#ah this was probably shite but that's fine

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Slasher Handler Part 11 - Slip Lead

Slasher Handler Masterlist

Read on AO3

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Implied stalking/surveillance, implied kidnapping, physical injury, deception/emotional manipulation, physical violence, injury with knife, genuinely not enough information, hidden weapons

Something about stabbing him, about meeting Price, has resulted in you being able to stray a bit farther from Simon’s orbit. You’re still on a rather short lead, there is a list of unspoken rules between the two of you as long as your arm. But you’re going out alone more. You don’t feel Simon’s eyes on you every moment he’s out of your sight. It’s weird.

But when it comes to Simon, it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. So you start a routine of going to the cafe down the street twice a week or so to work and see other human beings. It’s surprisingly difficult, some days. More than once, you’ve felt too exposed and retreated back home. These days, you have more good days than bad. As long as people don’t talk to you too much, you’re fine.

So it’s a bit jarring when someone clears his throat while you’re wrangling spreadsheets.

The man is in a light jacket, tee shirt and jeans. Looks like he works out. Kind of a stupid haircut, but he’s at least committed to it. Very distinct looking, Simon’s voice says in your head, easy to track. Unlikely to cause problems.

Something about him makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

“D’ya mind?” he gestures to the chair across from you. At your skeptical look, he rushes to assure you, “ Jus’ fer mah coffee, ‘n t’read,” holding up a thick paperback. He gestures to the rest of the cafe. “Wouldnae bother you, but this’s the only open chair.”

The shop is unusually crowded. You frown up at him. “I’m really busy.”

“Willnae hear a peep from me,” he promises, setting down his coffee and pulling out the chair across from you. He turns the chair so he’s facing more of the room instead of the corner you’re in. And he opens his book.

You watch him for a minute, but he doesn’t look up. It’s hard to shake the feeling that something is wrong, but you do need to work. With a last wary glance at him, you settle your headphones over your ears - transparency on - and get back to organizing a data set that reminds you of a ball of duct tape.

It’s time for a break before you know it. Your companion, true to his word, hasn’t said a peep since he sat down, more than an hour ago. He barely looks up as you close your laptop before turning back to his book. He does look up when you flag down one of the servers.

“Lunch,” you say, inanely. To the server, you say, “Can I get the chicken sandwich today?”

“Chips ‘n a lemonade, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They turn to your table mate. “And for you?”

“The same, ah guess?” He raises his eyebrows at you, like he expects you to give him permission or something. He looks back at the server. “Yeah, a chicken piece for me, as well. ‘Nd a juice?”

“Separate checks?”

“Aye, ta,” the guy says. When the server leaves, he blanches. “Hope you dinnae mind.”

You do mind, but it’s not like he can sit anywhere else right now. “It’s fine.”

He sets his book on the table, and your eyebrows shoot up. Whatever you thought he’d be reading, Jurassic Park wasn’t it. He grins. “Ah ken. It’s old, yeah? But it’s a damn sight better’n the movie.”

“Isn’t that how it goes,” you say, vaguely. 

But you’ve already fallen into his trap. He turns his chair to face you, crossing his arms and leaning into the table. His eyes are unnervingly blue - somehow even bluer than Simon’s - and bright with interest. “’M serious. It’s not just that a character yells in the movie and speaks softly in the book, aye? In fact, the movie made Dr. Sattler older, aye? Great choice, emphasize ‘er expertise.” 

Aging up a woman character? You’re reluctantly intrigued. “She was a less important character in the book?”

“Nae,” the man scoffs. “She’s probably the first o’em to realize how shite the whole thing is. Notices things. Stuff the other’s aren’t payin’ attention to because she’s the plant expert, an’ naebody pays attention to plants.”

You find yourself drawn in, in spite of yourself. Johnny, as he introduces himself, has obviously been waiting for a chance to talk about it, but he’s not pushy. He excitedly pulls a pen from his pocket to doodle along with his explanations. By the time your food has arrived, he’s convinced you to at least try the audiobook.

“I cannae pay attention stuff in mah ears,” he says with a grin as he starts to dig in. “But I hear good things, if you don’t ‘ave time to sit an’ read the text.”

As you nod along, you look up and almost choke on your next swallow. Simon is outside, looking at you through the window with raised eyebrows above his usual black surgical mask. His eyes flick to give the man at your table an obvious once over. And then he turns away and walks out of sight.

“Ye alrigh’?” Johnnys’ eyebrows are up near his hairline when you look back at him. “Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost.”

“Y-yeah,” you say, torn between staying seated and the urge to run after Simon. You can’t help but look at the window again, but he’s gone, there’s nothing for it. “Sorry, I thought… Sorry. Yeah, I’ll get the audiobook.”

When you get home, Simon is on the couch, the TV on with the volume low. He watches you, like he always does, as you take off your shoes and shuffle around to put away your things. When you finally join him on the couch, you find that he’s watching a nature documentary. A crocodile slides under the water with barely a ripple.

“He was only sitting with me because there wasn’t anywhere else,” you rush to say.

Simon turns to cock his head at you. “You get ‘is name?”

“John. Johnny,” you answer. “He told me about his book, but I left as soon as we were done eating.”

“Good,” he says with a nod. He lifts the arm closest to you, pulling you close as you settle into his side. “’S good to have friends, Precious.”

“He’s not a friend. Just some guy out to lunch like everyone else.” 

“You let him stay,” Simon points out. He squeezes you in a rough approximation of a one armed hug. “Been nervous around people, but you’re gettin’ better.”

This isn’t what you expected. You can’t help but side-eye him. “You’re… proud of me?”

Simon’s lips press gently against your forehead. “’S long as you pick better this time, I don’t mind you ‘aving friends. Can’t keep you all to myself forever. ‘Sides, you’ve marked me proper, ‘aven’t you? Got me as your little pet. Johnny’s not gonna be a problem.”

The little pink scar around his ribs is little more than a raised line. You slide your fingers under his shirt to pet at it. Among all of his scars, it’s one of the smallest. You’d cried the first time he’d let you see under the bandages.

“You’re not a pet,” you grumble, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You’re an alligator who won’t leave my house.”

“Your alligator, now,” Simon agrees. He focuses back on the television, seemingly done with the conversation.

You could leave it at that. But you turn to face him, instead. “You’re not mad?”

“Not unless ‘e ‘urts ya.” Simon presses his lips against your hair. “An’ I wouldn’t let that ‘appen.”

The following week, though, he stands over you with an exaggerated grimace at how crowded the place is. “Och, d’ya mind?”

Johnny is there the next time you go to the cafe. He waves from his table, but ducks back into his notebook without waving you over. So you work from your own table in peace. When you take a break for lunch, he’s gone. Two days later, it’s the same. It’s easier to concentrate, now that you’re less worried that he’ll take the conversation from the other day as an invitation. 

With a sigh, you clear some space for him. But just like last time, he keeps to himself, reading and occasionally jotting things down in his notebook. It’s not until just before lunch that he breaks the silence.

“D’y’ve a boyfriend then?” You can’t keep yourself from cringing fast enough, apparently, because he laughs. “Sorry, sorry, shouldnae asked.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you grumble.

“Aw,” he coos. “Don’ worry hen. You’re right bonnie. Ah’m sure they’ll come around, whoever they are.”

That would be sweet, if it wasn’t so painfully off base. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Oh, you’re right done wit’ me,” he laughs. “Ah ken’t I shoulda kept mah mouth shut. Ma always said runnin’ mah mouth would get me into trouble. I won’t bother ye again.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s fine. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

He doesn’t push, and you’re grateful. But when it comes time to pay for lunch, he insists on paying. It grates on your nerves. A gift from a guy is never just generosity, you learned that long before Brandon. But you clench your jaw and pack your bag up a bit more roughly than usual and say your goodbyes.

“They didn’t have the brownies you wanted,” you announce as you return home from the grocer, two days later. “I think it was a limited edi…tion…”

You notice Simon watching through the window, but he’s there and gone before you can get a read on his expression.

There’s a smattering of blood on the entryway carpet.

You don’t drop the bag with the eggs, but only because your muscles are locked up. Did someone break into the apartment? Was Simon here when they did, or next door? Did they leave? Did he take them?

A sound makes you gasp before you bite your tongue hard enough to taste blood. And then again, a muffled groan, close, from the direction of your couch. 

It’s not Simon’s voice.

You gently set your bags down and reach behind the coats for the blackjack Simon insisted on leaving there for security. There’s a rustling. Another groan. You stoop low, trying to make yourself a smaller target, and creep around the edge of the couch.

When you see Johnny, bound and gagged, shirt covered in blood where he lies on the floor, your stomach drops so fast you feel dizzy.

“No, no, no, no, no,” you whisper, dropping the jack with a thump. You crawl over to him, looking around frantically. Simon is nowhere to be seen. But he did this. He had to have done this. Right?

Johnny twitches, groans again, eyelids fluttering open. When he sees you, his eyes go wide, and he frantically tries to sit up.

“No, don’t! I don’t know where you’re hurt,” you hiss. You reach around his head to untie the cloth that’s gagging him. “Oh my god-”

“We gotta get out’f here, bonnie,” he grunts, leaning into your hands as you help him upright. He spits blood on the floor. “No tellin’ when that mental bastard gets back.”

“Oh god,” you whisper again, touching the front of his shirt. It’s dark and sticky in a bloom across his chest. “Where are you hurt? Did he stab you?”

“Ah’m okay,” he grunts. “A bit banged up, but ah’ll live.”

You swallow down the urge to vomit. “There’s a lot of blood, Johnny.”

“S’nae all mine,” he answers. “C’mon, untie me, before Simon gets back.”

You’re shifting to reach behind him before your mind catches up. You can feel the blood drain from your face. “W-what? What did you say?”

“We need to get out of here!”

“No, you said his name, you called him - ”

“Simon? That’s what ye called him when you came home,” he hisses. 

“No, I didn’t,” you whisper, body stuttering between frozen and electrified. You never call Simon’s name where others can hear. “And - and I - you - you were unconscious.”

Shining blue eyes stare into yours from two inches away. Johnny’s bloody mouth curls into a smile. “Oh, he’s trained you up good, he has.”

You scream when he lunges forward, huge arms grabbing at you. 

His weight crushes the air out of your lungs when your back hits the ground. You twist under him, using the arm he hasn’t trapped to grab his hair and yank. He swears, and loosens his hold just enough that you’re able to free your other hand and jab him in the throat.

You expect the way that he chokes, but the hand he’s twisted in the back of your shirt stays locked tight. He coughs out a frenzied laugh as you twist. Your heart races as he prevents you from getting your knees up between your belly and his. But he doesn’t expect you to hammer the heel of your boot against the back of his knee, or how you use the leverage against his leg to roll away onto your belly. 

He doesn’t let go of you, but that’s fine, that’s okay, as long as you can reach under the edge of the couch. Johnny pounces, body curling around you without quite pinning you down. His fingers twist into your hair in an echo of how you wrenched at him. But he doesn’t stop your hand, grabbing the leg of the couch and then reaching under and up and-

“Try again, Bonnie,” Johnny chuckles into your ear when your hand meets nothing but cotton and wood.

Your heart doesn’t have time to stop. The grinding pain between your hip bone and the floor makes you pop up your pelvis and reach down. The tiny knife, Little K, jumps to your hand. It’s so easy to flick it open, you think you almost cut your own belly as you heave. Johnny rides you for a moment, then pops up onto his knees to let you roll freely.

You don’t have time to decide, gut or femoral, you just swing. Denim parts, pressure - 

Johnny yelps.

His weight is suddenly gone, and the arc of your arm slams the back of your hand and your elbow onto the carpet. It’s a shock, almost hard enough to make you drop the knife. You flick your eyes around, nearly blind with tunnel vision, and see Johnny standing over you. His jeans are slashed, outer thigh almost to crotch, but you can’t see blood, fuck.

He sways, oddly. Is your vision swimming? He doesn’t descend on you again, though, just laughs and wiggles. One of his feet isn’t on the ground, his injured leg is dangling, did you get him?

You imagine you can see Simon’s face, a little angry and a little amused. If you die here, Johnny will live to see his own intestines, you know it. Even if you survive, he won’t. Simon might gift you another skull. The thought almost has a laugh bubbling out of you. 

“You stupid motherfucker,” you hiss. 

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

Simon’s voice startles you into action. You’re off your back and scrabbling backward in and instant as he manifests behind Johnny. Except, you realize, that Simon is holding Johnny up, one arm snaked under Johnny’s and hand around the back of his neck. That’s why Johnny looks off balance, it’s because he is, because Simon is here, he’s going to save you-

“Did real good, Precious,” Simon says with a grin. “Knew you’d get along.”

What? “What?”

Simon says something else, but you can barely hear him over your heart pounding in your ears. But you hear it when Johnny laughs. You see when Simon releases him with a ruffle to his mohawk and a shove toward the armchair. Before you know it, Simon’s scooped you into his arms and taken his usual seat on the couch. He pries the knife from your hand and snaps it closed. 

“Told you I was thinkin’ of gettin you a dog,” Simon rumbles, sitting you in his lap so your back is against his chest. Before you can protest that no, he never once mentioned a fucking dog, he continues, “This’n’s mostly ‘ousebroken, already. Soap needs a firm ‘and, but you c’n ‘andle him. 

Soap? What the fuck does soap have to do with anything? What kind of a name is…

"Oi!” Simon barks. “Off the furniture.”

Your stomach drops as you remember John Price, two months ago now. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.” Soap.

When your wide eyes swing to him,  Johnny’s face is split into a toothy grin. He tips his head back against the seat of the arm chair. One of his hands touches the blood blooming through his jeans and brings it up to his lips. He laves his tongue over his fingers. “Ah’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ to know you, Bonnie.”

A part of you wants to get up and slit his throat. The rest of you slumps back into Simon’s chest and bursts into tears.

[gipitothefrog]

Illness

Word count: 521

@wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius was shaking when Remus woke up beside him.

“Are you alright, Pads?” he asked, feeling Sirius’ forehead. It was extremely hot to the touch.

“Oh Merlin, you’re burning up. Um, wait, I know what to do…”

He tried to recall what his mother did for him whenever he was sick.

“Oh! There’s this potion! My mom used to make it for me when I got sick and it- oh no.” Remus was absolute shite at making potions. He had been since he was in first year, in the first lesson, where he immediately blew it up somehow. It was like the cauldron had a vendetta against him.

“Remus,” Sirius croaked out. He was at his side in a second, listening attentively. “I’m fine. It’s just a cold.” He let out a violent cough. “Some water would be nice though.”

Remus conjured a glass of water and offered it to him. Sirius drank it quickly, wincing when he swallowed. It hurt Remus’ heart to see him sick.

“I’ll owl my mum for the potion straight away. Just… don’t move.”

“I think it hurts to move,” Sirius said as Remus rushed out of the room to get parchment and a quill.

Remus quickly sent an owl to his mother and grabbed some muggle medicine they kept just in case. He conjured up another glass of water and gave Sirius the proper amount of medication.

“Do you feel nauseous or anything?”

“I’m fine. But you should probably stay here, just in case. I don’t know if I’ll survive without you by my side…”

“I see you still manage to be insufferable when you’re sick.”

Sirius coughed again, and the most concerning part was, he was only being a little dramatic. “What do you mean? I’m always a delight to be around.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, you love me.”

Remus sighed. “Yes, I do. Which is why I’m going to ask you to preserve your poor vocal chords and stop talking. You already sound like you got run over or something. I don’t want it to get worse.”

“I love you too.”

“I’m going to make you some soup.”

“Isn’t cooking similar to potion making? I don’t think that will go well.”

“It can’t be that hard. It’s just soup. Now, shhhhh.”

Sirius closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep. He awoke to Remus shaking him awake.

“What is it, Moons? I’m trying to sleep…”

“I have the potion, if you’d like it. Actually, I don’t know why I said it like that. Please drink the potion, Sirius.”

“Alright, alright, bossy.” Sirius drank the potion in one swift gulp.

“Ah, I already feel better, Remus!” He planted a quick little kiss on Remus’ forehead and began to get out of bed. “I think that I’ll just… I’ll just… I’ll…”

Remus sighed. “A side effect of the potion is that you’ll need to sleep for a few hours. You’ve already slept for so long though, but I guess it’s-” Sirius promptly fell asleep and didn’t hear what Remus had to say about that.

When he woke up, Remus was burning up beside him.

“Oh, not you now!”

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Convenience Store Vampire, part 8

Part 1, Part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

“Hush, Dave,” she said, in a most un-Vaceni-like tone. “Don't worry about him. His diplomatic pass will let him get through any situation. I've seen ‘im literally talk down an army with that pass.”

Wait, what? I turned to her and peered closer. Mrs Vaceni smiled at me innocently, a glint of gold in her eyes, and it dawned on me. “Hash! Oh, you wicked, deceitful, clever girl! Gods above, I didn't even suspect a thing!”

‘Mrs Vaceni' giggled, and her skin melted to become Hash, two heads shorter and half as wide. “Ah know, it's almost like I'm a godsdamn ‘shifter, Davie,” she said, grinning slyly. “Now, let's go check on our ghostie, neh?”

I nodded, and we both turned to the closet. It really was a miracle that nobody had spotted the ever-increasing pool of dark liquid around it. “You know… I could have sworn that ghost ectoplasm was transparent, not… Whatever the hells this thing is,” I said, peering at inky puddle.

Hash shrugged. “Who cares? We rescue the little bugger, we get ‘im on ‘is feet, and we go ‘bout our day,” she said matter-of-factly, and opened the door.

A miniature flood of that black fluid came gushing out of the closet, and I jumped aside to avoid staining my shoes. Hash poked her head inside, uncaring of the filth on her clothes, and hauled the ghostly exorcist out.

He was drenched in that liquid, a giant glob of goo and blackness that only vaguely resembled a man. “Somefin' went wrong,” Hash announced, her brows furrowed. 

“Yeah, I see that,” I muttered. The broom closet seemed fine, apart from a toppled bottle of cleaning fluid. “Say, what happens when chemicals touch a ghost?”

Hash gave me a horrified look. “How the hells should ah know? Dinnae tell me- Ah, shite,” she said, shaking her hand free of the goop. “Get me a tissue, Davie. A lotta tissue.”

“Mrs Vaceni is gonna kill me for this,” I mumbled as I pulled out a roll of kitchen towels. “Speaking of which, what happened to her? The real Mrs Vaceni ought to be here by now.”

“Oh, about that…” Hash made an apologetic face. “I mighta hit her with a sleepin’ spell. No biggie, tho; She'll be fine in six hours or so.”

Hopefully that would give me enough time to clean up this mess. I handed the roll of paper to Hash and extracted the mop from the closet. Much like everything else, it was coated in a layer of liquid, and I wiped it down quickly. “Wait, let me put the ghost in a container, so he does not mess this place up,” I said, hauling out our largest carrier box and placing it behind the counter. Hash placed the ghost in it and continued wiping him with tissue.

“Davie, I think we need some water,” Hash reported, as I finished mopping up the floor. The stains had mostly washed away with the remnants of the cleaning fluid, and I found myself eternally grateful for the fact that hardly anyone visited my store. Hash and the ghost could probably hide behind the counter, but it would be hard to explain the pile of black-stained tissues and the mop-bucket of goo. I supposed I could have claimed it was barbecue sauce.

“Ugh, alright,” I grumbled, emptying the bucket into the sink and refilling it with clean water. Hopefully the goo would not harden and clog up the pipes, or I was going to spend a very uncomfortable afternoon with the plunger. I brought the full bucket to her (without breaking a sweat or struggling, perks of being a vampire,) and poured the whole thing on the ghost.

The effect was instant. Black slime flowed off, and a translucent boy, perhaps ten years of age, was revealed. He opened his eyes and spluttered for air he did not need, batting the bucket aside and gasping. “You! Mo-Monsters!”

Hash and I exchanged an irritated glance. Both of us had dealt with enough speciesist exorcists for the week. “Listen here, exorcist,” Hash said, her voice stern, no trace of an accent. “We've just worked our asses off to rescue you from your own people. So kindly refrain from insulting us. Besides, you're a monster too, now.”

The ghost blinked, and looked down at his hands. The spluttering immediately started back up again. “What the hells?! I'm- this- This can't be happening! I'm alive, I swear! I can't be- Oh, hells no!” He batted at himself as though he could smack the ghostliness away, and burst into tears.

“Hey, kid,” I said, feeling sorry for him, “It's alright. Being dead isn't all that bad. You can dive underwater as long as you want, and nobody ever asks for your ID.”

The ghost glared at me. "Bring me a mirror,” he demanded. Hash pulled out a compact and passed it to him.

He gasped at the face in the mirror. “Why- Oh no, no, no! I'm twenty-seven, not seven! And my hair. Why is Ina punishing me like this?!”

Oh, yes. Did I mention his hair was pink? Not a neon pink, either. It was the colour of little girls' dresses, the shade of pink that peonies so often were. Baby pink, fit for a man who looked like one. 

You know, whenever I feel bad about my miserable existence, I think of him. I might be an ancient vampire working a dead end job, but at least I was not a pink-haired exorcist ghost.

Taglist:

@coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch @ramwritblr, @urnumber1star, @fortunatetragedy, @bigwipscholar, @ratedn

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west

@finicky-felix, @evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet,

CSV: @wifeblade, @trippingpossum (Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[melancholicheart]

All This Time- Chapter 5

cw: trans male pregnancy (past, mentioned), angst, miscommunication, fluff and happy ending

The supermarket was as uneventful as a shopping trip with a four year old gets. Elizabeth was determined to show her Dad all her favourite things, like the cat food that has the ‘pretty kitty’ on the box and the dog toys that cause arguments between her and Johnny since he won’t get them a pet.

She asks politely for a chocolate bar, which she receives, and she shares it with Simon after he tells her that Snickers are his favourite too.

Like clockwork, when they near the checkouts, Johnny grabs four different flowers without a word. He picks a tulip, a rose, a chrysanthemum and a gerbera daisy.

Simon tried to ask what they’re for but got distracted by Elizabeth pulling on his hand when the crowd around them grew. It was busy in the store, lots of people getting last minute back to school supplies as well as their weekly shops.

Before long, they wandered across from Tesco towards a church. Simon knows it well, it’s the reason he and Johnny had the flat so close to it, he buried his family there many years ago. Simon is surprised to see Johnny pick Elizabeth up, swinging her onto his hip as she holds the four different flowers gently, as he then waltzes into the graveyard.

Simon is a few steps behind but quickly catches up as they wander through the cemetery. It’s more crowded since he was last there, newer gravestones deep in the ground with gold etching on the marble.

Just as Simon goes to speak, Elizabeth is placed on the floor and she rushes off, quiet mumbles of ‘Nanny!’ escaping her mouth. Simon stands to Johnny’s side, “Johnny, why are we here?”

“To see her Nan,” Johnny says, matter-of-factly. He turns to Simon and his face pales dramatically fast. His hand comes to his mouth as he gasps, “Shit! Fuckin’ shite! Simon, I’m sorry, I didn’t think and I- I- Christ Almighty, I’m such a fuckin’ moron! I- we can go back, I’m sorry!”

Simon shakes his head, “No, Johnny, it’s okay. Probably about time I paid my respects.”

“Simon, I mean it, if you want to leave, we can go. It’s your call.” Johnny says firmly.

Simon looks up in time to see Elizabeth plop herself down in front of a grave with a smile on her face. He knows the plot well. Two companion plots, at a hefty sum too, but the lifting weight from his pocket did nothing to ease the weight on his mind. Far on the other end of the yard, an abandoned plot at this point, probably still stands. Withered with age and damaged from the weather. He hopes it rots eternally.

“Johnny, it’s fine.”

And with that, they catch up to their daughter.

For a four year old, her knowledge of graveyard respect is exceptional. She sits by the graves, but the heavy load sitting on Simon’s shoulders as he approaches dissipates when he sees Elizabeth there. She is plucking at the weeds in the ground, muttering ‘yuck!’ to Johnny as he sits beside her. She grabs dying flowers from out of the pots and places one of the flowers in each one.

Elizabeth Riley gets the Rose, Beth Riley the Tulip. Tommy gets the Daisy and Joseph. Joseph, whose age doesn’t even reach ten, he gets the Chrysanthemum.

The graves are perfectly maintained. No damage, no disturbed soil, no birds leaving their mess on the stones. They’re meticulously cleaned and Simon sees immediately that this has been Johnny and Elizabeth’s ‘project’ over the years.

“JoJo, I brought the- Papa I forgot how to say it! Ah, bronty- bron-to-saurus,” She spells out with a grin, “This week.”

She places the little toy dinosaur in front of the grave marker and lets it walk over the ground before saying, “Your turn!”

Joseph lays in the plot between his mother, and his grandmother. Tommy is on the end but there’s one grave missing. There’s a chunk of marble still forced into the ground and Johnny sees where Simon is looking.

He clears his throat, “A documentary came out a few years ago. About what happened. Kids came here and vandalised your stone. I- I was about eight months pregnant when it happened but I came and removed the stone. Broke it into pieces and took it out from here in the middle of the night. Police came knocking the day after, thought they might’ve caught me somehow, but they came to inform me of the incident. They had caught the vandals and assumed it was them. Think they took pity on me.” Johnny turns to Elizabeth and combs a hand through her wild hair.

Simon nods weakly and huffs, “Why'd you do that?”

“Regardless of what you think of yourself, Simon, I wasn’t going to let a group of kids ruin your name. I couldn’t stand it. You saved my life multiple times, you gave me my daughter, you’ve done everything and more for me and all I wanted to do was pay you back. Do something for you, for a change.” Johnny mumbles. He reaches over to Elizabeth Riley’s grave and plucks a dandelion out the ground.

“Talk to your Nana, sweetheart.” Johnny tells Lizzie, letting her clamber in front of the stone. She natters away about how she’s starting school and how the little girl next door is going to be in the same class.

She then mumbles, “Mah Daddy came home, Nana! He’s funny and big!” She giggles and Johnny turns to Simon to see him walking towards his Father’s grave.

“Ah shite,” Johnny sighs. He gives Simon his space for a minute, watching him out the corner of his eye as he stops at the grave in the far distance. He lets Elizabeth say everything she wants to, plays with ‘Joseph’ again and tells Beth how her hair is growing long and pretty like hers, before he bundles her into his arms and goes after Simon.

Just before they get there, Johnny places Elizabeth down and tells her he’ll just be a moment. He asks her to stay close by and she nods, going sitting at some other graves and taking weeds out the ground there instead.

Johnny walks over to Simon and places a hand on the small of his back, feeling Simon flinch. He looks at the grave before him. The sides are chipped and damaged, the words are weathering away and there is moss growing on the surface of the rock. The name ‘Damien Riley’ is slightly visible on the grave and Johnny notes how Simon’s hand is in a fist.

“I never brought her to this one,” Johnny mumbles, “I knew what he did to you all, couldn’t even think about paying respect to him, never mind force Elizabeth to.”

“You- How long have you been coming?” Simon asks.

“Since you left. It sounds silly, because I knew, deep down, you were alive. I was scared you may have been KIA or something though and I- I wanted to feel close to you. I would sit at your grave a-and talk to you. I would bring pictures from my scans and I played you a recording of her heartbeat once. I thought that if you knew you would’ve been here.” Johnny mumbles, “Since then, I’ve been caring for all the graves. Brought Elizabeth for the first time once she had all her jabs. I’ve talked to the graves a lot, these past five years almost, Simon, but I’ve never been to this one.”

“And Elizabeth,” Simon mumbles, “You’ve told her all about them? She calls my Mum, Nana.”

Johnny nods, “Well she is, isn’t she? I told her that they were in an accident.”

“Johnny I-” There’s a crack in Simon’s voice and when Johnny looks up, he sees tears on his face, “I don’t know how you could say you want to pay me back when that’s all you’ve been doing always.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough.” Johnny says.

“Well it is! You have cared for my family, thought about them even in death. You protected my honour. You did it all whilst having and raising our daughter when I wasn’t even here. I walked out on you when you needed me the most, and I'll never forgive myself for forcing you to do this all on your own.” Simon sighs. He glares deeply at the grave before him before turning his back to it and looking into Johnny’s eyes instead.

“And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat,” Johnny confirms, “Whether you believe it or not, I was indebted to you Simon. I always repay my debts.”

Simon wraps his arms around Johnny and buries his face into his neck. He breathes shakily as Johnny holds him close and mumbles, “Thankyou.” under his breath.

Elizabeth comes over, tugging on both of their jeans in an attempt to get their attention. Simon breaks the hug and lifts her up, sitting her on his hip, before leaning back into Johnny’s embrace.

A hand rubs his back, distinctly Johnny’s, but he feels a smaller hand gently patting between his shoulders when a voice speaks up, “Sad Daddy be happy now.”

Simon chuckles a little and rests his head against Elizabeth’s, “I am happy, darling, I promise.”

Johnny leans over and plants a kiss on Lizzie’s cheek, mumbling to her about how proud he is that she’s been good and that she’s such a sweet girl and Simon feels the large weight on his chest lift, like a dam opening up, and love comes flowing through the gaps and encompasses his heart entirely.

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

May I please request any of the Noah’s Ark Circus crew with an s/o who studies psychology and will happily teach them if asked?

aaaaa babies!! <3

Eh, wot’s that? Explain t’ ‘er exac’ly wot they do, yeah? Then she’ll decide if she’s int’rested. Really, it’s not likely she’d have much interest in actually learning about psychology once she finds out what it is. Of course, she absolutely appreciates what her S/O does and thinks it’s useful. It’s just… she doesn’t want to understand how her own mind works, and she doesn’t want to psychoanalyze her family. If she has problems, she’ll sort them out. For someone like her, too much knowledge of psychology would shift her world view a bit too much. As long as they’re okay with her gently saying she’ll leave the psychology to them, all’s good.

‘Uh? Well… damn, that’s pret’y fascinatin’! Maybe it’ll ‘elp ‘im understand other people better? He likes the concept of it in theory. It seems like understanding how people’s minds work would be a good thing; it might allow him to better comfort his family and his S/O and all that. Though… eh… more than anything, learning about psychology causes him to overthink things. He trips over his words more, he second guesses himself more, so he decides after a bit that he’s content just doing things the way he usually does. However, he couldn’t be prouder of his S/O!

‘Oly… so, wait, that’s what they do f’r a livin’?! Sign Freckles up t’ learn ‘bout it, at leas’ for a li’l while! Unlike some of their family, Freckles can put a disconnect between learning about psychology and applying it to their daily life. They simply think learning how people’s minds work, in general, is appealing to them. They find something incredible in it, and they don’t feel as if they have to take what they’ve learned and try to pick apart their friends and family. Learning about it is enough for them. It does go without saying that (Name) is just as wonderful to them as ever!

Ah, so, that’s th’ secret tae ‘ow well they seem t’ understand ev’ryone, is it? ‘E supposes that ain’t so bad. There are worse professions, in his opinion, and it seems like his S/O is doing their best to help people using their knowledge. That’s something he finds admirable, especially because he doesn’t think he’s all that good at helping people himself. He gently declines to ask them to teach him anything, because he already knows what’s going on inside his own head; it’s not like he could do anything with the knowledge, anyway. But if they talk about it, he will listen, because he adores them and their work.

Eh? ‘E guesses that’s all well ‘n’ good… ain’t like there’s anythin’ wrong with it, right? They definitely got ‘is respect, at leas’. He doesn’t really have any strong feelings about it one way or the other, but if nothing else, he likes that his S/O is doing something that can help others. He knows they’re a kind, caring person, so this is just another example of that. While he doesn’t usually seek out any information about psychology on his own, he’ll absolutely listen to them talk… and probably ask questions. There’s no doubt he has a deep appreciation for his darling’s work.

Oi, they got nothin’ better t’ do than get inside other people’s ‘eads ‘n’ shite? Wot good’s that gonna do ‘im? He thinks it’s all too sophisticated for him, and not only that, he doesn’t see the point in it. In his opinion, all it’s going to do is confuse the hell out of him, so why bother? He’s just fine with his S/O continuing this line of work; he’s pretty convinced he couldn’t stop them if he tried. And, hey, they’re trying to help people. Kinder than he would have been, most likely. Although they shouldn’t expect him to prompt them to talk about it on his own, he’ll listen if they wanna prattle on to him. There are worse subjects for them to talk about.

(Oh, it’s sort of like they know what’s going on in people’s heads, isn’t it?) He supposes it is, Emily. (Haha, you should let them get inside your head, Snake!) He’s not quite sure how to feel about it. This isn’t the worst career he’s seen someone have, certainly. It’s actually rather nice that they try to help people using their knowledge. And… he can’t pretend he isn’t curious. All things considered, it’s one of the more interesting things to learn about, and it might teach him something about himself. He’s actually got a bit of a scholarly head on his shoulders. He and his S/O have passed many nights just lying with each other, him asking questions about psychology and them answering. It’s… peaceful and enlightening.

‘Uh, well, that ain’t a thing she woulda pegged ‘em f’r studyin’ ‘bout ‘n’ all. Not that she’d know wot someone who does that stuff looks like, ‘course! She could think of a million worse things for someone to do for a job, and at least they’re not doing anything overly risky or cruel. It’s a fascinating thing to think about, anyway. She might not directly ask her S/O to teach her anything with regard to psychology, but she does ask frequent questions. She might even teasingly ask if they’d be willing to help with her brother’s anger issues. Ironically (Name)’s own mind is deeply interesting to her, even when she does understand them as a person. She’ll never not be fascinated with them regardless of whether she has anything to learn from them or not.

[tinyvesselhearts]

(Egon x You) Thing Is: Chapter 12

“Oh, shit. It’s the Mayor.”

Your eyes snap open.

You sit up in an instant, hypervigilant, surrounded by dust particles lit by soft sunlight. It takes a minute before you realize that everything’s actually okay. The sheets are a crumpled ball of warmth, the sun seeps in through the window. It’s the station again, the sightly ashy ceiling and the familiar siren wailing from downstairs. All you remember from yesterday are scraps: an emotion, a fear, an ache. And yet, here you are— safe, dressed in your own pajamas, all alone in Egon’s bed. No reason to panic. No reason at all.

Your heart’s still racing. Breaths are heavy. Something’s changed, something’s off. You can’t put your finger on it and that’s enough to take your peace away.

You lay back down. Bury your face in the pillow. It’s fine, it’s alright. Maybe you’re experiencing some ghostly haziness— it’s not like you’re taken over by an ethereal alien every day, after all. A quick nap should iron it out. Just a few more minutes and you’ll be as good as new. They boys will understand. Just this once…

You’re just about to drift away when familiar blurry silhouette approaches your cot.

“Thank God you’re awake”, Ray whispers, leaning over your bed. “The Mayor’s here. Pete’s trying to talk him out of a lawsuit. Stay here, alright?”

You prop on your elbows and turn your head around, then squint— because, heck, if he’s trying to wake you up, why is Ray whispering? It’s late morning— must be around nine, nine- thirty or so…

Wait, what?

“The Mayor?”

“Yeah, yeah”, says Ray. “Don’t worry, He comes and goes. Peter’s got a way with politicians.”

A heated conversation rumbles through the walls. Pete’s voice sounds as confident and cheerful as ever but the Mayor— presumably— doesn’t seem pleased at all. New Yorks’ representatives stop by from time to time so it’s not unusual but dread creeps up your back the moment you realize…

“…Oh, shite. Is it about the mansion?”

“Yeah, we’re kind of screwed. Too bad we didn’t get a chance to get a second look but hey, you weren’t officially there so we’ve got you covered.”

You frown, blink a few times, then sit up.

Shouldn’t he be more bothered by this? Right, the boys get in trouble with the law on a regular basis. Ray’s probably used to it by now, that he’s entire demeanor is relaxed, casual— if only slightly annoyed (ah, yes, authorities, how convenient). They always wiggle their way out somehow. That’s what they do. But if their luck runs out one day, the charges will snowball into life behind bars— and the mere thought makes you flinch.

“But I was there”, you look at him. “Saw what happened. You were doing your job! Can’t I testify?”

“No. Zip, zip, I mean it. We were all seen at the hospital that night, you didn’t even go to the emergency room. And that’s good! It’s great! That means you’re in charge of the case if we get incarcerated.”

Your face falls.

“You must be joking.”

“Hah! I wish I was.” Ray laughs, hands on his hips, then immediately turns sheepish. “Hey! Not that I don’t believe in you, no offense—”

“No, no, none taken!” You wave your palms. “I agree. Let’s hope Peter saves the day.”

A bang of some distant door is followed by Peter’s loud voice. You look at Ray with wide eyes but he shrugs.

“Meh, he’s doing alright. The Mayor failed to maintain the mansion for decades. It’s somewhat on him, too.”

Ah, that’s why Ray seems so casual about this. That’s understandable— the guys are recurringly raided by a variety of government officials so today must feel like a regular workout. For you, however, it’s a lot. You have no idea how long you’ve slept but it feels like a giant leap in time. It’s refreshing, yes— the lightness in your heart, as if yesterday’s events happened a lifetime ago— but a shadow is hanging over your head. A foot in the door to newfound peace.

“Nah. I gotta dress up”, you say. “I’m hungry. I need to do… something. Anything. Everything.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Ray pats your arm with a wide, warm hand, flashes a genuine smile and leaves the room. There’s some yelling coming from downstairs, some door slamming, screeching of wheels, and then— expectedly— Peter adds his two cents because there is no possible way he’d give up having the last word.

It takes you two minutes to get out of bed. Six to freshen up. Three to determine whether you should or should not change into Egon’s clothes (because it’s been okay so far, it’s a thing) but ultimately, you decide that no— not this time, you should really get out of his hair. Your crumpled sleeping two- piece has to do. It’s decent. Ray didn’t comment on your sleeping circumstance, maybe Peter won’t either.

The very instant you leave the room, you see him— Egon— he’s alright, he’s okay— who climbs the stairs and freezes the moment your eyes lock.

His face is blank. He’s quiet. All the courage you’ve mustered evaporates in a snap.

When he finally speaks, it’s as casual as ever.

“You’re awake.”

“You’re alive.”

“As I said, it’s difficult to die”, he states. “Extraordinarily so.”

“Yeah, sure, but nothing about yesterday was ordinary. It’s—"

“…in the past.” He approaches you, lifts your chin and smirks. “We’re moving on.”

You keep looking at him as he inspects your features. The touch is gentle. Systematic. Careful and you know it all too well: it’s exclusive to his tinkering, the machines and inventions, only present when he’s left to his own devices. Toprecious things. That’s new. Whatever happened while he was busting the ghost out of you must’ve shaken him up.

“Mhm. As I suspected. Beautiful.” He straightens. “You may experience headaches, fatigue, dizziness and muscle pains but otherwise you’re perfectly fine. I recommend aspirin with your breakfast.”

“…I’ll take some. Thanks.”

“Do you have a moment? I would like to show you something in the lab.”

You nod, absent- minded, rubbing at your chin where his fingers lingered a moment ago. That’s unusual. Egon’s never been so direct with physical contact… has he?

Whatever your mind is trying to push through, in reality it’s probably nothing. You must be experiencing some spiritual jetlag: slow thinking and clouded judgement, all spiced up with a throng of unanswered questions and guilty conscience. Egon’s right though. You’re all moving on and it’s high time you caught up.

You walk past the garage, where Ray and Winston are leaving in Ecto- 1. Peter’s guiding them out, gesturing to let go of the siren for once— the Mayor’s people must still be in the area. Janine’s on the phone, rummaging through the drawers with such urgency she doesn’t pay attention to you walking by. That’s what it looks like: another day at the Ghostbusters’. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, to the extent you’re forced to question whether the spiritual influence you experienced the day prior wasn’t a dream.

“Ray wasn’t surprised to see me”, you say at the last flight of stairs. “Do the boys know?”

“All things pertaining to the case, yes.” Egon admits, eyes down. “I apologize for taking such liberty. It’s a major turning point and I couldn’t withhold this information. It’s the sixth time we’re getting called about amphibious ghostlike creatures roaming through New York. It’s a plague.”

“Mm. The Mayor was unwelcome, I take it.”

He throws you a brief look, then proceeds. “Do you feel any different?”

You ponder, tailing Egon descending the familiar stairs. The door to the lab is ajar, which never happens: an undeniable proof of how thrilled he is with the discovery.

“Yes. It’s quiet in my mind, for once. No whispers at the back of my head, no need to burst out crying for no reason. It’s something.”

“Feelings of uneasiness? Anxiety? Existential dread?”

“No. I’m just grateful to be alive.”

“I share the sentiment. In a day or two, we might purge the mansion for good. What we have at our disposal now is powerful. Needless to say, I’m thrilled beyond what my hormones usually allow”, he pauses at the door. “After you.”

You enter the laboratory. The cool light enveloping tools and papers is refreshing, clean air clashing against the heat and steam clouding in the garage. On Egon’s desk, far away from the microscope, there’s a huge, ugly helmet you recognize— the wires tangled in a knot only Egon himself can understand, odd antennas protruding from its top. You walk up, reach and touch the glowing tips.

A pillar of warmth stands right behind you. Egon’s breath tickles the hair on your neck. Dust particles hang still in the air between your bodies, so close you almost touch— like when he helps you gear up— when you use his microscope— like so many times before. You can’t see him at all now. Your eyes are focused on the weird, pointy device but when Egon’s forearm brushes yours, your stare shifts just enough to observe his hand rest on the contraption.

This dance between you two has been going on for a long time. It’s not like this, it never is, but you struggle to keep your breathing even.

“Remember the Collective?” He murmurs. “Turns out their consciousness, being shared through the ether, is prone to alterations. Removal. Addition. Substitution, in an almost surgical manner. I made this device for that specific purpose. Peter called it a yap- cap but it’s more nuanced than that. Take a look.”

He switches on the translating pad. Some symbols appear on the screen before a thin, vertical line pulses on the far right. To your surprise, he uses the buttons to type: I want to go home now and all it takes is one press of a single green key to translate the phrase into Eldritch symbols. Just like that, an electric wave pulses through the antennas, the helmet charges with power and glows with blue light. It’s that simple.

“The message is transmitted through the ether to the helmed recipient and travels until it finds an ectoplasmic structure. A ghost can’t distinguish it from the Collective so it builds a narrative around the inserted thought and accept it as a fact.”

Unbelievable.

“You literally made the ghost think it wanted to go home.”

“Correct.”

“And… it just left home.”

“Exactly.”

“Egon… that’s fantastic.”

“I’m wildly aware”, he grins.

You bark out a laugh. The helmet looks like a giant jellyfish. The pad is a literate calculator. All the mystery, the horror, the haunting— all the destruction and pain brought by Eldritch horrors— everything undone by a designer’s worst nightmare: a glowing sea urchin hat. The yap- cap, as Peter calls it. Ah, that one’s going to stick.

Egon is a genius. The simplicity of it disarms you. In this rapidly changing world, the cybernetic reality where every technology requires a cascade of complex developments just to come up with a novelty, Egon thought the simplest way to deter some ancient ghosts was to talk them into defeat. It couldn’t be more straightforward. All data were copied and transferred, every bit of the Eldritch language, the translating software and the device itself was made here, in this lab. He’s done it all with Ray’s help. This man is a genius but chooses the simplest solutions.

The simplest solutions.

“…Can it be used on humans? To… Hack us into thinking differently?”

Egon is silent and you can feel his stern eyes on your back. You realize how that sounds and God it’s awful— but that’s not what you meant so you rush to clarify.

“I mean, is it possible to erase some memories? To change what we’re susceptible to?” You swallow. “To let go of… destructive tendencies?”

“Technically, yes. But the outcome is unforeseeable. Whatever ends up happening, one change could affect your entire life. Mistakes, however unwanted and painful, shape who we are in the end”, Egon’s voice is serious. “Thankfully, you were not affected.”

“What if I wanted to be affected?” You turn around, not daring to meet Egon’s eyes. “You were right when you said I was attracted to the paranormal. And I hate it. My uncle is the closest I have to a dad now and I can’t keep doing this without feeling guilty about it, about betraying him. He’s never going to approve of me getting involved with you, guys. I just… I could fix this. I—"

“Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are warm. Steady, understanding. Pupils are wide, graced with the dim light surrounding you. Some distant shadow blurs his locks into a dark cloud. Your own reflection lurks in his glasses. The sight takes your breath away.

“You don’t need to be fixed because you’re not broken”, Egon murmurs. “Don’t expect him to approve your every choice. Love doesn’t work this way.”

“But I want it to”, you whisper like an absolute fool and a single tear rolls down your cheek because your wish— so pure, so simple— doesn’t hold merit. It’s pathetic, a lost cause. He’s right and you know it.

Egon raises an eyebrow, eyes warm and playful.

“Do you, really?”

You blink a few times, bow your head down and laugh. It’s quiet and breathy. It’s full of grief— and pain, and sadness, and acceptance, and joy. You wipe the stray tear with the back of your hand. Only then, broken and mended, are you able to lift your gaze and meet Egon’s unwavering stare again.

“No, you’re right. I’ll give you that one.”

He smiles.

“Do you want to raid the mansion with us tomorrow? Ray’s setting up the car, we’ll gear you up.”

“Won’t I become an offender as well? Ray said…”

“We’re the Ghostbusters. We’ll cover up for you.”

“You’ll get in trouble.”

“It’s worth it.”

Words get stuck in your throat. The circumstances are different but intimate enough so before you have the chance to overthink every little gesture, you lean in and press a gentle peck on his jaw. He inhales— good?— frowns— bad?— so you step back with a tight smile.

“Thanks for everything. I mean it. I owe you.”

Long fingers wrap around your hand. Egon’s stare doesn’t waver— not now, not yesterday, not ever— as he lifts your fingertips with a gentle motion and (in a mind- boggling, unprecedented turn of events) presses his lips to your skin— and it lingers— it lingers— it stays.

It’s a kiss.

He pulls away. The air he breathes is warm.

“You owe me nothing.”

_____________

HOPE I DIDN'T MAKE ANY MAJOR MISTAKES- IF I DID, I AM TERRIBLY SORRY!

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 3: tempest

She’d fallen asleep listening to the rain. They all had—her and Alan, with Evrard dozing next to them. She was pretty sure the men were holding hands, which always made her heart feel like a rising balloon. (Seriously, her cousin had been a fucking idiot to let Ev go. Ev was great. He was definitely going to be her second husband.) The boat rocking gently underneath them had made it impossible for her to keep her eyes open.

The crack of thunder shattered her dreamless sleep.

Alan bolted awake, one hand going for the gunblade he wasn’t wearing. Evrard clawed his way out of the blankets with a hiss, ears flat back like a cat’s and those teeth (“not fangs, Duskwights do not have fangs, I have no idea what you’re talking about”) bared as though he was planning to bite whoever had woken him.

Gan groaned and stretched, tail curling. Well, she was definitely awake now. “What th’ fuck...?”

Sighing, Evrard raked his hair back from his face. Unlike when she did it with hers, it actually stayed raked back. “Ah,” he muttered, ears rotating. “It seems we have run into a storm.”

“Should we...do something?” That was Alan, frowning in the way that meant he was fairly sure the answer was yes, but was still working out whether he was allowed to help with anything that couldn’t be solved by shooting the problem.

Evrard glanced at both of them, his tone wary. “Have either of you ever been on a ship in a storm before? Because I have not.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes.” It had only been the one time, but she wasn’t about to forget it in a hurry. The Summer Wind had been a dinghy compared to this galleon, and she’d been fine. Thunder won’t hurt me. I was born for this.

Evrard flushed dark, ears flicking. “Well, then. By all means, lead the way.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice. She charged up the stairs to the rain-washed deck, barely looking back to see if Evrard and Alan followed her.

Upstairs, all was darkness and chaos, lit only by flashes of lightning and swinging lanterns. For a moment she just stood on the stairs, taking in the scene. Assess. Plan. Then act. Alan had learned that in the Garlean officers’ academy, and as much as she hated giving the Garlean Empire credit for anything her Al had picked up in Evil Shite Bastard School she had to admit it was pretty useful. Sailors rushed hither and yon in the rigging, and she dismissed them with a glance—she’d only get in the way.

Much like the way their current employer was. Koana, the Second Promise of Tuliyollal, was probably at least as smart as Alphy and had made about the same first impression. He was currently dithering near the main mast, utterly soaked, with his tail puffed out like a bottlebrush. When he spotted them, his ears went back. “What are you doing here?!”

“Helping!” Alan snapped.

He was rattled—good, he’d learned to respect Alan’s Decurion Voice—but he visibly sucked in a breath and snapped back, “Get the shield generator up!”

Gan was already moving, scrambling across the deck. “On it!” She was vaguely aware of sailors bellowing orders and her men separating for their own tasks—Alan joining Thancred in hauling on the ropes, Evrard and Urianger setting up a space belowdecks to treat the wounded—but they didn’t matter yet. The shield generator did. They were the tallest thing around for malms of ocean, and even she couldn’t survive a direct strike.

...Probably. She wasn’t going to risk it either way; she might be blessed by Azim, but Alan? Evrard? The rest of the crew? They needed her.

Slipping on soaked wooden planks, tail lashing across spars and line and shins as a counterbalance, she shot across to the mid deck to where the shield generator was charging up. As she watched, a marker lit up. Seventy-five percent power.

Lightning struck the water, malms away but still too bright. When she could see again, another marker was lit. Eighty-five percent.

Good enough.

She arrested her momentum with her full body weight on the console, shoving herself upright just enough to key in the commands. The four-button sequence had been the result of a lot of Ironworks focus testing—it cost precious time, but it took up less room and was a lot harder to hit accidentally than the old lever or button designs. She had it memorized. Still, she didn’t dare breathe until the shield crackled into being around their ship, the same glittering crystalline orb that had faced Leviathan and won.

She opened her mouth to shriek her confirmation that the shield was up, they were safe—

And the world fell apart in a boneshaking wall of white.

[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

Doctor Who: The Star Beast- A Reasonably Watchable Mess

You may have noticed that, despite desperately positive, brittle reviews in the mainstream media, the last few years of Doctor Who went down like a lead balloon with actual fans and ordinary viewers. Turns out that a patronising gender-flip that served no plot purpose followed by a series of episodes in which the Doctor shilled for Space Amazon, murdered innocent giant spiders and delivered completely unearned straight-to-camera speeches like a fucking after-school special weren’t popular moves. The show’s viewing figures plummetted (despite contrary claims from the BBC that turned out, very simply, to be lies) and its review score aggregate on Rotten Tomatoes plunged, at one point, to literally 0%. Hilariously, the review aggregate from the mainstream media was around 90% at the time, once again demonstrating that the average critic can be bought for less than I spend assuring the silence of my past victims (the joke is that all my past victims are dead and I don’t spend a fucking thing on their silence). The abject failure of the Whitaker/Chibnall era was inevitable and any normal person could have predicted it. The BBC, however, didn’t and had a bit of a panic when they realised just how fucked their ratings were. Not that they admitted that, of course, but the fact they brought back the dream-team of showrunner Russell ‘The’ Davies and David Tennant for the 60th Anniversary Specials instead of letting the current incumbents stick around until after the anniversary kinda speaks volumes. So, now we’re getting three Anniversary specials, starring Tennant and helmed by Davies. The first one’s out, and it falls on me to review it as fairly as possible. So… how is it?

Well, put it this way: it’s not terrible, but it’s not the confident, unapologetic return to form I was hoping for either. It concerns a minor villain from the old DW comics called Beep the Meep who poses as a cute, furry critter while secretly plotting the genocide of the entire universe, a reunion with Catherine Tate’s always-delightful Donna Noble and a resolution to the Human/Time Lord meta-crisis that nearly straight-up killed her last time she was on-screen. And, in fairness, the stuff that works works pretty well. The jokes are funny, Tennant and Tate are excellent in their respective roles, the Meep is gloriously fucking psychotic (though the voice actor does sound like they’re phoning it in a bit) and Yasmin Finney, playing Donna’s trans daughter, is a lot less insufferable than she would have been if Chibnall had written her lines. I actually thought the bit where Donna threatens to “descend” on some kids who dead-name her in the street was well-handled and pretty accurately captured the protective instincts of a parent with a trans daughter. Mainly, she’s just there for the representation, though, and does the square root of bugger all to advance the plot. That’s probably a mercy, since I suspect the show would have had a hard time disguising the fact that this fifteen year old kid is being played by a twenty year old woman (who seems to have borrowed David Bowie’s cheekbones) if her part was any more prominent. But yeah- it’s a fun, knockabout adventure that doesn’t overstay its welcome and doesn’t try to outdo the entire show up to that point just because its been a completely arbitrary 60 years since the first episode. It’s basically fun and basically fine. It’s destined to be lauded to ludicrous excess by a mainstream media who are terrified of offering a proper critique because it’s got a trans person in it, while simultaneously being shat upon by online reviewers who know they can win easy points with the fans by challenging the suffocating ubiquity of the Standard Approved Opinion. In truth, though, it’s neither great nor awful- it’s just an hour of television that’s worth watching once but only once. It contains some good stuff… and some shite stuff.

Ah yes, the shite. That’s what you came to read about, isn’t it? Nobody in their right mind shows up at my blog-step for kind words and understanding: you come here because you know I have the pithiest insults and pissiest hot-takes. And yes: there’s some real fucking garbage to dunk on here. First of all, the Human/Time Lord meta-crisis gets resolved in the dumbest fucking way possible. For those of you who don’t remember, the ending of Modern Season 4 of DW was one of the most heartbreaking things ever attempted in a show designed for family viewing. Donna took on the consciousness of a Time Lord in order to save the universe but nearly burnt out her synapses in the processes. The Doctor wiped her mind to save her life, and then had to leave, because if she ever remembered him or the adventures they’d shared together, the crisis would reassert itself and her brain would overload, killing her. And the way they get around this, initially, is alright. Because Donna had a child, part of the meta-crisis got passed onto her, allowing two minds to take a strain that would kill just one. It’s a sweet and perfectly acceptable way of sorting a complex problem and something that legitimately wouldn’t have occurred to the Doctor at the time, because he had to come up with a solution that would work in the moment, not something that would require a nine month gestation period. But then, for some stupid fucking reason, they took it one step further and had Donna and her daughter simply relinquish the power of the meta-crisis, handwaving the obvious bullshit-ness of this move by claiming it just wouldn’t have occurred to a male-presenting Time Lord. The Doctor’s not an idiot. If that was an option, it would have occurred to him. Fuck, it did occur to him that one time Rose Tyler absorbed the Time Vortex and he had her give it up, channelling it into him to save her life at the cost of forcing a regeneration. It’s simultaneously contrived and slap-dash- a hasty right-on girl-power moment that fails miserably to play by the rules and cheapens the original story of the meta-crisis retroactively. It also brings us, neatly, to the phrase ‘male-presenting Time Lord’.

There’s a line in the excellent It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia wherein Charlie describes himself as “a straight man who poops transgender”. The phrase ‘male-presenting Time Lord’ sounds weirdly similar to me. It’s too specific and technical, while also including a wildly silly element (‘Time Lord’ is a vaguely ethereal, grandiose title that doesn’t gel with earthly, human discussions of gender identity). People just don’t talk like that. Sometimes people write like that, seeking an economy of phrasing that looks good on the page… but nobody actually talks like that. I mean, the context in which it’s used is stupid, but the phrasing itself is stupider. It’s also emblematic of a problem with the script as a whole. It feels like a first draught.

What do I mean by that? Well, there’s just a lot of instances where conversations feel slightly stilted or opportunities are missed. Case in point, there’s a bit where Donna’s discussing her kid growing up with her own mum, and it feels like it was meant to be a poignant discussion of the trials and tribulations of raising a child and then realising that they’re not what you were expecting but their own, completely separate person. What we get is just a placeholder where a couple of jokes occur but nothing of import is really said. Similarly, there’s a line where the Doctor muses that he doesn’t know who he is any more, which feels like it was meant to be developed into a meditation on his sense of identity after so many regenerations, metatextually addressing the show’s loss of a coherent, inter-regenerational identity for its lead character. Absolutely fucking nothing comes of it. There’s even a bit where a UNIT scientific advisor in a wheelchair encounters a flight of stairs and the way it’s shot makes it feel like there should have been a joke there. Maybe there could have been a really slow lift that she has to use while her soldiers rush up the stairs, or maybe she could have made one of them carry her. I’d have taken a lazy, low-hanging quip like “stairs…. My old nemesis” to be honest. But all we get is “sorry about the stairs,” and that’s it. My point is that there’s a superficiality to a lot of the scenes and lines that yells ‘PLACEHOLDER’, and areas that desperately need polish.

Speaking of polish: London is once again too fucking clean. I wish TV shows would stop doing that- making London look like the MCU’s version of fucking New York- all glass skyscrapers and clean streets. The real London is a bizarre, dystopian mix of impersonal steel monuments to capital, crumbling baroque architecture from the middling-glorious past and slumping, poverty-stricken housing from a fucking Dickens novel. The city has a really specific, slightly nightmarish character that most telly shows and films fail miserably to capture. It’s inexcusable in this case, because Doctor Who actually used to do a pretty good job of showing London as it is. Which is mental, since it used to be filmed in Swansea in cocking Wales.

But I digress. My final major issue is that the message of the show’s text is wildly at odds with the metatextual message of the specials’ mere existence. The whole reason the BBC re-hired Tennant and Davies onto the show was to announce a return of the Who everyone loved; a tacit admission than the last few years of lazy virtue-signalling and shoddy script-work had been a mistake that they were keen to move on from. There is literally no other reason to take such an obvious backward step in the show’s development. Yet the episode The Star Beast keeps bringing up Whitaker’s tenure as the Doctor as though it’s something to be celebrated. We get lines like “The Doctor’s a man and a woman. And both. And neither. And more,” (again, nobody fucking talks like that) that feel like an attempt to fold the previous three years into the acceptable canon, when the whole reason the specials are happening is to renounce them and leave them in the cold. Then again, that’s the Beeb for you- it's amazing if the left hand knows what the left hand's doing. If someone's bothered to inform the right hand, it's so surprising as to be frankly suspicious. Add to that the extra layer of complexity that comes from getting Disney to part-fund the show and you’re bound to end up with a confused mess. Also, why did they bother getting Disney to part-fund this? The Special Effects look like something a fourteen year-old could whip up in his bedroom. Which is fine- I never mind the sets wobbling in Who: I just can’t figure out where all the fucking money went.

I think the root problem is two-fold. First, as much as I loved Russell T. Davies’ original time as showrunner, it’s really obvious he’s gotten old. It’s only been fifteen years since his time in charge ended, but sometimes, the ageing process kicks a guy’s arse really suddenly (ask me about waking up one day to discover I now have man-boobs sometime). There’s this interview he did recently about how Davros represents an offensive portrayal of wheelchair users, and it’s clearly just the ramblings of a confused old man. Nobody looks at Davros, creator of the Daleks, and thinks ‘yup- there goes a typical wheelchair user’. Part of the point of his character is that he’s kind of admirable on paper, overcoming age and sickness to achieve the impossible… but he perverts and subverts those expectations by doing something fucking appalling. It’s a nuanced, complex take on the way pain and suffering can make a person sympathetic without necessarily redeeming them. And Russel T. Davies, a once-talented writer who should understand this stuff, just doesn’t get it any more. He’s well-meaning, but he’s clearly just not up to the job any more. I mean, he still has talent- his renewed tenure will be better than Chibnall’s… but maybe it would have been a better idea to let the poor schmuck retire on a high note.

The other problem is deeper and more intractable. The world has changed since Doctor Who was the best thing on television, and it might be that it just can’t work any more. The modern era of Who was born from a place of hope yet, also, a place of marginalisation. It was 2005. The government of the day had dome some pretty fucked up things, but they were nowhere near as evil as the governments who were to succeed them. Sci-fi was still a niche thing allowing for experimentation and weirdness. There were definite good guys and bad guys on the world stage and in domestic politics: there were genuine victims on one side and hateful bigots on the other, and it seemed like it might actually be possible for the underdogs to win for a change. 2023 is a different world. We’ve seen the worst UK governments since Thatcher in the 80s (and people kept voting for them) and the worst US President in history (a Savaloy-orange freak with the hair of a sexually-confused Nazi). On the cultural level, the lines between victims and villains have blurred, with the arrival of the never-ending Oppression Olympics birthing a generation of dead-eyed bullies who hide behind nominal ‘oppressed’ status in order to tear down genuinely nice people (like that time a load of wankers piled onto a scientist who landed a probe on a moving comet FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HUMAN HISTORY because he did while wearing a T-shirt with a stylised naked lady on it). Identity has replaced solidarity as the go-to discussion in progressive (or allegedly progressive) circles. The sci-fi genre itself has become popular- meaning it’s infested with normies who don’t understand it but do want to own it. Doctor Who was never built for this world. The change in culture and society over the last just-under-twenty years is more significant, in some ways, than the changes that occurred between its original outing in the 60s and its reboot in 2005, and I don’t know if it can survive those changes. We inhabit a world where actual heroism and even basic decency seem less important than the performance of those qualities in ways that a mass audience can understand and where nuanced solutions, informed by kindness, are verboten because everyone’s supposed to pick a side. There’s no room for a genteel, British/Alien gadabout with two hearts and a silly sonic screwdriver in a world where the battle-lines are drawn and performative virtue has become a universal aspiration. In order to fit our tawdry world, Doctor Who would have to stop being Doctor Who. And, to be blunt, our culture doesn’t really deserve any form of Doctor Who at the moment.

So yes, The Star Beast is pretty good. It’s a nice slice of television that fails on many fronts, but still manages to entertain. But what next? Where can we possibly go from here? Personally, I intend to watch the specials and- if they’re okay- Ncuti Gatwa’s era after that. Then I think I’m done. By rights, the show should face cancellation while it’s still strong enough to bow out gracefully, but if that doesn’t happen, I’ll still have to pick a point to stop watching. Sooner or later, all good things must come to an end, and if the BBC isn’t big enough to admit that, at least I am. I suggest you pick somewhere to draw a line, too.

[writernopal]

Get To Know My OC - Pt. 5

I was tagged by @dogmomwrites here, thanks so much!

Hoo boy it's been a while since I've done this one! Yeah, you read that right, this is part 5! I have parts 1-4 from forever ago that I did for the main cast of AASOAF, Mariel, Axtapor, Fay, and Wilkes. You can find their posts by clicking their names if you're curious to check them out!

SO this time we'll go with the cast from M.O.W, starting with Lexlar!

There are two loud voices in the hall just outside. They banter to each other with ample familiarity and in a language you’ve never heard before. Curiously, though, you only hear one set of footsteps. Was the other voice perhaps coming from a listening stone or some other similar device? No, that wouldn’t make any sense. That second voice is too loud for it to come from something like— The door flies open and your eyes widen as you see the man that steps through. He’s a giant! Tall, broad, admittedly top-heavy, and probably three times as thick as you, constructed of pure muscle and scars. He throws his arms wide and beams the brightest smile in your direction. “Oi, look at ye! Nay know ye proper, but I reckon I’ll take a shine to ye just fine!” His voice thunders around the room as if he’s completely unaware that he’s not in some kind of arena or other loud outdoor equivalent. He strides over, an impressive confidence in each step, dropping his arms to slap the sides of his legs loudly before extending a hand to you. “Been Bosun Lexlar. Pleasure to meet ye!” You put your hand in his after giving him your name and you wonder if it was some kind of mistake to do so. He nearly crushes it in his grip, completely unaware of your pained grimace. He gives you a satisfied slap on the shoulders and takes his seat across from you, eager to begin.

1. Are you named after anyone?

Nay nothin' like 'at. He replies with a pleasant smile.

2. When was the last time you cried?

Ah! Why talk 'bout the somber, ey? Give me 'nother.

3. Do you have kids?

Nay, gotta gift wi' 'em though. Tykes take a shine to me like because I act as they do. He replies with a sheepish look.

4. Do you use sarcasm?

Oh aye. He responds with a comical sort of frown. Get's a rise right quick outta Hartim! He laughs, as he fetches a few leaves from his pocket and stuffs them in his lip.

5. What’s the first thing you notice about people?

Mmm. He thinks as he chews. Their mouths, 'haps? Ye can spot a lie right quick if ye look close 'nough.

6. What’s your eye color?

Bronze. Color o' strength! He declares proudly as he flexes a single bicep and gives it a few slaps.

7. Scary Stories or Happy Endings?

Oh, happy endin's. He replies almost immediately. Life nay been long for most, best to gather what joy ye can from yer years.

8. Any special talents?

If'n a wager been at hand, then aye, I have any talent ye can imagine!

9. Where were you born?

City o' Hantaph in The Heartlands o' The Empire proper. He says with a measure of pride but there is something melancholy in his tone.

10. What are your hobbies?

Gamblin'! Been a right thrill. He nods to himself, very pleased with his answer by the looks of it.

11. Do you have any pets?

Had a jungle cat when I been a recruit in the Reserves. Near bit my finger off. He raises his right hand, pointing to his crooked pinky. Let the fucker go 'fter 'at.

12. What sports do you play/have played?

Never been one for sport. 'Less I be placin' a wager on it. He laughs, pushing the leaves to the other side of his mouth.

13. How tall are you?

6’10”. Colossal thin' as my Pa, Kava rest 'im.

14. Favorite subject in school?

Ah, I been shite at books. Nay liked any o' it. He laughs.

15. Dream job?

He thinks for a long while, rubbing the spot on the tip of his snout between his nostrils. Suppose it nay matters, long as there been adventure promised.

Tagging (gently): @tabswrites @void-botanist @writingmaidenwarrior @pheita and anyone else who wants to do this!

M.O.W Taglist: @moonluringfrost @writeblr-of-my-own @illjustpretend @sparatus @outpost51

Join/leave the taglist using this Google Form.

[chuchiotaku]

[PREVIEW] Pendragon HoP Chapter 4: The Purification from All that is Dark

So this was supposed to be part of Chapter 3, but my tendency to write too long has struck again. So you get two chapters for the price of one, if that makes sense. It certainly did in my head. Hahaha.

... “So Kreacher will show up in this circle?” Weasley pointed at the tub set on the biggest circle in the center of the diagram, encircled by salt and holly sprigs, connected to the two circles containing the basins: the one on the right containing the water and blood solution and the one on the left containing a smooth round stone Dobby picked up from the school grounds. It was a good a scapegoat as any.

Regulus nodded. “And once he arrives, the salt and the holly will keep him trapped until the dark magic is washed away and encased in the scapegoat.”

“But how can you make sure that he’ll show up right here exactly?”

“By ordering it exactly. Something I have sufficient practice with,” answered Regulus. “Now this is the part I must warn you about. Getting Kreacher onto the tub is the easiest part. Once I begin the incantation to start the containment spell, the dark magic he will most likely be carrying will start to fight back.”

Weasley and Dobby traded wary looks at that before the former prompted. “What do we do, then?”

“Stand back and defend yourselves when the need arises. Do you know the shield charm?” At Weasley nod, Regulus nodded. “Good. It’s better than nothing.”

Weasley, however, still looked concerned. “But what about you?”

“As I keep telling you, I’ll be fine.” Regulus smirked. “Honestly, Weasley, if you keep this up, I might get the impression that you’re worried about me.”

Weasley huffed. “I helped save your arse, Black. Wouldn’t want all that effort to go to waste this early.”

“And I wouldn’t want to die again so soon either. Now if there’s nothing else,” Regulus cleared his throat. “We should get started...”

=*=*=

For Ron, standing a few feet away, it was both an amazing and frightening sight.

In the middle of the pulsing magical pentagram stood Kreacher, although at the moment, he could barely hold himself up, his knees bent so low they were nearly touching the ground as he held his head in both hands and wailed. Surrounding him were the thick black tentacle like...things that seemed to materialize from everywhere on him, from his back, to his legs, his arms and even from inside his floppy ears.

They reminded Ron of the Whomping Willow, the way they stretched high enough to reach the ceiling as they whipped onto an invisible barrier with such violent force that he knew was enough to snap him in two. But that wasn’t the end of it.

Those tentacles, he soon found out, had faces. Multitudes of them. All screaming, moaning, crying, roaring in pain and anger, into a wildly asynchronous morbid chorus. And the stench, oh Merlin the stench of rotten vegetables, decaying meat and literal shite. It was as bad as, if not worse than, the smell of that mountain troll back in first year.

“...Grant, we beseech, the grace of thy favor

Upon this rock, before we stand...”

Ron marveled how Black—who was probably only around five inches away from Kreacher—could stand to be so near the column of warped faces, and was doing pretty well so far. He had been worried that the older wizard’s illness was going to rear its head at some point, and had been on guard just in case.

“...And thus, our cries, before thee, true:

All that which is dark, by thy power, we bind...”

But he’s doing just fine. Ron thought, his stance relaxing as he rubbed at his tired eyes. We’re already halfway through the ritual. Black said this will be the hardest part, so once he’s done with this, it should be smooth sailing afterwa—

“Something is wrong.

—ah, fuck.

[junkieboyfriend]

Excerpt from new WIP - PDA | Sickrent

Mark likes to go to the park after dark. Mark likes to meet his mates there; he likes to smoke and do drugs there. Tonight he was with Sickboy, Spud, and Franco, they were passing a bottle of vodka one way and a blunt the other. Simon offered Mark coke but he wasn’t feeling up to snorting anything, so the blond just shared a line with Franco on a bench. 

Suddenly Spud was spewing chunks in the grass, he must’ve got the smoking and drinking in the wrong order. Franco was next to him and viciously recoiled away, shouting at Spud for splashing him. 

“Ah dun feel sae good, Franco.” Spud groans,

Franco rolls his eyes, “Ah ken fuckin’ well tell that.”

“Kin ye take us home?” Spud begged in a whiny tone.

Begbie huffed, “Why dae I have tae?”

Spud scrunched his eyebrows, “Ye were my ride?” he tilts his head,

Franco paused and sighed as the realization hit him like shit in the face.

“Fine, but ye owe us.”

Ah, thank yis Frank. Ye’re the best.” Begbie helped his stumbling friend to his feet. 

“Got tae get him home before he passes oot. Have a good one, Lads.”

Simon snorted the last line and fixed his nose, waving to Frank.

“Sees ya, Frank!” He shouted after them as they had already started walking away

“Good luck!” Renton yelled.

Simon laughs and turns back to Mark, “E’s a heroin addict but he cannae do a bit a cross-fadin’?”

Mark shook his head, “Dun be sae hard on ‘em, he probably fucked up the order ‘a ‘em.”

Simon shrugged and grabbed the vodka, “Moar fer me!”

The blond took a swig and gave a sigh, 

“Cannae believe ye’re tae chicken shite tae dae a line wih us.” he smirked,

“Yis dae heroin, but yis willnae dae sum powder? There’s no even a needle.” Simon taunted

Mark squinted at Simon, trying to look annoyed, but realizing that the blond might have a point. He uncrossed his arms. 

“I’m no tae chicken shite.” Mark stated bluntly, 

Simon quirked a brow and grinned, “Sae what? Ye’ll dae it?”

Mark nervously masked a smile, “Yeah, s just some powder…” 

He was saying it to Simon, but it really felt like he was trying to reassure himself.

Simon starts lining up the coke on the bench, and he hands Renton a rolled up 20. Mark accepted the 20 hesitantly, his hands were shaking but he was trying very hard to not make it noticeable. His heart was racing – was he really going to do this? Why did this even matter to him? He does heroin and this is arguably more mundane… But he’d never done it and earlier he even rejected it… But when he thought about it, thought about how Simon talked about it, it didn’t seem so bad. Just a powder that goes up the nose; doesn’t even require a needle…

He stared at the line for a moment but realized he didn’t want Simon to see him so hesitant and so afraid. So he quickly bent over the bench and put the 20 under his nostril, almost flush against the skin. He glanced nervously at Simon and their eyes met. That’s enough hesitation, anymore and Renton risked looking like a pussy. So he goes down, puts a finger on his free nostril to close it, and starts inhaling. He slowly moves the straw upward as he inhales, leaving no powder behind. 

It hits him immediately- the rush - and his pupils dilate. His heart was beating out of his chest and it reminded him of a song he’d heard in a club. He felt amazing – he felt like he could do anything. 

“Holy shite!” Mark exclaims

Simon grins, “I ken, right?”

“Ah feel… Ah feel…” Mark couldn’t describe it. 

Simon leaned in, “Alive?”

Mark nods vigorously, “Yes! I’m sae fuckin’ alive!”

Simon laughs a bit at Mark’s instant uptick in mood and energy. 

“Thank yis fer introducin’ us Si! Ah’m sae happy, Ah could kiss ye!”

The blond raises his eyebrows, “Eh, what’s stoppin’ yis?”

Mark blushed a bit but the pumping in his veins and the adrenaline refused to let him turn away.

Renton locks eyes with Simon and, after a moment of silence, Mark leans in and kisses Simon. His heart was beating even faster than before and Mark wasn’t sure that was possible. More remarkably, though, Simon wasn’t pulling away and was reciprocating. Mark needs to be closer and, under the spell of adrenaline, crawls onto Simon’s lap. 

“Yis sure we should dae this here?” Mark whispers against Simon’s mouth.

“Ah would shag yew on any surface Ah could have yew, Rents.” 

Mark moans lowly as Simon kisses his neck,

“An’ Ah dun care if the world sees, Mark. Ah’ll take yew whenever ye’ll have us.”

[galactia]

UNPROMPTED       KAEYA'S SHITE SALARY    ::    diluc    ⇾    kaeya

"...i have had no idea how to offer this without putting my foot in my mouth." quieter, because it is necessary that kaeya understands, "i still don't. "how to say this in a way you'll accept. —maybe i'm overthinking things."

probably not, this time. & yet, a year since his return 'things' are still left unsaid - their consequence unacceptable. "i don't consider my actions or words that night to have carried the authority my- ..." ah, fuck. already? well, more the surprise than it didn't happen sooner. "our late father's authority. i had no right to deny you-" tight, so tight all at once the throat & so impossible to hold is kaeya's gaze. would that he could shrink into the masonry; become that last step more alike stone. remain there, unable to move or feel or hurt anyone. "...to deny you."

you're going hungry. why? because of me.

"anything that is ours is still yours." won't you take care of yourself with it? please. "there would be no..." ah. nothing more crippling than shame twined tightly into guilt. "i would not..." to say this much stills the cords in the throat; punchdrunk at the impact of the audacity suggested. "there would be no—" ugh. diluc scrubs at his temple with the heel of his palm, turns a little further away from what he cannot figure out how to stop offending. "—consequence. i would be—it would be... fine."

so much farther from fine... how is he supposed to know diluc cares about the hurt he's caused when it cannot sit in his mouth without being mistreated? forget stepping on toes; they're probably being broken. but kaeya looks thinner than he used to, &... & it's been about 3 months of thinking that lead to no more tactful a thought. this isn't a matter of etiquette, this is personal. it feels all the more wrong to employ the distance of formalities to speak of the chasm between them.

[ ooc ] :3c

@bitbrumal | for kaeya

Diluc might as well of punched him in the gut. It would have amounted to the same effect - of winding him - as listening to him dancing around the subject of inheritance and their father's estate.

No consequence, his brother said, and Kaeya almost couldn't stifle the cut of hurt that bubbled up as a chuckle. It might have seemed ludicrous, to laugh, but it was more hysterical than amused, the wheeze he made. You wouldn't try to kill me, you mean? He almost said, but swallowed it for how unwise it would have been. For how much it would have hurt Diluc in return.

Kaeya rubbed his palms together (idle), itching for his coin to settle the way his hands needed something-.... and settled instead for bracing his palms against his hips. He tossed his head, sending his hair spilling across his shoulder.

Diluc was right. There was no way he could have said this that Kaeya would have accepted. And perhaps that was on his head, as much as it was on Diluc's for the way he - they - had been virtually unable to speak to one another about anything more substantial than how much (too much) Kaeya drank and the business of Mond. And even then, Kaeya had done most of the talking, whether in letters or with his tongue.

Kaeya's insides were a knot; a twisted war between the bile of pain and missing and hurt he felt each time he and Diluc had any semblance of a conversation and the knowledge that-... the blame lay largely at his own feet.

He breathed out, and then back in, and smiled. Because of course he smiled. "If it makes you feel any better, I moved myself out."

Because he had thought there was no way in hell Diluc would have wanted to see him in their childhood home (in Diluc's father's home). He had-.... entertained the notion that Diluc might drag him out by the hair if he'd found him there and decided he'd spare them both.

Kaeya had no notion of what Crepus' wishes would have been. In his dreams the man would have welcomed him despite his secret - would have believed him when he told him that he was no traitor (just his son). But he would never know.

"Diluc-" He swallowed, his single blue eye focused on his brother. Don't you think it is a little to late, when you've sold our childhood home? When... our home is gone? "You think I want your money? Or has Jean told you something? Has she told you I'm poor?" That was-.... likely unfair. Jean wouldn't say such things, he was almost certain. The shame crawled up his sternum a little, making him feel sick. Did it show? Was that-... was this not some long-planned attempt at correcting what Diluc saw as a wrong, but a response of pity?

Kaeya shook his head, "It doesn't matter. I never wanted father's money. I wanted-..."

What they'd had. He wanted a brother.

"I want-.... " To not be a betrayer, in Diluc's eyes. To not be included in the heritance in spite of Diluc's wishes. To go home. To stop remembering-

He closed his eyes, and exhaled a breath. "Thank you, for your offer. I'll keep it in mind."

[messiambrandybuck]

Comfort

Word Count : 1,175

Pairing : The Hobbits x Male Human Reader (platonic)

Warnings : Coping with Death

Author's Note : This is set in the scenario that The Fellowship stayed together after Boromir's death. Please feel free to let me know if any other warnings are needed; requested by Anon.

This is probably going to be shite, as it's definitely not my best work; but I do hope you enjoy it lol.

A small shuffle of cloth sounds behind (Y/n) as he keeps watch, and he turns around to see two sleepy little Hobbits wrapped up in blankets, hair messier than usual.

"What're you doing up, Frodo? Sam?" (Y/n) says softly, noticing the way their eyes drooped with exhaustion.

"Can't sleep," Frodo mumbles, "can we stay with you?"

"You're very comfortable," Sam agrees, slurring slightly.

"Of course, come here."

Frodo pulls his blanket tighter around himself as they curl up under the younger's arms, against the warmth of his sides. He runs his fingers through their soft curls, and Sam lets out a content sigh as they both visibly relax. (Y/n) can't help but smile to himself at this, finding peace in their content; but as they fall asleep, it fades into a darker feeling that he was all too aware of during the night.

These Hobbits, they were too young to be in such constant danger. Frodo was the only one among them significantly past the age where they were considered adults, Sam and Merry only a few short years past that mark. And Pippin, the poor lad, hadn't even reached that age yet; he wouldn't for a good few years.

Yet here they were, a group of young boys thrown in the chaos of what would undoubtedly become a war. Day after day, forced to fight and live with horrors that no one should have to face. He promised them that he would keep them safe, in one of the first nights after departure, but sometimes he wondered: could he keep that promise? With such evils searching for them day and night, he felt his confidence deteriorate whenever the company paid him no attention. His body ached with healing wounds originally meant for the Hobbits, and his heart broke at the thought that one day he might not be able to get to them in time.

Frodo shifts in his sleep with the start of a nightmare, and (Y/n) quietly hushes him, gently stroking his cheek until he stills. Instinctively, Sam reached out for the older in his sleep; the need to protect Frodo inscribed deep into his subconscious. With reassuring whispers, (Y/n) guided the young Hobbit back into his peaceful sleep. There was no need for him to worry.

Since the start of this quest, he had become very close to these Hobbits, each of them holding a very special place in his heart. They managed to make everyone in the company smile with their bright nature, despite everything happening, and he admired them deeply for it. However, he wasn't ignorant; he knew it was taking its toll on them. He saw it every day.

He saw it in the way Merry didn't attempt to pull pranks anymore. The way Pippin would stare off into space for vast amounts of time, his eyes blank and void of light. He saw it in the way poor Samwise put too much responsibility on his shoulders. He saw it every time Frodo touched the ring without even realizing.

He tried his best to keep their spirits up; surprising them with special meals if he managed to scavenge enough, playing with them, even singing them to sleep if they requested so. (Y/n) liked to imagine it helped, but he didn't truly believe so.

"Bor... Boromir!"

Looking back at the camp, he saw Pippin tossing around, Boromir's name slipping past his lips so painfully that his sorrow was almost tangible.

Carefully moving Frodo and Sam so they lay on the ground as comfortably as possible, (Y/n) quickly made his way to the youngest's side, combing his fingers through the Hobbit's golden curls. His breathing was rapid now, forehead slick with sweat, and his face contorted in an expression of terrible pain and fear.

"Boromir!"

Softly hushing the young Hobbit, (Y/n) carefully pulls him into his embrace. "It's okay, Pippin, it's okay. It's over now, they can't get you."

Tears slip through his shut eyes, "Save- Save him! Save him! Boromir no!"

"It's all over now," (Y/n) says helplessly, his own eyes pooling with tears as his heart broke. Ever since Boromir died, it was all the hobbit ever dreamed about; one night he'd be begging to be rescued, the next he'd cry out for their fallen friend.

A whimper makes its way out of the blond's throat, and the man continued to whisper small reassurances to him, rocking them both slightly as he held Pippin close. The younger held onto his shirt as if letting go would mean the end of him, sobs violently tearing through his body. (Y/n) couldn't tell how long Pippin cried, for it felt like hours to him, but eventually, he grew too exhausted to make another noise. He fell asleep, mentally and physically exhausted from the force of his sorrow.

After putting the youngest back under his covers, (Y/n) walks to the edge of camp to resume his watch, away from the others. Resting against the trunk of a large tree, he took a deep breath, trying to force back his tears. He held back on grieving this long, if he started now it would surely wake someone up.

Soft steps walk up next to him. "Is Pip going to be okay?"

He looks over to see Merry staring at him with sleepy concern, and looks away in an attempt to hide the few tears that had managed to escape. "Despite common belief, the deepest wound cannot be healed, not even with time. It's always going to hurt, but one day he'll be able to coexist with the pain. We all will."

There was a small moment of silence, "Are you okay?"

"I'll be just fine, Merry," he says, though his voice wavers, "go on back to bed. We're planning on covering a lot of ground in the morning, and you need your rest."

Merry walks around so he was almost in front of the older, and holds his cheek. "You're allowed to be sad, too, (Y/n)." Merry says softly, "You don't have to be strong for us. Let us be strong for you once and a while."

The young Hobbit's words hit somewhere feel inside him, and a wave of silent tears flowed down his cheeks. Leaning against the tree, Merry guides (Y/n)'s head to his shoulder, where the man silently cried. The younger didn't say anything, only carding his fingers through (Y/n)'s hair as he always did with them, and occasionally gave the nape of his neck a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm sorry," the older manages to mumble out, only to be quieted with a small hush.

"Don't be... You have the right to grieve."

(Y/n) never imagined he would allow himself to be this vulnerable around the Hobbits, even if it was just one. He wanted to be the strong one they could count on without hesitation. And yet he needed this. He needed to be able to confide in the ones he cared for, and he felt the bond he had with them grow now that he had taken this next step.

[ragingbookdragon]

It's All Practical Magic...And Some Bats PT. 1

Jason Todd x Constantine!Reader Story!

Word Count: 1K Warnings: Explicit Language

Author's Note: I'm just gonna watch a bunch of British Soap Operas to learn about English behavior. That and bug my only English friend. Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

“You packed extra knickers, didn’t you, darling?”

She rolled her eyes for what seemed like the millionth time, turning to him as she griped, “Yes dad, I’ve packed extra. And the extra you asked about five minutes ago.”

His own scowl came across his lips, and he cocked his arms over his chest. “Well sorry for checking to make sure you packed ‘em. God forbid you get to Gotham and realize you don’t have any.”

“Oh, for the love of—dad, I’ve packed knickers.”

“Trousers?”

“Yes.”

“Jumpers?”

“Uh huh.”

“Trainers?”

“Two pairs.”

“Mackintosh?”

She turned on him again. “Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Anything else you’d like to check for? Maybe my nametag I’ll show to supernatural creatures? Hi, I’m (Y/N) Constantine, daughter of the guy you probably hate the most!” her expression turned bored. “I’m fine. Seriously.”

John scowled at her again, yanking her around the neck, the other hand ribbing the top of her head; he cackled when she started yelping. “Mock me at your own peril, daughter!”

(Y/N) shoved at his side. “Oh, get off you big git! That hurts!” she cocked her knuckle out and frogged him in the side, grinning when he gasped and let her go.

“Ah shite!” he complained. “That fucking hurt.”

“Good!” she shot back, smoothing her hair and clothes. “I meant for it.”

He gazed at her for a moment, watching as she zipped the last suitcase. “You’ve gotten older, darling.”

“Yeah dad,” she agreed. “Typically happens to people when they age.” (Y/N) met his eyes, sensing the emotion. “You alright, dad?”

John frowned, raising a calloused hand to her face; he cupped her cheek. “I don’t like sending you where I can’t see or feel you. Especially Gotham.”

(Y/N) touched his hand. “I’m going to be fine. I’ve got the cards and all the magic you’ve taught me.” When he opened his mouth to retort, she smiled. “Dad, Mister Wayne is going to be looking after me. It’ll be alright.”

“See! That’s worse!” he griped. “That costumed freak can’t even keep his own children alive!”

“Dad!” she admonished. “That’s too far!” she stuck her finger in his chest. “You’ve got a lot of nerve judging his parenting techniques when yours aren’t exactly perfection either!”

“Excuse me!”

“You’re excused!” she shot back, then shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “Look, we can yell at each other later. How ‘bout we just send me off, yeah?”

John sighed and pulled her around the neck, though this time he pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I’m gonna call you every night, darling.”

“I know, dad,” she smiled, inhaling the overwhelming scent of cigarettes, hand fumbling for the handle of her suitcase. She grabbed it and pulled away, looking to him. “Ready?”

He nodded, raising his hands and a glowing circle appeared around them; John scowled, muttering, “Keep yourself in the circle, yeah? Don’t need any injuries.”

“Don’t need any injuries,” she mocked, half-glaring at him and as he cast the spell, the living room around them began to shift and turn. She turned, pressing her face into his arm as a wave of nausea rolled over her.

“Novice,” he chuckled, and she groaned.

“I can’t help it. Warping makes my head spin like a top.”

“You never could handle it.” He snapped his fingers, wiggling his arm. “We’re here.”

(Y/N) pulled away and blinked, gaping at the big manor before her. “Wow…this place is huge.”

“House of Mystery is bigger.”

“Well, yeah, it’s a never not changing mansion.” (Y/N) turned. “You gonna say hello to Batman?”

John sneered. “No.” he leaned over and kissed her forehead, hugging her tightly. “I’ll call you tomorrow through the mirrors.”

“Okay.” She held on for a moment longer.

“You alright?”

“Yeah…just…it’s the first time I’ve ever been away from you,” she shrugged. “Just…worried.”

“Well, it’s like you said. You’ve got your cards and you’ve got all the magic I’ve taught you.” John pulled back and held her face in his hands. “Remember that it’s all merely an extension of yourself. You’re never without protection.” He lowered one hand and pulled something out of her pocket, placing it in her hands. “Here. Wear this.”

(Y/N) slipped the ring on her finger. “What is it?”

“A ring.”

“No shit,” she griped. “Couldn’t figure that one out myself.”

John grinned. “Smart-ass.” He nodded to the black band. “It’s called the Shadow Band. It’ll allow you to conjure weapons out of phantom sorcery.”

“Just weapons?”

“Anything you can think of,” he corrected. “It’ll also help you feel out negative energy nearby. Given that you’re my daughter…there’s going to be things out there that don’t want you around.” His expression turned solemn. “You need to be prepared to protect yourself. With any means necessary.”

“I understand,” (Y/N) agreed. “Thank you, dad.”

John nodded, pulling his hands way. “Then you’re on your own from here.” He watched as she took a step out of the circle, holding tight to her suitcase. “Know that I’ll be waiting if you need me. At any moment, darling.”

She smiled. “I love you, dad.”

“I love you, darling,” he said, offering her a rare smile before his image distorted before her and disappeared in a flash.

(Y/N) turned and walked up the steps; she reached for the knocker when the door suddenly swung open and a young man about her age stood before her, one dark brow cocked, staring at her cautiously.

“Who are you?” he questioned, and she blinked.

“Uh…(Y/N) Constantine?” she reached into her pocket. “I was accepted to Gotham University and my dad asked Bruce if I could stay here.” She held out the acceptance letter. “You can ask Bruce.” He took the letter and held it up in the moonlight, causing her to scowl. “It’s not a forgery, you cock.”

He barked a laugh, handing it back to her. “Yeah, you’re Constantine’s daughter alright.” Opening the door wider, he added, “Come on in. I’m Jason.”

“(Y/N),” she returned, walking inside. “Good to meet you.”

“You might change that stance after a week or two.”

“Don’t think so,” she laughed. “I’m the daughter of the biggest bastard in all of England and probably the world.”

“You hungry?”

“Starved. You have chips?”

“You mean French fries, right?”

“What else does chips mean?”

“I don’t know, us peasant American’s call chips ‘French fries’ and actual crisps ‘chips’.”

“You’re so weird.”

Jason laughed, leading her into the kitchen. “You’ve got no idea.”

[kuraijen]

Arceus is a shitty manager: 1. recruitment

(this is a parody dialogue of the Pokemon Legends Arceus opening cutscene, there are some spoilers for PAL's story below

you have been warned)

*slap

Arceus: Waketh up

*slapslapslap

Arceus: Wakethup!

Dawn:(fatigued out of her mind) Ah hell, i'm up, i'm up

Arceus: Alright cool. Firsteth of all, salutations, tis I, GOD. Indeed thou must be disoriented.

Dawn: uhhh hi god. um, i'm... fine.

A: Hm, I kneweth thou hadst experience with our kind but thou got over that introduction much faster than I thought.

D: (exasperated sigh) yeah, well, it's all another tuesday for me. caught up in godly affairs and all.

A: Ah! Well-erm, I art sensing thou hast some repressed trauma revolving that topic, but no matter! How old art thee, like fifteen or something?

D: give or take?

A: Hm yes, give or take. Yea, 'tis old enough. I hast a job for thee, pipsqueak.

D: uh huh, what's new.

A: Mine wack-ass children are falling out of line and I needeth thee to kicketh their asses back into the conga.

D: dialga and palkia?

A: Indeed, those miniscule shites art trying to usurp my power. The main catch is they hideth in a separate past timeline where pokemon trainers doth not existeth yet to eliminate opposition. They thinketh they art SO smart for exploiting time gates. I art literally GOD, what made them think they could cowereth from me?

D: yeah speaking of which, why me? you're god so why don't you go stop them yourself?

A: Thou maketh a good point. I would do such if they did not already steal like half of mine mojo and could probably taketh the rest by proximity alone. Thou hast kicketh their asses before, though can doeth again.

D: ugh, fair enough. so you're sending me into the past?

A: Yeah.

D: is celebi gonna help me?

A: Nay. They art technically beneath Dialga's reign and if they pulleth some shit, I hast rigged them to explodeth immediately. Also art occupiedeth with some shit in Johto.

D: aren't they ALWAYS occupied with shit in johto?

A: Yeah.

D: Another question. do i get timetravel insurance? i don't to meddle with the space-time continuity if i'm being blasted into the past all samurai jack style.

A: uh, nay.

D: wha-?that's...not good though? what if i mess something up with the timeline or accidentally slip future information"

A: Nay, tis all good.

D: ?????

A: HAHA! Fucketh around with the space-time continuum to thine liking. I shall decree it as Palkia's and Dialga's responsibility to fix it as punishment.

D: ...alright then. do i at least get standard life insurance in case i face certain death or get mortally wounded?

A: no.

D: what the fuck?

A: Gotta preserver yon good old historical authenticity.

D: oh my fucking god.

A: Fie! Watcheth thine usage of that term!

D: oh my g- it's gonna be cool. it's all cool. being shot back into time, and possibly dying before my twenties. you love to see it.

A: Hm. I supposeth, as compensation for the sliver of remorse you managed to evoke from mine godly heart, I shall granteth thee a free new upgrade to thine smartphone so I may texteth thee when I feeleth like it. We can be like the besties who selfie on the social medias! I calleth it the Arc Phone! :)

D: (heads in hands) nnnoooooooooo...

A: alright then, have being the new-technically-old pokemon jesus! Bye!!!!

D: aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAA-

*fade to white*

[closhelby]

HER. - Thomas Shelby

Smut

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warning: it’s peaky blinders, with smut

Word Count: 2472

AN: this is my first time writing smut, please give me any tips pls, it’s appreciate. It’s probably shite.

::::::

She always was on his mind. The woman, that always read between the lines, always two steps ahead of him, and had an incredible eye for business. She had left him years prior, leaving for a top business school in London. they never had a title, a label on their relationship, but it wasn’t exactly a secret that they always, somehow, gravitated back to one another. Often people, especially Polly, would say that there was no way two people would be so alike, strong headed but only rarely clashed. 

However y/n’s degree had finished and she was coming back to Small Heath for a period of time before she was going to figure out what exactly what she wanted to do. Y/n was actually great friends with the Shelby family, since growing up with them, living just down the road, they practically lived together. Y/n was actually younger than Tommy, she was ages with Ada and John. They were in the same class throughout school, Ada and y/n regularly wrote to each other, updating each other on Ada’s eventful life as a Shelby still in Small Heath and y/n’s very exciting studying life in London. 

They had actually planned to meet up, for a nice and quiet drink at the Garrison on her return. The thoughts swirled in y/n’s mind as she approached the Garrison, it had just gone 6pm, and she knew as it was a Friday, she did have a possibly of bumping into her first, arguably her only love.  Pushing the thoughts to the back of her head, she pushed open the door to see a fairly crowded Garrison. 

“Ah, y/n, how was London?” Harry shouted, from behind the bar. Y/n smiled at him, walking over to Ada sitting in the back corner. “It was good Harry, nice to be back in this clear Birmingham air”. He chuckled slightly, “Whiskey coming up love”. 

Y/n nodded, taking a seat next to Ada, giving her a cuddle, “Unsure if ive missed this place or not” y/n laughed slightly, eyes scanning the pub, looking for the one man she questioned if she did want to bump into. The pair was throwing back drinks like it was going out of fashion, knowing they would both regret this in the morning. Apparently, Ada wasn't allowing y/n to go back home, and in fact y/n didn't have a home yet and wasn't willing to go back to her parents, so Ada was insisting that she stayed at hers until y/n found a suitable place. Y/n didnt put up a fight, despite them both being hot heads, and taking absolutely no shit from anyone, men or woman, y/n didn't argue. She was actually really thankful for her. 

They eventually stumbled into the house in the early hours of the morning, their laughs echoing throughout the silent house. 

::::

The sun caught y/n directly in the eyes, quickly awoke y/n from her sleep. Her head felt as though someone had been hitting her head against the floor multiple times. Y/n continued to lay there, turning away from the sun, trying to keep the contents of her stomach from getting sprayed all over her and the sleeping Ada. She made an attempt at moving, sat with her head in her hands as she was trying to give herself words of encouragement to get up and make herself something to eat. 

“Fuck sake, why do we do this to ourselves?” Ada moaned from behind her. Y/n scoffed, “ Your bloody idea”.

Quickly standing up, in hope she could get it over with quickly. The room continuing to spin, as she attempted to walk to the door. Ada following closely behind. 

They both sat slumped over the dining room table, as they attempted to sober up and embrace the oncoming hangover. John now present, laughing at the two dying woman in front of him. 

“Good night?”

“Always.” Ada grumbled.

Pol placed a plate in front of them, toast with jam, “Does Tommy know your back? 

Eyes falling onto y/n from every person in their, “No.” answering quietly. 

Attempting to change the subject, “Told myself I would start looking for a new job today, since I shall be staying here for a decent period of time.”

John raised his eyebrow, “Tommy’s looking for a new secretary.” A slight smile on his face, “You've got a good background, business and that”.

“hm, I don't think so Johny boy”.    

“Don’t say no too soon, your a good asset to the business.” Pol added. No one was ever in y/n’s corner more than Pol, they would bang heads sometimes, as neither of them would back down. But she accepted y/n was the only one that had the best interest for Tommy.

The front door closed, and there he stood, the room turning to face Tommy, silence filling the room, then he broke it, “Heard you were back.”

“Yeah,” she replied quietly.

“Well, you know where I am if you need that job, I’m sure you’ve already been told,” he spoke, cigarette hanging from his mouth, as he walked away from them and into his office.

Y/n let out a breath, as though she hadn’t been breathing the whole time he was there. Ada smiled at her, placing her hand onto y/n’s, “I’m just going to get ready for the day love,” and off she went upstairs. The boys getting on with their day, and Pol following suit.

Y/n sat collecting her thoughts while trying to tell herself to face her ex lover, who she was still so deeply in love with. She tapped on the door slightly, opening it before opening it, “hi”, seeing his eyes flutter onto her shot tingles throughout her body, his eyes quickly looking away

“You can start tomorrow if you wish, I need a few papers signed and sent tomorrow. I can get your contract drawn up tonight.” He spoke, his eyes still not lifting from the paper in front of him.

“Yes, that’s fine 8am?”

“8.45, shop doesn’t open until 9. And there are others to set it up, that’s not your job.”

Nodding, “I heard you have a new woman.”

At this point he did look up at her, “I heard you had plenty men in London,”

She laughed slightly, nodding before heading to the door, “none were ever a patch on you,” closing the door, leaving a smirk on Thomas Shelbys face.

The following day came around, as y/n got ready for the day. Putting on a formal black tightly fitted dress, flats and pin curled hair. A slight tint of red lippy, remembering it used to be Tom’s favourite. Assuming Tommy wouldn’t be at the shop at this time, she took a whiskey with her placing it on the desk infront of Tommy’s office. The place was silent, despite there being other employees now starting to arrive, something calming about the place, almost the calm before the storm, she thought.

The hour was now around ten thirty, and there was still no sign of Tommy. She had already finished the papers he had left for her on her desk. It wasn’t the usual small Heath lady, she was educated, and to a very high level. y/n was sat twiddling her thumbs, awaiting Tommy’s arrival to get other things done.

“Y/n. My office please,” his voice low, as he stood behind her. She stood up quickly, following him into the private room.

“There’s your contract, if you wish to have a read over it. I see you’ve finished the work I gave given you for the day.”

Y/n took the contract into her hands, scanning for any mistakes or anything to question. But he actually was paying her nearly double the rate of other staff, and just over that the London rate was, “you’ve done your research eh. More than London rates, impressive. The peaky’s are stepping up in the world” Y/n smiled at him, as she placed the documents on the desk, picking up his pen, and signing it. Y/n Y/l/n. Followed with today’s date. That was now it, she was a Shelby Co Ltd employee.

...

The days turned into weeks, spending time with tommy while no one else was looking was becoming a regular thing. She now had her own place, just doors down from the shop. He would regularly call her into the office, and discuss things that he would usually never utter a word about. It had always been that way with them, since they were little, he would confine in her, telling her all the issue and problems he was facing, both in his mind and with others. But it was also coming to her attention that he was still seeing Grace.

Later on in the day, the clock chimes 11pm, as y/n sat listening to the music that takes her back to a child, while sipping a whiskey. The knock of her front door bringing her out of her daydream, she picked up her handgun that she kept on her at all times. Growing up with The Shelby’s, she had to protect herself in someway. She kept it behind her, out of view for anyone who was in front of her, slowly creeping up to answer the door. She swung it open, gun clocked and pointed directly in the face of Thomas Shelby. Not wasted, but defiantly had a few.

“Ah, can never change a Shelby girl eh” He spoke, laughing slightly as she lowered the gun and he stepped inside. 

“Although, I’ve never been a Shelby girl, have I Tom?”

“Depends who you ask.”

She sighed, stepping in to the fire lit living room, “Drink?”

He nodded in response, and y/n began to pour him a whiskey, topping up hers and handing a full glass over to him. “Why are you here?”

He stepped over to her, the closest they had been together since before she left for London. He placed a hand on her back, pulling her head into touch his, their foreheads touching. The sensation ran through her body like the first time they had ever touched. He placed his hand on around the back of her neck, pulling her into him, his lips crashing onto hers. Their tongues intertwining with each others as the kiss started to deepen.  Y/n reached for his jacket, pulling it off his back, before making her way on to unbuttoning his shirt. Tommy pulled the bottom of her nightdress up, y/n only allowing the kiss to be broken to allow it to come over her head. 

Their lips syncing with each other once again as tommy took his now unbuttoned shirt off, moving onto unbuckling his trousers revealing his already hard length. He began to push her back onto the couch, untangling her lace thongs from around her legs. His fingers trailing over her already wet pussy, “Do it” y/n whispered as she pulled his face back up to kiss hers. 

He didn't even wait as he shoved his length into her. Their bodies rocked in sync together, “Tommy...” Y/n moaned, her fingers trailing down his shirtless torso. The stars were starting to align, the room was warm, full of love. It felt as though it was five minutes but in reality it was around fifteen all in.

Their breath shortened as y/n’s back started to arch as she came close to climax, “cum for me”. He spoke, looking at her directly in the eyes as he rocked her world. The love, chemistry, love and lust, all so very present just as it was back how they were before. Both of them moaning in pleasure, as they both came at the same time. The deep breaths and steamy windows showing the passion that had just unfolded. 

::::::::::::::::::::

It was a Friday evening, a week following the night of sin that taken place between Tommy and Y/n. They had still had the talks in private in the office, and on another occasion she was fucked bent over his desk after closing time. Y/n wasn't one to hide her feelings, it would always be present on her face so when it came to facing Grace in the Garrison, it wasn't hard to tell how y/n’s feelings were over her.  

Pol chuckled softly, clocking the glare Grace was on the opposite end of, “If looks could kill” Ada joining in on the hilarity. 

“She would've been killed 8 times over” Y/n replied, turning back to face the women. Whiskey in hand. 

“Feelings still there for him then?” Ada asked. 

“No, I wouldnt say so” y/n lied. 

“Cant lie to a gypsy woman love” Pol laughed, y/n begining to laugh with her when the doors open to reveal Tommy and his two bothers. Tommy’s icy blue eyes scanning the room, a slight smile shooting over to Y/n before approching the bar where Grace was, where he stood there for a good twenty minutes chatting away to her. 

“I cant take this anymore.” y/n looked over to Ada, who was rising her eyebrow while taking a sip of her drink. She was fairly close to them, and y/n being y/n liked to have a slight stir up now and again. She stood up, smile showing on her face as Pol and Ada laughed, watching her approach them both. 

“So, hows your little fling going?” she spok loud enough that Pol, Ada, Arthur and John could hear her. 

“Y/n” Tommy warned. 

“Who are you?” Grace questioned. 

“Y/N,” she responded, leaning herself against the bar, “The woman he has fucked behind your back multiple times this week.”

Pol snorted, almost chocking on her drink, “ I fucking knew it. Gypsy senses never lie.” 

“To be honest with you Grace, you had absolutely no chance when Y/N came back” Ada added. 

At this point, Tommy had moved y/n away from the bar, into the small room, “what are you doing?”

“You cant take the piss out of me, fucking me but then fucking her thinking youll get away with it.” she was pissed, and he could see it in her face. They had never spoke on their feelings toward each other. Everyone knew that it was always each other but there was nothing that compared to them, they always seemed to go back.

“I have always loved you but you left to go to London, I had people follow you. I knew what you were up to so I assumed you would stay down there, I assumed you had moved on.” He spoke, almost showing vulnerability.

“Oh I know. I can remember faces Tom. I think you forget I can see right through you,” she seethed, through her teeth, “what are you going to do about this?”

Tommy cupped her face, pulling her into kiss her.

“I love you.” He mumbled, feeling her smile into their kiss.

“I love you Tom,”