Authors Note: Just wanted to add a note before you guys delve into the twisted depths of this story.
1)Very messed up and dark story.
2) Not fluffy (or at least explicitly)
3) Characters are Out Of Character, the reason for this is that i wanted them to seem believable as if their history and the situation they're in has effected their personalities rather than classic Ymir and Historia happening to be the same even though their surroundings would royally mess them up.
4) If you're starting to think that nothing good is going to happen, it gets better in chapter 15, it's when the more obvious relationship starts.
Enjoy?
College was the same shit different day on repeat, like that song you once loved so much and how it became a haunting gathering of words and hallowing sounds in some sort of butchery of a fleeting emotion called love. College started as some newfound freedom for Krista, her high school experience was subpar in comparison to the majority's hatred of it.
High school was the starting point for all her quarrels: drunkard father, controlling mother dying in front of her, slit her wrists wide open as Krista opened her birthday presents age 12, acting as her father's friend's personal whore leading onto drugs and drink being forced into her system because she "performed" better. As soon as she waved her final goodbyes to the buildings she visited daily for 5 years of her life, a new opportunity to better herself arose from the ashes of her tainted school uniform.
When results day for her GCSEs arrived, she was given a small reprieve from her so called holiday which was full of endless hours of "work" for her father's friends. She got the morning off to prove to her father she was a "smart little whore". Despite the awful situation she endured for the past 5 years, Krista was the studious type. She never wanted her life to interfere with her pursuit of academics and aspirations to work as a clinical psychologist.
Needless to say she got a litter of A's and A*'s, which was to be expected as school was the only time she got to be safe from her father and his way of income. Every second of the school day she had her head in a book or some other form of knowledge giver: science magazines, dictionaries, language course manuals. She quickly gathered the nickname Matilda due to her rigorous study efforts, always in the library, always working but always on her own, parents never turned up to parents evening to celebrate her success. All that really mattered to the Lenz family was their daughter's income and popularity amongst her father's, Rod's, friends. Her loneliness at the beginning was standard, almost felt mandatory, but towards the end of her experience the nights became rougher and the bruises and split lips became more permanent than temporary with an accumulation of emotions forming a reservoir of pure despair. She craved to feel something new, to have someone to lean on, so she didn't have to always stand on her own against the barrage of pain and torture she was exposed to nightly.
Darkening clouds plastered the bleak sky as Krista returned home in the rain, her blonde hair drunk from the water, letting its drink spill onto her pale face, clinging to her jaw line and curtaining her bruised neck. The damp cloth stuck to her small frame outlining what the men liked about her but her courage to continue was revealed, even subtly. It only took a glance at this girl in the rain, humming a repeating tune to herself, to understand where in this world she stood. She was used and abused but defiant as she clung to her knowledge, her record of her power over facts and ease of manipulation of the words she could choke out behind a tightening fist. When she turned the corner of her street the stench of alcohol drowned her senses; her father started early. The street was in a state of disarray: wheelie bins toppled over in gardens, dogs chained outside with no shelter, potholes deep enough to drown in. It was that sort of neighbourhood, the one where you would find a young girl on the corner of the street when the city darkens and the fiddlers come out to play their tune. It just happened to be that the young girl on the corner of the street was Krista.
The smell got worse as she grew closer to home, closer to her father. The house was small, even for two, falling down, grey and dilapidated with the plaster falling off the hallway walls. As soon as her key hit the lock, her father was yelling at her. Slicking her hair back, she wandered into the room which her father and his friends occupied. Today was poker night, well, it was more of a whole day and night deal but details details. The birch table was littered with playing cards, chips, and vodka but every pair of eyes were like javelins, all aimed at Krista's soaked form. All she was ever seen as was a piece of meat, property which could be bought and sold like common commodities in some sort of twisted, testosterone-fuelled trading market. She was unfortunately the apple of most of her father's friends' eyes, some of their sons' too.
"Come on over sweetie, new comers are over and we want to make a good impression" rang the familiar words of her all-knowing father. She knew how she was supposed to respond, how to walk over, how to lean into the table to reveal her arse and breasts, but she still had that piece of paper in her grasp.
Her only weapon.
By no means was she daring enough to confront her father or his friends. She didn't think she had the courage to hold onto that piece of paper much longer, as if she were holding a grenade in her hand and at any moment it would consume her in a blaze of fire. So Krista returned to complying with her father, she slid her results paper down the back of the sofa near the doorway and did what she knew to do; swaying her hips more than usual, allowing her clothing to stick to her curves, to allow the drips of water to trace her jaw line, run past her lip, and catch the ones that the mens' eyes traced.
As she sauntered over, a pair of eyes were averted, more intent on playing the game of poker than poke-her. The heat of the missing eyes diverted onto the table, to the deck of cards yet to be played. Krista took interest into this boy: shaggy hair, brown, lanky fella who was slouched into the chair a little too much to be comfortable, wasn't old enough to grow more than baby fluff for facial hair.
Krista reached her father's chair at the head of the poker table, leaning into the table to keep the rain sliding from her jaw to her chin and onto the table, her father knew the routine and cracked a smirk. "I'm sure you've noticed my new friends, Harold and his son, young lad's called… er. What's your name boyo?" Krista's father knew this call for response was to remove the boy's eyes from the deck. Krista knew that the boy was trying to count the cards, so did her father, but the monetary income from him must have been large enough for father to not kick off. "Ymir" the young lad replied, eyes not moving to inspect the origin of the inquisitive voice. However, they were soon to be moved by a swift shunt by his father's elbow burying itself into his gut. His eyes snapped to where they were supposed to be as he quickly added a "sir" to the end of his reply. His shoulders hunched up quickly enough and he sat up straighter and his eye met Krista's.
End game.
That eye contact sealed the nonverbal agreement between her and this boy. Her father would want her to let him do whatever he wanted to her form, and she was going to let him. That eye-to-eye glance was the contract and the 'bashful' glance from the blonde to her father for instruction meant Krista in return sealed the deal, signature on the dotted line.
Her father's hand landed on her lower spine, adding a little force in the direction of Ymir, signalling her to approach the young man.
Harold was sat opposite her father, he was a rather big man, close to 18 stone with little hair on his head, mid 50s. He looked rather intently at his cards and then at Krista as she approached his son next to him.
As she worked her way round the table she made sure to caress the table with her fingertips, gently playing with the chips as they met her hands, stopping to fiddle with them, inspect them then continue onward. When she circled the table she encountered Harold first, flattening out his collar as she passed him to meet his son. Feeling him tense up from her touch, she made it more gentle and emphasised her flirtatious intent, forcing her hands to touch his skin, to dance upon it leaving him wanting more but she wasn't told to entertain him; she was contracted to be the night's enjoyment for the young man.
Ymir's eyes were still fixated upon his cards, taking no notice of the young little thing approaching him with a brooding and unadulterated look plastered on her face, he seemed more interested in winning this game as if his honour depended on it. Krista slowed her pace, taking her time approaching the man, analysing his movements, his eye patterns, his facial expression, but he seemed almost unreadable. From what he gave away he seemed experienced, far more knowledge of game strategy than someone of his age should possess. He knew his way around a deck of cards as well as a gun?
Her eyes flickered to his fingertips as they toyed with the fraying edges of the two aces he held. Residue from gunpowder as well as callouses where the trigger would lie. Krista had been with several goons before, all were unpredictable, very odd tastes, and mostly a lot rougher with her than the usual customer. Upon this discovery she was taken aback, albeit only a small one, leading her to seem more like a doe caught in the headlights. It was at this time that she was thankful that no one was looking at her face, with eyes only focused upon their cards or her chest, but Ymir made one small glance to her face from behind his cards which exposed a slither of his thinking. She gathered that he knew that he was going to win, and from what was on the table he had won a lot of chips and this almost definitely would be reflected after their 'session' as her father would blame her for the loss and force her to work some awful jobs to earn the lost money back.
She knew her father's cards, she also knew Harold's from the quick glance she snuck, and she knew what would happen next if she didn't speed up the process, force Ymir to fold and move to her bedroom. She eventually reached Ymir whose eyes had returned to the cards in his hand, still giving no response when her hands surrounded his neck, encircling it in preparation to mount his lap. As Krista began to sit on his lap he placed his cards on the table to free his hands to support her back and to cup her cheek, the other grabbing her jawline and forcing her to look him in the eye. Ymir's features seemed softer up close, more youthful and feminine. The supporting hand slid down her spine, putting pressure on the vertebrae, feeling the curvature of her spine, feeling any muscle contraction that occurred, sensing how Krista felt about where she was and what was going to happen. Ymir was boring into Krista and both her and her father were painfully aware of it, her father hopeful he liked her enough to take her to her room and have her all the ways he wanted the girl, Krista hopeful that he didn't win the game of poker and was nice enough to her body but she doubted it.
At the beginning of everything she leant to remain hopeful, hope for the best but plan for the worse, she learnt after all these years of being exploited to expect the worse and that's it. Ymir's hand lazily made its way lower, cupping her rear end and disengaged the eye contact, moving to pick up his cards and resume the game. It was at this moment that Krista's adrenaline kicked in, making her more daring than usual leading to her leaning into Ymir, placing her hand on his chest, drawing patterns on it and moving her mouth closer to Ymir's right ear. "My room is just upstairs, I don't think I can keep this cool and collected head on much longer if you keep looking at me like that" she whispered into his ear, just loud enough to be heard, just enough to tickle his neck. After her comment Ymir nudged her with his jaw, as if telling her to not tempt the beast but she wanted to get what needed to be done over with so she took his earlobe into her mouth, giving it a strong suck which she could tell sent a shiver down the young lad's spine.
Rod had seen this routine before, Krista was well acquainted at dealing with similar customers, ones who could be very powerful over her father and her. The routine was always the same in these situations, the responses start with a small fire lighting in their eyes, she builds the fire, throwing more wood on the pyre, then the killing blow, pours gasoline all over the wood and lets the customers will erupt the pile into a violent bonfire. She could see the fire in Ymir's eyes, but there was something more this time, it wasn't the start of a fire, this one seemed old and ruthless. Ymir straightened, as if given a confidence boost, the opposite result from what Krista wanted to happen, similarly with Rod.
Ymir reciprocated what Krista did, he leant in, moving for her neck, placing a small kiss in the crook of it, squeezing her rear. He grabbed his cards and handed them to Krista, forcing her to take his turn, evidentially he had this planned all along and knew the game the girl was playing with him.
Krista's eyes blew out, knowing what she had to do but she was damned if she did, and damned if she didn't. A weary look to her father was the sign that told her she had to refuse to take the turn, let him gamble his own money, let him take her own freedom. She couldn't sentence herself to being beaten again. All eyes on Krista and the cards, Ymir's eyes could be felt on her skin, edging her on, telling her to fold and trigger his wrath after the game until Ymir's voice became audible, it was stronger and not at all timid as it was before.
"Fold"
Harold sniggered at Ymir's call, even he knew the cards Ymir had. Ymir trailed his hand to meet Krista's and took the cards from her and placed them face down on the table before picking her up and wrapping her around his waist. Krista let out a small yelp at the unexpected movement but a look of glee could be found in her father's eyes, always glad for the money and uncaring that his daughter would be forced into vulgar, unspeakable actions with a stranger.
