold and a lot sore, skin tingling like it’s new. He’s spent a lot of both lives waking up feeling like his skeleton had sneakily rearranged itself overnight in the worst way—a rib in his throat, a femur jammed up through his belly, vertebrae scattered around him like loose gravel.

But today he wakes up with the sun in a crescent on his hip, smiling at the edge of the window, feeling like every part of his body for once is in the right place. Brain in his head, head on his shoulders, heart in his chest. Lan Zhan is, of course, already awake, staring up at the canopy of their wedding bed. Not wide-eyed, and possibly for the first time in Wei Wuxian’s life, lazy.

“Lan Zhan.” He can hear his own voice vibrate against Lan Zhan’s body.

“You’re awake.”

“What were you doing up, earlier?” Wei Wuxian presses a deep yawn into the side of his husband’s—husband’s!—neck, the kind that sends shivers all the way down into his ankles and feet. “It was barely dawn. Don’t tell me you weren’t tired? I can’t believe I didn’t tire you out last night. I don’t even know if I was awake for our last round.” The thought makes heat flare in Wei Wuxian’s cheeks. They’ll have to revisit that.

“Hm,” Lan Zhan says, and the low thrum of laughter runs through him. It’s mostly silent; Wei Wuxian feels it more than he hears it. “You were, but only just.” Then, “I thought of a song.”

“A song?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“You,” Lan Zhan says, both fondly and in a way that says this should be obvious.

“About my oral prowess, I hope.”

“It was not.”

“Is it happy, at least?”

Lan Zhan is quiet. “My other song for you is not very happy, is it?”

“Well,” Wei Wuxian pushes himself upright so that he’s lying on top of Lan Zhan, rests his chin on his folded wrists. A constellation of hickeys and bruises stretches across Lan Zhan’s neck, and Wei Wuxian takes his time studying them. He hasn’t seen his own skin yet, but he can tell the violet blooms are already fading on Lan Zhan, burnt back by the heat of his golden core. “I think someone a lot lonelier than the Lan Zhan I married wrote that song, is all.”

“Mm.” Lan Zhan holds Wei Wuxian by the waist, steady, steady, like balancing the weight of the world on him in the cradle of his palms. “But you’re here now. To have you like this, it would be impossible to feel lonely again.”

“To have me like how?” Wei Wuxian asks, propping his chin in his palm, wide-eyed with mock wonder. “Will the esteemed Hanguang-jun care to elaborate?”

Lan Zhan’s eyes darken, narrowing for a flicker of a moment before he moves, and Wei Wuxian ends up on his back so fast that ah, there, there’s that feeling that his bones are all in the wrong places—in the best way, in the only way he hopes to know it again, with Lan Zhan’s hands on his body and heart against his. Beating, beating, beating.

☄

For some reason, Wei Wuxian is surprised when he gets up and Lan Zhan offers him clothes that look virtually identical to the ones he’s always worn—dark, red accents, wristcuffs laced with ribbons. Everything is a little nicer, and even for someone who never cared to notice, the fabric folds heavy and well-made in his hands. There are cloud patterns embroidered in black thread along the collars, and peonies in the shoulder patches.

He stands in the middle of their wedding chamber, naked as the day he was born, turning them back and forth without slipping them on.

“Do you not like them?” Lan Zhan asks, already decent with his satin underrobe on.

“I love them, they’re just so—me?” Wei Wuxian lowers them.

“Would you like me to put them on?”

“Yes!” Wei Wuxian says. He lifts his arms helpfully when Lan Zhan comes to him, slipping the sleeves of a new red underrobe over him and leaning close to do the ties at Wei Wuxian’s waist. He’s so close that Wei Wuxian simply leans forward and kisses the crown of Lan Zhan’s head. Then his temple. Then he stops, because if he doesn’t, they will never leave this chamber.

“These were commissioned from a different tailor,” Lan Zhan says when he slips the black outer robe onto Wei Wuxian’s body. “I was concerned that they wouldn’t get your measurements right, but I’m glad to see it fits.”

It fits like a hug around Wei Wuxian’s body.

“The collars of the underrobe are quite high?”

Lan Zhan looks at him. “That was intentional.”

Wei Wuxian stares blankly until the faint ache of hickeys registers, and he puts his hands over his face and groans, “Ohhh. Oh, I won’t make it through the week like this.”

“Wei Ying.”

“I love you, Lan Zhan, I really do, with all the force of ten thousand weeping mountains—a hundred thousand—but my heart will give out. It will cave.”

Lan Zhan ignores his theatrics and turns him around to run his hairbrush through Wei Wuxian’s hair. He’s always so gentle when he does it for Wei Wuxian—not that he’s rough on himself, but he certainly doesn’t seem to take as long, brushing out every lock of hair between his fingers.

“I can’t believe the Chief Cultivator can’t even take a few days to himself. After his own wedding!” Wei Wuxian says as Lan Zhan twists his hair up into a soft knot. It’s elegant and something Wei Wuxian will likely never learn how to do himself. “I want to stay with you all day. I want to lie in the sun with you and then go running by the beaches at sunset. Well—I’ll run, you can walk gracefully, as you do. I want to sit in the grass with you and feed the rabbits until the wet seeps up into my robes.”

“Mm. So do I.” Lan Zhan pushes his hairstick through the base of the knot. “But it will be a short meeting. Just a report and a written acknowledgment that we are married, that the sects have bore witness that we are married. And that any assault upon you would be considered an offense to the Lan Sect.”

Wei Wuxian’s knees go soft and it has nothing to do with the exhaustion from the night before. “Lan Zhan...”

“You could come if you like, but I would not ask you to.”

“Because you’re flawless and perfect.”

Lan Zhan exhales. It’s his favorite way to laugh. Then he smooths his hand down the free length of Wei Wuxian’s hair. “I’ll meet you in the Jingshi for lunch.”

“Come back to me soon.”

“Always.”

☄

For two weeks after the wedding, Lan Zhan has reduced duties and Wei Wuxian a leave of absence from classes, but it has been a while since he watched the sun turn the sky blue, then grey, then lace-white as it rises over the blanket of clouds. Once, on a night hunt, Wei Wuxian had climbed high enough in the Cloud Recesses that the clouds were finally under him, and he looked over the endlessness of it, feeling like he was standing at the edge of existence.

By the third day, after all the guests leave, Wei Wuxian finally gets some much-needed solitude. It’s a weird thing to need, for him, anyway, considering how much time he’s already spent alone. When he sits in the meadow of rabbits in the back hills of the Cloud Recesses, he lies down with his arms spread until he can feel rabbit nosing at his pockets.

“I haven’t brought anything for you,” he says, eyes closed. The sun is orange and veiny against his closed eyes. “Since when did you guys even like me enough to look for snacks?”

There are voices coming down the mountain path, though, so Wei Wuxian sits up and brushes stray bits of grass off his back and knees, tries to pick some out of his hair. Before his wedding, he would not have cared, but he’s husband to the Chief Cultivator now. He needs to look the part.

“Morning,” he greets, and blinks when it’s a handful of older Lan women carrying the rabbit feed today. Tending to the rabbits is disciple work, usually, but vaguely, he knows they had to change the structure of classes for the two weeks he isn’t teaching.

“Oh! Wei gongzi. We didn’t expect to see you out here.”

“Hanguang-jun isn’t with you?”

“He’s busy in the mornings,” says Wei Wuxian, hands jumping to the collars of his robes. They’re bound tight, thank heavens. “I’ve simply been unwinding after a wedding like that. It really takes everything out of you, doesn’t it?”

“Being married does that to you,” says one of the women, sagely. Lan Danyi if Wei Wuxian’s memory serves him correctly. The other women nod, murmuring their assent.

“It...takes everything out of you?” he asks. That doesn’t sound pleasant, but he hasn’t been anything but happy since being married. Is he doing something wrong?

“When does it not?” says another. Lan Ruyi, who looks so much like her sister that they could be mirror images. “You’re lucky you married Hanguang-jun, Wei gongzi. Marriage is hard work. The first year of a marriage is the hardest year of any relationship.”

“It—it is? Why?”

“Well, of course,” they say, like this should be common knowledge. Lan Danyi bends down and begins feeding the rabbits their carrots. “You will probably have it better than we do, but when you get married, who do you become? You lose your sense of self. Before this, you’re your own person, but you don’t just belong to you anymore, don’t you? Of course, Hanguang-jun would never be so uncouth, I see that he doesn’t mind that Wei gongzi continues to wear his own robes. Which is as it should be, do you remember that Zhao Xiaohong that Lan Hongqi married a few years ago?”

“Oh,” says Wei Wuxian. He hadn’t thought of that.

“Of course, of course,” says the third woman. Wei Wuxian well and truly cannot remember her name, which is going to be a problem if he’s going to be part of the Lan Sect now. “But your future isn’t your own anymore, either. You walk a two-person path now. When one person hurts their feet, you must check your own for thorns. Sometimes the path diverges and you want to take a different one than the one they choose.” She sighs. “And you have to choose the one they want to take.”

“I think learning how to walk one, honest path is romantic in and of itself, Jianying.”

“Perhaps. But not all of us can marry Hanguang-jun, so really, how romantic could it be.”

“So you can’t be headstrong, it’ll be such a pain,” Lan Ruyi says. “It’s easier for someone who grew up in the Lan Sect, but marrying in is always harder.”

“Which is what makes the first year of living together the hardest,” says Lan Danyi, nodding. “You don’t want to be someone difficult to share space with. But, Wei gongzi, I’m sure you and Hanguang-jun won’t have a problem at all. Right?”

“Right,” he says faintly. A morning with the rabbits is almost always calm and soothing, but today he feels neither calm nor soothed. “Uh, have a lovely morning.”

“Wei gongzi, go safely!” they call after him as he slip-slides back onto the path.

He gives them a wave, and starts heading back alone.

☄

“—ying. Wei Ying?”

He blinks. Then he comes to, piece by piece, chopsticks still aloft between his bowl and his mouth. A bite of married-couple spiced tripe drips its fiery oil into his food, a little red coin on the pebbled surface of his rice. Lan Zhan has leaned forward, mouth set in a taut line of concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Wei Wuxian shovels his food into his mouth. “Nothing, Lan Zhan.”

His husband—will he ever tire of that title? Evidence points to no—is not convinced. Not that Wei Wuxian expected him to be, but he also doesn’t expect Lan Zhan to set his own bowl down, resting his chopsticks over the rim, and insist, again, “There’s something wrong.”

“Lan Zhan, it’s really...really, it’s…”

Of course, Hanguang-jun would never be so uncouth, I see that he doesn’t mind that Wei gongzi continues to wear his own robes.

“Well,” says Wei Wuxian, and Lan Zhan leans forward minutely to listen, “Lan Zhan, do you hate that I dress this way?”

This question apparently catches Lan Zhan off-guard. He blinks once, twice, then asks, “In what way, Wei Ying?”

“Like...myself.” Like my unmarried self.

A faint ribbon of confusion slips between Lan Zhan’s eyebrows. “I love you regardless of what you wear.”

“You probably prefer me not wearing anything, right, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian jokes weakly.

“Yes. But,” says Lan Zhan, as Wei Wuxian wheezes at his frankness, “what is this about?”

“I just thought,” Wei Wuxian says, feeling wild and stupid, because they’re married, they’re married, why is he being silly about this, “that. I don’t know, I’d look different after I got married. To you? That I should look different.” I want to look different. I want to look like I belong to somewhere, to someplace, to someone.

“Different how?”

“Uhm,” he looks down into his rice, chili oil staining the grains a bright, yolky gold. Gods, this is ridiculous. “Never mind.”

Lan Zhan is a quiet rustle of fabric and footsteps when he stands and moves around the dining table. When he sits down beside Wei Wuxian he’s a warm waft of sandalwood and camellia oil. “Wei Ying,” he says, brings Wei Ying’s hand into his lap between his own. “Something troubles you.”

“It’s not—I’m not troubled, Lan Zhan, I promise. But I guess I. I want to look married to you.”

Lan Zhan searches his face. The concern softens around the edges. “How so?”

“I don’t think I can wear all white or a forehead ribbon, or more than three layers,” Wei Wuxian warns, “but. I felt at home, wearing your white underrobe. It’s not that I don’t like red, but I only wore it so much so you couldn’t see the bloo—”

Wei Wuxian snaps his mouth shut. Really, is this a topic he should be bringing up a day after their wedding, at dinner, no less? He feels like an uninvited, rain-soaked guest falling through the doorway of a place he’s not welcome.

“Stains less,” he finishes in a tiny voice.

“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan, and he reaches up to tuck one of Wei Wuxian’s feathery wisps of hair behind his ear. “If that is what you want to wear, then you should wear it.”

“I didn’t want to make you feel bad. You commissioned those for me in mind specially.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “Only because I mistook your preference for them. What you wear is your choice, Wei Ying. In this life, you do not have to look any way but the way you want to. All white. All black. A bit of both, or neither. The things we put on our bodies...they’re an extension of us. Whatever that looks like to you now is what I’ll love.”

“What if I want to wear a pink tunic and a green skirt and, and a gold belt, and no shoes?”

“You would look like Nezha,” Lan Zhan says very seriously, “and I would love you all the same.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, and then he kisses his husband right there at the dinner table, and he thinks that being married really doesn’t take too much out of you at all. Lan Zhan steadies him by the arms, and then pulls him into his lap, and Wei Wuxian’s ribs wedge into the side of the table and the bruise from even that will be sore and sweet the way a hickey is.

What a fortune it is to be married, Wei Wuxian thinks, when Lan Zhan has him on the bamboo mat floors and his hair in a dark fan across them, and have the privilege to be nothing but your messy, scattered, glimmering self.

#fic wip #wx #incomplete

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amorgansgal · 3 years ago

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Cruel, Cruel World - I've Been Living Too Long

So here's the first chapter of my Charlotte x Arthur fic, it was inspired by @rivetingrosie4's other idea suggestion during the TY Giveaway I did. I liked both so much and wanted to do an Arlotte story anyway, that I decided to write it as well as The Bitter End! It will cover their meeting and feelings for each other, but it's going to be a tale of unrequited love, so prepare yourself for angst and feelings!

You can read it on AO3 and The Bitter End on AO3 too.

Warnings: Depiction of skinning and gutting an animal.

The first time they meet she’s still crying. The overwhelming shock of grief that left her gasping for air and howling like a wounded animal is gone, replaced with tired sobs. Her back and shoulders ache from digging, there are blisters coming up on her fingers. Charlotte knows she must look a sight, her blouse is covered in filth, mud smeared across her face, tear tracks run down her cheeks and her eyes are red and sore.

She has no widow weeds, nothing suitable to wear for a funeral. The closest she can get to is a blue blouse and a grey-green plaid skirt. She hadn’t exactly planned on having a funeral. What young couple does? Why would she think that the beginning of their new, exciting and adventurous life would mean the end?

Charlotte thinks about the one funeral she attended a long time ago. A Great Uncle. They hadn’t been close so she felt no real absence or loss. Grief had been a pretty thing, played out with processions, quiet sobs, small handkerchiefs fluttering like white birds amongst a black sky. A neat, tidy performance. What would all those people think of her now, crawling in the mud, dirt etched into her fingernails, her belly aching with hunger, as she sobs hopelessly?

‘We’ll read books and we’ll grow vegetables like we did back home and we’ll learn as we go!’ Cal’s excitable words haunt her now. What absolute fools. It would take thousands of books, hundreds of years to learn what they needed to know. ‘We don’t need anything special. All we need is each other.’

She’s so lost in thought, feeling her heart beating traitorously against her chest, that she doesn’t even hear the man’s footsteps or the rustle of grass at his approach.

‘Er, you alright there?’ A warm, rumbling voice says.

She turns quickly and gets to her feet. ‘Who are you?’

He’s as tall and broad as an oak, wearing a light brown leather jacket and blue shirt. His soft brown hair touches the collar of his shirt and rough stubble lines his cheeks and jaw. The hat on his head is tipped back slightly, as though knocked by a branch, and she tries to gauge from his blue-green eyes whether he will hurt her. He looks rough, strong, doubtless he could injure her if he wanted to.

He raises his hands in surrender, though she has already seen the revolvers at his hips and the rifle slung across his back. ‘Oh, it’s okay, ma’am. I don’ mean you no harm.’

What does it matter if he does? The world has pulled every last bit of love and warmth away from her. If he knocked her into the ground, raped her, robbed her, killed her, would it really matter? She cannot feel anything anymore, her body won’t allow her to feel any more pain.

Charlotte watches him cautiously, his gaze steady and sure. No sense of danger within them and better still no false pity or assumed grief. He doesn’t know her; he isn’t going to pretend to feel her pain. For that she’s grateful.

‘Well, it makes no difference now. If an outlaw or wild animal doesn’t get me, starvation will.’ She says hollowly. She looks over to Cal’s grave and sees with shame that the flowers she left on it are streaked with mud. She thinks about the bouquets and wreaths that were given at her Great Uncle’s funeral. So lovely looking and well ordered, that they almost didn’t look like real flowers.

Charlotte picks up Cal’s flowers and does her best to wipe away the smears of mud. When she turns her head, the stranger is still there, watching her. There’s still no artifice in his gaze and almost without meaning to she finds herself speaking openly to this man.

‘We came out here from the city in search of a different life. Something true, something real. All this squandering and indulgence we wanted to strip it away, to find something authentic.’ She hates the words, she hates herself. If this man mocks her now, she wouldn’t blame him. What a stuck-up prig she sounds.

A sob gets caught in her throat and she almost chokes. ‘What a pair of fools.’

He looks away briefly, almost a little uncomfortable with her grief, but then returns his sea green eyes to her. He looks saddened for her, but more for the situation she’s in rather than anything else. He does not deride her dreamy notions of escape and adventure, he does not pity their foolishness, he won’t offer false sentiments of his condolences for her.

‘Is there a train station or a town I can take you to?’ he offers.

His offer is sensible, practical, reasonable. Everything she and Cal hadn’t been. Her head says she should take the stranger up on it, pack her things, head back to Chicago. But to what? To a family that will give her nothing but pitiful looks? To in-laws that will do the same but may whisper behind their hands about her? To a society that will look at a childless woman in her thirties and will shake their heads at the shame? Her heart tells a different story. Do this for Cal, do this to show the world you can, do this to show this strange man you aren’t afraid.

‘No, I can’t give up now. He wouldn’t want that. I… I can’t have it.’

She turns to the grave, looking at the rough wooden cross she had made from two planks nailed together. ‘I’m going to do this for you… Cal.’ The very act of saying his name aloud says a sharp wave of pain through her, but she bites back her sobs.

‘Well…’ the stranger murmurs. She begins to walk past him to go back to the little cabin Cal and her once called home. Her muscles are stiff and aching and she struggles to walk normally. ‘I’ll erm… I’ll leave you to it.’

The tight feeling in her chest grows as the restrained sobs seem to grow more and more, pressing against her throat and lungs, till her eyes burn. He’ll leave her, he’ll go and she’ll be alone to face this terrifying, looming pit of grief and hunger and pain and loss. Charlotte staggers and drops to her knees, the tears all too easily dripping from her face and the pitiful sob forces its way up. She hears his footsteps stop, but she can’t look back, she can’t watch this man go.

‘Damn fool,’ she thinks. ‘Damn, damn you, Charlotte. You don’t know this man; you can’t feel pain at his leaving. He would leave at some point. What would he do otherwise? Offer to stay with a grieving widow?’

‘Is there anything left for you to eat?’ The warm, gravelly voice asks.

She looks at him, wishing she could offer a real smile. He might be uncomfortable, but he’s kind. Unreasonably so to a widow he’s found in the cold grey afternoon who is acting like an idiot. Any normal man might just leave her to her fate, rolling their eyes at the ridiculous notion of her surviving.

‘Nothing.’ Charlotte manages to fight back her tears again and gets to her feet. ‘No, we didn’t know the first thing about hunting, we… couldn’t even catch a darn mouse. If you need any poisonous berries though, I’m a natural at finding those.’

The joke is a poor one and it sticks uncomfortably in her throat. Though the man does the decent thing and lets out a small murmur of amusement. She realises she is still holding the flower from Cal’s grave in her hand. The flowers are almost wilted, the petals sticky with mud. Tears burn in her eyes again; she can’t even do this part right.

‘Well… you ain’t goin’ to last much longer out here if you don’ know how to hunt. Come on,’ he says, gently cajoling her. She gazes up at him seeing his expression has softened considerably. ‘I’ll show you.’

She feels strangely reassured as she rises to her feet. ‘Alright… But you better not try any funny business. You know, I may be weak but I still know how to stand up for myself.’

‘Oh, I don’ doubt it,’ he gives her a quick smile. From anyone else it would be mocking, but it’s genuine from him. ‘Come on.’ He gestures with a hand for her to follow and Charlotte is surprised when she finds her feet moving towards the pathway.

She looks back to the grave. Despite the hunger the claws in her stomach, the grief that weighs heavily on her heart and the tiredness she feels from digging that cold, dark pit, a small glimmer of hope seems to blossom inside her. Perhaps in the moment of absolute loss and heartache, Cal has guided this man to her. Perhaps he was still looking out for her. Charlotte looks back at the man walking ahead, his reassuring smile that he turns on her so welcoming she could weep all over again.

Arthur walks through the woods, hearing the quiet, steady footsteps of the woman beside him. He finds himself still reeling at the thought of his eagerness to help her, perhaps the old Arthur would have turned aside. The old Arthur Morgan would have shaken his head and left the woman weeping by the grave. He doesn’t like to think if he would have done anything worse, but there’s no denying it, he did go here because of a robbery tip.

Old Arthur wouldn’t have time to teach her to hunt, to survive. But for all that his time is rapidly running out, it seems almost as though he has plenty of it. Plenty of time to offer help and aid instead of a cold shoulder of indifference. More and more he longs to help others. Perhaps it a longing for redemption, to do what little right he can do. A lifetime of sins isn’t easy to unpick and untangle, but he can at least balance out the bad with some good.

He glances at her, trying to see the woman underneath the streaks of mud on her face and the mask of grief her features have become. Dark hair that is straggly and unkempt, eyes swollen, her clothes plastered with mud.

‘Tell me, you ever skinned an animal before?’ He needs to know how much she knows; he doubts whether a city girl would ever need to learn such a skill, but he could be wrong.

‘No, but then again, I haven’t caught much of anything either.’

For all the comfort and privilege of her upbringing, he appreciates her humour and straight forwardness. ‘Well, you’ll need to know how to do both if you’re going to survive out here.’

‘I am all too aware,’ she replies grimly. ‘So where should we head for?’

‘Er… let’s try in the trees down there, near the river.’ He gestures the large body of water that spans the length of the train bridge. There must be something down there, even if just a rabbit or a duck. The woods are quieter, the shadows of the late afternoon lengthening. There is still a little golden light from the sun that reaches through the trees, making the grass and low-lying shrubs glimmer as though gold coins are being tossed amongst them.

‘What happened to your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Arthur says. He remembers she talked bitterly about the poisonous berries she found and, as they pass a patch of bright pink oleander sage, he thinks perhaps he’ll also need to teach her which plants are good and which are deadly.

‘A bear got him… it was horrifying.’ Her voice sounds hollow and tired, he wonders when was the last time she slept properly or ate. ‘He survived but only for a couple of days.’

Arthur risks a glance at her, seeing her pale drawn face, the pain in her soft grey eyes. He thinks about reaching out and touching her shoulder, offering some comfort that way. But he quickly pulls his eyes back to the path and the forest floor. Any comfort he could offer would be a poor affair and doubtless she does not want it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says instead.

‘This was really his dream more than mine. I’d have hopped back onto the next train to Chicago if he’d said the word… but now… I don’t know, it’s hard to explain… I have to do this.’ The calm resolution in her voice makes him reconsider his first thoughts, that whatever he could show her would be of little use. That perhaps like many he has met in his travels, grown to both like and love, she would not survive. But maybe she will. Maybe that steely calm resolve will help.

She spots the rabbit before he does. He quickly dispatches it and uses the time, where he bends down to pick it up, to hide the fact that he’s somewhat impressed at her keen eyesight. He only sees it when the rabbit begins to hop about, trying to escape from him. The woman seems to see it when the thing is nestling quietly amongst the bushes. Her voice trembles when she hears the shot.

‘Oh! Oh… Good shot.’

He shuffles the rabbit from hand to hand, busying himself so she does not see how the small amount of praise has affected him. It’s ridiculous, absurd that he should find a hot flush creeping up his cheeks at the kindness of her words. Has he really been so starved of approval from Dutch that any slight, meaningless compliment makes his head spin?

She approaches him cautiously and he passes the rabbit to her. ‘Okay then, go on. Time to get your hands dirty.’

‘How do I… I mean… what do I do?’ she asks apprehensively.

‘Just hold the legs tight, and pull the skin away, quickly. Should come righ’ off.’

She tentatively holds the rabbit up, her face betrays no squeamishness, just nervousness at getting it right. Her right hand carefully grips the fur by the rabbit’s legs. She glances up at him and Arthur wonders if he should show her how to grasp it more firmly. But then she tightens her grip and begins to tug on the fur, till bit by bit she manages to remove the coat.

‘Oh my… it worked!’ she exalts, a rare genuine smile crossing her lips. He finds himself smiling back, a deep sense of pride running through him. He taught her that and she did it. She’s a smart woman. Her cheeks flush pink and she looks away back to the rabbit. Arthur clears his throat nervously.

‘And that is all there is to it. You did good.’

She lets out a soft sigh, almost of satisfaction. ‘I think I’ve seen enough blood for one day. Do you mind if we head back now?’

‘Sure, I’ll walk you back.’ He falls in step beside her, the rabbit slung over her shoulder and he thinks about warning her that the blood will stain her blouse. But he remembers that she has a thick coating of mud all over her clothes, so it’s unlikely that any of them will ever truly be clean again. ‘That should keep you fed for a few days.’

‘Oh yes, at least. Thank you so much.’

Arthur is glad she’s walking ahead of him, though he shakes his head a little and stares down at his boots. Has a death sentence made him a complete fool? A twig snaps under his foot and the woman glances back at him, she offers him a quick smile. The fearful, desperate look in her eyes is gone, she looks comforted.

‘I mean,’ he says, clearing his throat and eager to change the subject. ‘This really ain’t such a bad spot. You got a good water source. It’s remote, but you can survive here alright.’

‘I have no doubt that one can survive here… whether Charlotte Balfour can is a different matter entirely. You’ve probably lived your whole life in the outdoors.’

‘A lot of it, that’s for sure.’ So that’s her name, Charlotte. He repeats her name in his mind, keen not to forget it immediately. Should he offer her his? Would she recognise it with the law and Pinkertons drawing in ever closer? Would she draw back in fear or contempt if she did? It doesn’t feel like he can stomach a rejection right now. He faces so much of it back at camp he probably should be used to it. But is it any better to lie and hide his true self from her? He feels bad when he realises she has been speaking and he hasn’t heard a word, too caught up in his own fears and concerns. For a man who has once insisted he didn’t think much about anything, that is another thing that has changed.

‘…Cal spent his summers growing up at his grandparents’ lodge in Maine, but I get the impression they did more punting than hunting.’

‘Right.’

‘Ever since we got here, it feels like every step forward has come with a hundred steps back. People always talk about the simplicity of country life. But there’s nothing simple about any of this.’

‘I guess we only know what we know…’

‘Oh please, I’m sure it wouldn’t take you long to adjust to a life of privilege and indolence in the big city.’ She smiles lightly.

‘I don’t know about that… it sounds awful.’

‘Oh, it is. A truly empty and boring existence… but an undeniably easy one.’

Arthur thinks about it. The notion of him being a banker or a shop owner sounds ridiculous. He’d be one of those many people he had robbed over the years and it almost tickles him to think on it. Would he be a well to do type? Someone who regularly smoke cigars and drinks brandy in the evenings, with a small wife and a family he’d occasionally see on weekends if the notion took him?

He glances at Charlotte as she climbs the hill, trying to picture what it would be like to be married to a woman like her. A city girl who has soft, delicate hands and has never skinned a rabbit. He almost scoffs aloud at the notion. Then scowls in thought.

Perhaps that was why he and Mary were destined to fail, he can’t imagine himself with a woman who hasn’t had a bit of rough living, who hasn’t skinned a rabbit or gone hunting. How he thought Mary was well suited to him he would never know. He wasn’t good enough for her. Not good enough for a woman who was better off living in cities, who could keep her hands soft and her skin unblemished.

They are approaching the apex of the hill, a simple wooden structure marking the entrance. Ahead two buildings. One looks to be more of a barn or shed, doubtless filled with tools and useful odds and ends. Outside the low wooden structure sits a wheel and a water trough. Arthur wonders if he should suggest Charlotte get herself a horse, but he doesn’t doubt the woman has thought about it already.

Ahead of him sits what could be a pretty cabin. He admires the slate tiling on the roof, providing far more protection than any thatch or wooden panelling could. Around the front door is a small porch, with a bench outside, practically ideal for any person to sit out on warm summer evenings and admire the sunset over the trees. Curling smoke drifts up from the chimney and he is glad that she seems to have enough wood to keep it lit. The path in front of the cabin is lined with stones and either side of the steps that go up to the front door are flowers, the tall blue ones he recognises from around the area of Little Creek River. A pretty place.

Once they reach the doorway, Charlotte pulls the door open slightly and then turns blocking the entrance. He can only see the wooden walls and maybe a chair from where he’s standing.

‘Thank you. That was the first time anyone’s done anything nice for us.’ She sighs at her mistake and raises the rabbit. ‘For me… since we got here.’ The recent loss is evidently still all too recent.

‘Well, nature provides, but she sure don’ always make it easy.’

‘That she doesn’t… I’d invite you in, but I’m dead on my feet, if you’ll forgive the pun.’ She manages another strained noise of amusement. ‘Please do call again some time, though. A good rest and hopefully I’ll be a new woman.’

‘You take care Ma’am.’ She lingers by the entrance and gazes at him for just a moment, then steps back into her house and closes the door. Arthur breathes out a sigh he had been holding and lowers his head. Then he turns on heel and begins to walk down the path. He whistles for his horse.

#charlotte balfour x arthur morgan #arthur morgan x charlotte balfour #arlotte #charlotte balfour #arthur morgan #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead fanfiction #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfic

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honestsycrets · 4 years ago

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Say Your Piece II: Heart Breaker

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader, hvitserk x ?

❛ type | double triple? shot, mistakes were made au

❛ chp summary | after the reader says she doesn’t want hvitserk; he makes a bad decision. it gets worse from there.

❛ tags | plus size reader, verbal arguments, extreme social anxiety, extreme body insecurity, drinking, hateful words, illustrator hvitserk x writer reader, mention of infidelity, shame, OCs, sexual frustration, blackmail, cheating mentioned, verbal abuse, sexual blackmail, poor communication? it’s more likely than you think. tags to be added.

❛ request | So Hvitserk request (you a asked for it 😂) Remember the Little Lovers event and the self-conscient plus size reader who didn’t want to have sex ?Well I didn’t get the sex lol. I want my Hvitserk to show a woman how her body is enjoyable. Thank you 😊 for @alicedopey

❛ sy’s note | i’ll eventually get you your sex scene, DAMN IT.

He wakes with a blaring headache caused by a stream of fresh morning light against his soft cheek. He pulls his arms around you-- or, what he thought was you, as the moment he does so, he knows it’s wrong. Where soft folds and overflowing breasts were, he finds thin limbs and small breasts.

It’s not your body-- he realizes all at once. The high rise apartment that overlooked the city wasn’t, either. It was the fruit of an accomplished older woman, whose many books hovered on a white shelf beside a white bed. Everything in the room holds the same pure standard. He flings himself from the bed, his naked ass colliding with a nightstand. The items ripple over the surface and settle into new positions. The woman pushes up, dragging the painfully monochrome white fluffy sheet to cover her flat chest.

“Hvitserk?”

Erika, in all her sharp-eyed glory, stares right back at him. Vomit spins up his throat, incited by the affection by with her eyes considered him. Hvitserk scrambles over the perfectly plain hardwood floors, upchucking up what’s left of his agitated stomach after his pathetic night out on the town.

“Hvitserk!”

Her spindly hand is at his back. Ordinarily, she was a comfort in your absence. That despite her pushing, and pushing, and pushing to get your name off “his” book, she would always be there for him in ways that a lover could not. Author-illustrators make so much more than being an illustrator alone, she reminded him. Her considerate words now feel like measured steps against his relationship. Her touch rips his skin into gooseflesh. Hvitserk works his shoulder away, his knuckles becoming white around the bowl.

“You drank too much last night.” it’s a non-question. Obviously, if he were here, he had. He groans his miserable response into the toilet bowl, wishing he could smother himself in the water, as it would be a better punishment than anything his girlfriend could do to him. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

Her steps become distant echoes. When he finishes and cleans after himself, he starts his search for his clothes. He picks them from a singular pile, draws them back on, and reaches for his phone. It bleats a miserable eight percent battery life.

“She didn’t call if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Ericka stands in a silvery slip; although he’s not sure when she put on some clothes. She hands him his cup of coffee and takes a seat on her “divorce couch”, a plain grey chair that she scammed her ex-husband out of. As she sits there, all long limbs, and purposefully sultry clothes-- the guilt strikes him.

Hvitserk takes a sip of bitter, burnt black coffee. She’s never been a great coffee maker but her heart is in the right place. It wouldn’t feel right to snuff her. After all, he probably spent the night before buried in her cunt.

“You called me to pick you up at the bar last night. You were so drunk all you wanted to do was lay on my chest,” Ericka pulls a sheer black kimono over her thin collarbones. His eyes fall on her hands. “I told you she’d break your heart. Women like that-- once they get over a certain weight-- they aren’t emotionally available to do anything but eat. It consumes them.”

“She ain’t like that.”

“If she’s not like that, then why did you have sex with me? Be honest with yourself, Hvitserk. Your needs aren’t met with her. That’s why you needed me.”

His mouth runs dry. Like he’s been chewing on his regret as if it were paper. He couldn’t remember the night before. It was like a bad memory he never wanted to recover. Hvitserk glances down to his cup as he sinks onto her bed.

“It was an accident,” he glares at the surface. “I- You know I can’t be with you, right? You’re--”

“Old?” she asks. He’s never cared about something as simple as that. Twelve years his senior or not, it wasn’t an issue.

“It’s not that. C’mon Erika, you know I don’t give a shit about age. She’s my baby girl.”

“You’re going to stay with her? A woman like that?”

“Like what?” Hvitserk sets the coffee on the nightstand as he snaps at her before he could bite it back. He knew what she meant. Erika’s long ranging sigh reminds him of Aslaug. How tenderly her hands would wrap around him even though they were truly tainted with alcohol perfuming off her breath.

“I’ve been your agent for years Hvitserk. We go through this every time you find a girl. This oen is by far the worst. She doesn’t care about you. Look at all that work you did for her yesterday. The pendant you bought her. The work you’ve put into her books! You even pick up all the food she eats. She won’t go outside of her house and you still expect that she’ll suddenly become this fat trophy wife on your arm.”

“Just because she’s fat don’t--”

“It isn’t about the fat, Hvitserk. How many times does she have to show you, or tell you for you to get the picture through your stupid head, huh? She doesn’t want you! And you have the balls to call me a fucking accident.”

“Erika--”

She leaps up from her chair. Hvitserk sucks in a hard breath and tries to find sense through the nonsense, looking through his phone. Erika was right. You hadn’t sent a message. Not in his texts, not on his social media. More egregiously, he spots a new post. Ericka’s hands fold over his, pushing him back to sit on the bed. She slides over his thin hips and takes a seat on his empty lap. It was painfully simple, painfully domestic, and painfully wrong.

“Let me tell you what I’ve learned in forty years,” Erika whispered in his ear. Her thin lips move, gliding like butter in his ear. “If someone doesn’t want you, there’s nothing you can do to change that.” Her fingers comb through his hair, like slimy tendrils. “But I’m here.”

Hvitserk tips his head nack, gazing at the ceiling. Her palm caresses his scruffy jawline to drag his attention from the ceiling to her soft blue eyes, a painless depth, if only he would listen to her words. Hvitserk shifts her back on the bed, loitering around her waist with a supportive hand on the base of her back.

“I know you care ‘bout me. I just-- need some time, okay?”

It doesn’t slip him that she’s scowling as he walks out of her home. There was someone he could count upon, when things were difficult, his phone buzzing in his palm reminded him of that.

“Hey, Ivar.”

Or, maybe not.

“You fucked her?” Ivar stopped chewing his pastry, ambling his head one way then another, laughing against himself. He took his mug of properly brewed coffee to his lips. Hvitserk regrets agreeing to meet him at the cafe. “What were you thinking sleeping with your agent?”

“I wasn’t thinking! I was drunk--” Hvitserk set his hand to his forehead. He has no appetite as he cycled through what he had done, searching out the moment that he called Erika. He fails to locate anything but quiet sobbing behind the neck of a beer bottle and a distant, squeamish feeling of fingers down his nape. “I think she took advantage of me.”

Ivar sets down his cup of coffee, picking up a fork and knife as he leaned over the table, lips punctuating each word.

“Yes, well, I am sure that will go over with your girlfriend well. I’m sorry, I slept with my skinny, well-established agent who has been wanting me to get rid of you. That bitch has been after you for years. What do you think she will do now? She won’t let you go.”

“She understands,” he reflects at the monochrome crowd. His plate is full but has gone cold with his lack of appetite. Normally, this was the place he came with his brother to binge breakfast and muse about women. Ubbe wouldn’t care about his issues: he never had time for anyone but himself. Not really. Ivar scoffed, gazing into the foot traffic flitting by their cafe.

“Tch, I’m sure she does. She will probably break up with you.”

He bobbed his head.

“I think she already has.”

A normal man would come to beg.

But Hvitserk draws in the deep quiet of the park. With only the barks of dogs, the giggles of children, and the occasional frequency from couples watching movies in the park, it’s a place of solace by the small pond.

He starts with an outline of Xiao’s small face. It’s a rough outline, budding and ready to be kissed with by watercolours. Soft pinks like petals of peonies droop in his photo. He must have blended this shade wrong. Line after line that he sweeps, he weeps. His phone jingles in his pocket and his heart tightens around his chest like a straight jacket to someone in an insane asylum. He must be going crazy-- if he too can no longer paint.

“Where are you?!” you boom on the other end of the line. Hvitserk fumbles his phone, suckling in a breath. Had Ivar told you? No, his brother wouldn’t. Not Ivar. He was never a gossiper.

“In-- in the park?”

“What has gotten into you? You could have at least texted me to tell me you were okay. I was worried sick!”

You? Worried sick? This wasn’t the you from yesterday. The one that pelted out how selfish he was for craving intimacy. The one that told him that all he wanted was to sexualize you. As if he were some sixty year old pervert with a camera in hand to click a picture of under your beautiful pastel skirts. Hvitserk sets the brushes into his cup of water and sets aside Xiao’s painting to dry.

“Hvitserk!”

“I’m here,” he blurts out. “I didn’t think you’d care. You didn’t call.”

“Like I didn’t I call you all night.”

Something cracks, deep in his belly. With all the days of work he’d done for you and you alone, he forgot himself in the mix. He jerked his phone back, frantically looking at his phone app. No recent calls meant what they meant. When he finds nothing, it only thrusts him into a further rage.

“Bullshit,” he belts out. “You didn’t. You didn’t care about me last night. You never fuckin’ do.”

“Hvit--” he turns off his phone. There was a sliver of a moment in which he regrets that on the basis of last night. Maybe you rejected him, but he wasn’t an idiot. A man simply didn’t cheat on his girlfriend because she said no.

He packs up his bag and heads toward the football field. It’s time to play football.

He smashes Ubbe on the field. If he wasn’t at peace with being an illustrator, maybe he could have been a ballplayer. Flipping the ball from foot to foot with Ubbe on his trailing his tail was fun, but watching him try and miss as he thwacked the ball on its net was even better. Unlike Ubbe’s well-proportioned body, he’s all long limbs and quick feet. Just the right combination to slip out of Ubbe’s grasp. Well, that was, until Ubbe tackled his ass onto the blades of grass, sending the both of them rolling through the grasp.

“Bro, really?!” Hvitserk laughs, dropping back onto the grass. The skid marks on his clothes would be unreal.

“If I can’t catch you,” Ubbe heaves, digging his hand into his pocket. He finds his phone there, vibrating with messages from Torvi: probably. Hvitserk shoves his arms behind his neck, drawing out breath after ragged breath.

“Wanna go eat?”

“Na,” Ubbe shoves himself onto your feet. “Your girl is here.”

His what? Ubbe rushes off. A sinking feeling came over his clammy hands. He opens his mouth to beg him not to go, to take him along with like he used to as a child. He’s terrible at making up and hours ago, he’d hung up on you. His lips press together, soothing himself with the false pretense that-- no, it would be fine. If you didn’t apologize, perhaps neither would he.

He finds you on the other side of the soccer field, fashioning his favorite sundress. There’s something glamorous about its corset bodice and its draped sleeves that left him breathless. He wills down his terrible arousal, drawn to the pendant he bought you nestled between your large breasts. You wait for him by his things, pulling the rim of a broad pale hat and looking down at beautiful chunky nude heels.

You’re beautiful and terrifying all in one. He regains himself enough to make his legs solidify from the liquidy mass they were seconds ago. He might feel much like a newborn calf falling over himself to get his things, but perhaps he looked better than he felt. Women like sweaty, stupid men, right?

“What are you doing here?” he picks up his things. “I thought you didn’t like to be seen in public.”

“You hung up on me,” you hold his tablet flush against your dress and offer it out to him. He takes it and secures it back in his bag. “I had to come to find you.”

“Yeah? I’ll bet.” Hvitserk wills down the painful throbbing behind his joggers, pulling his bag to obscure the pain he was in. The sooner he went home, the sooner he could jerk himself off without the overwhelming guilt of being, as he was, a whore. Why couldn’t he stay mad? He wanted to stay mad! “You look... nice. Never seen you looking so nice. What’s the occasion?”

“You like it?” You pull out the skirt and stop to do a twirl that he curses himself for stopping for. Normally, his girl wouldn’t even go outside. Who was this? He’s aware of others watching-- the fat girl in a flashy dress. “I wore it for you.”

“Yeah, I do.” He moistens his lips, his voice raspy and thick. “Looks like an angel.”

“Does that mean you’ll come back home?” You reach out for him. Your soft hands winding around his well-corded arm. He realizes then, the confidence in which you carried yourself masked the desperation in your hands. They trembled over his bicep. “I’ll be good, I promise I won’t yell at you again like that. I wouldn’t even be mad if you-- you found someone else to fuck. I know you-- I know you need it. If you can’t get it from me, I can wait on the side. As long as you’re not in love.”

“Hey,” he softened, settling his hand atop of yours. He stops midstep, turning on his high tops on the sidewalk. He takes your hands and listens waits for your outpouring of emotion. Traffic passes by him. They speak in hushed whispers. “Hey, hey, hey. Baby girl wait-- that’s not -- what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that but you were pushing and pushing and wouldn’t stop! I didn’t know what to do. I want to have sex with you,” you squeeze his fingertips. “But you don’t know what it’s like to be fat, old virgin.”

He was trying to listen. He really was. The moment you spoke that word: that v-word, his mind went blank and numb. You’re still talking long after he’s stopped listening. Hvitserk sucks in a breath: it sends him into a flurry, pursuing the bone of your virginity long after you’ve stopped talking.

“What do you--” his lips twitch, drawing in a smile. “--mean a virgin?”

“I haven’t had sex-- I… I wanted to--”

His girl-- a virgin. He wants to smile, if not for the knowledge of the other night, waking up in Erika’s itchy sheets. Hvitserk knows that he has to tell you, he only doesn’t know how. You’re talking again.

“What did you say?” he asks.

“I want you to do it,” you answer. “Right now. Just forgive me.”

He about drops, a moistness coming over his mouth that he can’t-- exactly-- help. His palms feel just as hot, sweating as he pulls them free from yours. Clearing his throat, he slips his hand against the small of your back.

“Na, let’s… let’s take it easy. We’ll talk ‘bout it later.”

He wants that virginity.

But logically, oh woe is he, he knows it’s not really right to take someone’s virginity if they’re not all there. You’re not all there because you don’t know of that night. It’s like, consent, right? Bad consent was just jerking your ankle like some Viking and dragging you into bed with him. If he was going to do it, he told himself, you had to know what he’d done.

It was a slip-up.

Hvitserk finished another drawing for his new book independent of your input. It was a children’s book about good bodies-- because as he looked at your good body, he was reminded of Ericka’s cruel words. He wanted to do better for lil kids.

“Hvitserk, your phone is ringing,” you said pointedly from across the room where you sat like a madwoman. Your frantic papers sat nestled around a basket of shared chicken he made for lunch.

“Huh?” Tapping over, he recognizes Erika’s photo, planting a kiss on his cheek on his first big break. She had been the first one to really believe in him. It was a long time ago now, he reminds himself to change that to something more… suitable after last night. He gestures his fingers at you. “Thanks, baby girl.”

He answers the phone. The moment he does, he hears Erika’s flat voice snaking into a hiss. It’s a noise that he hasn’t heard. Not in all his years of having her as his patient agent.

“You’re with her, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m uh-- with Ubbe.” He throws you a glance. You tilt your head, he shakes his, and that’s the terrible loneliness of holding a secret. “Erika--” Hvitserk sighs, parting his lips to talk. She shushes him with such severity that he thinks she’s trying to lop his head off, too.

“Break it off.”

“What?”

He steps outside and leans against the cold metal door separating the high-rise apartments from, well, the outside world. He expects to see her standing out there. All he finds are the many cars parked on the street and the stillness of movement. It’s too quiet. The whistle of the wind through the street chills him.

“I know you’re with her. I can tell her for you if you’d like.”

“No. Don’t--” Hvitserk sighs, searching for the words in the silence. “I don’t think you understand. We worked through it.”

She laughs something from deep in her belly at him.

“I wasn’t asking. Either you do it— or I’ll make you do it. You obviously don’t know what’s best for yourself. Why else are you fucking around with some--” He collapses on the stairs, cradling the phone to his ear as she goes on. “Don’t think I won’t expose her for what she is. A thief.”

“She’s never-- Why the fuck are you doing this?”

“You told me you would take care of it. Something you’ve failed to do-- I should have known you couldn’t do it. ”

“If this shit is about yesterday--”

“I’ll give you one more chance to break it off if you come over tonight.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” There’s a pause on the other line. Then a chuckle. A long winded, painful chuckle. He should have known better. That night-- calling it an accident wasn’t exactly tolerable for a woman like Erika. She wasn’t the kind of woman who could be easily ignored.

“If that’s what I have to do.”

He chokes out a sob. Ivar was right. She wasn’t going to let him go.

“Fuckin’-- fuckin’ fine.”

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