#i hope he takes my threats of biting in the rabid animal sort of way and not any other sort of way

[yami-writes]

The Underworld - AoA Mythology Event

(✨) paring(s) — Hades Shouto Todoroki x f!reader

(⚠️) warning(s) — some angst, talk about devils, hell and stuff, mentions of execution, fires and buildings burning down, major character death (nothing graphic)

(💌) yami's note — my contribution to Attack on Academia’s Mythology AU event! hope you enjoy- even though i know close to nothing about mythology :sob: also this isn’t a specific AU/theme or anything, i was pretty lost on what to do so i just went off what i knew + a bit of my own shit ( this is my first work in a while, i'm a bit rusty lmao )

Y/n, never to be held back by the rules. You always preferred to do things your way, bending and breaking rules to do what you wanted. 

“I’m supposed to be executed next month.” You took a bite out of your mashed potatoes while Denki choked on his. “What!? How could you say that so casually!?” 

“I don’t care. They’re supposed to be executing all the lifetime prisoners here as some sort of offering to the Devil or some shit.” 

You spent the better half of your life as a wanted criminal, committing acts left and right at your will. You never had a reason to commit crimes, it was more or less the ‘You Only Live Once’ mentality, as well as your own curiosity that drove you to be a bad person. For better or for worse, you enjoyed your life of crime. It was a never-ending adventure, a game. What crime will you commit this time? How many cops would show up this time? How far will you have to go to escape them? It was all a fun game to you.

“I’d rather be executed than spend the rest of my life in this place. We’re not even treated like humans. More like rabid animals that could attack at any moment. At least if I get executed I’ll be dead.” 

“At least if I eat food I won’t starve.” Denki mocked. “But is it true? Are you really going to be executed?” 

“Yeah.” you take another bite out of your lunch. “The guards hate us, they’ve been wanting to see our heads on a stick for a long time.” 

“What!? But if you die I won’t have anyone in here to keep me sane, y’know!! We’ve only been talking for a few days but I like you!!”

You merely nodded. 

“Hey, Y/n!” Mina poked your cheek. “What is it this time?” 

“Have you ever heard the term ‘yolo’?” 

“The fuck is a yolo?” 

“I said it’s a term!” Mina laughed. “It’s an abbreviation for ‘You Only Live Once’.”

You Only Live Once. Those four words touched your soul. They told you to go, do the things you never thought you’d do. Commit the crimes you’ve never even thought of committing. They told you nobody, not even the law could tell you what to do, only you could tell yourself what to do.

Time was passing fast. Minutes, hours, days passed and your execution only got closer. 

You didn’t care, but word sure did get around fast. Two weeks until the execution and everyone knew. You received weird looks wherever you went, which was normal, but these were different. You couldn’t explain what made them so different though. Maybe it was the way they lingered for longer than you’d like, as you had gotten used to the quick glances.

They were getting cocky. 

You ate your lunch in silence, Denki was nowhere to be seen but you couldn’t be bothered, you just hoped he wasn’t doing anything stupid. As your execution came up you had been thinking, mostly of your past, your decisions, your life. Specifically, that one night...

It was a quiet Sunday evening. After being passed around in foster homes, enduring abusive foster parent after abusive foster parent, you were put into an adoption center, where you were finally being taken care of. You never made friends with anyone, you were scared of them. You thought they’d hurt you, abuse you, call you names. You didn’t want to go through that again. 

“Hey!” A girl called out to you. She sat in front of you on the floor. “My name’s Mina!” The girl had messy pink hair, it was hard to tell if it was natural or not. You stared at her for a second, unsure of how to respond. “Hello.” Was all you could choke out. 

“You’re y/n, right? I think you’re cool, wanna do this puzzle with me?” She took out a puzzle of a cat wearing a wool hat.

“Sure.” 

“Yay!!” Mina cheered, quickly dumping the pieces on the floor.

From that point on your friendship with Mina flourished. Countless days and nights spent together. Laughing, talking and gossiping, together. You didn’t want it to end the way it did. 

Months later, you never imaged standing in front of the adoption centre, the building ablaze and falling apart due to fire damages. Your friend, Mina, nowhere to be seen outside of the building. Was she still inside? The entrance to the building had already caught fire and looked about ready to collapse. You weren’t quite sure if the emergency exits were available, but if they were Mina would’ve used them by now, she was always quick-witted. 

“y/n..” The adoption centre staff that had escaped with you puts her hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, but… They’re gone.”

You understood the concept of death very well, you’ve experienced losing someone before, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Hello, y/n.” A lady walks up to you, waking you out of your daydream. Her hair is up in a tidy ponytail and she’s wearing a prison uniform, she’s a prisoner too? “What? I was hoping to enjoy my lunch alone.” 

“My apologies.” She sits down beside you. “I just wanted to talk to you before your execution, I think you’re very interesting.” You continue eating your lunch, minimalizing socializing with your prison mate. “Have you ever heard of ‘The Underworld’?” The lady asked. 

“The Underworld?” 

“Yes. It's where lifetime prisoners like us are bound to wind up. Lemme tell you about it.” She makes herself comfortable on the bench. 

“If he deems you to be a bad person, the Devil will bring your soul down to The Underworld as a way to punish you for the sins of your past life. It’s a large, dark place, filled with the souls of people like you and I, who have committed horrible crimes and now have to deal with the consequences forever.”

“I see... And why are you telling me this?”

“I’ve been telling everyone about it! We’re all gonna go there!! It's good to be informed. Anyways, I’ll leave you to your lunch now. It was nice talking to you, y/n.”

“Okay.”

You pondered for a while after listening to that woman. She seemed pretty nice but it was obvious she had some screws loose. 

You also thought about her teachings of The Underworld. If you enjoyed your life to the fullest, did it really matter what happens in the afterlife? You asked yourself that question often. You were more curious than you were afraid of the underworld. 

You’ve heard many different interpretations of it, although the most common seemed to be one of suffering. Eternal suffering at the hands of Satan. The supreme ruler of Hell torments your soul for longer than the human mind can comprehend as a means to pay for the sins of your past life. The cold-blooded Devil rests on his throne as he listens to the tortured screams for mercy, to be set free.

The thought left your mind soon after, although you never seemed to get that woman off your mind. She was interesting, to say the least. 

Two days. Two more days until you’re to be executed. As the days went by you became more and more curious. You had been thinking of the woman often. 

She was a kind, yet mysterious lady. You’d gone around and asked other prisoners about her, but they all had nothing. Some people said something about her being pulled from a mental hospital and into jail but those seemed to just be rumours. Who is she? Where could she have gone? The prison was relatively big, so finding a specific person would prove to be pretty difficult, but almost two weeks of searching should’ve yielded at least some sort of information. You had given up on finding anything about her, she was just someone who wanted to speak to you, there was no need to spend the last few days of your life on her. 

You never stopped thinking of The Underworld, or whatever it was called at this point. You wondered what it was really like. What really happened down there? Are bad souls really tortured for eternity? Is there even an afterlife? You wanted to know. 

You went to bed thinking about it. About your afterlife. 

You opened your eyes, a dark blue sky looking back at you. Outside? Your head was pounding and your throat was dry. Your body ached. 

You could hear an eerie ambiance in the distance, this was truly an odd place. Ignoring the pain, you got up, taking a good look around you. The ground was made out of a mix of rock and dirt, around you seemed to be lakes of water. The sky was a dark blue colour, almost like a night sky, although there was no moon, stars, or sun. 

“Hello.” a voice called out to you. You turned in the direction of the voice, a hooded figure stood before you. “Who are you?? Where am I??” 

“Woah woah, calm down.” a hooded figure tried to calm you down. Their voice was rather kind, leading you to believe they weren’t a threat to you, they seemed to calm you down a bit. They wore a black, hooded robe and grasped a long stick with a red gem on the top. Behind them was a river, as well as a boat. “Was it a rough fall?” 

“...Yeah,” you looked up at the gloomy sky, “I guess so.” 

“I’m sorry about that, I'll ask him to add some sort of cushion here.” the mysterious person takes off their hood, revealing green hair and a rather cute freckled face. “I’m Izuku, I’ll be bringing you to the mainland.”

“Mainland?? Wait where even is this place, why am I here?? I’m supposed to be in prison right now-” 

“Oh! You’re in The Underworld now. You’re dead, I'm sorry..”

“Dead!? How!? I wasn’t executed yet!” 

“Your questions will be answered once we get there, so come with me into this boat and I'll take you to the mainland.” Izuku leads you to the boat, preparing it to sail once you get in, and soon enough, the boat starts to move onward.

“We might be here for a while, mind telling me about your past life? He never tells me anything about the souls that wind up here.” 

“Uh sure, I guess. My parents died when I was still young, so I was tossed around in foster homes until they just stuck me in an adoption centre… One day one of the ladies that worked there caused a fire and it got burnt down, only me and that lady survived. After that I moved to the next town over and started a life of crime, I enjoyed it. Eventually, the police caught me and I was sentenced to jail for life for all the crimes I committed, they planned to execute me tomorrow but.. Y’know, I’m dead now.” 

“Hm.. what an unfortunate life you’ve lived, although that story isn’t very new around here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard the stories of most of the souls down here, their lives began to tumble after a traumatic event. The loss of a loved one, car crashes, tragedies, I've heard it all before, but it doesn't get any less saddening.” 

“I see..” you sigh, slumping over the side of the boat. You stare down at the water, watching your reflection. The water was almost as dark as the sky, tinted a greenish colour. ‘I’m kinda tired…’

“And~~ we're here!” Izuku announces, stopping the boat. “Sure did take a while.” You step out of the boat, taking a look around. It looks identical to where you first woke up.

“Follow that path, it’ll take you to Hades. He never asks to see anyone so you’re special!”

“He asked to see me!?”

“Yeah, I'm not sure as to why, but you better hurry! He doesn’t like waiting.” 

“Oh, okay! Thanks!” 

You immediately make your way down the path, concerned as to what Hades himself wanted from you. The path seemed to stretch on forever, turning corners before another straight, long extension. It almost left like you were going in a long circle. 

At this point you had been in The Underworld for 30 minutes, although the sky hadn’t seemed to change at all, was there no time here? 

After a long 15 minutes of walking, you made it to a large palace, tall gates of steel keeping unwanted guests from entering. A button rested on the side of the gate entrance. You pressed the button, unsure of what it would do. You wouldn’t be surprised if it summoned another hooded figure like Izuku to escort you into the palace, this place was unpredictable. 

A loud ‘buzz’ sound erupted from the button upon being pressed, followed by a “Who’s there?” The voice on the other side was definitely different from Izuku's. It was deeper, but pleasant. “I’m y/n, Izuku told me Hades wanted to see me?” 

You heard another buzz sound before the front gates opened. You anxiously walked in, not sure what to expect next. Your mind raced with thoughts as you wandered through the halls of what you assumed to be Hades’ palace. It was surprisingly bland on the inside, though. Maybe he wasn’t good with interior design. 

After making your way through the halls, you were met with a surprisingly small room, with the classic long, expensive red carpets you would only see in movies. You felt somewhat bad for stepping on it, it looked expensive. 

You looked up to see someone, a humanlike being sitting upon a throne. 

“Hello?” you called out to them, inching closer. 

“Ah, you must be y/n.” They acknowledge, standing from their throne and walking up to you. Was this Hades? 

He looked more human than you thought he would. His face is what caught your attention, he was incredibly handsome. The type of man you’d only see in your dreams. His hair split in the middle, his left red and his right white. There also seemed to be a red mark on the left side of his face, it looked like a burn scar… 

“Uhm, why’d you call me here? Shouldn’t I be like... Suffering? With the rest of the bad souls that ended up here?” you questioned him, trying to ignore his beauty. 

“No. I’ve been watching you for a while, y/n. If I'm getting to the point, I want to marry you. I killed you prematurely so those awful people didn’t get the chance to, and so I could get to see you early.” He smiled. His lips looked incredibly soft, the kind you’d want to kiss forever. 

“What!? Marry me!? But-” 

“You mustn’t worry about the details, y/n. I love you, everything from your beauty, to your personality, I feel drawn to you. I would like you to be my wife. We could live happily together.”

The way he never elaborated didn’t make it any easier to take in, but an idea came to your mind. “If I marry you, will I still have to suffer? Like to pay for my sins…”

“Of course not, my love. Let’s say marrying me is enough to pay for them.”

You were curious to know what would happen if you didn’t marry him, or if you had a choice at all, but you decided you were better off not knowing for once. 

“Alright, I’ll marry you.” 

“Wonderful. Please feel free to explore the palace, and pick a room. I know you’re probably tired.”

“Thanks.” 

After exploring the palace, you settled for a cozy room on the second floor. You liked the colours and arrangement of the room. 

You lie in bed, pondering what had happened in the first few hours of your afterlife. You spent your life thinking you’d be sent down to meet Satan, an unforgiving force meant to punish evil souls for their wrongdoings, but was met with Hades instead, a God that was not only kind, but had at some point, fallen in love with your character. He had promised you an easy afterlife with him, an eternity you could spend however you wanted. Do the things you never got to do in your past life as a spirit. 

You were beyond grateful to him, choosing to not only have mercy on you, but make you, a criminal who’s committed many crimes, his wife, another ruler, God of The Underworld. 

Everything turned out quite different from how you originally thought.

#shouto x reader #todoroki x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #reader insert #mythology #mha x mythology #bnha x mythology #mythology au #hades #shouto todoroki x reader

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Two-Back

(Read Anne as Courtney!Anne)

Word count: 3406

Well. I didn’t expect to be posting this today but I need get it out of my drafts so it’ll stop haunting me.

This fic is based on personal events that happened during this month last year. It’s gone through several different rewrites before I finally settled on this version of it. It’s a vent, of sorts, I guess. Which means it’s both very close to me and quite dark at the same time. I don’t sugarcoat it, so please pay attention to the trigger warnings. If you can’t handle it, don’t read it. I wrote this more for myself, not for anyone else, but I don’t want it to go to waste, so that’s why I’m posting it.

With all that out of the way... Check the triggers, and I hope you enjoy. I love you all 💕💕

TW: Rape

——————

“Where’s Boleyn?” Snarled the man who had broken into the theater late that night.

“I’m here.” Answered his prey.

Something in her told her to say it. Deep down, she didn’t want to, but it was the only way to protect the queen. If she gave him what he wanted then he would leave. He wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Sate the hunger within and the beast would settle.

“You look different.” He said, sizing her up.

“Reincarnation sometimes changes the body.” She replied calmly, despite her mounting fear. “I thought you were smart enough to know that, Cromwell.” She knew him from his eyes- cold and hard like chunks of obsidian.

Thomas bared his teeth like a rabid wolf. His gaze is hungry. His forward stride is so quick that Joan couldn’t even think to move, but it didn’t matter anymore, because she’s pinned against the wall of her dressing room. She feels stomach acid creeping up her throat, burning, itching, the urge to expel it all. But her mouth is twisted shut.

“You've wanted this for a long time, eh?” Thomas smirked. “Otherwise you would've pushed me away already.” He knew she couldn’t, for he was pressing hard against her, his weight much greater than hers. “I’ll make it enjoyable for you, I promise. I’m going to do all the things I should have done back then, my lady.”

Thomas’ tongue laps gently against the “queen’s” earlobe before nipping and pulling with his teeth. He bites hard enough to leave a mark and doesn’t stop until his victim yelps.

Joan’s heart aches so bad. It’s like someone’s reaching in with their hand, grasping it so tight, twisting and tugging. Wringing it like a rag. 
Thomas pulls her closer, hugging her against him. Joan can’t breathe for a moment as her face is smothered against his shoulder. He’s sucking on her neck, starting at the side and making his way to the front, to the sensitive part of her throat. Joan is forced to lift her chin, which just gives him more space to bite and mark. She claws at his back.

“Stop-” She hissed. “You f—” She whined sharply when yellow teeth nip on her collarbone. It comes out pained, but Thomas hears a moan of need.

“Do you like that?”

Joan glared at him, but struggled to keep up her strength when Thomas began to make a mess of her chest. He’s pinning her wrists above her head, leaving her helpless to his assault. Slimy trails of saliva are left across her breasts and she cringes.

“Please— Thomas, stop!”

Thomas enjoys the way she pleads his name and starts to bite harder, just to get a reaction.

“You like this, don’t you?”

“Thomas, you-” Joan cuts herself off with a pained noise when Thomas squeezes one of her breasts hard enough to definitely leave bruises. She whimpers and her resolve finally comes crumbling down, along with what feels like her entire life.

Her conscious wavers for a moment. It’s hard to pull it back, as it was far from her reach. Every inch of her body felt numb and she could only squirm helplessly, with each of her movements being slow with fatigue and fear. She barely registers her body crashing to the ground; her eyes shut tightly upon contact with the cold floor.

“Oh, you look so beautiful like this...” Cooed Thomas’ slick voice.

Joan struggled to force her eyelids apart again and moaned softly, head lolling across the ground. A panic attack is rising in her chest.

“The noises you make are almost as cute as...”

For a moment, all her senses were wiped out before coming together again. Colors and light bled together like wet paint on a canvas. She didn’t hear what Thomas had said, but it only took a little common sense to put two and two together.

“T...T...” She tries to speak, but her voice drowns out as her head falls to the ground again. “S..sto...” She can’t get any coherent words out of her damn mouth.

“What’s wrong, my dear Anne? Cat got your tongue?” Thomas croons.

A momentary headache throbs through Joan’s entire skull, making her moan softly in pain. She writhes, kicking out her legs weakly at something that wasn’t there. Thomas notices and chuckles.

“You look so adorable like this.” He said while approaching her, “Like a little baby deer.”

He crouches down, running his fingers over Joan’s clammy cheeks. The tears burn like lava etching trails down her face.

“Moments like these need to be savored.”

“G...go to h...”

“Aww, can’t even finish your threat.” Thomas chuckles and shakes his head. “Now, stop wiggling around. I want to make sure your focus is on me. It’s the only way I can make sure you have a good time.”

Joan eyed him wryly for a moment before doing the exact opposite of what he said, thrashing as much as she could. She tried to scream, but the sound that came out was completely noiseless. A boot drives into her stomach, making her wheeze and then sprawl out limply.

“What did I just say?” Thomas said through his teeth before loosening himself up. “Though, I can’t expect you to get it just yet. After all, it’s your fault we’re in this mess. Anne, I don’t want to hurt you. I just need you. Why won’t you just let me have you?”

Joan is in that half state of unconsciousness again. She’s whimpering and squirming around like a hurt puppy, staring up at Thomas with big grey eyes that only fueled his bloodlust even more.

“My adorable, beautiful little Anne.” He purred.

Bands of hot iron compress Joan’s lungs to a point of bursting. The panic attack rises to the surface and she gasps desperately for air, trying to crawl away from Thomas. Another headache from the anxiety and lack of oxygen lances into her skull like a spear and her eyes are rolling around her in their sockets.

“Now, let’s-” Thomas grunts when Joan manages to kick him in the leg. It doesn’t hurt, but he still glares evilly at her. “You don’t ever learn, do you, bitch?”

Joan scowls at the man.

“But you are such a little fighter, aren’t you? Here you are, crying on the floor, and yet you still try to get away.”

Thomas is turned away, but he’s moving his hands around a lot. Joan doesn’t want to know what he could be fiddling with so she began to search around the room desperately. She ends up finding a broom she had used earlier that day, when things were still okay, and swung it at Thomas’ head. It misses her intended target, but instead slams against his shoulder, which she takes.

“You cunt!” He shrieked, reaching back to see if he had gotten badly hurt. “Do you know what you could have done, you dumb whore?!”

Joan felt a swell of pride. She uses that to get up, but Thomas is suddenly upon her. They tussle and fight, but, try as she might, Joan is no match for the larger, older, clearly-deranged man. The broom is yanked from her hands and her head is smashed against the wall; she swore she could hear the sickening sound of bones breaking. She slumped to the floor, moaning, as Thomas fumbles with her pants and underwear.

“You fucking animal—”

Like that, Joan loses the ability to speak as a searing pain shot through her colon and guts. It takes her breath away; she can’t breathe at all. Her mouth opens and closes frantically, but just can’t understand why she’s unable to pull air inside. It’s because there’s too much inside, too much of the wrong thing, and it’s stuffing her and holding her close and—

“Dear, look at me while I touch you. That’s just common decency don't you think?"

Joan refuses to open her eyes. She wants to lose herself in the suffocation. Thomas pulls her hair.

“Don't be rude.”

She can feel more tears coming- how long had she been crying? She’s shaking her head, whimpering and wheezing as her need for air gets more and more painful.

“N-No..!”

She can't hide the fact that she’s having a panic attack. Her voice is crackling and she sounds snotty. She wants this to stop right now. She tries to ease away, but he’s firmly holding her in place. She keeps muttering “no” over and over again, trying to drown out his voice.

Thomas leans over her more, restraining her with his body weight.

“I said,” White hot pain sears through Joan’s groin, causing her to howl, “Look at me while I touch you, dear.”

She’s dry, and the friction between her legs burns so intensely that it made her see stars. Within moments of only a few thrusts, she already feels raw. The stinging only increases.

All at once, she feels everything- the pain in between her legs, Thomas’ fingernails hooking in her hips, the hand that raised up to fondle one of her breasts, the blazing heat that blooms in her stomach, the broomstick shoved up her rectum. Then, she feels nothing at all.

———

Four hours.

He came in at midnight. It’s now four in the morning.

Four hours.

He tortured her for four hours.

Joan wonders why he didn’t kill her. She wished he did. She wanted the pain to go away.

She lies on the floor of the dressing room, naked, barely away, and struggling to breathe. Her bare, scratched up stomach is splattered with semen- he did her one favor by not coming inside of her. He didn’t want to risk a child from the infidelity.

The broom is lying a few feet away, the end coated in a shiny caking of blood and other fluids. The hole it left in her felt like it would never close.

Joan pushes herself up slowly; the pain is unbearable. It’s a constant, aching thing in her stomach that never seems to relent it’s throbbing. Hot coals were shoveled into each part of her body when she moved again, stoking the raging fires burning inside of her. Her muscles were crackling painfully from the strain of getting up.

She has to clean up the mess left behind. It’s a humiliating, shameful thing. She wipes off her belly and legs and tries to do the same from her vagina and rectum, but they seize up the moment her hands get near, so she leaves them be. The blood congealing between her thighs squelches uncomfortably as she scrubs off the floor with a rag (not a mop. she doesn’t want to feel the similarities of the broomstick). It bubbles and smears and sticks on her skin, sometimes running down the length of her legs and Joan has to quickly swipe the trail away. It’s like wiping away the tears of her ruined virginity.

Every air freshener in the building is sprayed in that room. Joan doesn’t know if it’s enough to mask the scent of sex and blood and sperm because she can still smell it, but she can only hope.

The broom is cleaned and hidden. Joan never wants to see it again.

She puts on her clothes from before once she’s finally done. The pants get soaked instantly and the underwire of her bra cuts painfully into the bruises left behind on her breasts. She deals with it, though. She needs to for a little bit longer.

She limps home on unsteady legs. Every step is absolute agony. When she gets to her single flat, she makes a beeline for the bathtub and stays there until the water is cold. Laying down like she was is uncomfortable. She’s worried about how bad it’ll be when she needs to use the bathroom.

She makes herself a cup of tea when she’s changed in fresh clothes. It soothes her abused throat, but it hurts to swallow. The warmth is good for her regardless. Wash away the taste. Force down whatever stickiness is still latched against her esophagus. She takes a painkiller as well.

The TV stays on tonight. The darkness is unwanted. She lies down on her side on the couch when laying on her back and stomach both prove to be painful. She makes sure she can still see the door. She’s made sure it’s locked twice.

Joan knows she probably won’t sleep, and she knows that’s to be expected. She’s prepared for it. She knows how this works.

———

Joan smiles shyly at Aragon. She rolls her eyes at Kitty. She helps Cathy with an original song. She follows the director’s orders.

She avoids physical contact. Which is normal. It’s what people who experienced what she did, do. Nothing to be ashamed of, just a typical reaction.

The others don’t suspect a thing, and she’s relieved. It isn’t easy to cope with what happened, but she’s confident that if she just kept at it, by herself, she can do it. There’s no need to confide in anyone—especially Anne. They don’t need to know.

Nobody needs to know.

———

It’s October, now. Five months have passed. Joan has recovered.

Physically speaking, her vagina and rectum eventually closed back up to normal sizes and using the bathroom became less painful as time went on. It’s still sensitive down there, but not as bad as it used to be. The bruises on her breast have healed, too, and the hickeys Thomas left behind were no longer visible.

Mentally, however... Well, Joan was working on it. She was really good at hiding what happened, masking it and twisting it around until it seemed harmless. It wasn’t, she knew, but she let the illusion remain.

The little things tipped her off. Hearing the word “rape” or seeing it happen shows or something like that didn’t phase her. She knew most of it was fiction, and there was a fine line between reality and make believe. However, she couldn’t stand to look at broomsticks anymore. As shameful as that was.

The nightmares start, too, but they’re an on and off thing. Her dreams are mostly blank, now. The memories only shove their way in when they want to taunt her, teasing her mind with their horrible tendrils.

Therapy’s supposed to be beginning, but, somehow, she knows she’ll still have nightmares of his naked body, his disheveled hair, and fingers inside her. Sometimes she dreams of monsters on top of her, pinning her down, licking her, knotting her, smashing their mouths against hers, clawing and groping and grasping. Sometimes she dreams of just watching that happen from a distance, and it’s Anne beneath the beast.

Sometimes she wishes she had let that happen.

It’s selfish, she knows. She knows all too well about selfishness and envy. But, God willing, when Joan wakes in the night, shaking and shivering and trying not to scream, the comfort of the incident happening to someone else that wasn’t her is the only thing that could soothe her.

She can feel it sometimes, too. Fingers forcing their way in. Tongues lapping her breasts. Teeth tugging her ear.

And it burned, burned, burned...

But Joan copes. She forgets—that’s a better word for it. She doesn’t nurture herself or make herself stronger, she just tries to pretend it didn’t happen. And when she does recognize it, she jokes about the incident with herself because it’s the only way to make it hurt less.

People don’t like when she jokes about it. They found it rude and offensive. She didn’t see it that way. It was a coping mechanism. Telling her to stop is what was rude and offensive.

But there weren’t that many people that knew. She didn’t share it often. Only sometimes on her secret social media account, which is where the backlash stems from. She preferred it that way. And then she messed it all up.

It happened too quickly for her to really comprehend it. She was sitting by Anne during a lunch break before their next show, trying not to isolate herself anymore. Anne was talking with the other queens. They all had a tendency to joke about their experiences with Henry, especially Anne, who didn’t really have any boundaries, as she wasn’t phased by dark humored jokes. So that’s why she had made some offhand, but subtle comment about dubious consent, and Joan just had to open her mouth and say something on agreeing to that. She didn’t even realize she did it until she looked up from her granola bar to see eyes on her.

“What?” She blinked.

“What did you say?” Anne said to her.

What Joan had blurted out hit her like a freight train. Instead of replying, she just went back to chewing her snack, hoping everyone would just move on, but then Anne grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to an empty room.

“What happened?” Anne asked.

Joan doesn’t answer. She looks at Anne with wide eyes and she can feel the queen’s anxiety smothering her, but she can’t answer. The words are caught in her throat.

“Joan,” Anne’s voice lowered. Her eyes are bulging in their sockets.

Joan was dizzy, falling, the world and everything she knew rushing past her.

You saved her, you saved her, you saved her- She kept repeating that in her head, but it brought her no comfort. She wasn’t a hero. Especially because she sometimes wishes she never did what she did.

“Did someone...?”

Anne didn’t need to elaborate. She’s heard and seen enough context clues from the other queens to know signs.

Joan swallowed thickly, and then nodded.

“Oh my god—” Anne reared back in shock, as if the gesture had taken a physical form and punched her in the stomach. She took Joan’s hands in her own. “Oh my god, Joan. When? What happened?”

“A few months ago,” Joan stammered. The floodgates have opened. She couldn’t keep it back anymore. “He— Some guy— Cromwell is alive and he broke into the theater looking for you. S-so I...”

“Oh, Joan, no—”

“I told him I was you.” Joan whispered.

Anne went very still, very silent, very pale. Her eyes widen and widen, and a quiet tear slowly rolls out from one side. Her hands, which still held Joan’s, have tightened. For a moment, it didn’t even look like she was breathing—she just stared forward, over Joan’s head, not even meeting her gaze, and held perfectly still.

And then, she’s jerking backwards and storming out of the door. She paces back and forth, hands up at her head and tangled in her hair as she tries to breathe but it didn’t seem to be working well for her. More tears were streaming down her reddening face. The other queens looked over worriedly.

“It’s my fault,” Anne muttered. Over and over again—she got lost in that single phrase like she was in a trance. Joan was scared to snap her out of it, but she had to speak up.

“No it isn’t—”

“YES IT IS!!” Anne whirled to her, face flaming, eyes ablaze with guilt and despair and rage. “He was looking for ME, Joan! I-if I had just been there, then I could have—“ She clamped a hand over her mouth and screwed her eyes just.

“I saved you!” Joan cried. “I couldn’t let him hurt you! This— this is my—”

“No,” Anne shook her head miserably. She grabbed Joan’s forearms and held on so tight it hurt. “No, Joan, no! You-you should haven’t— You—”

“I WASN’T GOING TO LET HIM HURT YOU!!” Joan yelled. “I don’t CARE what happens to me as long as you’re okay! I want YOU to be alright! I want YOU to be safe!” Her voice cracks, wavers, and the tears spill free. They sting her eyes like hot needles. “Because— because I— I let so many people hurt you. Back then. And I didn’t do anything to help you. I could have, but I—” She chokes for a moment and dips her head. “I saved you. It’s what I couldn’t do before. And it’s what I deserve.”

Anne’s legs buckle and she falls to her knees. Her arms wind tightly around Joan and she sobs into her stomach. Above her, Joan is still, hands hovering over the queen, until she, too, falls.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. They were both crying too hard to talk at this point, anyway.

#six the musical #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfic #six fanfiction #sixfic #anne boleyn #nana boleyn #thomas cromwell #joan on the keys #catherine of aragon #katherine howard #jane seymour #anna of cleves #catherine parr #tw: rape #two-back

[readbookywooks]

22 The sound of rain drumming on the roof of our house gently pulls me toward consciousness. I fight to return to sleep though, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, safe at home. I'm vaguely aware that my head aches. Possibly I have the flu and this is why I'm allowed to stay in bed, even though I can tell I've been asleep a long time. My mother's hand strokes my cheek and I don't push it away as I would in wakefulness, never wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch. How much I miss her even though I still don't trust her. Then there's a voice, the wrong voice, not my mother's, and I'm scared. "Katniss," it says. "Katniss, can you hear me?" My eyes open and the sense of security vanishes. I'm not home, not with my mother. I'm in a dim, chilly cave, my bare feet freezing despite the cover, the air tainted with the unmistakable smell of blood. The haggard, pale face of a boy slides into view, and after an initial jolt of alarm, I feel better. "Peeta." "Hey," he says. "Good to see your eyes again." "How long have I been out?" I ask. "Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood," he says. "I think it's stopped finally, but I wouldn't sit up or anything." I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Peeta holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily. "You're better," I say. "Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick," he says. "By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone." He doesn't seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I'm just too beat-up and I'll hear about it later when I'm stronger. But for the moment, he's all gentleness. "Did you eat?" I ask. "I'm sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while. Don't worry, I'm back on a strict diet," he says. "No, it's good. You need to eat. I'll go hunting soon," I say. "Not too soon, all right?" he says. "You just let me take care of you for a while." I don't really seem to have much choice. Peeta feeds me bites of groosling and raisins and makes me drink plenty of water. He rubs some warmth back into my feet and wraps them in his jacket before tucking the sleeping bag back up around my chin. "Your boots and socks are still damp and the weather's not helping much," he says. There's a clap of thunder, and I see lightning electrify the sky through an opening in the rocks. Rain drips through several holes in the ceiling, but Peeta has built a sort of canopy over my head an upper body by wedging the square of plastic into the rock above me. "I wonder what brought on this storm? I mean, who's the target?" says Peeta. "Cato and Thresh," I say without thinking. "Foxface will be in her den somewhere, and Clove. she cut me an then. " My voice trails off. "I know Clove's dead. I saw it in the sky last night," h says. "Did you kill her?" "No. Thresh broke her skull with a rock," I say. "Lucky he didn't catch you, too," says Peeta. The memory of the feast returns full-force and I feel sick. "He did. But he let me go." Then, of course, I have to tell him. About things I've kept to myself because he was too sick to ask and I wasn't ready to relive anyway. Like the explosion and my ear and Rue's dying and the boy from District 1 and the bread. All of which leads to what happened with Thresh and how he was paying off a debt of sorts. "He let you go because he didn't want to owe you anything?" asks Peeta in disbelief. "Yes. I don't expect you to understand it. You've always had enough. But if you'd lived in the Seam, I wouldn't have to explain," I say. "And don't try. Obviously I'm too dim to get it." "It's like the bread. How I never seem to get over owing you for that," I say. "The bread? What? From when we were kids?" he says. "I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead." "But you didn't know me. We had never even spoken. Besides, it's the first gift that's always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn't even have been here to do it if you hadn't helped me then," I say. "Why did you, anyway?" "Why? You know why," Peeta says. I give my head a slight, painful shake. "Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing." "Haymitch?" I ask. "What's he got to do with it?" "Nothing," Peeta says. "So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it's too much to hope that they'll simultaneously destroy each other?" But the thought only upsets me. "I think we would like Thresh. I think he'd be our friend back in District Twelve," I say. "Then let's hope Cato kills him, so we don't have to," says Peeta grimly. I don't want Cato to kill Thresh at all. I don't want anyone else to die. But this is absolutely not the kind of thing that victors go around saying in the arena. Despite my best efforts, I can feel tears starting to pool in my eyes. Peeta looks at me in concern. "What is it? Are you in a lot of pain?" I give him another answer, because it is equally true but can be taken as a brief moment of weakness instead of a terminal one. "I want to go home, Peeta," I say plaintively, like a small child. "You will. I promise," he says, and bends over to give me a kiss. "I want to go home now," I say. "Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you'll be there for real before you know it," lie says. "Okay?" "Okay," I whisper. "Wake me if you need me to keep watch." "I'm good and rested, thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last?" he says. What does he mean? The storm? The brief respite ii brings us? The Games themselves? I don't know, but I'm ion sad and tired to ask. It's evening when Peeta wakes me again. The rain has turned to a downpour, sending streams of water through our ceiling where earlier there had been only drips. Peeta has placed the broth pot under the worst one and repositioned the plastic to deflect most of it from me. I feel a bit better, able to sit up without getting too dizzy, and I'm absolutely famished. So is Peeta. It's clear he's been waiting for me to wake up to eat and is eager to get started. There's not much left. Two pieces of groosling, a small mishmash of roots, and a handful of dried fruit. "Should we try and ration it?" Peeta asks. "No, let's just finish it. The groosling's getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick off spoiled food," I say, dividing the food into two equal piles. We try and eat slowly, but we're both so hungry were done in a couple of minutes. My stomach is in no way satisfied. "Tomorrow's a hunting day," I say. "I won't be much help with that," Peeta says. "I've never hunted before." "I'll kill and you cook," I say. "And you can always gather." "I wish there was some sort of bread bush out there," says Peeta. "The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm," I say with a sigh. "Here, chew these." I hand him a couple of mint leaves and pop a few in my own mouth. It's hard to even see the projection in the sky, but it's clear enough to know there were no more deaths today. So Cato and Thresh haven't had it out yet. "Where did Thresh go? I mean, what's on the far side of the circle?" I ask Peeta. "A field. As far as you can see it's full of grasses as high as my shoulders. I don't know, maybe some of them are grain. There are patches of different colors. But there are no paths," says Peeta. "I bet some of them are grain. I bet Thresh knows which ones, too," I say. "Did you go in there?" "No. Nobody really wanted to track Thresh down in that grass. It has a sinister feeling to it. Every time I look at that field, all I can think of are hidden things. Snakes, and rabid animals, and quicksand," Peeta says. "There could be anything in there." I don't say so but Peeta's words remind me of the warnings they give us about not going beyond the fence in District 12. I can't help, for a moment, comparing him with Gale, who would see that field as a potential source of food as well as a threat. Thresh certainly did. It's not that Peeta's soft exactly, and he's proved he's not a coward. But there are things you don't question too much, I guess, when your home always smells like baking bread, whereas Gale questions everything. What would Peeta think of the irreverent banter that passes between us as we break the law each day? Would it shock him? The things we say about Panem? Gale's tirades against the Capitol? "Maybe there is a bread bush in that field," I say. "Maybe that's why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started the Games." "Either that or he's got very generous sponsors," says Peeta. "I wonder what we'd have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread." I raise my eyebrows before I remember he doesn't know about the message Haymitch sent us a couple of nights ago. One kiss equals one pot of broth. It's not the sort of thing I can blurt out, either. To say my thoughts aloud would be tipping off the audience that the romance has been fabricated to play on their sympathies and that would result in no food at all. Somehow, believably, I've got to get things back on track. Something simple to start with. I reach out and take his hand. "Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out," I say mischievously. "Yeah, about that," says Peeta, entwining his fingers in mine. "Don't try something like that again." "Or what?" I ask. "Or. or. " He can't think of anything good. "Just give me a minute." "What's the problem?" I say with a grin. "The problem is we're both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing," says Peeta. "I did do the right thing," I say. "No! Just don't, Katniss!" His grip tightens, hurting my hand, and there's real anger in his voice. "Don't die for me. You won't be doing me any favors. All right?" I'm startled by his intensity but recognize an excellent opportunity for getting food, so I try to keep up. "Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren't the only one who. who worries about. what it would be like if. " I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread. "If what, Katniss?" he says softly. I wish I could pull the shutters closed, blocking out this moment from the prying eyes of Panem. Even if it means losing food. Whatever I'm feeling, it's no one's business but mine. "That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of," I say evasively, although Haymitch never said anything of the kind. In fact, he's probably cursing me out right now for dropping the ball during such an emotionally charged moment. But Peeta somehow catches it. "Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," he says, and moves in to me. This is the first kiss that we're both fully aware of. Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious. This is the first kiss that makes me want another. But I don't get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it's just a light one on the tip of my nose because Peeta's been distracted. "I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it's bedtime anyway," he says. My socks are dry enough to wear now. I make Peeta put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it's likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won't agree unless I'm in the bag, too, and I'm shivering so hard that it's pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I'm struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow, the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe. With the aid of the glasses, I lie watching the drips of water splatter on the cave floor. Rhythmic and lulling. Several times, I drift off briefly and then snap awake, guilty and angry with myself. After three or four hours, I can't help it, I have to rouse Peeta because I can't keep my eyes open. He doesn't seem to mind. "Tomorrow, when it's dry, I'll find us a place so high in the trees we can both sleep in peace," I promise as I drift off. But tomorrow is no better in terms of weather. The deluge continues as if the Gamemakers are intent on washing us all away. The thunder's so powerful it seems to shake the ground. Peeta's considering heading out anyway to scavenge for food, but I tell him in this storm it would be pointless. He won't be able to see three feet in front of his face and he'll only end up getting soaked to the skin for his troubles. He knows I'm right, but the gnawing in our stomachs is becoming painful. The day drags on turning into evening and there's no break in the weather. Haymitch is our only hope, but nothing is forthcoming, either from lack of money  -  everything will cost an exorbitant amount  -  or because he's dissatisfied with our performance. Probably the latter. I'd be the first to admit we're not exactly riveting today. Starving, weak from injuries, trying not to reopen wounds. We're sitting huddled together wrapped in the sleeping bag, yes, but mostly to keep warm. The most exciting thing either of us does is nap. I'm not really sure how to ramp up the romance. The kiss last night was nice, but working up to another will take some forethought. There are girls in the Seam, some of the merchant girls, too, who navigate these waters so easily. But I've never had much time or use for it. Anyway, just a kiss isn't enough anymore clearly because if it was we'd have gotten food last night. My instincts tell me Haymitch isn't just looking for physical affection, he wants something more personal. The sort of stuff he was trying to get me to tell about myself when we were practicing for the interview. I'm rotten at it, but Peeta's not. Maybe the best approach is to get him talking. "Peeta," I say lightly. "You said at the interview you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?" "Oh, let's see. I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair. it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up," Peeta says. "Your father? Why?" I ask. "He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner,'" Peeta says. "What? You're making that up!" I exclaim. "No, true story," Peeta says. "And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?' And he said, 'Because when he sings. even the birds stop to listen.'" "That's true. They do. I mean, they did," I say. I'm stunned and surprisingly moved, thinking of the baker telling this to Peeta. It strikes me that my own reluctance to sing, my own dismissal of music might not really be that I think it's a waste of time. It might be because it reminds me too much of my father. "So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent," Peeta says. "Oh, please," I say, laughing. "No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew  -  just like your mother  -  I was a goner," Peeta says. "Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you." "Without success," I add. "Without success. So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck," says Peeta. For a moment, I'm almost foolishly happy and then confusion sweeps over me. Because we're supposed to be making up this stuff, playing at being in love not actually being in love. But Peeta's story has a ring of truth to it. That part about my father and the birds. And I did sing the first day of school, although I don't remember the song. And that red plaid dress. there was one, a hand-me-down to Prim that got washed to rags after my father's death. It would explain another thing, too. Why Peeta took a beating to give me the bread on that awful hollow day. So, if those details are true. could it all be true? "You have a. remarkable memory," I say haltingly. "I remember everything about you," says Peeta, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention." "I am now," I say. "Well, I don't have much competition here," he says. I want to draw away, to close those shutters again, but I know I can't. It's as if I can hear Haymitch whispering in my ear, "Say it! Say it!" I swallow hard and get the words out. "You don't have much competition anywhere." And this time, it's me who leans in. Our lips have just barely touched when the clunk outside makes us jump. My bow comes up, the arrow ready to fly, but there's no other sound. Peeta peers through the rocks and then gives a whoop. Before I can stop him, lie's out in the rain, then handing something in to me. A silver parachute attached to a basket. I rip it open at once and inside there's a feast  -  fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, and best of all, a tureen of that incredible lamb stew on wild rice. The very dish I told Caesar Flickerman was the most impressive thing the Capitol had to offer. Peeta wriggles back inside, his face lit up like the sun. "I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve." "I guess so," I answer. But in my head I can hear Haymitch's smug, if slightly exasperated, words, "Yes, that's what I'm looking lot, sweetheart."

#HungerGames