severus actually freezes for a long time when he hears about that because didn’t potter used to get borderline aneurysms whenever severus so much as used a spell?
The same potter who hexed every single person he didn’t like. It doesn’t aurprise anyone (except the girl who doesn’t understand a whiff of wizarding politics). Potter would be the type who doesn’t like being CALLED a death eater, it’s such an ugly word.
Idea: he joins, and splits the group with himself at the helm.
The Potter family were nice. Mr and Mrs Potter, despite their fortune, have always been nice. They didn’t look down on other witches and wizards, not like other Pureblood families did – not like the Blacks or the Malfoys or the Averys. They didn’t know many Muggleborns, and they certainly didn’t know any Muggles – but then, that was to be expected, given the social circle which they frequented.
Still, they knew right from wrong, good from bad, and the virtue of being nice. They may not know any Muggleborns personally, but it didn’t mean that you had to subscribe to the narrative being pushed in the wizarding media – the mentions of borders and walls and camps were most distasteful.
They shielded their beloved son from a lot, but they were certain to instil their core values – Muggleborns were no lesser, and Death Eaters were the enemy. It was a little cursory, but it would do for a child – right from wrong, good from bad, and the virtue of being nice.
James wasn’t bad. He was exuberant. They frowned at his letters when they saw he’d taken up with a Black – “How did you stumble across a Black? Isn’t he one of the Slytherins?” – but then smiled with delight when they learned how the young pureblood been sorted. It wasn’t just letters from James – they received a few from the Black family (all immediately burned, and never once mentioned to James), and more again from Professor McGonagall. She was new, they thought – Transfiguration likely hadn’t been the same since Professor Dumbledore took the post of Headmaster – and just didn’t understand. James knew right from wrong, good from bad, and the virtue of being nice.
He talked a lot about the Muggleborn girl, who had some funny ideas on integration between the Muggle and magical community, and he’d befriended the afflicted boy, and even that strange podgy boy with skittish features which quietly made their skin crawl. No, James wasn’t bad. He talked a lot about the Slytherins who were aiming to be Death Eaters, and the one who was friends with the Muggleborn – it didn’t make a lot of sense; how could a Death Eater be friends with a Muggleborn – but he talked quickly and with his mouth full, never wanting to sit and discuss, but instead aiming to bolt from his dining room chair to resume his adventures on his broom.
Exuberant.
He was always the hero in those games – his fist aloft, clapping himself and his friends, flying effortlessly around the grounds. So it was of no surprise when the Potter parents were informed of an incident. The details were vague, but as James proudly told them, “I saved him. That Death Eater boy. I saved him.” And that was all his parents needed to know – despite their concerns about how the werewolf boy was stumbled upon, and despite their concerns about how James knew where to go, the fact that he’d endangered himself to save another – and to save a boy, no less, who was committed to the wrong political cause – that was enough. James knew right from wrong, good from bad, and the virtue of being nice. They didn’t worry about his detentions so much anymore, and when the Head Boy badge was bestowed upon him, it felt right. He was a good boy.
He’d had no aspirations to join the Ministry. They thought he might have taken up politics, and aligned himself with Dumbledore. They thought he might have taken up journalism, and carved a niche for himself as a man with morals. They thought, in the worst case, he might have become an auror – but they weren’t prepared for him to say he was a vigilante; a freedom fighter.
“Can’t you do that within the Ministry, dear? At least that way, you could have a good pension. Your father and I won’t be around forever.” “Not with the methods I want to use,” he’d said, darkly. And then he’d laughed. “Lighten up, mother. You can’t fight Death Eaters with tripping jinxes.”
They’d exchanged an anxious look, the Potter parents. But neither of them said anything, because their son was telling an uncomfortable truth; the line between light and dark was anything but clear – and they didn’t want to be the ones to tell him to restrain himself, leaving him free to be sliced to ribbons by a Death Eater with fewer morals. After all, this was war, and wizards and witches do dark things in times of war – and there was nothing to worry about; James was a good boy.
It seems unthinkable that they defeated Voldemort after the way that he’d risen, but a few years later, his values were completely derided. James didn’t become a journalist, or an auror, and he didn’t remain a freedom fighter – but he did join the Ministry, keen to make his mark in the laws of the land. He’d dated Evans – married her, even – and her influence could be found in his voting record. He hadn’t pushed any amendments himself, but he was happy to cast his vote in line of relaxation of the laws. After all, Death Eaters were bad, and Muggleborns were good.
He’d never really got on with her sister. Or her sister’s husband. Or their revolting kid. Or her parents, oddly enough, who didn’t seem pleased at his forthright manner – but he knew that it was because he’d fished her out of their world and whirled her off to his. They were a funny lot, Muggles. He’d said as much to Reggie Black, who had seen the light mid-war and moved over to align with Siri. Oh, how he missed Siri. But Reggie was a fair swap now that he was out of his parents’ influence. Both dead. Dragonpox.
“It wasn’t Dragonpox,” Reggie said, one day, straightening the ornaments on the desk. He glanced at the closed office door of the Prime Minister. “It was a Muggle virus.” James’ eyes widened. “A Muggle virus?” “Yeah, I heard them,” Reggie whispered. “And they haven’t told anyone?” “Didn’t want to spread panic.” “Didn’t want to spread panic!” James looked furious. “But it killed hundreds! Three generations of the Malfoy family.” “No loss, is it?” Reggie shot him an amused look. “Well…” James looked uncomfortable. “It’s still magical blood, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t true, but it was that easy. Reggie wasn’t Siri. Siri had stopped listening before the politics his parents shouted about made any sense – but Reggie was in deep. He believed. He believed what his parents said, and what his housemates told him. He saw that kid – the underfed one who died in the battle at the Ministry – saw the abuse his Muggle father saw fit to bestow on him. And he heard what James had to say about those Muggles that Evans came from. But Reggie wasn’t stupid, so he manoeuvered his way into the Muggle world via the Ministry, just to see for himself. Everything he’d heard growing up was right – the Muggles were dangerous. They didn’t have magic to help them, but they managed to cause each other great distress – they fought and murdered and shouted in the streets. They discriminated and imprisoned each other, and created metal birds to drop poisons and explosives on faraway lands.
Tom Riddle had gone too far. That was his mistake. Reggie grabbed his quill – separation between magical and Muggle; not Muggleborns. And no funny masks, or scary cloaks, or stupid names. Lord Voldemort. How ridiculous. No, Reggie needed someone with standing – someone who wasn’t already tainted with what had gone before. A war hero, preferably with a medal or two, but someone who was seen as a radical.
Who better to add weight to the message than a pureblood vigilante-turned-respected-politician who married to a Muggleborn?
It started slowly. A vote here, and a vote there. A speech to ten people, and then a speech to one hundred. A polemic in the Prophet. An amendment. A speech to a thousand. Amendments which were passed unanimously. A speech to two thousand. A law. And another. Borders and walls and camps. Fear sold well. It always does. More laws, more segregation, more votes, more commentary in the media.
A march. And a speech to five thousand. A rally. Law after law after law. And then an internal vote. He’d long been regarded as the true leader of the party, and the driving force behind them. Then came the starkest moment – when he permitted use of the Unforgivables. In certain licensed circumstances. By aurors. By politicians. By anyone of worth within society. “It is to keep our world free,” he had insisted. “It’s for your own protection.” It made sense: he could have such tools at his disposal, because he was good.
And then they held the public vote, which was a forgone conclusion. The new Minister for Magic stood to make his speech, and as he warned about the integration of the two worlds – the platform on which he had long campaigned – a sole voice was heard from the crowd.
“We’ve heard this all before. You’re nothing but a Death Eater, Potter!”
His wand moved quickly, but the aurors already had the wizard in their grip. Frankie Longbottom. He scanned the crowd, who watched the scene with their hearts in their mouths. Was this the start of dissent? A riot?
“We do not use such language,” he said, carefully.
Longbottom’s arm was pressed behind his back, and his face was twisted in pain. “Yeah, well, if the sorting hat fits, Potter!”
The reverberation of shock around the crowd almost made him lose his composure. Would he really be dethroned so early into his reign? Would this moment come back to haunt him? By a Longbottom?
He straightened his back. “If the sorting hat fits?” And then he smirked, and he pointed his wand directly between Longbottom’s eyes. “Well, if the sorting hat fits, then who am I to argue?
Crucio!”
And the crowd clapped and cheered as the quivering man was dragged away. After all, James Potter was protecting them. James Potter knew right from wrong. James Potter was good.
ooooooo
this is very good. i like the subtleties… the small throwaway lines here and there, makes quite an impact
i have a special soft spot for the parents existing here bc canonically, they’re an aged couple and james is their only child, so to have the dynamic referred to is awesome and also depressing bc how else would an aging couple react to their only child being an absolute…
(( OOC: I will never get over how poorly Ron was portrayed in the movies… and how calmly he handled Harry saying “See ya guys, I’ma go die now, cool.”
“Aight, do whatcha gotta do bruh.”
…. E x c u s e m e ?
So… in light of that travesty, I thought I’d give us all the reaction Ron deserved… when he found out Harry was already dead… because Harry didn’t tell him he was going… because he knew Ron would do everything in his power to stop him!!! *puts down megaphone and steps off soap box*
… Enjoy. ))
“Any moment, the people for whom
he had tried to die for would see him, lying apparently dead, in Hagrid’s arms.
"NO!“
The scream was the more terrible because he had never expected or dreamed that
Professor McGonagall could make such a sound.
“No!"
"No!"
"Harry! HARRY!” Ron’s, Hermione’s, and Ginny’s voices were worse than McGonagall’s.
Harry wanted nothing more than to call back, yet he made himself lie silent.
Their cries acted like a trigger; the crowd of survivors took up the cause, screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eathers…
“… Set him down,
Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!“
Harry felt himself lowered onto the grass.
"You see?” said Voldemort, and Harry felt him striding backward and forward
right beside the place where he lay. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you
understand now, deluded ones?”
“… He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to
sacrifice themselves for him!"
It’s finally here! Big Billy! I was commissioned by @stoneyfire to write this story I have been dying to! I know you all have been waiting for this one too so let’s not wait anymore!
Once upon a time, in a familiar place a long time ago there was a wolf and a doctor. Or well, that’s the romantic way to start the story. The actual start is much more gruesome than that. I was young and angry, in fact, I was more animal than man. The wolf had taken over and I was a feral piece of shit. I don’t remember much from back then aside from seeing her. I remember her eyes as clear as day. Her makeup was smudged, her eyeliner and mascara had melted into something of a raccoon mask. Not a very good look but I will always remember how taken I was by her.
Well, to properly begin we must go back a little further than me waking up to a hot doctor tying me to a bed. We must go back to when I was dumped at the edge of a small town. I was half dead, bloodied and bludgeoned and rightfully so. Remember I was a feral shit. I also didn’t know when to quit, so being bloodied and near death, I’m still trying to start fights. Hearthway Hollow was on its way to becoming the legend it is today, back then it was something other weres laughed about. A town where weres and humans tried to live together in some sanctimonious harmony? Bullshit.
Hi everyone! This story is actually a request I had messaged to me! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! My requests are OPEN, so please send in whatever you please no matter how long or short, or big or small it may seem!I love hearing from all of you!:)
***Also as a side note- the person who messaged me wanted the character to have a personality like Harley Quinn’s. I might of gotten a little carried away, but couldn’t help the toxic relationship resemblance of Harley and the Joker that fit perfectly with the requested story line! I also might have listened to the Suicide Squad soundtrack while writing this, hence the title and if you’ve seen the movie, I used that as a little bit of inspiration too. You might notice some familiar situations and quotes 😉 Enjoy!
“You’re breaking up with me?” I ask in complete and utter bewilderment. He’s just joking right? This has to be some twisted prank he’s pulling on me like he always does, except this time it’s not remotely funny whatsoever.
“You heard what I said sweetheart,” he speaks nonchalantly, sitting on my bed with his feet touching the floor, while his hands laid flat on my bed behind his back.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” There’s no way in hell he’s dumping me right now.
“Christ Harley,” he huffs while tilting his head back in annoyance. “How many different ways do I need to say it for you to process it in that head of yours? It’s over. You mean nothing to me, I don’t want you anymore. Get it?”
I stood standing in front of him, my eyes wide with shock, not even being able to believe or comprehend the words coming out of his mouth.
“You’re not leaving me,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head. “Y-You can’t do this to me Patrick, I’ll do anything. Please,” I beg, cupping his face with my hands tenderly. His nostrils flare, seeming pissed as he flinches his head to the side, loathing my touch.
“Do you know how lucky you are to have a girl like me? I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked me to and this is how you’re going to repay me?” Tears are pouring down my cheeks and at this point there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. Patrick’s face lacked any sort of emotion as usual, as he stared at me completely unbothered. He rises up from the bed, and starts walking towards my bedroom door without saying a word.
My body was fueling with rage that he was having the nerve to walk out of here that easily and not give me any valid reason as to why he woke up this morning and just meraculously wanted to break up with me. I charge at him from behind and push him so hard that he actually stumbles a bit. He freezes in place, stunned, as his head ever so slowly turns around. That eerie smirks forms on his face as he lets out a breathy chuckle.
“Who is she huh? What girl have you been fucking behind my back!?” I yell as my fingernails begin digging into my palms.
Patrick moves his body so he’s completely facing me now. He begins taking very relaxed yet agonizingly slow and daunting strides towards my direction.
“Oh what? You think I’m fucking scared of you?” I wanted to push him as far as I could go, not even worrying about any consequences I may face. I needed answers and answers is what I was going to get.
“Why don’t you be a real man for once and tell me the fucking truth you dick!” I shout, feeling like a complete wild woman.
Patrick’s tall body is pressing against mine, making me have to raise my head up to look at him. He usually does this when he wants me to feel inferior to him.
“Tell me!” I scream, shoving at his chest, which was useless considering it’s hard as a rock and he doesn’t even move an inch.
“Fucking talk to me dammit!” I cry while hitting and pounding at his chest as if it were a punching bag. My blood was boiling as my hands were wildly abusing the boy, even though I wasn’t actually hurting him considering I’m a girl who doesn’t even have the strength to open a bottle of soda. What was making me more furious was the mere fact that he was just standing there, taking it, and not reacting to my insane behavior at all. I felt like I was a misbehaved child and he was waiting until my wild tantrum was over. He is never this calm. And that terrified me.
I begin to grow tired as my arms start to feel weak from flailing repeatedly at him. He hasn’t broken eye contact with me the whole time, but I could tell he was on the verge off exploding. Giving up, I stuffed my face into his chest, pathetically sobbing.
“Please,” I whisper. “Why are you leaving me?”
I’ve never felt like such a pitiful mess before in my life. My tears were making visible wet stains on his grey tank top, I was sniffling and hiccuping uncontrollably, and my voice was starting to sound a bit hoarse.
Still no fucking answer. I lift my head off his chest and smack his face with such force, my hand instantly starts throbbing. That might of been extreme, but I didn’t fucking care. Patrick always said he liked the fire I had in me, well now I was really going to show him just how much I can make him burn.
His face swings to the side from my hit, but he recovers quickly as he grabs my neck and slams me against the wall. I hiss in pain from the brutal impact on my head and back. He stares at me for what feels like eternity.
“You’re becoming too real,” he mutters, almost as if he was talking to himself, while both his hands are wrapped around my throat, choking me slightly. His nose was touching mine as his hot, minty, breath fanned across my face.
“What are you talking about Patrick? I-I don’t understand,” I respond, doing everything in my power to make sense of all this.
The expression on his face was unreadable, but if my instincts are telling me correctly, he almost looked a little….scared? Patrick’s eyes didn’t possess any sort of confidence, his forehead was so sweaty that his hair was sticking to it like glue, and his body was shaking a little bit. Patrick as a whole was just completely off.
“Please Patrick, let me in. I love you.”
I cannot believe those words tumbled out of my mouth, but I couldn’t help it. At this point I was desperate for him to change his mind. After all the bullshit he has put me through, all the dangerous escapades, all the craziness we’ve been through together, I fell completely in love with him.
In that moment, I truly don’t regret professing my true feelings to him until he suddenly begins to laugh. It’s not his usual laugh though. It’s a twisted, sick, cackle that was maniac like. I stood there, not even feeling like the Patrick I know was standing in front of me anymore.
“You silly, naive, girl,” he tisks at me, while tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “Trying to act all tough when yesterday I literally had you on all fours, kissing at my feet. Let’s get two things straight shall we? One,” he pauses before tightening his grip on my neck, making me barely able to breath. “You’ve always been just a fuck toy to me, and two” he says before letting go of my neck, but instead grabbing a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back yet moving my face closer to his. “Don’t you ever say you love me again, do you understand me?”
Patrick has hurt me so many times in the past that I started to lose count, but I truly believed at the end of the day he never wanted to loose me. Patrick becomes impatient at the silence growing between us. “I said do you understand me?” he growls through his teeth, tugging on my hair so hard, I feel he might actually pull it out.
“Yes,” I whimper, staring down at the carpet. He releases his death grip and I immediately start rubbing where his violent attack on my head was. Patrick gives me one last stare down, most likely judging my horrific appearance. My mascara was running down my face and my eyes were totally bloodshot.
When Patrick’s about to leave, he sees the picture frame I have of me and him from when we went to the carnival, sitting on my desk. I was smiling ear to ear while he was grabbing my face, kissing me on the cheek. Patrick snatches the frame and throws it against the wall, right by my head. I jump before I see tiny shards of glass sprawled out at the bottom of my feet. As soon as he walks out, I sink down to the ground and stare at the picture sitting in the completely destroyed frame and begin to bawl.
The next day, I looked like a got hit by a fucking train. I have horrible bags and dark circles under my eyes, my hair is natty and unkept, and my eyes are severely swollen considering I was crying the whole entire night. When I walk into Derry high, everyone is staring at me and whispering over to their friends as if I was some mental patient who just escaped the looney bin. They usually always looked at me like that when I had Patrick’s arm slung around my shoulder, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case today.
I’m at my locker and grab my binder before I see Mike come to my side, making me slightly surprised. Patrick never let me be within a foot of him since that very entertaining Thursday afternoon.
It was after school, and I was out on the field for my cheerleading practice while Patrick was leaned over the gate, watching me while smoking a cigarette. I found it so arousing when he did this, loving how easily I could tease him when bending down to touch my toes, ass perked up in the air to “stretch.” Patrick knew my games, but as much as he would never admit, he absolutely loved when I tested his patience. My hair was in pigtails that day and I remember being so excited to perform our routine. Mike went to stand by Patrick, as he joined in on staring at me closely.
“She’s flexible,” Mike observes as I’m practicing my splits.
“You have no idea,” Patrick smirks, his plans for me tonight already plotting in his head.
“You’re a lucky man Hockstetter. Where do I find me a bitch like that.”
For some reason, that comment didn’t sit well with Patrick. At all.
“Harley,” he whistles, using that as a way to holler me over. As soon as I hear it, my head immediately perks up, and I run towards him. Once he’s in front of me I grab his face and give him a big kiss.
“Lookin’ good out there doll face. Mike here seems to think so too,” Patrick remarks, licking his lips deviantly. Mike gives Patrick a questionable look, seeming embarrassed and annoyed as to why Patrick would even call him out on it like that. Me knowing how Patrick is, I know just what he’s trying to pull.
“Oh yeah?” I smirk, chewing my gum, getting closer to Mike. “You’re lookin’ awfully cute today Mikey.” He lets out a breathy chuckle, fidgeting with the chain necklace he was wearing. I’m face to face when I grab his collar, pulling him in closer.
“You want me?” I purr seductively. “I’m all yours.”
Patrick is staring at us as if he’s in a trance, while Mike constantly keeps glancing down to the ground worriedly. I can tell he was contemplating whether to fall for our little trap.
“Nah, this is your girl, man,” he weakly convinces Patrick.
“But I bet you’re enjoying yourself right about now huh?” Patrick sneers, pulling out his pocket knife.
“Fuck Hockstetter, relax, I don’t want no trouble,” he says frantically backing up with his hands up in the air.
“But we do,” I smirk as Patrick laughs and stalks towards Mike, slashing his arm with the knife in a blink of an eye, causing blood to seep out onto the track.
“Holy shit dude, what the fuck!” Mike yells, covering the bloody cut with his hand as he begins to run away like his life depened on it.
“You dick, I wanted to be the one to do it,” I smile at him as he chuckles, feeling like the most luckiest girl in the world.
“Are you feeling alright Harley?” Mike asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Patrick broke up with me last night, alright” I snap, not in the mood whatsoever to talk about it to anyone to avoid hearing them tell me I told you so.
“Oh, I’m really sorry Harley,” he apologizes, trying his best to sound sincere even though I’m sure on the inside he was overjoyed. I glance over at Mike and he’s staring at me like I’m some basket case which I can’t stand.
“Well just forget him Harley, its his loss anyway,” he says, trying to make me feel better. Forget him. Great advice. Let me just magically erase Patrick from my memory and pretend I never dated or knew him. Finally, I’m cured.
“Yeah,” I respond with absolutley no enthusiasm, slamming my locker shut. I look down the hall and see the Bowers gang all huddled right near Mrs. Crawford’s room. Of course they just so happen to choose to hang out there today. Patrick is doing that on purpose, he knows that’s where my first class is.
“Don’t worry about them,” Chris says while noticing my acknowledgement of the Bowers Gang. Feeling vengeful, a wicked idea pops into my head.
“Mikey,” I say in a sicking sweet voice. I twirl my hair while batting my eyelashes at him flirtatiously, chewing my pink bubble gum. “Will you be a gentleman and walk me to class?”
“U-Uh yeah, sure, of course, Harley.”
Putting him under my spell was almost too easy.
I wink at him as we begin to walk side by side. I can practically hear my heart beating with every step closer I get to him. I’m clutching my binder tightly to my chest as I feel all their gazes burn through the side of my head. Just when I think I’ve past them, a burgundy combat boot sticks out in front of my foot, resulting in me falling face first to the ground, my books flying out of my hands.
It’s like everything in that moment was happening in slow motion. I look up, both hands pressed on the cool tiled floor, hearing all the laughter coming from the boys and other observers who happen to witness my fall. I can’t believe Patrick fucking tripped me. Mike rushes over to me, grabbing the top of my arm.
“Jesus, are you alright? Here, let me help you.” I shrug his hand away, not needing any assistance on standing up on my own two feet. I take a deep breath in and out, collect my books off the floor, and get up, wiping my hands on my skirt. Doing my very best, I completely ignore all of them, knowing they just want me to feed into their twisted games and give them attention. Mike and I begin walking together again before Henry, the mullet wearing twat begins to speak.
“What happened to you? Looks like you rolled over and died,” he snickers, nudging Patricks arm like he just mustered up the best joke known to man. Patrick intensely eyes me from head to toe, seeming very pleased. He raptures my self destruction, especially knowing he’s the cause of it.
“What happened to you? Oh wait, I forgot you always look like an ugly, fucking, muskrat,” I spit back, not being able to be the bigger person and disregard them any longer. Belch and Vic snort, trying their best to hold in their laughter.
“Patrick’s right, you do have a filthy, little, whore, mouth. Too bad it wasn’t good enough to keep him around,” Henry smirks, biting down on his bottom lip while crossing his arms in a cocky way that made me literally want to pound his face in.
I felt like I was a ticking time bomb and Henry was the last second I had on the clock. Instantly, I drop all my books to the floor and make a beeline at Henry. He looks over at his friends and chuckles before I smack his head against the lockers. Suddenly, Mike grabs me from behind, lifting me up, and pulling me away from the Bowers Gang.
“Are you insane?” Mike asks in my ear.
Yes.
I thrash and kick with all my might, hating that I was being constrained because I wanted to hurt Henry more.
“You stupid cunt, hit me like that again and I’ll fucking kill you!” he shouts, trying to get closer to me while Belch and Vic grab his shoulders, holding him back. Patrick is leaned against the lockers completely chill and clearly amused, like he’s witnessing a bunch of zoo animals fighting.
“Go fuck yourself you dumb hillbilly!” I yell before Mrs. Crawford comes outside.
“What in the world is going on out here? Get to class. Now.” All the students immediately scurry away like a bunch of rats. Mrs.Crawford was a frail, old, lady with glasses too big for her face, but somehow she had her ways of being intimidating. I give Henry and Patrick one last death glare before picking my textbooks up off the ground. I walk into class and the whole period, I stare out the window, my mind being consumed with only one thought, and that is I wish I had never fell for Patrick Hockstetter.
The school day was almost over and I couldn’t be any more fucking ready. Classes today dragged on longer than usual, and I couldn’t tell if it felt that way because I was in a pissy mood or because my routine wasn’t the same anymore. I’ve become so accustomed to meeting up with Patrick after each class, sitting with him at lunch, or waiting for him at all of our secret spots where we would do…..stuff.
I had to make one last trip to my locker to put away my literature book considering it weighed almost the same as I did. My mouth practically drops to the floor when I see Patrick with a girl pinned against my locker, his tongue completely down her throat. I’m not totally surprised, I knew he had found someone else and I also was expecting some sort of payback from my actions earlier, but I couldn’t wrap my head around why he was being this spiteful to me. I can easily walk away and pretend like I saw nothing, but as difficult as it may be, I’m not letting him think his cruel behavior is having an effect on me. I’m going to be cool and calm and not rearrange this girl’s face.
I saunter up to them, clearing my throat as they both continue sucking each others faces off. They continue to ignore my presesnce even though I know Patrick heard me. I do it again, being way more louder and obnoxious this time. They finally seize their actions and notice my appearance.
“Hi! Can you find someone else’s locker to transmit an STD on? Thanks,” I fake smile while nudging the girl to the side with my shoulder. The blonde bimbo moves, probably knowing if she didn’t I would treat her the way I did Henry this morning. Her name is Tiffany Whittley and she has an IQ of a walnut.
“Well in that case you better get yourself checked,” he smirks, leaning his hand against my locker, completley ignoring Tiffany on his other arm who was waiting for him like a panting puppy.
I blatantly blow a bubble at him with my gum before doing what I need to do, shoving my book inside before closing it and storming off. He was making this break up hell for me and the worst part was that I have no idea what I did to deserve it.
It’s Saturday night and my huge, exciting, plans for the evening is sitting in my room alone, working on some calculus homework. I don’t have much friends, well besides Patrick, but I guess he doesn’t count anymore. At this point, I just wanted to be by myself and sulk in misery, wondering when this horrific feeling of heart break is going to go away. Lately, I can barely even eat or sleep, the separation from him taking a serious toll on me mentally and physically. I used to not always be like this. Before Patrick, I was a complete nerd who disguised myself in baggy clothing and would never hurt a fly and hated any sorts of attention. Meeting him changed my life. He created me into a whole other person I was meant to be. Ever since the day I saw that alluring grin, I wanted nothing more than to devote my whole being to him. I remember it like it was yesterday.
Sitting alone in the library on Friday after school, I was sticking my nose in my psychology book, which is my all time favorite subject. Patrick creeped around a corner, and sat down next to me.
“Whatcha readin’ there?” he asks, trying to smile like he was a nice guy, which we both knew he was not.
I giggle nervously. “Oh, I’m just working on a psychology project that’s due soon.” He scoots his chair closer to me so he has a better view of my textbook as he begins reading what’s on the page.
“Ah, the four feelgood chemicals. Wanna know my favorite way to get endorphins flowing through the brain?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Fucking,” he blatantly states, giving me a wink which causes me to press my glasses up to the bridge of my nose, my cheeks blushing like crazy.
“But it’s a certain someone who I can’t stop thinking about doing it with. She has this long blonde hair, and always wears these big glasses that completely hides her face because she’s insecure. She’s always by herself and doesn’t seem to have many friends which makes me wonder if there’s more to her than what everyone else thinks they know.”
I don’t answer him, not even believing he was talking to me right now. We have actually never spoken to each other, just a lot of flirtatious smiles and staring, my obvious goggling in the hallways hasn’t always been exactly subtle.
“Trust me, there’s nothing special about me,” I respond, glancing back down at my textbook.
“What’d you say we get out of here so I can prove you wrong?”
My grin grows as I bite down on my lip, while slamming my book shut, and begin packing my belongings up.
Coming back down to reality, I hear my doorbell ring unexpectedly. I jog downstairs and swing open the door to see Henry, Belch, and Vic.
“What the hell do you want?” I bark.
“Have you seen Patrick?” Henry asks, fidgeting nervously.
“No?” I respond in a tone as if saying to him are you serious?
“We haven’t heard from him all day. It’s strange, his folks, nobody knows where he’s at.” They’re all staring down at the ground, as if trying to conceal their deep concern of their friend’s whereabouts.
“Well he’s not my problem anymore,” I answer, about to slam the door in their faces before Henry sticks his black cowboy boot out, preventing me from doing so.
“Harley,” he warns in a threatening tone. “Can you not be a stubborn bitch for once in your life and just help us look for him?”
They have literally made my life miserable the past couple of days and now I’m the bitch. Even though I was doing my best to act like I didn’t give two fucks about him, on the inside I was panicking. Four kids have randomly gone missing in the past two weeks. The image of a missing poster with Patrick’s face on it flashes in my mind and I immediately feel nauseous.
“Fine. I’ll be right out.”
We get to the kissing bridge, and the flashlight I was holding shines on all the young lovers initials carved into the old, worn out, wood. I go to where me and Patrick’s is located and run my fingers lightly over it. I know how cheesy and stupid this sounds, but I was exploding with pure joy when Patrick wanted to mark our names. It was something that felt so permanent, making me feel like it was a promise to us that he would keep forever.
We decided to search around here because sometimes Patrick enjoyed waiting in the woods to see if any kids came about to bully, or he enjoyed killing and collecting the creepy bugs that crawled all throughout the area. One time he brought me back a dead butterfly from here and it was one of the most romantic things he has ever done for me.
“Why the fuck did you bring that baseball bat with you?” Henry asks.
“Listen boys, I don’t want to be the next kid to go missing in this town,” I respond, trying to keep an eye out for a very tall boy, with raven black hair. “Have you guys checked out over there?” I ask, motioning my flashlight to beyond the kissing bridge.
“Fuck no,” Henry retorts like I’m out of my mind.
“What? Ya scared Henry?” I smirk, loving to inflate his big, “terrifying”, ego.
“I’m not fucking scared, that’s just a stupid idea,” Henry defends. He’s such a baby.
“Well I’m going to go check it out,” I simply answer, raising my leg up to hop over the bridge.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea Harley,” Belch intervenes. God, they really are all a bunch of wimps.
“Look, you guys stay here and wait about 15 minutes. If I’m not back, then a terrifying monster is feasting on my body and you need to come find me okay?”
They all nod in unison as they watch me jump to the other side. I begin walking, and the deeper I go, I start to holler his name.
“Patrick! Patrick, are you here? Hello!?”
I hear nothing but the sound of crickets, and the crunching of leaves under my feet. Once I reach the small creek, I come to a stop and shine my flashlight at the giant sewer. There’s no way he would be in that shit hole. Once I’m about to turn around and head back, I see orange light illuminate the sewer and my heart drops. Fucking Patrick and his damn flame thrower.
I jolt towards the sewer and begin to yell his name as loud as I could. When I enter, my feet are immediatley soaked from the disgusting, filthy water in the tunnel. Awh man, these shoes are new. Flashing the light forward, my stomach turns when I see absolutely nothing. I stand there completely scared and confused, as it’s an impossibility that he didn’t hear me and that he’s now suddenly nowhere in sight. Walking cautiously, I go deeper into the sewer before I hear a high shriek of laughter. That voice definitely does not belong to Patrick.
“Harley,” I hear the voice whisper. It was so soft, sweet even, sounding like a small child, yet it echoed throughout the entire place. “He’s right over here. Come closer.”
I turn a corner and still see no one, but continue my way down. My hands were sweating and I could practically hear myself breathing as well as the splashing sound that occured with every step that I take. Suddenly, my flashlight goes out, making me trapped in the complete, pitch, black.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath as I whack the flashlight against my hand as if that’ll fix it. I’m shocked when it actually turns back on, but when I shine it out in front of me, Patrick is standing there, looking like a walking corpse. Bugs and maggots were crawling on his decomposed skin, he was smiling disturbingly with his teeth all rotten and decayed, and his clothing was completely torn and ripped. My mouth drops open in pure horror as my hand with the flashlight is shaking tremendously.
“Patrick?” I whisper, frightened beyond belief.
“Join us Harley,” that sinister voice whispers, except this time I hear it right inside my right ear. I gulp, knowing there’s a presence behind me as I slowly turn around. I raise the baseball bat up behind my head to see a bloody, gruesome, clown.
“What the hell?” I murmur to myself, not believing my eyes.
The clown giggles before It whispers, “We all float down here. Come float with us Harley.”
Patrick owes me big time for this.
“Okay Mr. Clown, I’ll float with you,” I answer, getting closer to the horrifying creature, his golden eyes shining brighter than my flashlight. It seems satisfied with my compliance.
“But first, I need to save my boyfriend,” I declare before instantly swinging the bat at the clown’s head, knocking It down to the ground. The horrifying creature gets on its knees as its mouth opens inhumanly wide while dozens of sharp teeth begins to form. I turn around and see Patrick lying on the floor, except he looks completely normal again. Frantically, I rush over to him.
“Patrick, c’mon we need to leave right now!” I urge, pulling his arm up with all the power I have. His body quivers as he begins throwing up blood that almost looked black. Right when I question if he’s actually still Patrick, he stares up at me and smiles, “Nice hit Princess.” Yep, that’s my man. Seeing that he’s himself and not dead makes any fear that I currently have totally vanish.
“We gotta go,” I rush, helping him stand up urgently. I grab his hand, and when I turn, the clown is gone and instead a couple of, “I heart Derry,” balloons begin to float around. We ignore them and start to run as fast as we can, trying our best to get the fuck out of here. Once Patrick and I make it out, we collide with Henry, Belch, and Vic.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Henry observes Patrick, examining the scrapes and cuts that scattered along his head, face, and arms.
“I tripped and fell down the steep hill right behind the bridge,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal. His lip was busted and his face was covered in dirt. I’ve never seem him looked so roughed up which is surprising.
“Well what the fuck were you doing down here then?” Henry snaps.
“I thought I heard Hanscom’s fat ass down in the sewer. Anything else?”
The boys were silent as if they knew something strange was up, but didn’t want to press on the subject any further. Still shook up from that clown, I glance over at the sewer one last time before seeing a single balloon floating its way out before saying, “Let’s go home.”
The car ride was quiet while tension filled the air, making me feel slightly uncomfortable. Patrick is alive and safe which is honestly all I care about, but I couldn’t help but replay tonight’s events over and over in my head. That thing is the reason for all the children’s disappearances, but who the hell would believe that a killer clown is the one to blame for it? I was so deep in thought that I didn’t even notice Belch was parked in my driveway already. I was waiting for maybe a thank you of some sorts until I realized the Bowers Gang is a bunch of unappreciative fuck faces. Annoyed, I open the door and am shocked when I see Patrick getting out on the other side.
“What are you doin’?” I question him.
“Get in the house Harley,” he demands, slamming the door shut. I obey him as we make our way towards the front door.
Patrick is sitting on my bathroom counter while I’m scaverging through the cabinet for the first aid kit. Finally, I find it and place it down next to him. I take out the antiseptic wipe, preparing to clean that nasty gash above his eyebrow.
“This is going to sting a little Pat,” I warn him.
“I can take it Angel,” he smirks, the familiar pet name making my heart flutter.
“Sorry, I forgot your indestructible,” I giggle softly while wiping away the blood and dirt from his wound. Of course unlike any other human, Patrick doesn’t even flinch. I feel his intense gaze on me, but try my best to ignore it.
“I thought you were dead,” I blurt, getting another wipe. “Don’t ever do something like that to me again, do you hear me?”
“And why’s that?” he asks, scanning my face intently.
“Because just the thought of losing you, like really losing you, I don’t even-” I can’t finish my sentence as my eyes start to water and I feel like a huge pill is stuck in my throat. I bow my head down as I feel the hot tears begin to roll down my face. He watches me cry for a minute before he grabs my chin, tilting my face up to look at him.
“Tell me that you still love me, that you would do anything for me,” he orders, having that excited gleam in his eye.
“I love you Patrick. I can’t live without you.”
He smirks in satisfaction as he pulls me in by my waist, so I’m standing in between his lanky legs. “That’s my girl. You’ll always belong to me Harley.”
There’s nothing I wanted to hear Patrick say more than that. I want to be his forever, and if I be damned for it, then I’ll gladly burn in the pits of hell with him. That’s the thing, we fight with each other, but we also fight for each other. It’s true what they say about love. It drives you crazy. But when you’re both already insane, you only ignite the darkness within each other more, causing one another suffering and hurt. But what can I say? I’m a sucker for pain.
Now I know what you’re thinking “what the fuck is a Karkadann and what is Momo writing about?” Just to let you all know a Karkadann is essentially just a rhino, but back in the dark people mistook them for Unicorns! So lets just think of a Karkadann as a subet of unicorns. Now, this commission is for @heavens-light-hells-fire (who you all should thank because she’s been commissioning me a lot!) I hope you enjoy this new monster and this new story.
The cravings strike at the same time they do every night. Just when everything is closing and the lights are being shut off the insatiable hunger kicks in and you head out onto the dark street. You stalk around until you come to the familiar glowing sign. The brightly lit neon of pink and yellow with a smattering of blue letters. It’s familiar and warm and you feel satisfied just seeing it.
Walking into the bakery the smell makes you feel at home. There is the usual sparse crowd. People coming in from long shifts or getting ready to start them. You walk up to the counter, mouth watering as you gaze through the pristine glass case trying to decide what you want.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But – I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the
earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost
before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath
your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to
rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes
rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the
hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the
temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided
there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache
in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped
from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential
visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny
clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding
meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant
road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled
around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without
him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned,
if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he
thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless
creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them
good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in
return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity.
Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile
kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless
creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the
worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field
with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter
came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth,
and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s
work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a
familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto
curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year
mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of
unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting
friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m
so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will
you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for
visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and
chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There
is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if
you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want
to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting
friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
A commission for @undertaler38! I was excited to get to work in my Rakshasa court again and world build with it. I hope you guys enjoy it too!
Your breath comes out in thick white puffs. Your eyes sting from the cold. The sudden winter that’s come over the kingdom is a shock to the system. It gets cold, but never this cold. You’ve wrapped yourself from head to toe, you’re not prepared for this sort of chill.
Jasper Hale imagine requested by anon! “Hey there amazing writer, would you be interested in doing a Jasper smut please. Perhaps one where he’s over at the readers house at night and he’s determined to be a Southern gentleman but then he sort of snaps and it’s really, for a lack of better word, hot. It’s okay if you don’t have the time or don’t like the request but if I haven’t been clear enough could you please help me out. I adore your writing and I think you could be published one day. I hope you have a good day. ☺️” Hope you like it!!
WARNING: SMUT
It wasn’t as if he’d never been in your bedroom before; Jasper had graced your humble home with his glorious presence on more than one memorable occasion, but the staggering beauty of him, the stark contrast of his alabaster-hewn image standing out like milk against the inky backdrop of your bedroom window… well, it never failed to knock the breath from your lungs. As your eyes harvested the sight of him, his did the same to your face; the heat of his honeyed irises washed over your forehead, your cheekbones, the curvature of your lips as he studied the shape of you. No wonder his touch was so frigid; any warmth that remained in his being was spent through his eyes. He straightened under your gaze, his hands clasping stoically behind his back, his jawline hardening as he fought to constrain the laughter that built in his chest. Your eyes followed the lines of his clothing, devouring every impossibly perfect ich of him; his broad chest, the elegant whittling of his waist, his strong thighs, the cut of his trousers as they smoothed to the tips of his shoes. He cleared his throat, calling your attention to the very best part of him, physically at least. His eyes sparkled, somehow, in the darkness, twinkling like stars set in caramel.
“Everything in order, Miss?” he chuckled, his velvet voice crackling with the potential for full-bodied laughter, docking his volume as if he thought your parents might overhear; you knew he was aware the house was empty save the two of you, but he never failed to maintain an air of absolute secrecy when it came to the two of you alone in a bedroom. Your lips pinched to conceal your smile, your eyes raking over the width of his shoulders, his posture impeccable as he stood at parade rest before you. “I’d hate to disappoint,” he continued, his voice softer somehow, a verbal indication of the blush he could no longer produce. You grinned, stepping closer to the window, closer to him, your feet finding their path through the dark with the ease of familiarity, your body hyper-conscious of Jasper’s unwavering hold on your eyes.
“I may need a closer look,” you whispered, your voice feather-light to adjust to your new proximity, your next inhale flooded with the scent of him; lavender and ocean spray, something earthy and solid but not unclean. Your fingertips toyed with the material of his shirt, your eyes watching as Jasper’s hands unclasped from behind him, his hands trailing delicately, icily over the exposed skin of your forearms. You shivered involuntarily, though not entirely from the cold, as Jasper’s head bent to the crook of your neck, your arms winding around his back in time with his own movement. You buried your face in his chest, allowing yourself to be held, pressing your body as close as was humanly (and inhumanly) possible to his. You tilted your face, pressing your lips to the smooth skin of his throat. “You passed inspection, Mr. Whitlock.” Jasper whistled an exaggerated sound of relief, leaning away from you to better see your face, his fingertips chilling along your temple as he brushed a strand of hair away from your face.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I would have called first, but I…” he exhaled, losing his train of thought as his eyes roved your features. He smirked when you fluttered your eyelashes, your dramatics eliciting a tightness in his biceps that brought you closer to his chest. “I was in the neighborhood, I suppose. I was hoping to spend some time with you, if that’s alright.” His offer stood like an open gate without a fence attached; a perfectly polite invitation, but unnecessary to gain entry. You wee already dancing over his threshold. Your palm reached upward to cradle his face, his nose dipping to your wrist as you moved. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing as he concentrated on the scent of you, his arms relaxing at his sides as he exhaled. He breathed a shallow laugh. “That’s never going to get easier, I’m afraid. Every time…” he trailed off, shaking his head with expected disbelief. “Like a fire roaring down my throat. How could something so beautiful,” he paused, his hands finding your cheeks, thumbs like ice as they smoothed over your cheekbones. “How could something so beautiful cause so much trouble?” You scoffed, clasping your hands behind his back, walking him backwards until he was propping himself up against the window’s ledge.
“Oh, I’m trouble now? You haven’t seen trouble, Jasper.” Jasper’s gaze remained trained on your face, his brow relaxed, his lips pursed.
“I’d sure like to,” he breathed, his hand dropping to your waist. You stifled a giggle, your jaw dropping at his words. Jasper’s eyes rolled to see your dramatic reaction, the hand left cradling your face reaching up to sift through his golden curls as he awaited your scolding.
“Jasper Hale. I never thought I’d live to see the day you’d say something like that. You’re supposed to embody the… the… the charm and good manners of the South. What a let-down,” you jested, your eyes locked on his, watching clouds pass over his irises as he thoughts tracked your words. He inched closer to you, pushing himself away from the window ledge, his hands dropping to secure your hips to his. When he spoke, his voice melted against your skin. It was easy to see just how little effort it would take for him to talk someone to their grave…
“Am I not charming?” His hands brushed along your waist, his touch light as the breath that blew coolly against your ear, stirring your hair as his fingers tickled your rib cage. You shuddered, not from the cold but from the heat, your hands reaching upward to grasp his collar, though your head remained bowed; if he had anything else to whisper to you, you wanted to hear it. “I can read you, you know. You seem… well, charmed,” he smirked, a gentle burst of air alerting you to his laughter. You lifted your gaze, finding his face much closer than you had anticipated. His eyes were hard on yours, burning from within with an intensity you’d never witnessed in the man. Your fingers tightened around the collar of his shirt, bowing his body to yours with a firm tug against the fabric. His face lost all expression of humour, his jaw clenching at your unexpected action. He might be able to sift through your emotions, but he sure as Hell couldn’t predict the future. You angled your face towards his, as if to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your lips finding the curve of his jaw just beneath his earlobe. You pressed a slow, soft kiss to his skin, your breath rushing from your lungs when you spoke.
“What about now?” Jasper twisted your body around, pressing your back against the wall and winding your legs around his waist within the course of a second. You exhaled audibly, the shock you felt physically carried on your breath, eliciting a ravenous smile from the vampire. His hands moved more securely now, rushing along your thighs and coating your hips in flames.
“My good Southern manners forbid me from saying just what we’re feeling right now,” he chuckled, his lips diving to meet yours with a hunger he rarely allowed himself to bend to, your arms flinging around his neck as Jasper’s kiss set your pulse ablaze. He separated from you, his hand guiding your jaw upward, exposing the flesh of your neck to be peppered with fiery kisses, your throat strangling a moan as the sound threatened to bubble to the surface and between your lips. Jasper seemed to do the same, collecting himself before he spoke, his hands cradling your face with far less delicacy than before, his lips a hair away from touching yours. “I’m sure I can make up for it.” Your brow furrowed in confusion, your mind fogged from his kiss, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Ladies first.” His hands worked like lightning to remove your shirt from your torso, lifting the fabric up and over your head with little ceremony, your hands beating his to the clasp of your bra. You fiddled with the mechanism as Jasper’s face fell to your breasts, his tongue tracing over the hills of your skin, his hands tearing the garment away once you had undone the dryer-bent clasps from their hooks. Your hands tangled in his curls as his tongue darted over your nipple, his fingers melting ice against the fever of your flesh as he kneaded the breast his mouth was not ravishing. Your breath caught in your throat when he tugged at the sensitive bud; it did not hurt, but the sensation was so far from the gentle demeanor he had always displayed. His eyes found yours, his face lifting, his brow furrowed in question. Breathless, you nodded, your head tipping backwards as he returned to his task, repeating the action until you pulled him upwards and towards you. Your hips had been grinding against his, though your bodies remained clothed from the waist-down. You’d had enough of his manners.
“This is all feeling a bit unfair,” you breathed, your voice ragged as the air that hissed from your lungs, your fingers clumsily toying with the buttons of his shirt, Jasper’s hands removing your legs from his hips to set you on the ground, his own hands unbuttoning your jeans. Your hands slowed to a stop as Jasper’s fingers undid your zipper, his hand sliding easily between the denim and the fabric of your underwear. His fingers slid against you, your toes curling against the floor. Jasper’s fingers moved your panties to the side, the ice of his skin shocking the bundle of nerves between your legs. You cried out, your hand slapping to your mouth, as he moved along your skin. Your unoccupied hand found his chest, pushing him backward, his hand leaving you, opting instead to remove your pants entirely. He kicked off his shoes as you finished the buttons of his shirt, tearing the fabric from his chest as hungrily as he had done with you, your hands roaming the bands of muscle beneath his skin as he kicked his pants off. His hips met yours, backing you once more against the wall, your bodies separated now by the mere whisper of cloth covering your heat. His hardness pressed against you, one hand closing around your hip, the other at the nape of your neck.
“Is here alright?” he breathed, his tone vibrating with intensity. You nodded, desperation polluting your voice.
“Here is perfect,” you whispered, finding his lips briefly before he ducked, removing your underwear, the fabric pooling at your feet. You kicked the material to the side, watching as Jasper stepped out of his boxer shorts, his erection hard against his stomach. You both paused, devouring the sight of each other for the briefest moment, reliving his entrance what seemed like hours ago, before your eyes locked. There was hardly time to breath before Jasper’s body was pressing against yours, his strong arms lifting you without so much as the thought of exertion, your legs wrapping firmly around his hips. Your hands clung to his shoulders, pulling him against you, your body arching as the head of his cock brushed against your folds. You ducked your face to his shoulder, your teeth daring to nip against his diamond-hard skin, the vampire groaning at the sensation before he thrust within you. You felt the air leave your lungs as he stretched you, his movement slow, his hands clutching to you like a drowning man does a life preserver, your spine melting against your bedroom wall. You had a feeling you’d be thankful your parents were miles away; if they heard you tonight, every good impression Jasper had made in the past would rocket out the window. “Jas-” you prompted, his body rolling into yours before you could finish uttering his name, the second syllable corrupting to a gasp. He thrust within you once more, his muscles hardening as he moved, your hands clenching to fists in his hair.
He moved with pointed precision; he was faster than he’d been before, but never sloppy. His actions were harder, but never abrasive. He moved in time with your staggered breathing, his hands on the wall beside your head, his hips jutting to meet yours every other second, his exhales carrying moans of pleasure from deep within his chest. Your fingers struggled to find purchase against his chest, clawing without prevail against the bands of muscle you found there. Your hand fell back against the wall, pushing yourself away, your body clinging to his as he spun you, collapsing beside you atop your bedspread. He separated from you, moving with impossible speed, your back cradled against his chest as he moved the both of you towards the headboard. He inched your legs aside, thrusting from behind, one hand wrapped around your stomach cementing you to his chest, the other rubbing excited circles against your nerves. You moaned, pushing your hips back against his as he thrust, his thighs beneath yours tensing as he drew closer to his release. Your senses were overwhelmed entirely, his arm around your waist hardening as his muscles contracted, his thrusts coming faster than ever, your mind hazing as the sensation between your legs grew dizzying. You called his name; a warning, an exclamation, an oath… you couldn’t be sure. He buried himself within you, his fingers never slowing as your body tightened around him, a surprising warmth spreading between your legs. He slowed, his arm loosening, your bodies collapsing backwards. Jasper shifted, his breathing laboured, moving to lay beside you, his hands turning your body to face him. You exhaled in timeless bursts, your heart hammering in your chest, your legs convulsing as Jasper’s fingers slowed, eventually lifting away from your heat once your body had calmed. His eyes rose from watching you, meeting yours with a patient sort of pride, a mischievous glint glittering deep within his pupils, his hair falling gracefully over his forehead despite the trauma it had received at your hands.
“Like I said,” he breathed, his marble body pressing against yours, his lips at your ear. “Trouble.”
Pansexual Monster Girl 