#and george just fucking laying down in the center of the room the entire time while paul and john panic

[val-zilla]

wow i hope valery makes more normal fanart-- WRONG beatles saw trap au 🪚🪚🪚🪚🪚🪚🪚🪚🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲🪲

[lumosandnoxwriting]

Photoshoot Fantasies - Fred Weasley

Title: Photoshoot Fantasies Pairing: Fred x Fem!Reader Warnings: NSFW!!! Dom!Fred, daddy kink, spanking, masturbation (male and female) oral (male receiving), unprotected sex, choking, begging, dirty talk Summary: Fred doesn’t like it when his girlfriend gets naughty without his permission A/N: this is….pure filth. For the anon who wanted some smut with dom!fred. this is literally like 3% plot and 97% smut lmao so I hope you enjoy!! Requests are open and feedback is always welcomed!!

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“Oi, lover boy! You’ve got a letter from your girlfriend,” George calls teasingly from the kitchen.

Fred groans as he rolls over in bed, his hands coming up to rub the last bits of sleep from his eyes. He squints as he opens his eyes, due to the bright streaks of sunlight coming in from the break in his curtains. Fred takes a moment to mentally prepare himself for the day before he heaves himself out of bed, and shuffles into the kitchen.

“Good morning dear brother of mine,” George greets far too cheerily for the early hour.

Fred grunts in response and takes a seat across from George, waving his wand so a cup of coffee lands in front of him. He usually isn’t one to need caffeine in the morning, his own natural energy is usually enough to clear the sleep induced fog from his head, but he’s been having trouble sleeping lately since Y/N hasn’t been by his side.

After graduation, Y/N landed her dream job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry. Fred had been so proud of her, and he loved how excited she was each night as she told him about her day over dinner. Unfortunately, her job had one huge drawback: traveling. Every so often Y/N would travel to different parts of the UK and Europe to get updates on the population of certain magical creatures or to help develop and implement conservation plans. A week ago, she left for her longest trip yet, an entire month, and Fred hasn’t been able to sleep well since.

“Where’s this letter then?” Fred asks after he has a few sips of coffee. He can feel the caffeine working its’ magic, and his brain is finally clear enough to string a sentence together.

George rolls his eyes and tosses a thick envelope at Fred. “You two are sickening, you know that? I think she wrote you a bloody novel about how much she loves you and misses you,” George says, pretending to throw up.

Fred flips George off, trying to contain the blush forming on his face. “Don’t act like you didn’t stand in the doorway for 15 minutes last night kissing Angelina goodbye, git.” Fred can feel George’s eyes on him as he fiddles with the envelope. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he bites.

“Someone is feeling feisty,” George retorts with a laugh. “Come on then, open the damn letter. Let’s see how long it takes her to start waxing poetically about your eyes.”

Fred glares at George as his fingers quickly rip open the envelope. Normally he would wait for George to go and busy himself with something else or he’d retreat to his room so he could bask in Y/N’s words by himself, but it’s been far too long since he’s seen her and Fred thinks he might explode if he waits any longer to read her letter. “Oh,” he says softly in surprise, when he only pulls out one piece of parchment. The envelope hadn’t been bulky from the lovely letter she wrote him, but the half a dozen photographs she had included. His eyes scan over the short note, a small smile appearing on his face.

To my dearest Freddie Eddie Spaghetti,

Things are going well up in Scotland, Niffler birth rates are through the roof thanks to the plan we implemented last year. We’ve spent the last few days prepping a large cohort of them to send off to Egypt to assist the rune breakers Gringotts has out there. I’ll be off to France in a day or so to check up on some of the Thestrals we brought to a conservatory outside of Nice a few months ago, hopefully they’ve acclimated well.

I’ve been missing you like crazy, Freddie. You’re all I seem to think about these days, it’s been quite hard to focus on my work. I don’t know how I’m going to manage going three more weeks without seeing your face or being held in your arms. You better rest up, because you won’t be getting any sleep for days once I’m finally back home with you.

I’ve included a few photos that will hopefully keep you company while I’m still away.

Love you lots and lots and lots, Y/N

“That’s it? One stinky piece of parchment?” George asks, clearly annoyed. “There’s my day, ruined. Thought I’d get a nice laugh at least since you’ve been so miserable. What else is in the envelope then?”

Fred’s eyes are still scanning the letter, trying to commit the words to memory and he absentmindedly grabs the stack of photos to show George. “She sent photos,” he responds, finally putting the letter to the side. “Probably of all the baby Nifflers,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Let me see, then,” George says excitedly, reaching his hand out. “Remember when she sent those photos of the baby dragons dressed up in onesies? That was jokes. Bet she put hats on them this time.”

As Fred goes to hand George the stack of photos he gets a glimpse of the one on top. His eyes widen and he quickly pulls his arm back, cradling the photos against his chest. “Nope, sorry. You can’t see them.”

“What? Why not?” George watches as Fred starts to fidget in his seat and a red flush starts to take over his face. “Oh my god!” he says suddenly with a laugh, realization hitting him. “She sent you nudes! What a little minx. You two are far more disgusting than I ever could have imagined.”

Fred clears his throat, choosing to ignore George. “Well I’m going to go back to my room and uh, respond to this letter. See you later.” Fred tries to act as normal as possible as he heads back to his room, desperately trying to ignore George’s cackling. He breathes a sigh of relief as he shuts his door behind him, leaning on it for a moment.

Fred rids himself of his T-shirt and climbs back onto his bed in nothing but his boxers. This isn’t how he planned on spending his morning, but Fred is more than happy to change his plans. He sits up in bed, his back pressed up against his cold wall and his legs splayed out. While Fred would consider himself adventurous in the bedroom, this is the first time Y/N has ever done anything like this, and he can feel himself getting aroused already.

“Merlin,” he groans as he allows himself to look at the first photo. Y/N is laying in the middle of a bed wearing nothing but a lacy red bra and the matching pair of panties, a set Fred is all too familiar with.  Her whole face isn’t visible, just her mouth, and as the photo moves her tongue comes out to lick her bottom lip and her hand lightly trails down her torso to her thigh.

He balances the stack of photos on his lap for a moment, his right hand pushing his boxers down to his thighs. Fred had planned on drawing out the experience, but he’s already rock hard from the first photo. He throws the first photo on the bed beside him as he wraps his hand around himself, and he picks the stack back up.

Fred starts to slowly stroke himself as his eyes rake over the next photograph, his mouth running dry. Y/N is laying in the same position as before, but the bra she was wearing in the first photo has been discarded, and as the photo moves her hands massage her breasts and she bites her lip.

“Oh fuck,” he moans, as he moves onto the next photo. Y/N is now completely naked, and as the photo moves one of her hands trails down her front from her breast to her core while her other hand pinches and toys with one of her nipples.

Fred starts to stroke himself faster and is unable to contain the grunts that fall from his mouth as he moves to the next photo. His thumb rubs the sensitive tip of his cock, spreading around the precum that has started to accumulate, helping his hand glide easier as he strokes. In the next photo, Y/N’s mouth is open, and Fred is sure a breathy moan is leaving her lips, as the movement of the photo shows Y/N starting to slowly rub her clit as her other hand fists in the sheets underneath her.

“Oh, fucking shit,” Fred groans as he looks at the second to last photo, his hand stilling on his cock to stop himself from finishing just yet. Y/N’s feet are now flat against the bed, her knees bent and open wide. As the photo moves Fred can clearly see Y/N sink two fingers into herself as her thumb rubs at her clit. Her other hand tugs at the sheets and her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, a telltale sign that she’s on the brink of her release.

Fred starts to stroke himself again as he reveals the last photo, his orgasm quickly approaching. Y/N’s entire body is flushed red and as the photo moves her back arches, her toes curl, and her whole body trembles as she reaches her orgasm.

Fred’s thumb teases the sensitive head of his cock as his eyes wander over all of the photos. He focuses on the last one, and as Y/N once again reaches her climax Fred does as well. His head tips back and he lets out a low moan as he releases all over his stomach, his cock twitching in his hand. Fred continues to lightly stroke himself as he comes down from his high, his breath coming out in hard pants.

When he gets to be too sensitive he releases himself, letting his cock lay against his stomach. He reaches for his wand so he can clean himself off with a simple spell. But an even better idea pops into his head.

“Accio, camera,” he casts, watching as the top drawer of their dresser opens and his camera starts to fly over to him. He grips the camera and points it at himself, so his body from his torso to the tops of his thighs are in shot. Fred makes sure that his limp cock and the come on his stomach is the center of the photo, and once he’s pleased with the shot he clicks the shutter button.

Fred places the camera on his bed as the photo prints and develops, grabbing his wand and cleaning himself off with a spell. He pulls his boxers back up and gets out of bed, rummaging around for some parchment and a quill. Once he finds what he needs he writes out a quick letter to Y/N.

To my dearest Y/N,

I’m glad to hear everything is going well with work. I’m so proud of you and the things you do. Things at the shop are going well, the new range of whiz-bangs sold out in just a few days. I’m missing you like mad, I can’t wait for you to get home.

Those photos you sent me were very naughty. How dare you pleasure yourself like that without Daddy’s permission. I think Daddy’s going to have to punish you when he finally gets his hands on you. 10 spanks sounds fair, doesn’t it princess? I think you deserve it, after the mess you caused Daddy to make all over himself.

Love you lots and lots and lots and lots, Freddie Eddie Spaghetti

Fred grabs the now developed photo from his bed as he reads over the letter, a satisfied smile on his face. He folds up the letter and tucks it into an envelope along with the photo before he seals it and addresses it to Y/N. As he goes to leave his room he spots a piece of folded up parchment on his floor and he grabs it, opening it up as he heads towards the window in the kitchen.

I’m going to Angelina’s. Use a silencing charm next time you perv.

Fred laughs at George’s note as he sends their owl away with his letter, already thinking about taking advantage of his brother’s absence.

-

“Someone is in a good mood this morning,” George muses as Fred saunters down into the shop just before opening.

Fred adjusts his tie as he joins his brother at the till, a huge smile on his face. Just like last week, a letter had arrived from Y/N this morning with another filthy set of photos. This time she was in a lingerie set that Fred didn’t recognize, and she brought herself to her climax using one of the toys Fred had purchased for her as a Valentine’s Day present earlier in the year. Fred had just enough time to bring himself to his own orgasm and write her back before he had to get dressed and head down to work.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” Fred asks as he unlocks the door and turns the open sign on with a wave of his wand. “The sun is shining, the birds are chirping. It’s a beautiful day, Georgie.”

George looks Fred over before he scrunches his face up in disgust. “Y/N sent you another letter today didn’t she?” When Fred sends George a wink he gags. “Bloody disgusting. I hope you washed your hands.”

“And why would Fred need to be washing his hands?” Verity asks as she comes back from the storeroom with some more love potions to be stocked.

Fred’s face flushes red as George start to laugh. “No reason in particular,” he stutters out. Fred turns to George and glares at him. “You’re such an arse.” Fred moves to hit George upside the head, but he ducks his brother’s advance and heads over to help the two customers that have just walked in the door.

“You lot don’t pay me enough to deal with this,” Verity says as she chuckles and shakes her head.

-

Fred sighs to himself as he sits up in bed, his eyes scanning over some of his notes. He and George are in the early days of developing some new products, and he’s working out some of the initial bugs before they start production next week. At least that’s what he’s supposed to be doing, but his mind is definitely elsewhere. Y/N’s third letter had arrived a few days ago, and he can’t help but let his mind wander to the new photoset sitting in his bedside drawer. It seems that his threats of punishment have fallen on deaf ears, because the photos Y/N has sent have been dirtier each time, and he can’t help but imagine what will be waiting for him in the envelope when her final letter arrives in a few days.

“What do you want?” Fred asks dully when there’s a knock at his door, not bothering to look up at George.

“That’s an awfully rude way to greet your girlfriend after you haven’t seen her for nearly a month,” Y/N says, the smile evident in her voice.

Fred’s head snaps up immediately, a smile taking over his face. “Y/N? What are you doing here?” He immediately climbs off the bed and heads over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Y/N drops her bag on the ground and wraps her arms around Fred’s neck, pulling him down so she can kiss him sweetly. “We finished everything up a few days early. Figured I’d come home and surprise you.”

Fred presses their lips together again hotly, his hands moving down to Y/N’s thighs. He lifts her up, his hands gripping her tightly and moves her over to the bed. “God I missed you,” he murmurs into their kiss, before he tosses her onto the bed.

“Couldn’t have missed me too much, not with all the photos I sent you,” Y/N giggles as she lays back on the bed.

Fred’s eyes darken and he can’t help but let out a groan as he thinks about those pictures. He can feel himself start to get aroused, and he grabs his wand, waving it so that his door slams shut, and locks and a silencing charm falls around his room.

“Such a naughty girl you were, Y/N. Taking those photos without Daddy’s permission,” he scolds, his voice low and rough.

Y/N squirms on the bed, looking up at Fred as innocent as possible. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I just wanted to make you feel good while I was gone,” she explains sweetly. “And clearly it worked, that photo you sent me made me so wet, Daddy.”

Fred bites his lip as he watches her squirm on the bed, taking pride in the fact that he can see a blush forming on her cheeks. “Oh, you made Daddy feel very good, princess. But you were still being a little brat. And you know what happens to brats? Don’t you?”

Y/N can feel herself getting wet as arousal starts to build in her stomach. She’s been waiting for this moment since Fred mentioned spanking her in his first letter. “They get punished,” she responds airily, fists clenching to keep from touching herself.

“That’s right princess, they get punished.” Fred pauses, letting his eyes roam up and down Y/N’s body. “Daddy think 30 swats is good, 15 on each cheek. Don’t you think, princess?” Fred smirks when Y/N lets out a whine as she nods wildly. “What should I use, hm? My hand? Or should I get the paddle?”

“Your hand, please,” Y/N begs. As much as she loves the paddle, she craves the feeling of Fred’s hand on her ass.

Fred smirks down at her. “Normally brats don’t get what they want. But you asked so nicely, princess.” Fred tears his gaze away from Y/N and takes seat on the end of their bed. “Get naked for Daddy and come stand in front of me.”

Y/N immediately gets off of the bed and rids herself of all of her clothing. Normally when they play this game she loves to drag it out and tease Fred endlessly. But she’s been on the edge for nearly 4 weeks and Fred has already been preparing to punish her, and she doesn’t want to find out what he’ll do if she’s even more naughty now that they’re finally back together. Y/N comes to stand in front of Fred, feeling shy under his intense gaze.

“God you are so gorgeous, princess,” Fred compliments, his hand reaching out to lightly grip her hip. He rubs circles into the bare skin, reassuring her. “Come on then. Get in Daddy’s lap.” Fred helps Y/N get situated across his lap, laying on her front. “Such a good girl,” he whispers, letting his hand run down her back, over her bum and to her thigh. “Do you have anything to say to Daddy? Before he gives you your punishment,” he drawls, his hand pushing in between her legs to rub at her wet folds.

Y/N gasps at his touch, her eyes falling closed. “I’m sorry for being a naughty girl, Daddy,” she moans out as Fred rubs her clit ever so slightly.

“Thank you princess,” he says softly, removing his hand from her core. He places it on her bum instead, lightly massaging one of her cheeks. “Daddy’s not mad at you, princess. But you still have to be punished, do you understand?” When Y/N nods he smiles. “Good girl. I want you to count for me, okay?”

“Yes Daddy,” Y/N responds, getting comfortable in Fred’s lap. A squeak leaves her mouth as Fred lands the first slap to her ass. “One,” she counts breathily. Before she has a chance to recover from the first hit, Fred is landing another hit to her cheek causing her to moan. “Two.”

Fred smirks down at the writhing mess Y/N has turned into after her first 15 spanks. Her right bum cheek is bright red, and Fred resists his urge to lean down to kiss it. “Are you doing alright, Princess? Can you take 15 more?” Fred asks quietly, reaching up to stroke Y/N’s hair. As much as he loves being rough with her, he never wants to hurt her or make her uncomfortable in any way. He’s rock hard in his trousers already, and he wants to make sure she’s getting as much pleasure from this as he is.

“Yes, Daddy. Need more. ‘M a naughty girl, I need to be punished,” she responds desperately. Y/N is soaking wet and her stomach is a pool of arousal. A few tears have snuck out of her eyes from how turned on she is, and she’s basking in the warmth left behind on her bum from Fred’s hand.

“Good girl,” Fred praises, leaning down to press a few kisses to Y/N’s shoulder. “You can use your safe word at any time, you know that right?” When Y/N nods he presses another kiss to her shoulder and starts to massage the bum cheek he hasn’t hit yet. “Count for me again, princess, okay?”

Y/N nods, letting out a moan a Fred lands the first hit to her cheek. “One,” she whines, lifting her hips up to encourage him to spank her again. Fred suddenly lands three hits in a row, causing a few more tears to leak out of her eyes as she moans. “Two, three, four,” she stutters out.

By the time Fred lands the last hit to her ass, Y/N is desperate for release. She’s slowly moving her hips forward, desperate for any kind of friction against her clit. “Daddy please,” she begs.

“Look at my desperate little baby,” he coos, moving Y/N’s hair out of her face so he can see the desperation on it. “Such a good girl you were, princess. Such a good girl for Daddy. C’mere let me kiss you.”

Fred helps Y/N straddle his waist and tucks a few stray hairs behind her ear. He kisses her deeply, his tongue immediately licking into her mouth. Y/N moans into the kiss, rolling her hips against the rough fabric of Fred’s trousers. Fred groans at the contact on his clothed cock, his hips rolling up to meet hers. “God, so fucking desperate for it aren’t you, princess?” he asks as his lips start to trail kisses down her neck.

Y/N nods, tipping her head back to give Fred more room to kiss. “Need you so bad, Daddy. Missed your cock. That’s what I was thinkin’ about in all those photos. Thinkin’ about how much I love your cock and how good it feels inside of me.”

Fred groans into Y/N’s neck and pulls away so he can look at her. “That’s so fucking hot, princess. Imagining you lying in bed, touching yourself and thinking of me.” Fred kisses Y/N again. “Go on and show Daddy how you touch yourself, princess. Get in bed and pleasure yourself for me.”

Y/N crawls off of Fred’s lap and onto the bed, settling down in the middle of it. One of her hands starts to pinch and twist her nipple, while the other runs down her body and settles at her core. She watches as Fred stands up and starts to undress himself, her index finger starting to rub small circles on her clit. “Oh fuck,” she moans, tilting her head back.

Once Fred is fully nude he kneels on the bed next to Y/N’s head and takes himself in his hand. He starts to slowly stroke his cock, his eyes crawling over every inch of Y/N’s body. There’s a flush that creeps up her chest, over her neck and to her cheeks and her hips are slowly rocking as she teases her clit.

“So pretty, princess. You look so pretty touching yourself for Daddy,” Fred praises.

Y/N turns her head to look at Fred as she feels her orgasm approaching. She opens her mouth, silently asking Fred to let her suck him off. When he doesn’t immediately give in, she whines. “Please let me suck your cock, Daddy. Please.”

Fred reaches down with his free hand to cup Y/N’s cheek. “Fucking hell you’re desperate for it princess.” He pushes his hips forward just enough so Y/N can wrap her lips around the head of his cock.

Y/N whines around Fred’s cock, her head starting to move up and down. She lets her tongue wrap around the head on each pull back, wanting Fred to release into her mouth. When he starts to slowly fuck his hips forward she hums around him in encouragement. As her climax builds she starts to rub harder circles on her clit, desperate for release.

“Fuck princess, gonna make Daddy come,” Fred moans, his eyes watching his cock disappear into her mouth.

Y/N’s eyes flutter shut as she reaches her orgasm, her whole body trembling. She moans around Fred’s cock as pleasure flows through her, causing him to suddenly release into her mouth. Her motions on her clit slow down as Fred’s cock twitches in her mouth and she swallows his release. As Fred slowly pulls his cock out of her mouth Y/N stops her movement on her clit, bringing her hand up to clean off her finger.

“Holy fuck,” Fred pants, watching Y/N’s lips wrap around her finger. “You are so fucking amazing,” he says in awe. Fred’s cock which hadn’t even gone fully soft starts to harden again as Y/N looks up at him. “Look at what you do to Daddy, princess. His cock is already hard for you again.”

Y/N smiles as she gets up to her knees. She wraps one hand around his cock and starts to slowly stroke it, while her other goes to his neck so she can pull their lips together. Fred’s mouth immediately overpowers hers, and he forces his tongue into her mouth. Fred is fully hard in Y/N’s hand now, and as they kiss he maneuvers them so he’s sitting with his back up against the wall, and Y/N is sitting in his lap.

“Need your cock Daddy,” Y/N whines, pulling her mouth away from Fred’s. “Fuck me Daddy, please.”

Fred chuckles, his hands falling onto Y/N’s hips. “Go on then, princess. Fuck yourself on my cock since you’re so desperate for it.” Fred suppresses a groan as Y/N grinds down against him. Fred and Y/N have tried nearly every sexual position either of them could think of, and they both know that being on top is low on Y/N’s list of favorites; she much prefers it when Fred holds her down and fucks her into the mattress.

“Daddy,” she pouts, grinding down against him again.

Fred narrows his eyes at her and resists his urge to kiss her. “Princess,” he warns. “If you wanna be a desperate cock slut, then be a desperate cock slut and fuck yourself on Daddy’s cock. Maybe if you’re a good girl and you come on Daddy’s cock he’ll give you what you want.”

Y/N perks up at that, and she leans forward to kiss Fred slowly as she rises to her knees. One of her hands’ rests on his shoulder, while the other reaches back to grasp the base of his cock.

Fred breaks their kiss so he can watch as Y/N lines him up with her entrance. Y/N whines as she sinks down, her eyes fluttering shut at how full she feels. She sinks down until their hips meet and Fred is fully inside of her.

“Fuck you’re tight, princess. Always so tight for Daddy,” he praises. He groans as Y/N starts to roll her hips, his grip on her tightening. “Go on, baby,” he encourages. “Get yourself off on my cock.”

“Oh,” Y/N moans, her hands gripping Fred’s shoulders tightly. She starts to slowly pick herself up, stopping when Fred is only halfway inside her, before she slams herself back down. “So good, Daddy,” she pants.

Y/N fucks herself on Fred’s cock like that for a few minutes, growing frustrated when she fails to hit the spot inside of her that will bring her to her orgasm. “Daddy please,” she whines.

“Come on, princess. You know how to fuck yourself on Daddy’s cock. Come around Daddy’s cock and he’ll give you what you want,” he encourages.

Y/N leans back, placing a hand on each of Fred’s thighs and uses the leverage to lift herself up. “Oh fuck,” she gasps as she sinks back down, the tip of Fred’s cock finally brushing her sweet spot.

“You look so pretty, princess. Getting yourself off on my cock,” Fred praises, helping Y/N to lift her hips off of him. “Such a good girl.”

Y/N moans as she fucks herself on Fred’s cock, already feeling her orgasm approaching. She starts to move her hips desperately, searching for her release. “So close, Daddy. Touch me Daddy please,” she pleads.

Fred smirks before he leans forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to Y/N’s lips. “Come on, Princess, come on Daddy’s cock,” he encourages, one of his hands leaving her hip so he can rub circles on her clit.

With one more downwards movement of her hips Y/N’s walls tighten around Fred as she comes, her body shaking as her orgasm rolls through her. “That’s it, princess. Such a good girl,” Fred coos quietly, his thumb slowing its motion and his hips rocking slightly to help her through her orgasm.

Fred kisses Y/N slowly as her breathing starts to return to normal. She shifts around on his cock as their lips move together and it takes everything in Fred to not come right there. “You’ve been such a good girl for me tonight, princess. Doing so well,” he says, breaking their kiss. “Can you take more, baby? D’you want Daddy to fuck you into the mattress?” Fred pecks Y/N’s lips. “It’s okay if you don’t baby. Daddy just wants to take care of you.”

“Want you to come inside me Daddy,” Y/N tells him, looking into Fred’s eyes. “Want you to pin me down and fuck me into the mattress.”

Fred doesn’t need to be told twice. He kisses Y/N hard and flips them over so her back is on the bed and he’s hovering over her. He throws both of her legs over his shoulders, pinning her to the mattress with his hips. He braces himself with one hand as his other comes up to grip Y/N’s throat and he pulls all the way out before he slams back into her.

“Oh fuck, Daddy,” Y/N moans as Fred starts to fuck into her relentlessly. The tip of his cock is brushing the spot inside of her and she’s already so sensitive from her previous two orgasms, and with the way Fred is gripping the side of her neck she knows she won’t last long.

“God, princess,” Fred grunts as Y/N’s walls clench around him. “Such a good pussy. You always feel go good wrapped around Daddy.” Fred lands a particularly hard slam as Y/N moves to touch herself. “Hands off, princess. Want you to come just from my cock. Can you do that for Daddy?”

Y/N nods, too busy moaning and whining to answer Fred verbally. Her body feels like it’s on fire, her toes curling and her back arching as she reaches her climax. “Daddy,” she moans lowly, as she comes around Fred’s cock, a few stray tears falling from the corners of her eyes.

“Fuck princess,” Fred moans. Y/N’s walls tighten and twitch around him, bringing him to his own release. His hips still as he empties himself inside of her and he crashes their lips together. Fred slows their kiss down as they both recover, unable to stop the smirk that forms on his mouth when Y/N whines as he slowly pulls out of her. Fred collapses on the bed next to Y/N and she immediately cuddles into his side as he wraps his arm around her.

“I love you,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth.  

Fred turns his head so he can kiss her properly, not pulling away until they both need to breathe. “I love you too, Y/N,” he says softly. “Are you alright? Did I go too far?”

Y/N shakes her head, chuckling at Fred’s concern. “Not at all, love. It was incredible.” She pauses so she can press a kiss to his neck. “I’m glad I have the next few days off, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to walk tomorrow.”

Fred laughs and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Good thing I have you all to myself because I have quite a few plans for us.”

Y/N looks up at him, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. “Oh yeah? What might those be?”

“Let’s just say our cameras are definitely going to need more film when I’m done with you.”

[cursestothemoon]

🗼 with Fred and George. That’s it. That’s the blurb.

Hello lovely could I request a weasley twins x reader poly relationship if you’re comfortable with it.

I combined these two requests :)

Two to Tame the Brat

F.W. X FEM!READER X G.W.

POLYAMOROUS RELATIONSHIP

NO INCEST

17+ IF YOU ARE TAGGED AND DON’T WANT TO BE TAGGED IN SMUT PLEASE LET ME KNOW

Warnings: NSFW, oral (male and female receiving), fingering, dom!George, dom!Fred, sub!reader, spanking, brat taming kinda, biting, slapping, degradation and praise, UNEDITED (i need to stick to my brand ya know✋🏻)

You felt your cheeks grow red at the intense stares of the two boys before you. Of all the things that could’ve happened in your seventh year at Hogwarts, standing naked in front of your two boyfriends while they discussed how to properly tame the brat out of you was not one of them. You had started off dating Fred, a couple months after your one year anniversary he had come to you with the idea of bringing in someone else to the relationship, George. The transition from just Fred to both Fred and George was smooth, until the latter found out about just how much Fred let you get away with. 

“Are we gonna do anything or not?” You whined.

Usually Fred would give in if you whined enough, he had little patience and a lot of horniness so you got away with being a brat often- he’d always give in to you eventually. 

A harsh smack landed on your cheek making you gasp.

“You speak when you’re spoken to.”

George was a different story...

After seeing how much of a brat you were with Fred, he knew a taming was necessary. George wasn’t one to take your games, and he had convinced Fred that you needed to have some rules set and punishments received. To your annoyance, Fred was completely on board with the idea and he insisted George show him how to be tougher on you.

You glared at George, but you couldn’t deny the way his stern dominance had your cunt aching. 

Fred smirked from his seat on the edge of his four poster bed. Both of them were still clothed- George insisted you shed your clothes first- but you were itching to get them undressed. 

George turned to his brother, “Now you can’t just let her get away with that behavior. Kitten needs learn what her mouth is good for.”

The twins seemed to be able to communicate without the use of words, this scenario was no different. Fred’s smirk grew as he looked over you with lustful eyes. 

“Over here, love, and on your knees.”

You thought of disobeying him for a moment and George seemed to read your mind, “I believe Freddie told you to do something...”

“M’going.”

George gave your ass a quick smack as you made your way over to Fred, getting on your knees once you reached him. You looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him unbuckle his belt and take off his pants. 

“You little brat, what are we supposed to do everything for you?” George scolded, coming up behind you and pulling your head back with a firm grip on your hair. 

George continued his teasing as you felt Fred part to run a few fingers up and down the lines of your strained throat, “Open your mouth for Freddie.”

You did as you were told, eager to feel the weight of Fred’s thick cock on your tongue. Instead, you felt the firm grip of Fred’s hand on your jaw pulling you forward so he could spit into your open mouth. 

Desperate for any part of either of them, you were happy to slow his spit- the taste entirely unique to Fred made you sigh in content. 

“Get on with it, kitten.” George said, hand moving to pet the top of your head lovingly. 

You worked fast to unbuckle Fred’s belt and unzip his trousers, pulling out his semi hard cock you could feel your mouth watering at the sight. Without pause, you took his tip into your mouth, sucking harshly as you tongue swirled around him to the best of your ability. Your hand wrapped around his shaft, slowly moving along its length making him let out a shaky breath before tipping his head back. 

Fred put a hand on the back of your head, gently pushing you further down his prick. Your eyes watered as you felt him poking at the back of your throat, focusing on breathing through your nose, you adjusted before starting to bob your head with hollowed cheeks. Fred’s hand on the back of your head sped up your pace making you gag around him.

The sound of George’s belt hitting the floor made your thighs clench, you hoped to relieve some of the pressure building up in your core. 

“Do that again and you’ll get punished.” George warned, his footsteps getting closer and closer. 

Suddenly, Fred pulled you off of himself and stood up, his cock now painfully hard and leaking precum as he started undressing himself. You were pulled to your feet by George who started placing kissing along your collarbone and shoulder. 

“See, wasn’t so hard to be a good girl.”

You nodded, “Wanna be your good girl.”

George chuckled, running his thumb across your bottom lip before trailing it down to your chin, “On the bed.”

Doing as you were told, you got on the bed with your knees apart and ready for whatever George wanted to do. He walked over to your pussy on full display and pushed you further up on the bed to make room for himself in between your legs. 

“Good girls get rewards.” George smirked up at you from in between your legs before he dipped his head down and started to lick broad stripes up from your entrance to your clit- agonizingly slow. 

He lifted his head briefly to speak, “You cum when you are allowed.”

At that, he dove back into your aching cunt with no respite. He was vigorously lapping at your cunt and giving a few harsh sucks at your clit sporadically, making you cry out each time. 

Fred situated himself next to you with his mouth attached to your tit, biting and sucking on your pert nipples adding more pleasure coursing through your body. 

“Such a good girl, f’me.” Fred muttered, kissing any skin he could reach. 

Your eyes rolled back and fluttered closed at the mix of sensations. Needing to ground yourself and give yourself something to do, you reached for Fred’s cock and started pumping his shaft. Fred let out a growl like sound at the feeling of your hand on his sensitive dick before attaching his lips back to your pebbled nipple. 

In all honesty, as Fred harshly tugged your nipple between his teeth and George’s tongue circled around your clit while two of his fingers pumped in and out of you with languid thrusts you were close to orgasm and George’s rule of cumming only when allowed seemed to slip your mind.

George was quick to pull away from you as you came, an open palm smack coming down onto your swollen clit making you let out a choked sob as your orgasm was ruined just as it hit you. 

Fred gave your breast a rough bite, leaving a mark on the sensitive skin before pulling away. 

“Tried to do something nice for our kitten, and she couldn’t fucking listen.” George sneered. 

“On your fucking hands and knees, slag just wants be used, just wants to be punished.” Fred joined his brother, both of their harsh words making your cunt ache with need as you got into the position Fred wanted. 

George gave a sarcastic laugh, “Slag’s practically dripping, look at the Freddie. She needs her punishments, loves ‘em.”

“Good,” Fred grunted as he seated himself by your raised ass, hand gently running across the round globes. “Because she’s about to get spankings for making me look like a liar, I said you were a good girl and you made me out to be a bloody liar.”

A loud smack sounded in the room, your body jolting forward with the sheer force of Fred’s first spank. George moved to lay in front of you, legs spread and elbows holding himself up as you took his cock into your mouth. With each spank you took George’s prick further into your mouth, loud gags sounding from your throat. 

After about fifteen lashes you felt Fred stand up from the mattress, hand running across the red skin before he trailed his fingers over to your sopping cunt. He ran his fingers up your slit, collecting your juices and using the slick from your pussy to lubricate his cock. 

Fred gave himself a couple of tugs before lining himself up at your entrance, pushing his tip in slowly before thrusting into your aching pussy roughly. The hard thrusts made you moan around George, sending vibrations up his shaft and making him groan. 

You could feel your orgasm begging to be allowed to wash over you, and you knew better than to make your past mistake again. Deep throating George’s cock and swallowing around him had his warm load coating the back of your throat and your tongue. Swallowing his cum and sucking him off through his orgasm, you waited until he pulled you off of his prick to start begging.

“Wanna cum, plea-please, wanna cum.” You cried, forehead falling onto George’s balmy thigh. 

The boys spoke at the same time, “Cum.”

Your walls clenched around Fred’s cock as you came, pulling his release from him. He continued with slow, deep, thrusts to ride out both of your highs for as long as possible. 

Eventually, Fred pulled out of your cunt making your collapse onto George who was more than happy to pull you into his chest and place a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. Fred went to retrieve a warm wash cloth to clean you up, he came back and carefully wiped up the mess around your thighs and center. After getting cleaned up, George shuffled around to get you tucked into Fred’s bed before getting comfortable himself. Fred joined you two in the bed, sandwiching you in between him and his brother. 

The room was silent until you heard a loud smack then a fake gag.

“I was holding your hand this entire time?” 

“I thought that was Y/n!”

“Maybe if you quit hogging our girlfriend...”

“Don’t make me kick you out of my bed.”

tags:

@siriusement

@amourtentiaa

@vsawyer1989

@lifeofkaze

@theorangedrummer

@erinblack003

@famdomhideout

@an2402lths

@escapingrealitybyreading

@readyg0erge

@maybesandohnos

@therealhouseelvesofhogwarts

@georgeweasleysbabe

[melodylovesklitzy]

Bath Time | Fred and George Weasley Smut |

Fred Weasley x reader x George Weasley

Contains: Smut, Bath/Shower sex, threesome, harsh words

(I know this isn’t how Hogwarts bathrooms look like it’s just what I had pictured while writing this)

Humming softly you slowly walk into the shower room at Hogwarts, it certainly was different than the one back home. It had a big bath at the center of the room and showers with curtains surrounding it. You walked over to the side of the bath and set your book down on a rack attached to the side. You started the bath before stripping down to nothing. The water was instantly warm and stayed at just the right temperature. 

You slowly dipped your foot into the water then submerged your entire body in the warm water. The water went to about the middle of your breast, covering just the perfect amount of cleavage. You stayed in that spot and leaned over to the rack at the side of the bath, where you had set your book previously.  It was some book about pranks, the twins had given it to you as a gift when they asked you out. Yes, both of them asked you out. You smiled thinking back at the memory, it was lovely. 

As you were deep in thought you felt a body come into the bath behind you. You quickly pull away from your book and turn to see who is now sitting behind you. It was just Fred. “Woah love, calm down, just me.” he smiled at you. You relaxed and leaned back into his arms, they wrapped around your torso and pulled you in closer. You looked back to your book, only to feel another body join the bath, you glanced up to see George sinking himself into the bath at the opposite end of you and Fred. “Bit warm, don't ya think?” he asked, smiling cheekily at you. You smiled and shook your head, going back to your book.

Just as the book started to get to a good part a hand came and snatched the book from your hands. “Hey!” you shouted at George. He smiled at you and moved his body to be laying against yours. “We can read it together, since sharing is caring.” He said while smiling, lifting the book a little higher so you could see more. You huffed but pulled George a tad bit closer to your body, to the point where his head was on your breasts. He laughed and looked back at Fred, “jealous?”

Fred huffed and pulled you even closer, “not by much.” You blushed heavily and looked at the two boys, “okay! Back to reading!” Fred had pulled her so close that her entrance was touching Fred’s member. Fred slowly reached down and grabbed his member, and then leaned his head to her ear, “this okay?” You gulped and nodded. You could tell he was smirking, when he slowly began to enter you. You let a soft moan out into George’s ear, which caused him to turn around and look at you. He closed and set your book back on the rack beside you.  “Oi! She’s my girlfriend too!” George then grabbed your chin and pulled you into a kiss, while his other hand went up to your breasts. 

You began moaning into George’s mouth, the pleasure from him groping you and Fred thrusting into you felt amazing. “Fuck, you feel so good around my cock baby,” Fred moaned, grabbing your throat and fucking you harder. George pulled away from your lips to lift you off of Fred. George entered you and began to stand up, putting his arms under your ass to support you. He exited the bath and walked over to one of the showers. While he was walking you lightly bounced on his member, it felt heavenly. He looked back at Fred to see him draining the bath and putting your book next to your clothes, which they hung up for you. 

He opened the curtain to one of the showers, which happened to be big enough for you and the twins to lay on the floor. George walked in and pushed you against the wall, beginning to pound into you at almost inhuman speeds. Your head fell back as loud moans slipped from your mouth over and over. George’s head buried into your neck and he moaned. “Fuck Princess, so fucking tight around me.” George suddenly stopped and removed his head from your neck. “What the fuck George? Why’d you-” Before you could finish your sentence you were on the floor facing George while Fred moved you to lay on top of him.

“Let’s go to Paris, shall we love?” George whispered with a big smirk on his face. You could feel George slowly begin to move again while Fred pressed against your ass, beginning to push himself in. It hurt but it was covered over by the pleasure you were receiving from George. You became a moaning mess for the two boys, who were roughly thrusting in and out of you chasing their release. Fred’s head was on one side while George’s was on the other, both moaning your name and how good you felt around them.

“Boys I’m so close, so fucking close.” You were basically screaming at this point, overwhelmed by pleasure. “Me too baby, I’m cumming.” Fred moaned into your ear while pulling out and cumming onto your ass. You came shortly after Fred, but George continued to thrust quickly, chasing his release. You could feel him twitch inside you and then shortly after feel his cum shoot inside you. You all took a moment to breathe, desperately gasping for air. 

“We should definitely do that again,” you said to the twins

“Definitely,” they both said panting for air.

[darthwheezely]

dating george weasley and being a ravenclaw

warnings: stupidly [wickedly] hot men named george fabian weasley, kinda smut, cussing fs, angst because our angel is insecure, also i may have almost cried writing this and it’s sO LONG I AM SO SORRY

people that may like this (?): @whiz-bangs78 @vogueweasley @gcdric (whenever you’re back! :)) @theweasleyslut @thehufflepuffwife @lupinsclassroom @wand3ringr0s3 @kitwalker02 @monoscandal @pansydaisy

i’m obsessy espressy w this pic btw please take it for your enjoyment

this man boy

is so enamored with you

he doesn’t even really know a whole lot about you at first, stealing glances from across the great hall

listening intently when you answer questions in class

he starts to memorize the way you roll your eyes when you ask snape a question you can’t answer

and the way you wrinkle your nose when someone stereotypes you based on your house

you’re fiery, but you’re so poised for quick answers and sharp looks

he would pay big money to have you roast him during class like you do to cormac when he tries to hit on you a lot

which earns him many a revenge prank

and then he starts to try and talk to you, rather foolishly at first

but he finds it so intensely sexy the banter you two get involved in during these interactions

“If it isn’t my favorite little bird, Y/N ;)”

“Aren’t there other nests for you to bother, Weasley?”

“None that I find as mildly riveting, my dear, I do love a bird that chirps back”

“Do you like ones that bite, too?”

“I don’t know if your beak is sharp enough, love”

“Come up to me when I’m reading again, and I’ll give you some harder evidence of just how bad my bite is hmm?”

(Unbeknownst to you as you walk away, he’s already got some harder evidence growing in his jeans...)

he doesn’t stop searching you out, determined to prove to you he’s enough

you two after about a week and a half finally go out to hogsmeade on your first date

he takes you to the three broomsticks where you both drink butterbeer and make deep conversation for hours until close

there’s a point where he makes you laugh so hard you snort and spit out some of your butterbeer

which makes him snort and spit out his butterbeer

he realizes a couple things then:

1) he’s obsessed with the way you tell stories or talk passionately about the subjects you love. he adores watching how you light up everywhere in your body and talk so fast at points you can’t breathe

2) he wants to live in your head. he studies the way you think and watches you intently as you process punchlines and stories and memories and he realizes

i need to be something she thinks about

and without realizing it while you’re laughing super hard he puts his hand on the back of your neck and kisses you like it’s the last night on this planet

after about 12 seconds he pulls away and starts to turn red seeing your blank face unmoved

“i-i’m really sorry i promise i didnt mean to be that guy i just-“

and you’re pressing into him everywhere mouth and body and mind and he’s drinking you in like the butterbeer stained on his scarf and he is totally balls deep in love with you

you two are inseparable after that, making it official on the walk back to the castle

if you’re going on a stress tangent about how much work you have, for Beverly negative thought he’ll press a kiss to a pet of your face until you’re giggling and a mess and you’re kissing him back and then you’re on the table in the library...

“Georgie, you’re gonna kill my grades if we keep doing this!”

“You kill me everytime you blink for godric’s sake and yet here I am!”

he is a simp

he says he isn’t but anytime you bring out the “georgie, please” or “love, please” he turns to butter

fred thinks it’s the funniest shit and he capitalizes on it constantly

he calls you his little bird

most specifically his mockingbird because he claims you always set him at ease and make him feel like everything is centered

and he’s right, you do

you center the wild fire in him when he needs to breathe and look around

you see parts of him that aren’t balanced

there’s a night when you walk in on him just curled on his bed crying

your beautiful boy alone and sad and you instinctively start to cry too

You wrap your arms around him as he turns to you and buried his head in your lap. George, my love, what’s wrong?”

“I-I’m not like Fred I’m not like Charlie I’m sure as shit not like Bill I’m not like anyone that’s actually important” he chokes

“George-“

“No, you don’t understand, Y/N. I’m not good enough. For anyone. And I see it and hear about it everyday when my mum brags about how great her kids are and save us for last and when Fred can never shut up about how good he is at EXISTING and I-it swallows me whole, Y/N, I cant feel like this anymore” his body wracks out a harsh sob and you hold him like this

You hold him until he can start to fall asleep and you lay with him until you too, are asleep when he wakes up to tell you

“I love you. Forever, Y/N.”

And you push the hair off his lightly sweaty forehead and tell him “and I love YOU, George Weasley.” and you two fall back asleep happy crying in each other’s arms

he sees you struggle too

struggle with your workload

struggle with your own insecurities of not being good enough for him

telling him you’re just a girl that talks a lot about weird stuff and that you bring him down and he every time cups your face in his hands and pulls you down into him and says

“I love you here.” And kisses your forehead. “I love your mind.” And kisses below your earlobe “and I love you here. How you listen to people and always know what to say” and he kisses your nose “and I love you here, how you snort when you laugh really hard.” And he finally lands on your mouth, staying there for a moment, “and I love you most of all here. When you speak everything in your head and laugh and sing and talk and just breathe, my love. You’ve always been enough in all those places.” He presses one more kiss to your forehead and murmurs “I love you everywhere.”

anyway it’s time for spicy stuff

bow chicka wow wow as Fred would prolly say

George loves fucking you in the library it’s canon

he loves hoisting you on a table or against the stacks and murmuring against your skin how loud you are for him

“Is my little bird wanting to chirp a little louder?” He pries your thighs farther apart prompting a squeak and a small whine. “There it is, love, taking me so well...keep quiet, angel don’t want Pince to know how much of a cockslut you are for me writhing against the shelves do you?”

whew chile anyways

he also likes to touch you when you’re reading to him

but will stop and pull his face away from your neck and your hand from your core when you stop reading to him

“Angel, are you so much of a slut that you can’t focus on the words in front of you?”

“N-no, Georgie, oh my god right there”

“Thereeee, it is-“

mmmmm he’s hot fuck on GOD

when you guys slept together for the first time, he brought you to the *ding ding ding* restricted section after hours

he set up a whole ass blanket and relit the candles and brought pillows

it was very much making love to george and he whispered sweet nothings and praises in your ear the entire time

ugh what a MAN

anyway, TO THE BURROW WE GO!

molly fucking adores you

“My George brought home a beautiful Ravenclaw? Please know, Y/N he is an idiot most of the time and we wouldn’t be hurt if you found an out-“

“JESUS MUM LEAVE ME ALONE SKENSOWOWKWKKW”

again, Fred really does love you and enjoy your company

frequently comments about truly how unconditionally happy George has been, and how happy it makes him to see his younger twin so confident and full of joy

he also wouldn’t say this out loud but the more confident georgie gets, the better his prank plans become

i mean after all - he is the brains of the operations ;)

every chance he gets when you’re around his family or really anyone, he’ll sneak up behind you and plant a hearty kiss on your cheek and a quick “ILOVEYOU” in your ear before running off to do god knows what

oh, y’all bicker constantly

and by bicker i just mean argue about like

aliens

or is Wyoming a state

just like factually dumb but quirky shit

you’ve only had a fight like ONE time

and it was because George took a prank too far with Fred and you didn’t talk to him for an entire day

and because George has a lot of separation anxiety plus fear of abandonment he did not take it really well

You had gone back to your room after dinner in the Great Hall. For the whole day George didn’t eat. You knew because you hadn’t seen him anywhere in the Hall, and none of your classes. When you opened the door you saw him crouching knees pressed to his chest on your bed, he looked like a ghost. He met eyes with you and choked out a sob and ran to you, you opening your arms to hold him. “Please forgive me, Y/N I know you’re hurt but please don’t leave me I’ll be better next time I promise” he got faster and you knew he couldn’t breathe so you just whispered to him you weren’t going to leave you’ll be with him and you’ll stay and mistakes happen, you promise. “Georgie, I promise I’m never leaving. Okay?” He nodded into your shoulder, hunched into you. “I love you so much it hurts.” “I know, Georgie. I know.”

regardless for all his quirks and all his fears and hurts

there is nothing you wouldn’t do

to spend every waking moment with this boy

your love

and he, for the first time, knows he is enough

[kalypsichor]

five’s a crowd [ beatles x reader ] part five

chapter summary: It’s time for some apologies (aPAULogies!). You and Paul have a chat about student debt, Parliament, and showers. John tries to convince everyone that he won’t break the telly (again), Ringo tries to convince everyone that he’s NOT an old man, and you just wish George would drop that goddamn towel. 

warnings: george is almost naked but not naked enough (sigh)

masterlist and parts one | two | three | four

these chapters are just getting longer, huh. also, queen makes a more... definitive appearance.

Paul’s chosen the corner booth. It’s the spot that you all usually cram into, obnoxious and loud and always on the verge of being kicked out. Sitting there all by himself with nothing but a cup of coffee, he looks very small and lonely and you feel a pang of guilt.

He glances up when you sit down next to him. “Back for round two?” Paul says, and despite this he still scoots over to give you more room.

“No.” Sighing, you resist your fight-or-flight instinct. You’ve always hated confrontation. “I just wanted to apologize. I probably overreacted today and I shouldn’t have, um… ”

“Ripped me a new one?”

You laugh. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I’ve just been so stressed about midterms and all that--which isn’t an excuse for being an asshole, I know. It’s been such a long day, with Ringo having to go to the hospital and John almost killing us in your car and George, uh… actually, George hasn’t done anything. But… forgive me?” You try your best puppy eyes, although that’s more of Paul’s forte.

He pretends to think about it, but he’s already got that smile on his face. It’s soft and accentuates the roundness of his cheeks and you can see what John fell in love with.

“Of course I do. I could never stay angry at you for too long.” You let out a sigh that you didn’t know you were holding. “And I’m sorry, as well. I hope some of your papers were salvageable? I’ll pay for your textbooks, really--”

“With the thousands of pounds of student debt you’ve got? No way.” You nudge Paul teasingly. “No, it wasn’t that bad. Besides, if I don’t have most of that stuff memorized by now I’ll be fucked for midterms.”

“It’s the damn Tories, I tell you!” A businessman at the table over shoots him a dirty look and you have to muffle your snort behind your hands. “Anyway, we’re not here to talk politics. How’s George?” At the last bit, Paul leans in, raising his eyebrows conspiratorially.

Just great, still want to snog him senseless. Nothing new. “Why don’t you ask George yourself, you live with him. He’s still pretty pissed about having to take cold showers in the morning.”

“Please, no more. I’ve gotten yelled at about it enough already.” He throws his hands up in mock surrender and you’re reminded uncannily of John. They really are two sides of the same coin… “Morning’s the only time I can shower, anyway. It’s not fun waking up early, you know, but I do have to get the studio time. I’ve got, like, a million art pieces to turn in next week. It’s killing me.”

Though he says this with a rueful grin, you can see there’s bags under his eyes. With all the drama going on, you hadn’t stopped to think about what Paul must be going through. You internally scold yourself not to be so wrapped in your own concerns next time.

“I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah, well. The woes of an art major. But when I asked about George, I wasn’t talking about our little row.”

You ignore that. “Showering every day is bad for your skin, y’know.”

“First off, that’s my phrase. Secondly, you’re changing the subject.”

“You’re the one changing the subject!” Don’t blush don’t blush don’t blush. “Look, can’t you try and compromise with him? Like, taking turns or something. You can have the first shower every other day and ditto for George!” You smack the table excitedly. “Damn, I’m a genius.”

Paul laughs and downs the rest of his coffee. “Alright, alright. I’ll talk to him about it.” Standing, he stretches and tosses the cup into the trash. “You think the flat is safe enough to go back?”

You mirror his actions, donning your fleece jacket. “Probably. I’ll protect you, though, don’t worry.”

“My hero!” He swoons and loops his arm through yours as you step out of the cafe. The rest of the walk back, he doesn’t mention George again and you think he’s forgotten all about it. That is, until you reach the apartment. Paul unlocks the door and gestures for you to go first. When you brush by him, he leans down to your ear and says it so casually you don’t even register the meaning at first.

“I’ll get the truth out of you one of these days, y’know.”

Paul winks and though he doesn’t say exactly what the ‘truth’ is, you think you have a pretty good idea what he’s talking about.

***

The next day, you’re sat at the kitchen table over a bowl of cereal and some salvaged papers, not unlike yesterday morning. John is once again swiping through his phone. Ringo’s there, too, having scrutinized the entire kitchen floor this time before sitting down.

“TikTok is a load of shit,” John announces, throwing his cell down.

“Yet that doesn’t stop you from being on it for hours on end.”

“It’s addicting! All that… hitting the woah and- and grenade stuff.”

“You mean renegade.”

You both shoot a surprised look at Ringo, who pouts. “What? I can be hip too.”

“Okay, the fact that you said ‘hip’ kinda contradicts that.”

Ringo sticks his tongue out at you and you snicker. John clears his throat, steering the conversation back to him. Attention whore.

“Aaaanyway. As I was saying. Our phones are all the government’s rubbish way of brainwashing us. And that’s why I propose… drum roll, please.”

Ringo obliges. You note that he keeps a rather good tempo.

“Game Night Part Two!”

He’s met with silence.

“Uh, let me think about it-- no.”

“What? Why not!”

You tap your finger to your chin. “Did you already forget getting piss-drunk and missing your American Lit quiz the next day? Or spilling Fanta all over my /nice/ white tee? Or doing that?” John’s gaze follows your gesture to the tv in the living room with a great crack down the middle.

“And you’re a sore loser,” Ringo adds. John frowns and throws a cornflake at him.

“George was definitely cheating-”

“Abupbupbup! I’m not done.” You point at his sour expression. “Don’t you remember the noise complaint we got from our neighbor?”

John actually pauses at this. “You mean Paul’s classmate? The one that does graphic design? Not that you’d know it from the way he dresses like a fashion major.”

“His name is Freddie.” Ringo supplies helpfully. Ringo was always good at names.

“Yeah, he actually knocked on our door and everything. That was embarrassing, John.”

A scoff makes its way through John’s pursed lips. “He’s got no right telling us to keep the noise down when his bloody flat houses an entire fucking band. I can hear them going at it until two am sometimes and I don’t call the police on them.”

“They’re quite good.” As if to accentuate his point, Ringo taps a familiar rhythm with his spoon. Must be from one of their latest songs.

John inhales and you can tell that this’ll turn into a scuffle if you don’t steer the conversation away soon.

“Anyway! We don’t want another repeat of last month’s shenanigans. I’d like to be able to keep watching Netflix on a functioning telly, thank you very much. You’re outnumbered, Johnny.”

“Well, actually.”

You both swivel to look at Ringo: you in horror and John with glee. The oldest boy is usually the tie breaker, the swing-state if you want to be American about it. If he throws his weight behind John, it’ll be over.

“I think it would be a good idea. For morale, you know. We’ve been at each other’s throats all of yesterday, and havin’ another Game Night might get everyone on good terms again.” Damn you, Ringo, you think, damn you and your altruism. John, in every sense of the saying, looks exactly like the cat that’s got the canary. He swings to you with the stupidly smug look on his face.

“The match goes to Lennon! Take that,” he gloats, and you fight the urge to strangle him across the table.

“When you fail Professor Ono’s midterms because you’re too hungover to tell Walt Whitman from Langston Hughes, don’t go crawling to me,” you hiss.

John makes to retort but he’s cut short by the sound of footsteps running down the hall. Your brain barely has time to conjure up the weird feeling of deja vu before George skids into the kitchen.

He’s wearing nothing but a towel. Again. But this time, he’s smiling, and the brilliance of it cuts through your sleep-addled brain and curls up somewhere below your rib cage.

“I just took a shower!”

“Good for you, mate,” John snarks, staring ruefully at the phone in the center of the table--did he change his phone case or something? It looks different, somehow. You can see his fingers twitching toward it.

George ignores him. “I just took a warm shower. A real shower with warm water.”

Yes, you can see that from the bit of steam still rising from his shoulders and his hair, which is now curling slightly in the colder temperature. There’s a droplet of water making its way from George’s very naked chest down to his very fit stomach--how he has abs, you have no idea, since the boy inhales food like Kirby--and you look away sharply before your gaze can wander any further.

“A warm water shower,” he repeats.

Ringo nods. “Ah, yes. The poison. The poison for Kuzco. The poison chosen specifically to kill Kuzco.” He pauses, looking you in the eye rather seriously, and you say the next bit together.

“Kuzco’s poison.”

The two of you double over, giggling like schoolgirls. George, however, looks confused.

“What are they on about?”

“Some American film.” John finally gives in and snatches up the phone laying on the table. Something flashes across his face. You know that look, and nothing good ever follows it. “Smile, Georgie.”

There’s the click of a photo being taken.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“Nothing.” John pushes his chair from the table and stands up rather abruptly. The look on his face is growing into something… wicked. “Nothing at all. I will be in Paul and I’s room. Doing nothing.” He surveys you all once more with that good-for-nothing grin, cradles the phone to his chest, and then sprints down the hall past an even more confused George. The door closes and locks with a decisive click.

The three of you look at each other questioningly. Ringo grunts something unintelligible and shovels more cornflakes into his mouth. George shrugs and turns to head back to the bathroom.

He’s already halfway down the hall before he freezes.

“Wait a minute. Was that my phone?”

[escape-parameterss]

Juliet

It’s been a few hours since the search for Akane, and the subsequent finding of the bodies of two of your former classmates. One of which, is burned so badly, that it’s been left unrecognizable. And yet despite the chaos of the past few hours, the world seems to continue spinning, unburdened by the events that have happened today, as the snow gently falls down from the heavens, laying down on the already two foot of snow formed on the ground. If you walked a mile away from the scene, you’d almost be able to pretend that you’re just in a winter wonderland, and not at the hell of a military base, you’ve been stuck in for the past month. 

If you chose to do that, that reality would’ve been shattered after a few minutes, when the speakers across the facility crackle to life. 

“Alright maggots, it’s time for the class trial! I expect you all to be punctual, and arrive soon, but considering the weather, if you turn up a few minutes late, I wouldn’t kill you on the spot. Aren’t I generous! Anyways, meet up in the Administrative Building as always! But as always double time, don’t try and take advantage of my courtesy, or else you’ll regret it! If you’re more than 10 minutes late, I will eviscerate you with a shell from my tank! Move it Maggots, move it!”

Everyone, in the facility, no matter where they are, arrives at the administrative building, barring a few noticeable exceptions. Neither Akane nor Azusa shows up… but before anyone can question it, the secret elevator opens, prompting everyone to get in. 

The ride down, like always, is tense and long, but you can’t help but notice as it goes on, that the elevator seems much more… empty then past trials. Nine people go down in the elevator, Airi, Maki, Chloe, Jesse, Ludwig, Julius, Saeko, Naoki, and Elaine. Seven people are missing, leaving the elevator to feel a lot less crowded… it’s a harrowing thought, but one you’re not left too long to ponder as the doors of the elevator open revealing the same old Trial Room.

In the center of the room, is an extremely large round table with 16 different seats, seven of which have portraits depicting the fallen in them, Shino with a squiggly ‘x’ over his, Zoe with twin cutlass making an ‘X’ over hers, George with what looks like music notes forming an ‘X’ over his, Gleb has Barbells in an ‘X’ on his, Ayane’s has feather dusters shaped in an ‘X’ on hers. 

However there seem to be two notable outliers to the portraits. Akane and Azusa’s chairs both have a portrait of them in their place, with green question marks, dotting the entirety of them. 

Along the south wall of the room is a computerized map of the world, with several news feeds surrounding the globe, with lines showing where in the world that news is showing. The screen spans the entire 20 feet by 10 feet tall of the back wall, allowing for a lot of stuff to be seen. Where news screens were in the last two trials, there’s now an upwards pointing graph, with words indistinguishable from your seats at the table, explaining what it is. 

The room is brightly lit but feels dark, seeing as all of the flooring, ceiling, and tiles of the room have been painted a sort of chrome-like black. The West and East walls are covered from mid wall to ceiling with terminals, of various things you can’t really decipher. They all look very technical though, and some are now sporting a global map with red blots, dotting several different areas of the world. The walls are the same dimensions as the South Wall.

The North Wall has another floor to ceiling screen that like last time, shows Liberty’s tank. Despite the fact that she’s in a tank and you’re looking at her through a feed, her usual arrogance seems to be toned back. 

"It seems everyone who's coming is here, man, look at you all, you're just a buncha killers aren't ya! You went for the double this time, whoever the killer is this time, has my respect! You didn't just settle for one, you overachieved! Congrats mystery person! I salute to you!" The tank turns off to the side, and fires a shot, which can be heard in the distance even down this far underground. 

Though, before anyone even had a chance to breathe one Student Council President spoke up. “Rule six. ‘Trials are mandatory. Lack of attendance will be severely punished.’” She recited. “If those are the rules, then what do those portraits mean Liberty? Are we to assume that either Akane or Azusa have been punished? Or has the missing participant escaped this facility?”

The headlights on Liberty’s tank flash on, blinding the camera for a second, before dimming down, the smug aura seems to be back. “What makes you think I have to answer you? All that matters, is that I know the rules are being followed! I don’t have to explain anything to you, if you want to know so badly, find it out your damn self.” 

Before anyone can reply she starts the trial. “Alright maggots, the trial for whoever killed Ayane Sutekina the SHSL Maid, and whoever the fuck the other person is the SHSL who cares, has started! Trial is now in session.”

Airi Ayame

Syringe Genesis

Gleb Sewick

Zoe Goldwind

Naoki Oshiro

Jesse Matabei

Shino Amano 

Elaine Danahue

George Kalil-Samara

Ludwig Lied

Ayane Sutekina

?? Akane ?? Chieko ??

Julius Branford 

Saeko Watanabe 

?? Azusa ?? Kurizuka ?? 

Chloe Pierrot

Ode

[harrisonstories]

The police stopping the show in Cleveland, Ohio and ordering The Beatles to leave the stage (15 Sep. 1964)

The Beatles and Me On Tour by Ivor Davis Excerpt #4 (another long read):

GEORGE’S COLUMN improved dramatically in the next few days as a result of events in Cleveland on September 15 and in New Orleans the following day – or “The Battle of New Orleans 1964,” as I called it in my report, which carried the headline, “Beatles Sing On as Fans Charge.”

First, however, came Boston, a week earlier, when the local police were charged with brutally treating fans like bowling pins. They had ridden their horses through the crowd to try to disperse the charging fans, who then began screaming obscenities at them. It was a serious overreaction by the cops, but not an uncommon one, because no one had ever before dealt with the firestorm that was the Beatles.

It was like a bad dream from the beginning. Exhausted, we had landed droopy-eyed and heavy-limbed at three o’clock in the morning at Hanscom Field in Bedford, Massachusetts (instead of Boston’s main Logan International Airport), and before the engines were even switched off, the state police stomped onto the aircraft. With a heavy, “we’re in charge” almost militaristic force, they pushed the Beatles into a waiting car for the fifteen-mile ride to the downtown Hotel Madison, close to the Boston Garden. We followed in the second car to the hotel, then through a back service-entrance and onto a freight elevator to the eleventh-floor suites.

As we arrived, Mal [Evans] shouted, “Where the fuck is Ringo?” We looked around and realized we were one Beatle short. No sign of Ringo. Apparently Ringo and Derek [Taylor], in all the pushing and shoving, had been left at the airport. Ten minutes later they arrived at the hotel entrance and jumped out of a cab. Ringo raced into the elevator up to his room; Derek spotted me and said, “I need ten dollars to pay the driver, can you lend me some cash?”

“The police were truly awful,” Derek said – and the next day he got a stern rebuke from Brian [Epstein], ever wary of upsetting municipal police forces. At the conclusion of the Boston concert, Brian made a point of calling the major press outlets to publicly thank law enforcement for its splendid efforts.

Then it was on to Baltimore, then Pittsburgh – and then Cleveland, where it was clear the police force had decided nothing was going to sully their reputations when the Beatles came to the Public Auditorium. The atmosphere was much more tense than I had seen at any of the other venues – the police, like vigilant headmasters, marched down the aisles, batons clenched in hand, yelling at concertgoers, “Stay in your seats.”

As soon as the warm-up acts were over, the Beatles bounded onto the stage – guitars on chests like they were bulletproof vests. They had hardly hit their stride in front of the crowd of 12,000 with “All My Loving,” when a wave of fans leapt to their feet and moved inexorably towards the stage.

A brass railing gave way as the kids pressed forward. The police pushed back as the fans swept on like an unstoppable tide. In charge of security and fearing that his men would be crushed, Deputy Inspector Carl Bare, in his military-style uniform and soft-peaked cap, marched onto the stage mid-song, waved furiously at John to stop playing and then pushed the surprised Beatle aside.

He confronted George – almost nose to nose – waved his arm menacingly and ordered, “Get off.” He grabbed the microphone, turned to the audience and bellowed, “Sit down. Sit now.”

The crowd booed, John looked furious, and then Bare’s colleague, Inspector Michael Blackwell, joined him on stage, authoritatively motioning to the group to leave. When the band didn’t move, he literally shoved George and Paul off stage.

Hopping mad, John spotted radio reporter Art Schreiber standing in the wings. “Come with me, Art,” the incensed Beatle said. “We went up to the green room,” remembered Schreiber. “I locked the door so no one could get in to interrupt.

“John was fit to burst. Then I phoned my radio station and put John on live to talk about the madhouse and what was happening. ‘The police are a bunch of bloody amateurs,’ John indignantly repeated. ‘This has never happened to us before.’“

Schreiber, frankly, was delighted with the unexpected turn of events. While his rival WHK was promoting the concert, his station, KYW, was getting the scoop.

Back in the auditorium Derek strode to center stage, stepped in front of Bare and Blackwell and took the microphone. “Please stay in your seats,” he urged the crowd. “The Beatles want to play for you, but you mustn’t stand up. If you don’t stay seated, you can all go home. The show is over.”

The fans booed heartily, but Derek’s words helped calm things down. As order was slowly restored, he turned to Mal, who was standing by Ringo’s drum set and was preparing to dismantle them. “Get them back quickly,” he urged Mal. After a seventeen-minute interruption, the Beatles walked back on stage to uproarious approval from the crowd. The band retrieved their guitars and seamlessly picked up where they had left off.

Blackwell gave his side of the story in the next day’s local paper: “I don’t blame the children. They’re young and they can’t be expected to behave like adults,” he said. “And I don’t blame the Beatles – there is nothing wrong with their act. But if we hadn’t stopped it there would have been serious injury. One little girl was knocked down in the charge, and there were 300 other youngsters about to trample her.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, still smarting from the Cleveland disruption, we arrived in New Orleans at three o’clock in the morning to the kind of sticky tropical weather that soaked your clothing through to your skin just walking from car to hotel lobby. Events had taken an unexpected Keystone Kops turn before we had even gotten to the Congress Inn.

First, the helicopter that was to whisk the band to the hotel had a flat tire, so an emergency call had to go out for limousines. Mistakenly, the limos raced to the wrong airport – showing up at New Orleans International Airport instead of Lakefront Airport. When the Beatles were finally picked up at the right airport and sped to the hotel with red lights flashing and sirens wailing, their limo took a wrong turn, tried to reverse and hit a police car. Fortunately, the only damage was the limo driver’s bruised ego.

At show time that evening, things went seriously wrong. To avoid the chaos that had gone down in Cleveland the night before, the police officers who were dispatched to City Park Stadium for security created a “safety zone” between the stage and the seating. They designated an empty stretch of grass that ran some 35 yards from the front row to the stage as a no-man’s-land. The idea was to keep the spectators sitting on the grass well away from the band so there was no way they could invade the stage. What’s more, a makeshift, three-foot temporary fence was hastily erected to further deter anyone from daring to move closer in.

It looked sensible at first, but just moments after the Beatles launched into “Can’t Buy Me Love,” fans sitting on the grass in the first five rows suddenly – and almost in unison – jumped up, trampled over the barrier and surged forward to the foot of the stage. The police, caught unaware, reacted hastily. Helmeted cops on foot and dozens on horseback galloped into the sea of bodies as they tried to block the tide of onrushing kids.

It was utter chaos. Every few minutes, a new wave of shrieking teenagers tried to storm to the front of the stage, and some even managed to clamber onto the stage to touch the Beatles. Mal and Neil [Aspinall], accustomed to coping with these juvenile onslaughts, tried to gently pry them off the lip of the stage, but the fans attached themselves like leeches.

I watched in disbelief. The cops were swearing, and at times the situation seemed totally out of control. Hooves were flying about. I saw two girls, trampled by a horse, writhing in agony. The faces of several hysterical girls were masked in blood, others lay crumpled in heaps, crying and moaning like wounded soldiers on a field of war.

As the Beatles played on, stretcher-bearers lined up to carry the wounded behind the stage, where red lights were flashing nonstop as the ambulances roared back and forth between stadium and hospital. “Police were playing football with the kids,” George later observed, “and we just kept playing.”

My eyewitness story that ran in the Daily Express got the biggest headlines of the entire tour. “Screaming girls and youths charged the stage during the Beatles show last night and turned it into the Battle of New Orleans 1964,” read my report. “More than twenty youngsters were treated for broken noses, arms, and cuts and bruises, after the wildest scene of the whole Beatles American tour.”

THE UPSIDE was that after all that unexpected drama, George’s column started to show more teeth. His version, penned by me, kicked off with a rather light-hearted comment about the way the gentler British bobbies handle things, compared to the heavy-handed tactics of their American colleagues: “It will be nice to see the friendly English copper again. American cops take some living with.”

Then the column took off:

“In Cleveland, without asking us, two senior police officers marched on stage and stopped our show completely because they said the crowd was getting out of hand. The safety curtain was pulled down, and we were ordered to our cars. With the cops shouting, ‘The show’s over, fellows, this is where we take over.’ It’s never happened to us before.

“But that’s the trouble with American cops – they’re over-enthusiastic, whether it’s for stopping shows, hurling us into cars, baton charging the crowd or just asking 30 autographs at a time.

“Anyway, we didn’t go to the cars because we had only done two numbers and the kids had paid nearly two pounds apiece to hear ten songs. We were hustled offstage much against our wills, and we went to the dressing rooms.

“When our press officer Derek Taylor walked on the stage to protest, the police told him ‘Don’t bug us or we will arrest you.’ The scene backstage, onstage and among the audience was complete confusion.

“Then the police allowed Derek to make an announcement. He said: ‘The Beatles have come thousands of miles to sing to you and they are bitterly disappointed that they are not allowed to. Do you want them back?’

“‘Yesssss,’ roared the crowd of over 12,000.

“‘One girl has been trampled,’ Derek announced.

“’And two more have fainted. We don’t want this to go on do we?’

“‘No,’ the crowd yelled back as if as one.

“Derek told them that if they behaved themselves we’d come back and finish the show. The rest of the show was one of the mildest ever. The fans stayed in their seats, frightened that if they got excited the show would be stopped for good and all.”

Then George’s column switched to more mundane tourist glibness:

“I had always imagined Basin Street and Bourbon Street – where Louis Armstrong and people like Pete Fountain started playing for their supper – would be roads you could walk down late at night and hear the echoes of jazz coming from the clubs. But Ringo told me that the Jazz Quarter is fading away. There are many clubs, but most of them have gone commercial, and have tried to attract tourists.

“There are still a few real jazz clubs going, and maybe after the show tonight we’ll get a chance to see one or two. If we don’t get spotted too quickly, that is. But that’s the story of the tour. So many American cities, but not much chance to see them very closely.

“I’m not complaining. It’s our working way of life.”

[hermioneshandbag]

Just Another Day, Part 2*

Sirius woke up to the morning light peeking in between the curtains in his bedroom on Grimmauld Place. It was Christmas, his third since he had escaped from Azkaban, and while it was sure to be more festive than the last two, what with Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys about, he was missing rather the most important part of himself.

He had basically forced you to go. You hadn’t wanted to, had fought him on the subject, said your place was at his side. You were to be married, you’d said. You belonged together. But he had told you it was for the best, that you couldn’t present your escaped prisoner fiance to the family and then say, ‘Pass the pudding!’

So there was no warm, sleeping woman in his bed, hand on his heart and legs tangled with his, on the verge of waking up and telling him you loved him. No darling, amazing woman to tempt him into lovemaking, possibly annoying Molly by forgetting the Silencing charm. No love of his life to make being back in this godforsaken hellhole remotely tolerable.

You had been gone less than a week and he was already a wreck, drinking too much and spending all his time attempting to forget how much he missed you.

He supposed his loneliness was his own fault, as were most of the worst things that had occurred in his life. Yet, as much as he missed you, he couldn’t help but feel that this one time, he got it right. It was what was best for you. His own pain mattered little next to that.

So Sirius crawled out of bed, had a shower, got dressed and put on his happy face. Harry and the others had enough tragedy with what had happened to Arthur, they didn’t need a mopey mongrel on their hands as well.

He helped Molly with Christmas luncheon as much as she would allow, he played host, he laughed at the twins’ jokes and pretended to be enjoying the holiday, but inside he was dying. Bloody hell, he missed you. Love was fucking fantastic when you were with him, but when you left and took his heart it was bleeding awful.

But Sirius went through the motions of holiday cheer for the benefit of his guests. He knew that they would all leave him alone soon enough when they went to visit Arthur, so he held it together for another hour or so.

But then he retreated to his bedroom and a bottle.

You should be here with him. The more he drank, the more he regretted sending you away. The more he regretted it, the more he drank. And so he decided he had better put you out of his mind and hunt down Kreacher.

He found the nasty little bugger in the attic, probably rolling in some cache of his family’s cast-offs as if they were the most valuable treasures. He set him to work cleaning up after luncheon and went back to his bedroom.

He heard a noise in the hallway and bellowed, “Kreacher, you’re meant to be in the kitchen!”

Footsteps stopped right outside his door and suddenly Sirius realized that it wasn’t Kreacher. It was far too soon for Harry to have returned, so who could it be? Sirius drew his wand and tiptoed over to the door and flung it open, ready for a fight.

You shrieked when Sirius had thrown open the door, wand in hand and ready to attack. Your hands had been full of bags and a couple boxes, a combination of excitement and laziness making you attempt to carry everything up the stairs to your room in one trip.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?” Sirius slurred.

“Hello to you, too, Sirius. You seem like you’re doing well without me.”

“I’ve been drinking,” he whispered confidentially.

“I figured that out on my own,” you whispered back, and then you dropped everything and threw yourself into his arms and kissed the breath out of him.

“You’re not supposed to be back until after the new year, what are you doing home?” Sirius asked you happily.

“I missed you, and I realized that I needed to be with you on Christmas. They’re my family, but you’re my life. I never want to be apart again, Sirius. Don’t you dare send me off to visit again until you can come with me,” you said sternly, then softened the words with another kiss.

Sirius picked you up and backed into the room, kicking the door shut. Your bags could wait til later, he needed to touch you now.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he groaned, laying you in the unmade bed and kissing you passionately as he lay beside you.

You ran your hand down his chest and over the bulge in his trousers. “I have a feeling I do, actually,” you said as you gently squeezed his hardening length.

Sirius groaned and kissed you, his tongue assaulting your mouth in his frenzy. You may have been gone for less than a week, but for Sirius, the center of his universe had gone from him. There had been no life, no joy – at times he felt there had been no air for him to breathe while you were gone. He needed to be one with you again to come back to life.

You frantically tore at each other’s clothes; at times literally when you heard the rending of fabric. “Need you, Sirius, missed you so much,” you moaned as his lips and hands roamed over your skin as if to assure himself you were really with him again.

You rolled him over and straddled him, not in the mood for his teasing, but maybe you could stand to do a little teasing of your own. “Are you sorry you sent me away, you naughty boy?” you crooned as you ran your fingernails down his chest lightly.

Sirius’ hips snapped up, desperate to be inside you. “So sorry, love. Never happen again,” he groaned, gripping your hips and attempting to guide you to ride him.

You resisted his efforts, saying, “Hmm, I think you need to show me how sorry you are.”

“Trying to, love,” he grumbled.

“I think you need to be punished,” you said, tapping your chin with one finger.

“I definitely have suffered enough, darling, I missed you so much,” he said, pulling your hips forward now. “But maybe I can make it up to you.”

As you slid nearer, he kissed your thighs, his scruffy beard scraping deliciously against that sensitive skin. He then proceeded to tease and twirl his tongue between your folds and across your clit until you came undone.

As you collapsed against him in ecstasy, Sirius rolled you over onto your back and crawled up to kiss you. “Am I forgiven?”

“I dunno, was that a punishment for you?” you asked.

“Merlin, no. That was a reward.”

“Hmmmm then I’m not sure… let’s see what you can do to make it up to me with this,” you said, reaching between your bodies to gently squeeze his dripping cock.

Sirius dropped his head onto your shoulder and groaned, trying to calm his body. When you did things like that he felt like an inexperienced boy, about to come before he was even inside you.

When he took a deep breath and regained control, he bit your neck in the spot that drove you crazy, marking you as his. “Mine,” he growled.

“As if I would ever let anyone else touch me,” you scoffed, then growled back, “and you better damn well not let anyone touch you, either.”

“The idea is repulsive, I assure you.”

You bit his earlobe and whispered, “Then fuck me, Sirius, now.”

He slid into you in one harsh thrust, both of you groaning at the tight heat. He was not entirely in control and knew he wasn’t going to last long. You felt too good and he had missed you too much, to the point he hadn’t even scratched his own itch, he had simply been too miserable.

“Merlin, I fucking missed you so much, Y/N, love you so much,” he practically shouted.

“Baby, yes, Sirius harder YES YES!” you screamed, completely enraptured with the feelings your joining created.

“Love, fuck, so close,” he said loudly, reaching between you to rub and pinch your clit, hips a blur as you both reached your highs together. “Fuck, Y/N, love you so much!”

“Sirius, yes oh fucking hell yes!!”

You both screamed some unintelligible gratitude when you came, then panted and kissed your way through the aftershocks.

“Missed you so much, my love,” he whispered as he kissed you reverently.

“Darling, I was miserable without you. My family were happy to see the back of me. And they want to meet you as soon as it’s safe.”

“You told them about me?” he gasped, actively horrified.

“I am proud that I will be your wife, and I only told Mum and Dad. You are my world, Sirius Black, and I will be damned if I am going to deny you to my parents,” you said stubbornly.

Sirius was floored by your devotion. “I love you. I am ever grateful that you have blessed my life with yours.”

“I love you, too, my darling. You are the absolute best man I know.”

“I have no idea why you believe that, but I shan’t question my good fortune,” he said, kissing you gently.

“Let’s grab a shower, you’ve made me all sweaty, you naughty monkey.”

“Let’s get a bit sweatier first. Might as well make the shower worth our while,” he said with a wink and a leer.

“What a wonderful idea,” you purred. “This time I’ll saddle you up a bit lower.”

You got cleaned up and dressed and went downstairs together, going into the kitchen for a snack when you were met with several snickering teens, Fred and George who jumped up and congratulated Sirius, saying they hoped to be as spry when they were as old as he, an amused Remus and an irritated, red-faced Molly.

“I expect you two have had a happy Christmas,” she said in a bit of a miffed tone.

Your eyes grew big and Sirius started laughing.

“Silencing charms, you two, really,” Remus said in a half-scolding, half-amused tone of voice.

“Merry Christmas?” you said, red-faced but happy to be back where you belonged.

[thelazyeye]

'Ghosts don't exist' Stanlon (no one dies, leave my boys alone)

I’m so sorry this took me literally a month to write. But here you go. Some Stanlon Ghosts

Read on A03 the formatting is better there

Tag List:

@richardtoz @aizeninlefox @chocolatemangoose @godtozier@jem-carstairs-is-perfection  @studpuffin @oldguybones @its-stranger-than-you-think @reddiepop

“Stan, come on! Please! You know I’ve been dying to do this!”

“Then do it by yourself.”

“No way! You know it’s always so much better if there’s more people.”

“Lay off, Richie. I’m not going with you.”

“Don’t make me get on my knees and beg, Stan. We all know you’d rather have Mike down there than me.”

“You are on thin fucking ice.”

“Come on! We all know how this is gonna end. We’re gonna bicker for twenty minutes and you’re going to give in. Let’s just cut the shit early. What do you say?”

“No. Fuck you.”

“Come on! Mikey, help a boy out!”

Mike looks over from his place on the couch to where the two boys are standing. Stan is leaning against the wall while Richie is practically tearing his hair out in desperation. Mike offers no more than a shrug at them both, keeping his vow to stay out of it. If Stan agreed to go Mike would go. But if Stan said no they were going to stick to the plan on watching B-list horror movies with the others until everyone passes out.

“Fuck you, too, Hanlon.” Richie shoots before turning his attention back to Stan. His light tone betrays his harsh words. Richie is nothing but jokes and unabashed love for his friends. And stubbornness. Which is how they’ve ended up in this situation: Richie begging Stan to explore an old, supposedly haunted house with him while Stan adamantly refuses.

“Richie, give up. This is a stupid idea and we all know it. We could get hurt!”

“I’m going no matter what, Stan. It’s just your choice of whether or not you want to be there to help me when I inevitably fall through the floor.”

It was a low blow and they both knew it. Stan, despite his standoffish nature, is extremely protective of his friends. He would rather do something he knows he’d hate than watch one of his friends get hurt.

And just like that, Richie wins the battle.

At a quarter to midnight the three boys find themselves walking along Neibolt street to the old, abandoned house near the trainyard.

“Rumor has it this is the house where Bob Grey killed all of his victims back in 1989,” Richie says from his spot between Mike and Stan. “They caught him on Halloween night, exactly 29 years ago. It’s kind of funny that we’re going there tonight. I mean, its 29 Neibolt street and it’s the 29th anniversary of his death.”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie. Nothing about this is funny,” Stan cuts. He can feel his nerves creeping in the closer he gets to that damn house. Everything about it is freaky, even during the day. The windows are all boarded up and the outside is practically falling apart. He doesn’t want to know what the inside looks like but he’s going to find out anyway.

“One of the kids was Denbrough’s older brother, George.” Richie continues, unphased by Stan. “Grey killed him when he was only six and Bill was nothing more than a twinkle in his father’s eye.”

Mike groans from the left before delivering a quick elbow to Richie’s ribs. Richie just staggers and grunts in response before pressing on. “They say that when they caught Grey they found all kinds of fucked up shit in his house. There were bones in the basement and body parts in the fridge and –”

“Alright, Richie. That’s enough,” Mike sighs. Nothing seems to deter Richie, though. He’s like a little boy on Christmas day as they turn onto the property and begin to climb the steps of the porch. He takes the lead, leaving Mike and Stan together on the steps as he runs up to the door and tries the handle. Because Richie possesses some kind of terrible, dumb luck the door opens without a problem other than the loud, screeching creak it makes as it swings in.

That sound makes a shiver run right through Stan’s spine. He honestly didn’t think they would get this far. He can feel the weight of the situation settling in the pit of his stomach, making it flip and turn in the worst kind of ways. There’s no reason for them to be out here right now. It’s late at night, the trick or treaters are long gone, and everyone who is sane and normal is inside watching movies or sleeping. Which is where they should be right now.

“You okay?” Mike asks, moving into Stan’s space and resting a large hand on his shoulder. Stan jolts slightly at the sudden touch, too caught up in his own thoughts to hear Mike approaching. He recovers quick, sending Mike a curt nod in a vain attempt to fool them both into thinking he’s okay.

“Let’s just get this over with. There can’t be that much to see in this place. The quicker we get in, the quicker we get out.”

“Oh, fuck yes,” Richie exclaims, stumbling into the main room. His face lights up like a firecracker and he practically skips around the center to look at the old, decrepit furniture. Everything is either falling apart, covered in a once-white bedsheet, or both. The dust is thick and coating everything in sight. Stan can see the way it dances in the streetlight that leaks through the boards as they disturb it from its thirty-year sleep.

Altogether, the house is unremarkable. Stan thinks it could have been a beautiful home once. The stairs lead up to a second floor with a banister that wraps around the landing. He can see two, maybe three doors at the top that might be bedrooms, closets, or maybe even a bathroom. The downstairs living room leads into what might be a kitchen and there’s a door at the far end of the room that probably leads down into a basement. Maybe this place was beautiful once. Maybe in another life he could have lived here.

Stan feels another shiver roll through his body. This is not the house of a well-loved family. This is the house of the damned.

Ahead of him he can see Richie sifting through an old bookshelf lining the wall. Stan watches as he continues to disturb the dust. It dances up, up, up in the streaks of moonlight until he can’t see it anymore. A vague part of his mind wonders where it’s going, where it’s going to settle next.

A loud crash sounds to his left that sends him practically out of his skin. Reflexively, he yelps and jumps to his right, knocking into Mike who wraps his arms around Stan and effectively steadies him from toppling over to the ground.

“Hey now, it’s okay. It was probably just some old furniture that gave out. It’s probably been so long since this stuff has been touched that our footsteps alone are knocking them down,” Mike says, voice low and soothing in Stan’s ear. Stan relaxes gradually, muscles loosening at the feeling of Mikes hands rubbing gently against his side and shoulder.

“Yeah,” Stan agrees, voice shakier than he wants it to be, “you’re probably right.”

“Let’s go check it out. Maybe it’ll help calm you down,” Mike suggests and before he has any time to process Stan’s being led through the doorway and into the kitchen. “See, nothing to worry about. It was probably just that chair in the corner giving out.”

Stan looks to where Mike gestures and sure enough he sees an old, rotten chair collapsed in the corner. Instead of responding, Stan just wraps his arms around his body and nods. It makes enough sense but it does nothing to ease his anxiety. Mike pulls him closer, tucking him away under his arms and making himself a temporary shield against the darkness in the house. The hug is tight and comforting and it instantly relaxes Stan.

Mike releases him too soon for Stan’s liking but the warm smile he sends is comforting on its own. Together they make their way back to the living room. When they get there the find the room surprisingly empty. Stan glances around a few times before looking at Mike.

“Where’d Richie go?” He asks, voice quiet in the still room. Richie was just here a moment ago and now he’s gone.

“I’m not sure. Maybe upstairs?” Mike says, voice equally quiet but firm. Something about the way Mike is standing puts Stan immediately back on edge. He’s tense and his shoulders are squared off. He’s looking over the room as if he’s searching for something other than their friend.

“Mike, I don’t –” Stan starts but he doesn’t get the chance to finish. Another loud crash comes from the second story of the house. Stan jumps back again, backing up and frantically pressing his back against the wall. The house is eerily silent following the noise. Neither boy moves for a moment, the air hangs like static between them and the rest of the room.

“I’ll go check it out,” Mike whispers, carefully walking forward. Stan goes to try to stop him, ready to beg the other boy to please, please not leave him alone when Mike continues. “That was probably Richie. Who knows what he’s up to up there. I’ll bring him right down and we can get out of here.”

Stan goes silent at this. Any protest he has on his lips dies. Mike is right, it’s probably Richie. Their combined weight would probably be too much for the old structure of the house. He just nods solemnly in Mike’s direction before Mike starts up the stairs, disappearing from view.

And with that Stan is left entirely alone in the ground floor of the house.

He tries to keep himself calm. He swears he can feel the house breathing. The floorboards seem to shift and the doors move from left to right. Its disorientating and alarming. Stan can’t tell which way is up or which way is left. The door to the kitchen that he swears was on his left is suddenly behind him and it doesn’t even look like a kitchen anymore. Who knows where it leads but Stan feels himself being drawn there. As he turns to move something from the corner of the room catches his eye. The door to the basement, the one Richie was standing by when they last saw him, has a faint glowing light coming from beneath it.

Suddenly, the house rests beneath his feet.

“Richie,” Stan grumbles beneath his breath. He changes his course and walks to the basement door, stopping directly in front of it. As he reaches his hand up to the knob he feels a chill run up his spine.

There’s no way he’s stay in this house longer than he has to.

He grips the handle and slowly pushed the door open, peering down the stairs into the dim light. He could have sworn it looked brighter from under the door but now, staring down at it, there is nothing but a faint glow. He can see the floor and some of the surrounding area but nothing else.

“Richie?” Silence answers his soft call. He listens for a moment but he can’t hear anything, not even a footstep. “Come on, Rich. Games over. Mike and I wanna leave.”

Nothing. The feeling that follows the silence is nothing short of unsettling but Stan shucks it off in favor of his annoyance. Richie really is going to make him go down there, isn’t he?

Stan weighs his options. He can wait for Richie to come up from where he’s hiding or Mike to come down from his fruitless search. Or he can take matters into his own hands and go get Richie himself and end this early.

He takes the steps slowly, one at a time. His weight on the old wood makes an unforgiving sound as he descends the steps into the glow.

When he reaches the bottom, he looks around. There is an open door in the far corner leading to a dark room, several decaying boxes and crates, and a large slope of coal leading up to a window. The room itself is rather unimpressive but Stan finds something captivating about being down here. As he moves toward the center of the basement he can feel the weight of the situation lifting off of his shoulders. Each step he takes is another pound that he doesn’t feel. Soon, he thinks idly, he’ll be weightless.

A soft squishing sounds from beside him that draws him out of his thoughts. Its faint, nothing more than a squish, squish, squish from the darkness of the other room. It catches his attention, bringing him back to the moment. The moment proves to be exactly where he wants to be. He finds himself acutely aware of the smell that lingers in the room. It can’t be but it is. It’s impossible, yes, he distantly knows that, but it’s also so very real. The smell of popcorn, the kind you would get at a carnival, wafts from the darkness.

Squish, squish, squish.

It’s just enough to lure Stan’s natural curiosity out. He finds himself drifting toward it. He isn’t aware of the way his feet hardly move. He all but glides across the floor and when he reaches the doorway the smell is so intense its clogging up every other sense Stan has. He can taste the thick butter on his tongue, feel the grease of it on his fingers.

Squish, squish, squish.

His arm raises, hand floating through the space that separates him from whatever is on the other side. When it passes through the darkness, shadows slowly consuming his fingers, hand, and wrist, he feels the faint touch of ice.

Squish, squish, squish.

Startled, Stan pulls his hand out and stumbles backward. The smell in the room instantly changes. The sweet, buttery scent he had smelled just a second ago is suddenly rotten. He coughs twice but it overwhelms his system. Its putrid, burning up his nose and down his throat and choking him from the inside out. It smells like garbage mixed with rotting meat, decaying flesh, rotting fish.

It smells like death.

Stan could feel his breath getting shorter. It comes in and out in quick, shallow huffs and no matter how fast he tries to gulp the air down it still feels like he’s suffocating.

The noise sounds once more before the room settles into silence yet again. Out of the darkness steps a little girl no older than eight. Stan can’t take his eyes off her. He can’t look away from how the flesh of her neck hangs open and the dried blood soaks her chest and stomach. She stumbles on one leg, the other mangled from the shin down and dragging behind her. Her mouth hangs open in a constant gape and her eyes – fuck.

Stan found himself staring at with a grim, sick sort of fascination.

Her eyes were the worst part. Stan could come to terms with the gore of it all. He could understand the way her body was broken in some senseless, horrific murder. But he could never unsee the way the whites of her eyes were actually pitch black. They framed bright blue irises that were glinting in the soft glow of the room the same way Richie’s would if he were down here.

Suddenly, Stan remember why the fuck he came down here in the first place. She starts to amble toward him, leg dragged against the hard ground behind her and Stan knows he needs to get the fuck out of here right now but he can’t. His legs are rooted to the ground. It was like the air around them was frozen cold. The flesh of his arms and legs rose in the sudden change of the room and time ticked slowly to his inevitable death in this dark, musty basement.

His mind was screaming at him to move! Run! Do something you honey roasted shithead! but he can’t. All he can do is watch her move. He can feel her getting closer, invading his space. When she’s close enough to reach him, she does. One bloodied, gashed open arm lifting from her side and reaching out toward him. Her fingers feel like ice on his skin, slowly dragging up the side of his face and tangling almost tendering in his curls. The horror of this situation contrasts with the stupidity of her gentleness. She brings herself impossibly close to him, dark, dead eyes devoid of all emotion baring into his soul as she moves her face toward his.

“Where’s my shoe?” She asks, lips all but pressed against the shell of his ear. Her voice is rough, grating against this skin like an old knife might be and it’s just enough for him to break out of his trance, stumbling backward and causing her to yank strands of hair off of his head.

Once he’s far enough, he turns on his heel and full on sprints to and up the staircase. The door is in sight and he feels relief flood his system. He’s so close, only a few more steps and he’ll be free. He’ll be safe.

When he reaches the top he practically throws himself against the door and turns the handle. He’s lucky he has enough awareness to hold on, though, because the door does not budge and Stan feels the reverberation echo through his body. He almost falls down the stairs but his grip on the doorknob saves him.

He frantically wiggles the doorknob, the rattling sound mixing with the squish, squish, squish he now knows in the dead girl approaching him from beneath. It won’t budge. It’s like someone locked it from the outside but he doesn’t even remember closing it behind him. He can’t even really remember how he got down here, though, and it doesn’t help him now so he shucks the thought from his mind. He has to get out of this basement, now.

“Mike!” He screams, voice desperate and shrill, “Help! Please, for the love of God!”

He gets nothing in return. No one is on the other side of that door. No one is coming to save him.

Squish, squish, squish sounds from below him again and he knows, he knows, he’s going to have to decide or die in here.

He tries the door one more time, throwing his whole body against the wood, before he turns and flies down the stairs. He doesn’t look for the girl but he knows she’s here, waiting for him. He looks around twice before seeing another door on the far end of the room, opposite the door the girl came out of. He takes his chances and runs. He can feel the ice on his skin, something grazing his arm and warmth splitting his arm, but he doesn’t pay attention to it. He can’t. He makes it to the door and this one opens for him. He doesn’t think before he throws himself through it and slams it behind him. Distantly, he hears a screeching noise and then the room settles into an uncomfortable silence.

Stan looks around, taking in the room he’s now in. There’s something oddly familiar about it but he can’t place it. He doesn’t spend too long trying to and instead he moves to the center to get oriented. There are no other doors but there are no dead little girls, either.

Stan closes his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath as he weighs his options. He could stay in here and wait for the sun to come up or he could turn around and fight the good fight. He remembers the window at the top of the coal pile and he knows he has an out if he gets there fast enough. Ultimately, it’s the idea that his friends are still somewhere in this horror house that has Stan opening his eyes with a new determination. He has to find them and get out.

Stan looks around the room again before his eyes settle on the door. It’s almost as if the room had changed while he was thinking. Nothing seems to be how it was. There are new boxes and an old table that he knows wasn’t in here before. There’s still only one door but he swears it was behind him. Now, it is immediately in front of him.

He doesn’t have much else of a choice and he doesn’t waste time weighing the one option he has.

Stan is ready to run as soon as the door opens. Or fight. Or scream. Really, he’s ready to do anything it takes to survive. His eyes are wide, alert, as he watches each inch of the other room come into full view. Unlike before, there is no glow. There is no nothing. Instead, there is only a long, strip of hall laid out in front of him lit only by several dim overhead lights and a quiet, unidentifiable sound coming from the other end.

Stan hesitantly steps through the doorway. There is nothing in the other room for him to go back to, no other exits, no way out of this hell he’s found himself in.

Stan can hear the noise getting louder and louder as he makes his way down the hall. A quarter of the way down he realizes he’s listening to someone crying. And not just crying, its full out wailing. That feeling from before creeps up his spine again. It makes its way into the base of his neck and creeps all the way down his shoulders and into his hands. His sweaty palms are numb with fear, a dull tingling sensation crawling all the way to the tips of his fingernails.

The walk down the hall seems never ending. Stan steps carefully, slowly moving from foot to foot to keep his steps as silent as possible. This could be a trap. This could be the monster he saw in the basement luring him into his death. The cries only get louder and louder until he’s standing right outside of the doorway to the room at the end of the hall.

He peers in, careful not to expose himself to whatever is on the other side. He’s surprised when he doesn’t see the bloodied, beaten corpse of the young girl. Instead he sees a figure practically crumpled in the middle of the room. Their dark skin glints off the soft moonlight coming in through the window and. Wait. Holy shit.

Holy shit. It’s Mike. He’s folded over himself, face practically buried in the hardwood floor. His hands pull desperately at the hair on his head as he rocks back and forth on his knees.

Stan doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen Mike like this before. Mike is strong, fearless. He’s faced down Bowers with more courage than any of the Losers ever have but he’s also soft and kind. Gentleness flows through his veins and courage roots his feet to the Earth under them. What the fuck happened to him?

Mike’s head suddenly snaps up and suddenly Stan’s they’re face to face and Stan gets a good look at his face. The skin below his eyes and nose are shiny with tears and shot. His eyes have a hazy glaze over them and arm framed by red, swollen rims and his lips are red and almost bitted through.

“Oh my god,” Mike gasps, sucking down air between his broken sobs. “I’m so sorry, Stan. I couldn’t save you.”

“Mike, I don’t – what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I couldn’t save you. I’m so sorry,” Mike repeats, shaking his head and grasping blindly at the floor under him.

“Mike, I’m fine. I’m right here,” Stan says, grabbing Mike’s face and forcing him to look Stan in the eye. After a moment his eyes seem to clear.

“Stan, oh my god.” Mike says, throwing his body full force against Stan’s and wrapping his arms around Stan’s shoulders.

“I’m right here, Mike.”

“I swear to god I saw you, Stan.” Mike says, voice too loud and too desperate. His hands are clutching at Stan’s shoulders and his body is shaking so hard Stan’s scared he might fall apart. “It was you. I thought it was your ghost. You were so mangled. There was blood all over your hands and face and your entire stomach was wide open. You screamed at me. ‘How could you let this happen to me Mike! I thought you cared! Why would you leave me down there!’” Mikes voice crumbles again, breaking off into heaving sobs between his words. “You walked through a wall and disappeared.”

“Ghosts don’t exist, Mike!” Stan screams, voice shaking despite how desperate he is to remain calm. He wants to believe it, he wants to be so sure of himself, but the dead little girl he saw standing in the basement has him questioning his own beliefs.

Mike quiets against him. His body still trembles but his sobs fade until there is nothing but the gentle sounds of their breathing. Slowly, Mike pulls back. His brown eyes dance in the soft light of the room. He looks at Stan as if he wants to say something, mouth hanging open slightly and eyes darting between Stan’s own in a searching way.

“I thought I lost you,” he says as he brings a hand up to Stan’s face. Stan closes his eyes automatically, leaning into the warmth. Mike’s palm is huge on his face and cover most of his cheek, his fingers reaching up and touching the tips of Stan’s curls.

“You didn’t,” Stan whispers back. A beat passes between them before Stan hears a gentle inhale and then the soft press of lips against his. It’s over as fast as it begins. Mike pulls away almost immediately and Stan opens his eyes but the weight of it lingers between them. It’s a mixture of please don’t let me go and escape escape escape.

“There is a staircase over there,” Mike says, clearing his voice with a quick cough and gesturing toward the corner of the room. He stands up and takes Stan’s hand in his, pulling Stan to his feet gently. Together, they take the stairs one by one. Stan doesn’t even realize he’s back on the ground floor until they’re in the kitchen, practically back where they started.  

“Mike. How – I never went upstairs,” Stan says quietly, hand still in Mike’s. “I went into the basement to look for Richie and I – fuck. Mike. Where’s Richie?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t upstairs.”

“We need to find him!” Stan cries, spinning around to scan the kitchen. Panic begins to cloud his head again. He hasn’t seen Richie since they got here. Neither of them have. Both of them have gone looking for him but neither of them managed to find him and, logically speaking, they’ve searched the whole house. But logic went out the window a long time ago and he knows if they don’t find Richie soon they never will. He can feel it in his bones.

He slips his hand from Mikes and before he knows it he’s sprinting out of the kitchen and into the last room they were all together in. The living room.

“Richie!” Stan calls, frantic and desperate and scared. He can feel his heartbeat all the way in the roof of his mouth as he calls for his friend.

Mike is on him again, arms holding him from behind and grounding him. He hears Mike suck in a breath to start talking, probably to chastise him for trying to go alone, but it never comes. The sudden absence of air by his ear hangs heavy between them. Stan cranes his neck back to look at Mike but Mike isn’t looking at him. His eyes are trained on the far corner of the room, wide and shocked and confused.

Stan goes to follow Mike’s eyes when he sees it. A thick, viscous red trail leading to the corner. There isn’t a doubt in Stan’s mind that it’s blood. The trail starts in the middle of the room and moves in the direction of a larger puddle in the corner. And in the center of that corner is none other than Richie himself.

Stan doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t even breathe. All he does is stare at the crumpled shape of his best friend. Richie has his back propped against the wall, head lolled to the side and arms dangling from either side of him. His shirt is torn open and stained a deep red. The rips frame two deep gashes across his chest running from his right shoulder to his left hip. From what he can see, blood is drenching practically every inch of Richie. His hands are slick with it, his arms are dripping, and the legs of his pants are splattered, likely from him crawling to his current position.

He looks like a shell of the boy Stan saw only an hour earlier.

He looks dead.

Mike moves first, releasing Stan and rushing to Richie’s side. Stan watches as gentle hands take hold of Richie body, one on the side of his neck and the other on his chest.

“He’s still alive, Stan!” he calls, moving his hands to take his shirt off and press it against the wounds.

“Mike, we have to get the fuck out of here,” Stan says, voice wavering with the effort it takes him to stay composed. He comes up behind Mike and presses his hands to Richie’s face, choking down a sob as he feels it roll to the side lifelessly. “Richie, come on man. Please. We gotta go.”

Mike grabs Richie’s shoulder and pulls the body to his chest. He then hooks his right arm under Richie’s legs and lifts him up, cradling him close to his body and motioning toward the door. Stan gets the hint immediately and runs to the exit, grabbing the handle. Just like in the basement, Stan finds himself unable to get the door open. No matter how hard he twists and slams his shoulders against the door nothing budges.

Just as he feels like he’s making progress, he feels the ground of the house begin to vibrate under his feet. He can hear metal rattling in the kitchen and furniture collapsing around them from the force of the vibration as it turns from soft to violent. Stan braces himself against the door and watches, wide eyed, as Mike kneels to stop himself from dropping the unconscious boy in his arms.

“Come with me, Stan. Float with me. With me, you can stay children forever,” a haunting, broken voice sounds from above them. Stan whips his head around, desperate to figure out where the voice is coming from but it echoes throughout the house from every direction. It comes from the basement, the kitchen, the stairs. It’s everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Stan!” Mike screams, voice dulled from the sounds shaking house. His eyes are wide and terrified as he holds their friend. “Stan we have to go!”  

A bright light flashes and suddenly they’re not three anymore, but four. Across the room, no more than ten feet from the boys, is a tall, hellish figure of a man. His red hair stands at every angle and his smile is painted on in a bright, bloody red. Brightly colored pom poms dance up the center of his silvery, tattered clown suit. He resembles the kind of clown in they might see in a horror movie.

“You’re not real,” Stan says. His voice is laced with terror and nothing but a soft squeak.

“Yes, I am, Stan. I am real and I am going to kill you,” the clown says, stepping slowly toward where Mike and Richie are. His eyes train on the boys and Stan knows that this is it. This is how they’re going to die if he doesn’t do something.

“No!” Stan says, more defiant this time. He steps between the clown and his friends, squaring his shoulder and puffing his chest out in an act of pseudo-bravery. “You’re not real! I don’t believe any of this!”

Stan steps forward and, to his surprise, the clown steps back. “Ghosts aren’t real!” He says, voice rising with each word until he’s screaming. “Houses are just houses and they don’t move around! Dead little girls stay dead and they don’t live in basements! This is real! This isn’t happening!” When he finishes, Stan lets out a scream he’s been holding in the entire night. It comes from deep inside his chest and it rattles the house in a new, frightening way and when he’s done they’re left alone in the quiet, empty, decrepit house.

Two weeks later

Stan watches from his place on the couch as Richie attempts to do a cartwheel for the second time.

“You’re going to fuck up your stitches, Richie,” he drawls, only mildly concerned.

“No, I’m not. Doc said I’m almost fully healed!” Richie shoots back, chipper as ever. For someone who was on medical bed rest less than a week ago, Richie was as energetic and spry as ever. Despite his argument, Richie relents and towers over Stan. The bandages he’s still required to wear poke out from under the collar of his blue Henley.

“Yeah. Almost. If you keep dicking around you’ll never get there.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I saved both your asses from that fucking bear.”

“Yeah,” Stan says, eyeing Richie has he grabs a bag of chips off the counter. “We’d be goners if it wasn’t for you.”

“Tell me the story again, Staniel. I still can’t believe I can’t remember anything.”

Stan rolls his eyes and launches into his rehearsed script, grabbing the handful of doritos that Richie offers him. It’s a tall tale of out they came out of the house in the backyard and decided to fuck around in the woods due to sheer boredom. They’d encountered a bear and Richie had jumped in front of Mike and Stan, taking a near fatal paw to the chest. His scream alone managed to scare the beast away and save them all. Stan and Mike carried Richie to the closest occupied house and called an ambulance.

The doctors said it was a miracle Richie survived the hit and they all weren’t killed then and there.

The last part is the only true part but Richie doesn’t need to know that. No one does. No one needs to know how they tumbled through the front door, faces soaked in tears and snot, and ran as fast for their lives from 29 Neibolt street.

As Richie listens intently, Mike saunters through the front door of the Tozier household, settling on the arm of the couch next to Stan and gently combing his fingers through the gold curls on his boyfriend’s head.

“And I can’t believe I missed this! I was out for two days, two days, and all of a sudden you two are macking all up on each other. I can’t believe all it took was a near death experience for you two to finally get your shit together.”

Stan feels his face flush as Mike chuckles and pulls him close. He feels the warm press of lips to the crown of his head and hums in appreciation.

“We just figured we should stop wasting our time. Life’s too short,” Mike says, fondness in his voice. Stan looks up and catches Mike’s smile.

“Yeah,” Stan says, echoing the sentiment. “You never know what could happen.”

Mike catches his lips in a chaste kiss but it says all the things they almost don’t get to say.

I almost missed you.

I almost lost you.

I love you.

[just-the-fics-maam]

The Feast of Stephen: Chapter 2 - Liquor Run

A/N: More from our AU!Tom and company. This one gets a lil dirty. Enjoy. xx

As soon as Jeffrey walked into the house, the Middleton family burst into life, or at least a few of them did. Christmas music wafted in from a stereo set up on the kitchen counter, and Kitty and Robert took turns pushing cocktails into Jeffrey’s hand and acting the part of jovial good friends.

It seemed funny to Maggie, all of a sudden, as if this lawyer were the one who would determine what was inside the will that had already been written. He carried the packet into the house under his arm, bound in manila and twine, an old fashioned looking package from the elder Mr. Middleton and the Great Beyond.

Maggie heard the nervous toenail clicks of what she assumed to be Susan’s little black and white terrier. She had posed with it on her Christmas card, arrived at Maggie’s Chicago apartment in the first week of December. Maggie ran up the stairs to the bedrooms and found the door that Charlie resided behind, and opened it. She carried him, vibrating and nervous, to the balcony overlooking the living area, from which she could peer down and see parts of the kitchen and dining area, in addition to the large, warm room with the crackling fire.

She watched Eli for a while, as she sat high up and quiet, stroking Charlie’s silky neck. He seemed to disappear into the carved bookcases, into the swags of evergreen looped around the banisters. Jeffrey was in the center of all things, and Kitty and Robert in a tight orbit around him, and then Eli, pulling off the gravitational field. Eli, rearranging everything by his presence. Susan sat at the bar in the kitchen, smiling, basking in the glow of her two brothers together. Robert had told Maggie how much Susan loved the family all in one room, though apparently it “tore Mother apart” to see Eli sometimes. Why, he had never managed to explain.

Eli took a swig of his cranberry cocktail and pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb typing furiously, swiping and tapping, and then dialed a call. He leaped up the stairs right beside Maggie, two at a time, and walked quickly to Susan’s open bedroom. He pulled the door nearly shut behind him, but Maggie was delighted to find that she could hear his half of the conversation quite well. She adjusted her position on the floor beside the railing to optimize her ability to catch every word, and even Charlie cooperated, staying silent and leaning against her chest, sighing contentedly. She bit her lip, her heart pounding, breathing as little as possible so as to hear with perfect fidelity.

“She’s not even thirty, George, and based on what you’re looking for, I don’t think you’ll do better, especially on such short notice.

“No, I know you’ve said you prefer blondes but I also know you’ve said that you want this one to be discreet, and a bloody nineteen year-old with platinum hair is going to stick out like a sore thumb at the Rotary Club. Yes, I know you’re not a member at the Rotary Club yourself, and you’ve said that crowd is beneath you, but if you want to shake the right mid-level hands in Bar Harbor, you’ve got to bring someone who isn’t going to set off their WASP-y alarms. Honestly I think you’d do well with a sparkling fortysomething divorced schoolteacher with a well done dye job, but since you’ve got your eye set on someone younger, Catherine is really the best way to go for you.

“Listen, George, you want her to be able to keep up with the conversation, don’t you? You’ve said it yourself there’s nothing that makes you look like an amateur more than a date who gets a vacant stare whenever the capital gains tax comes up.

“George, I’m not going lower than twenty-eight for you, you know that.

“Listen, I know. It’s hard. I know she left you on Christmas of last year. I know it’s difficult. But sabotaging your own political aspirations to try to convince your ex-wife that you aren’t paying your college-aged date to be at the banquet with you is something I cannot participate in. If you’d like to pursue it on your own, I won’t stop you, but you know I always find you the best, don’t I?

“Now look, George, Catherine’s free now, but by tomorrow at lunch I can’t make any promises. I’ve asked her to put her New Years aside for you, but you’ve got to sign on the dotted line. And at this point you’ve dallied so that even if you pass, you’ll need to provide her with something. She’s not going to pay for your indecisiveness. You know I’m here for you always, sir, but it’s time to decide.

“All right. Okay, then. Yes. Yes. That’s great news, I think you’ve made a lovely choice. Oh, George, I know, old boy. I know you are. I’ll not hold it against you. All right. All right, then. Yes. get some rest. Goodbye.”

Three decisive steps sounded on the wooden hallway floor, stopping beside Maggie.

“Well, are you coming?” said Eli, looking down at her from his dizzying height. “I’m afraid Charlie can’t come, but Robert will want you there while Jeffrey reads the will.” Eli smirked. “Little Bobby’s moment of triumph, isn’t it…”

Maggie looked down and saw that everyone was gathering in the dining room, and that a hush had fallen over the party.

“Are you sure?” said Maggie, suddenly wishing not to be present as the last wishes of a dead man she had never met were read aloud.

“Very sure,” said Eli, waiting at the top of the stairs. Maggie hopped to her feet, dropped Charlie back in Susan’s room with a pat on his tiny head, and walked down the stairs just ahead of Eli, feeling strangely under his watch, wondering what exactly he was selling on the phone just then. Companionship? Sex?

Did it matter?

Robert was already seated, without having saved a spot for her. She laid claim quickly to the chair next to the sideboard and sat on it.

Eli reached the chair beside his mother, then saw Maggie sitting to the side. He motioned to her to take the chair.

“No, it’s all right,” she said, her voice barely audible. In response he raised his eyebrows and tapped on the back of the chair with his fingertips, a command so strange that it compelled her to obey. She studied the carpet as she walked by Robert; she saw his eyes flashing hell at Eli for a moment, then they were smiling again, and back on Jeffrey.

Kitty, who had observed the entire silent exchange, frowned deeply and crossed her arms.

“We all know why we’re here,” said Jeffrey’s crisp voice. He took a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket and stuck them on his face. “Stephen Elijah Middleton was a lot of things, and one of them was undoubtedly careful with his money.”

Kitty snorted.

“He asked me that this be a simple meeting, when the time came, and that I lay out the circumstances as quickly as possible. Kitty, I’m sorry to say, but the house at Narragansett will have to be sold.”

Kitty glared. “All right,” she said.

“But you’re to have seventy-five percent of the proceeds.”

“Seventy-five? Why not all?”

“Mother,” said Robert. “Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry.”

Kitty glared all the more.

“The other real estate is included, part and parcel, with the general estate which is to be gathered together and bestowed as Stephen saw fit. And now comes the difficult part,” he said. “Stephen knew that you all might not understand his reasons, but he came to the decision to rest his entire estate, excepting three quarters of the sale price of the Narragansett house, upon one of his children, knowing that this child would see to it that the assets were used to further such causes as he would have chosen in life, and to take care of all the others, both living and yet to come.

“Fair enough,” said Kitty, reaching out to hold Robert’s hand.

Robert smiled and stood, holding his hands out. “If I may, I’d like to offer a prayer at this juncture; taking on such a responsibility surely will be a heavy mantle for… whomever Father chose, and--”

“Sit down, you fucking blowhard,” spat Eli, and Robert and Kitty turned their eyes like daggers toward him. Susan looked as if she had bitten a lemon.

Robert only pursed his lips for a moment before continuing. “To whom much is given, much is expected,” said Robert. “And to that end, I--”

“I’m afraid I really do have to interrupt you,” said Jeffrey. “This is costing your mother $250 an hour, and beside that, Stephen dictated no prayers be said at this gathering.”

“He said that,” said Robert, hands on hips, torso pitched forward at the lawyer.

“Very clearly,” said Jeffrey. “And we might hold back assumptions about the recipient of the estate.”

Robert stopped suddenly, the color draining from his face. “What do you mean?”

Jeffrey cleared his throat conspicuously and turned back to the paper he held. “And the entirety of such estate I leave to what is left of my one true love, not to Kitty’s and my son, who will be well provided for, nor to my daughter, though she will receive security of her own upon her twenty-fifth birthday, but to my son born of Clarissa Allerton of west London, in nineteen hundred and seventy-nine, Elijah Thomas Middleton.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” said Robert, dropping his glass on the floor.

“I don’t think it was the very best way to tell it,” said Jeffrey. “But at the same time, I agree with Mr. Middleton that it needed to be said.”

Kitty turned bright red.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Middleton. If it hadn’t been Stephen’s express wish, I would have shared the information in a different way.”

Eli leaned back against the paneled wall, an inscrutable look about him.

The bizarre commotion that one might expect from such a double-impact revelation commenced almost immediately.

Robert started ranting, and Eli only watched him, looking confused. Susan hugged her mother, whose face was bright red. “It’s all right,” she said quietly, her voice dry like powder.

“After all I did to help his bastard,” Kitty said, and Eli, who should have taken exception at this remark, instead took nothing at all, and looked at his mother with the same curious look that he had aimed at Robert moments ago. Like a scientist discovering a brand new beetle, tilting his head to watch its iridescence.

He turned to the liquor tray on the sideboard, noting suddenly and apropos of nothing that they were “quite out of gin.” He surveyed the room. “But we’re all quite too knackered to go and get more. Jeffrey, would you be a doll, and--”

“Jeffrey’s not driving anywhere,” said Kitty. “Not until I see every word of this will.”

“Of course, Mrs. Middleton,” said the lawyer, sitting beside her. “And I’m here for all of your questions. Perhaps after the children have a chance to… let it sink in…”

Kitty frowned. “This is not what we expected,” she said.

Jeffrey patted her hand. “Oh, Kitty. It hardly ever is.”

*****

“Well, I’m not going, and you’re not either. Go down in the cellar and see if there are any old dusty bottles of wine there. You own everything now, after all. Take care of it yourself,” said Robert, walking away past Eli, running his shoulder into his older brother’s.

“Jeffrey wasn’t even done,” said Eli. “He has a letter from Dad that explains everything, he said.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” said Robert. “He always loved himself more than he loved Mother, and since his dalliance with that model was part of his own Ode to Himself, he’ll leave his entire fortune to you.”

“Well, you’re obviously too bitter to be reasonable about this in any sort of way.”

“I’ve just lost my future, Tom!”

Eli said nothing for a moment. “You realize Dad stipulated that I make sure everyone is taken care of. And I intend to do just that.”

“Oh, the same way you selflessly carry yourself through the world already? That way? Like that?”

“I am perfectly selfless, when the situation calls for it. There’s nothing amiss about looking out for one’s own interests, especially when most of the family is dead set on your having nothing.” Eli leaned in. “You’re just afraid of what you really want,” he said, his voice low.

Robert’s face turned crimson, and even Kitty and Susan looked worried.

“I’ll go,” said Maggie, her voice sounding thin and scared.

Both brothers turned to stare.

She cleared her throat and began again, more forcefully this time. “I’ll go to town, and get a few bottles,” she said.

“It’s been snowing,” said Robert with an exasperated tone as if she were a three year old who had just demanded to be driven to the circus to see the elephants.

“Snow is nothing with four-wheel drive,” said Maggie.

“We don’t have four-wheel drive,” said Robert, through gritted teeth.

“I have,” said Eli, a broad smile across his face. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys that he tossed at Maggie. She caught them, sharp and warm, in her hand.

“I…” she gulped. “It’s all right with you? I mean, is it rented?”

“Well, I’m coming, too,” he said, looking directly at her and ignoring Robert’s wan look and tight, humorless lips.

She looked at Robert, waiting for a protest. Waiting for anything. He folded his arms and looked at his feet.

“Sounds good,” she said, grabbing her coat off its peg by the door. “Let’s go.”

*****

Outside, the air was open and cool, and Maggie nearly forgot about the tension inside, the egos swirling around one another, pacing and sizing one another up like wild animals.

Eli, who had been triumphant at the door, slumped into the passenger seat and glared at the road as Maggie turned the key and started her way around the looping driveway and out through the gates. Snow was falling, but slowly. She ran the car carefully down the twists and turns of the slow switchbacks.

“It is just the money?” said Eli suddenly.

“What?”

“Robert. What is it with you and him,” he said. He looked uncomfortable and shifted his legs around. “God damn it,” he said, fiddling to find the seat adjustment. Finally the seat began to shift backwards and he stretched out his legs.

“I want to tell you that it’s none of your fucking business,” said Maggie.

“In all seriousness, why would a woman like you be with a man like him?”

“A woman like me? You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I know more than you think I do.”

“Oh? Wow, congratulations on not sounding creepy at all.”

He pursed his lips, staring straight ahead still.

“...What can you possibly know?” said Maggie.

“I know you like to watch people more than you like them to watch you,” he said. “I know you’ve been working on me since I arrived. I see it in your piercing little detective eyes. You’ve been working out the puzzle of who I am since the day Robert told you about his asshole black sheep of a brother, haven’t you?”

She only grinned.

“What,” he said, his irritation sharp.

“I’ve only known about you for a few hours,” she said.

He was silent, and for a moment she was afraid she had hurt his feelings, before she remembered who it was she was speaking to.

“That piece of shit,” he finally said.

Maggie gripped the wheel. “You know, I don’t really know his full motivations,” she said. “But I’m sorry there’s bad blood between you and your brother. Truly. But no, I don’t really know much about you aside from what you’ve shown me.”

Eli laughed. “So you know what everyone else knows. That I’m a piece of shit asshole.”

“You like being the black sheep,” she said.

“What?!”

“You love it. It gives you the right to a chip on your shoulder, every moment of every day. And you like the feeling of being righteously indignant.”

“...Which you know and understand because you live your life that way, too,” he said. He looked at her. “I bet you’re a good girl,” he said.

“Are you afraid you won’t get to brood anymore, now that you’re a millionaire?” she said.

“He doesn’t take care of you,” Eli said quietly.

“What in the hell do you mean saying something like that?” she said. “If we weren’t driving through this fucking snow I’d stop the car and make you get out, or get out myself. Why in the fuck are you treating me this way?”

“You’re so much better than him,” he said. “You have no idea the worlds I could open to you.”

She laughed. “What, if I were one of your call girls?”

His face drained of color. “I do not have call girls,” he said. “And you ought to learn to mind your own business.”

“The business you’re dropping hints about to prove to me that I’m an emotional coward? That business?”

He said nothing in reply.

Defeated.

They rode in silence for a moment, Maggie’s arms jittery from the adrenaline of confrontation. She had given as good as she got that time, which felt good. It was rare for her to have a comeback at all, much less so quickly, or one that hit its target so well.

“Start over. I’m Eli,” he said, holding his hand out to her. “My family call me Tom sometimes. That what I went as, as a boy. But being grown I feel as if I’m truly an Eli at heart.”

“I’m Maggie,” she said, taking his hand. “I’m your brother’s girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend,” said Eli. “Not fiance?”

She scowled.

“No, I’m not trying to be flippant,” he said, a softness in his voice. “I just thought you were engaged. Robert… said you were engaged.”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “That’s… puzzling.”

“Not if you know Robert,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

Eli sighed. “Look, I don’t want to spoil anything that’s going well, okay?”

She bit her lip.

“Let’s just say, Robert has always claimed whatever he wanted. Plain and simple. In fact, I’m anticipating a long legal battle over this inheritance.” He paused. “But seriously, please tell me why,” Eli said. “Why are you with him. It’s killing me.”

“Well, I’ll tell you why I like him,” she said. “But then you’ll have to tell me why you have this bizarre aversion to two normal people being together.”

He nodded slightly.

“To be honest, it is the stability. There’s something to be said for it.”

“Hmm.”

“I grew up without it. I grew up to believe women were subject to the whims of men, but there was no way to actually predict or affect them. We just had to roll with the good times and duck and cover in the bad ones. No in-between, really.

“For all his human imperfections, Robert is stable. He’s… steady. It’s an unusual thing for me. Before him, I… There was something about me that was… thrill-seeking. I chose the wrong men. Men who couldn’t really love me back.”

Eli smiles ruefully. “Married men?”

“...Sometimes,” Maggie said. “And sometimes just off in their own little worlds. Anyway, Robert was different. He saw me for what I really was. He supported my little ambitions. He didn’t… push.”

Eli watched her, silently.

“So it’s pretty simple,” she said. “I’m safe with him. He’s stable. And he took up for me at a time when no one else did. Things can get difficult when your own family is always… embroiled in their own dramas.”

Eli laughed. “I do know that,” he said.

“Truthfully? I feel drastically out of place in that fine old house. Even Robert feels a bit like a fine old house at times. A bit… too good for me, but I’d better not let my fear of something good talk me out of it, you know?”

Eli said nothing.

“I think he’s my best shot up and out.”

“Up and out of what?”

“Have you ever… struggled? Like, in life. Not sure if your mom will be able to pay the light bill. That sort of thing?”

“I have,” he said, tracing his bottom lip with a fingertip. “When Stephen left my mother for Robert’s mother.

“But I thought he left Kitty for--”

“He left Kitty first, began a life with my mother, got engaged to my mother, and then went back to Kitty.”

“Oh.”

“While my mother was pregnant.”

“With you?”

He nodded.

“So how do you… How is it that your father and you were on such good terms?”

“A lot of talking. When I got old enough. A lot of late night drinks when I was at university. Hashing it out. He let me rail at him. Stood there and took it. He understood. And he owned his mistakes. Honestly? To me? I think he died in peace. I think he had said everything that he wanted to say.”

“And what about your mom?”

Eli shrugged. “She did what she could. She pushed me towards my father a lot. I think she knew he could introduce me into the right places to get me up and out, as you say.”

“Oh?”

“I used those connections in a way that Kitty and her side didn’t agree with, but I don’t live for them.” He folded his arms.

“So you understand, in a way. What a settled man like that can provide. A means to get past what you came from.”

He shrugged. “So, stability. The answer to my question is that you’re with him because he’s stable.”

“Close enough,” she said. “Basically, yes.”

“Well, in that case, you’re right,” he said. “Stability is important. I admit, I take it for granted.”

She frowned and slowed as the turns grew sharper.

“But a woman like you… why does that stability have to come from someone else?”

She looked ahead on the road, to the dark clear horizon where the lights of town were beginning to appear. “I don’t know,” she said, as quietly as if she were speaking only to herself. “It’s ironic, though, isn’t it?” she said. “You asking me that?

“Why?”

“Well, no one has ever explained it to me, but I’m guessing you make your living in helping women find stability through dependence,” she said.

“That shows how little you understand what I do,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Is it a left or a right here?”

“A left,” he said. “You’d be good at it, you know.”

“Oh, my god. Whatever.”

“Maggie, really,” he said. “You’d be great at it.”

She laughed. “‘Eli, you know that women have to be young and hot to do that,” she said. “And besides, I... have a career already.”

“I like it when you say my name,” he said, quietly.

“What?”

“You’re not old,” he said.

“Old enough to know I’m not young anymore. And like I said, you have to be a certain level of attractiveness to go into… business like that for yourself.”

“It’s better with a business partner,” he said.

“A pimp,” she said.

He grimaced. “That’s not exactly what it is…”

Maggie put on her blinker and slid into a parking space in front of a small renovated house, white clapboard: HOT TODDY’S. PACKAGE AND LOUNGE.

“You’re not missing anything,” he said simply. “You have everything you need. You were born with it all. You’ve got more than ninety percent of the girls I interview.”

“Ooh, he thinks I’m not like other girls. Hot. You know, what’s really happening is you’re avoiding answering your question,” she said.

“My question?”

“Why are you so averse to normal love, like Robert and I have?”

He shrugged. “Love isn’t real,” he said.

“Aww, do you really think so? Or are you just trying to be provocative?”

“It’s as false as a papier mache mask, and anyone who is honest thinks so, too.”

“Hmm.”

“So no real love at all? Not even… your parents?”

He laughed. “My mother was a call girl,” he said. “But, maybe what she had with Stephen was more like love than… all the rest of this. While she had it.”

“Where is your mother now?”

He said nothing for a moment. “They close in about fifteen minutes, Maggie” he said.

“Are… you coming in?”

He looked away, and she saw a tear streak down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s not you,” he said. “It’s them. I hate them. And I find that I like you a bit, Maggie. And I hate that I’ll start to hate you after you and Robert get married, and have little Middleton babies, all the same, in a row. Perfect and legitimate. I always hate the fortunate.”

“You’ve just inherited what sounds to be tens of millions of dollars at least, Eli.”

“There are things that can’t be bought,” he said. “It sounds like a dopey greeting card, but it’s true. When you do work like mine, you’ll know.”

She said nothing.

“Get the Johnnie Walker,” he said. “And the Patron, too. You earned it.” He smiled, reaching into his billfold and dropping four fifty-dollar bills into her palm.

“This is way too much,” she said.

“Just let me give you this,” he said. “Take it.”

“What?”

“Let me give you something my brother will never know about.”

“Are you still drunk?”

He pitched forward, taking her chin in his hand, pressing his mouth to hers. Dark and rough. He kissed her hungrily, as if he were dying of thirst for her. He gasped roughly. She raised her hands to his cheeks, touching them lightly, clenching her hands into fists but pressing the fists there to the warm hollow beneath his jaw on both sides of his neck, his hot pulse jumping beneath her knuckles.

“I want you,” he whispered into her ear, winding his fingers into her hair. “I know he’s not giving you what you need. I know he isn’t.”

“I… ah…” her head pitched back as he touched his lips lightly to her neck, the strong scent of his cologne forcing its way into her own breath.

“Let me give you something,” he said, his lips full and red, his words slurring with desire.

She lay back against the driver’s window, opening her legs slightly, and he leaned forward over her, bracing himself with the palms of his hands to miss the obstacles: hand brake, stickshift. Her purse on the console between them.

“I don’t want anything… back…” he said, gripping her ribs in his palm, sliding his fingertips over each one. “Just give me the right…”

He looked up at her, his gaze magnetic and deep, like the unfathomable blue of glacier glow, piercing. She held his gaze and reached down, sliding her top button open, then the one below it. She kept her eyes locked on his as she guided his hands to the closure of her bra, deep between her breasts.

He clicked it open and she felt the release of it, the sudden weightiness and then his warm palm as he caressed the soft flesh, holding it tenderly up to his lips, kissing slowly. He looked up at her again, as if asking permission, and she nodded, opening her shirt over her collarbone, showing the curve of her shoulder to him, winding her fingers into the dark ginger curls at his neck.

He took her darkened nipple between his lips, running his tongue gently along its electrified tip, sending a shiver through her, and a dull, insistent ache between her legs, the old slow commands from the base of her brain:

Please him. Please him. Give him everything he wants.

She rolled her hips upwards, and he let out a small moan against the side of her breast, then moved to the other side, until her whole body was tingling with a desire so pure and true it seemed wrong not to obey.

She heard a slam and saw someone exiting the shop only a few feet away. She giggled and pulled her shirt closed. Eli slid his hand into her lap, grasping the loose bills quickly, and dashed out of the car and up the steps, appearing again quickly with the brown paper sack of bottles.

She watched him move down the stairs and across the snowy parking spaces. He opened the door and the rush of bracing air did nothing to calm her thoughts, or to convince them into any kind of order.

She took a breath, but no words came out to follow.

“It can be anything you want it to be,” he said. “It can be just this, only this once.” She looked at him again, his gaze commanding her not to look away. Daring her. “Or it can be… more.”

“You can’t have it all now,” she said.

“I…”

“But it’s a long way up the mountain,” she said. “Have to drive it pretty slow.” She threw the car into reverse and made her way back to the upward slope, the engine whining.

Just beyond the town’s lights he reached over, popping the metal button of her jeans open. She gulped, her hips making an involuntary thrust toward his hand.

He drew his middle finger between his lips, then slid its warmth lightly, deftly between the denim and the damp silk of her panties, ghosting lightly over her clit, smiling as her mouth hung open, her panting audible.

“Good thing this is a small, empty road,” he said. “Don’t lose your concentration.”

She soldiered on, moaning and squirming, staying the course even when he slid his hand inside her panties and slowly down her wet, slick opening, tapping her clit as it swelled, aching more.

“In…” she said, rocking her hips now, downshifting to second gear and gripping the steering wheel as tightly as she could. “Push it… in…”

“You can’t have it all now,” he said, pulling his hand from between her legs.

She moaned, crying out at the sudden loss of pleasure, of his sensitive fingertips.

The trees opened along the snowy road, and at the far end of the clearing stood the bright, glowing house.

“Stop the car,” he said.

He took two new bills from his wallet, folding them flat and grinning at her, sliding them between her panties and jeans, pushing them deep between her warm thighs until he was cupping her lightly with his entire palm. “Tell your pussy it was nice to meet her,” he said, and she would have laughed at such a terrible, vulgar line, were she not suddenly overtaken by a strong and unprecedented craving for such gutter-desire. For the dirt and grit of him. For everything that was not-Robert. Had she not had her mind erased and all thoughts replaced by the desire for the rhythm that his hips would set, the heat that would emerge between their bodies. The question of her untended desire finally answered. He was the inconvenient promise of resolution.

She kissed him, deeply, twisting her fingers in his hair until he cried out slightly, moving to free himself.

“Fuck you,” she said.

“Fuck you, too, Margaret,” he said, the sound of it sending a shiver up her spine. He paused. “I’ll go in first with the liquor. You can take your time getting yourself... back together again.” He shifted his shoulders, running his hand through his hair. “Don’t worry, I’d never say anything. Tell me to back off and I’ll never touch you again.”

They drove the final free hundred feet to the house. He grabbed the bag and left the car, walking swiftly up the stairs. His words sounded in her ears, soft and steady, the incongruous words of a gentleman’s promise.

I’ll never touch you again.

“Lord, say it ain’t so,” she said, laughing to herself. She grabbed her purse and struck out into the snow, slamming the car door behind her. She reached beneath her coat, stomping heavily up the stairs to shake off the powdery flakes, fastening the last button over her loose breasts just as Robert opened the door to greet her.

[walkerbaby-blog]

okay but how about some safe and sane bdsm whamilton style? hams a total pain slut and washington is delighted to give him what he craves and they have negotiated their activities in extensive detail.

Here you go...

George could barely breathe as he pulled Alexander toward the elevator. The young man in his arms was hot and sweet and squirming. He’d been so open in the cab. Free and hot and wanting. Everything George was normally afraid to be. Alexander had no objections in letting George know that Alexander wanted him; had no objection to letting George know exactly what Alexander wanted. Needed. 

He hit the button and silently thanked God the damn thing was on the first floor already. He pulled Alexander into the elevator and pushed him, face first, against the wall, his hand on the back of Alexander’s neck, not pushing, just holding him in place.

Alexander began to squirm against the wall and let out a whimper.

George pressed the button for the thirty ninth floor. He’d splurged when he bought this place. He’d spent years saving for a rainy day and for a college fund and just in case and when he’d come here he decided fuck it. He had money in savings and plenty of family money. He could afford a little luxury. He’d earned it

. The door to the elevator slid closed and George let his hand stay on Alexander’s neck, squeezing lightly. “If you even think about rubbing yourself off against that wall there will be consequences,” George murmured.

Alexander let out a moan and George could feel the smaller man trembling underneath his hands.

“You don’t want to make me angry Alexander. Not on our first night together.” Alexander panted as he tried to squirm against George’s grip. “But what if I need punished?”

George tightened his grip and stepped closer, close enough so that his chest brushed against the smaller man’s back. “You don’t have to misbehave to get what you need from me, Alexander. Whatever it is you think you need? If you’re a good boy, you’ll earn it. But if you think you’re going to goad me into beating your ass black and blue, Alexander? You need to think again. Because I can already tell that for you a belt across your ass isn’t a punishment, is it? You enjoy that.”

Alexander moaned, his knees sagging.

“No. If you don’t behave Alexander, you’ll find I have no problems tying you up and walking away. I’ll leave you in a corner, bound and gagged, and ignore you. I’ll go down to a club and find myself some twink. Half as handsome as you are and dumb as a box of rocks. I’ll find a nice  little slut who knows how to obey and then I’ll make you watch as I take him apart and then get down on your hands and knees the next morning and clean up his come from the floor while I spoil him instead of you.”

Alexander’s head started to shake, fighting against George’s grasp. “Don’t.” Alexander moaned. “Please don’t. I’ll be good. I’ll be such a good little boy for you. I just…” 

George loosened his grip on Alexander’s neck just slightly and pulled the other man back against his chest. “You need a steady hand. Someone who knows how to take care of you.”

Alexander nodded quickly, tilting his head up so he could stare at George. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I need someone to take care of me. It gets so loud in my head and I just need it to stop. Keep me from flying apart. ”

The elevator slid smoothly to a stop and let out a muffled ding.

“Trust me,” George said, urging Alexander out of the elevator and toward his condo at the end of the hall. “I’m going to make it stop. I’ll make it all stop, Alexander.”

He hurriedly opened the door and nudged Alexander inside before stepping in behind him and pulling the door closed. He made sure to flick the lock and wrapped his arms around Alexander’s body from behind, pulling him against George. He brought his mouth down to plant open mouthed kisses against the younger man’s trembling neck. “Tell me your safewords.”

“I don’t need—”“Bullshit.” George nipped his neck. “I only play safe. That means you have words and we do safety checks. No words. No play.”

“I’m fine with stoplights,” Alexander pressed back against him. “Just—”

“Limits,” George ordered.

“Fuck.” Alexander was squirming in his arms and George bit down, harder this time, well under the collar of Alexander’s shirt so that it wouldn’t show up tomorrow at work. His new toy had a career after all and needed to look professional. 

“Alexander…”

“Hard limits? No fluids. Condoms and lube are musts. I don’t do bareback and I don’t fuck dry. No fucking up my face. I can’t go strolling into court with a black eye. Hard limits tonight? Jesus.” He was grinding back on George’s dick, his skin flushed and his breathe coming in short, rasping pants. “No needles. No medical play. No sounding rods. No fisting. No daddy stuff. Trust me, the last person you want to link up with in my head is my father.”

“Jesus,” George gasped. He’d never even considered doing such a thing to a playmate on their first night. Even the tamest of those suggestions required they build a level of trust that would take months. “Anything else?”

“No small spaces,” Alexander panted. “That’s it. I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t lock me in a small space. You can tie me up. Beat me. Hang me by my damn ankles and make me suck your cock but no small spaces.” 

“No small spaces,” George agreed, filing that bit of information away to question Alexander about later, when they were both in a more level headed state of mind. Something that specific had to have a story behind it, and if they were going to play like this then George would eventually need to know what it was.

His own cock was aching as he thought about the idea of eventually— the idea that they would continue to do this. 

I“Tell me where you are, Alexander.”

“Green. I’m very much green.”

“Good.” George brought one of his hands down to slip into the front of Alexander’s trousers and wrapped his fingers around the younger man’s slender cock, teasing him.

Alexander twitched his hips, rubbing, and George tightened his grip, not enough to hurt but enough to be a warning. “Still.”

Alexander froze, his breath loud in both their ears. 

“Now.” George loosened his grip slightly. “When I let go of you, I want you to go across the room. There’s a hallway. You’re going to the room all the way at the end of the hall. That’s my bedroom. I want you to remove the blankets from my bed. Leave just the fitted sheet. Fold everything else and place it in the corner next to the mirror. Then take off all your clothes and place yourself in the center of my bed, on your knees, back to the door, eyes closed, and your hands behind your head. Can you do that?” 

“Yes.” Alexander nodded quickly. “Yes I can do that. Go to your room. Remove the blankets and fold them. Put them next to the mirror and then take my clothes off and assume a waiting position on your bed. Eyes closed.”

George let his hand trail up Alexander’s cock, one long, slow stroke as a reward for the boy’s attention. “Tonight I’m going to go easy on you. I’m going to tie you down and blindfold you. No small spaces. Do you consent?”

“Yes.” Alexander nodded quickly.

“And if I want to use a crop?”

“Yes.”

George continued to stroke him, slow and steady. “Nipple clamps? Can I use those? Penetrate you with toys?”

“Yes to both,” Alexander agreed.

“My fingers?”

“Yes.” Alexander nodded quickly, his body trembling as he tried to stay still. “Yes of course. Fingers, cock, tongue, hell you can stick your toes inside me if that gets you off. Yes. I’m consenting to all of it. Tie me up. Blindfold me. Beat my ass with a crop. Use an entire FAO Schwarz worth of sex toys on me, just do it already. I’m dying.”

“All right.” George pulled his hand free from Alexander’s pants and turned the young man in his arms. He brought his right hand up to caress Alexander’s face and pressed a light kiss on his lips. “Such a beautiful boy,” George whispered. “I know you won’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t.” Alexander said quickly. “I promise I’ll be so good for you. I’ll be so good you’ll never want anyone else.”

George kissed him again. “One more rule. Unless you’re safewording? I expect you to be absolutely silent.”

The other man’s eyes widened and George could see fear and excitement tingling there. The thing he needed. George prided himself on being the sort of partner who could root out what it was his lovers secretly needed and didn’t want to admit to. 

Alexander needed to be held down and owned. Pushed. He needed his power taken away so that he could relax into his submission. And Alexander Hamilton’s power? It lay entirely in his way with words. So when they played, his lover was going to learn to appreciate the sound of silence. 

“Go.” George let go of him. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  He watched as Alexander stared at him for just a moment, wide eyed, and then dropped to his knees, surprising George. He grabbed George’s wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. Alexander knelt down and pressed a kiss to the cuffs of George’s pants, just where his shoe and his pants met. The very top of his foot. He pushed himself back to his feet and backed away from George, his head still down and his eyes on the floor. After three steps he turned on his heel and hurried to comply with George’s directions. 

He swallowed. Someone had taken the time to train Alexander Hamilton well. Once upon a time, the needy young lawyer in front of him, had been someone’s very well trained boy. George couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. What had possessed whoever it was that had broken the young man so exquisitely to leave him alone now, in a job where he was obviously in need of a steadying hand?

He heard his door click closed and took a deep breath. Enough. He needed to focus on the here and now. Not on idle speculation about Alexander’s past. If the young man wanted him to know his history he’d tell George about it. 

He opened the coat closet next to the door and pulled out the black bag where he kept his bag of toys. He hoisted it over his shoulder and took it into the kitchen and placed it on the island.

He opened the bag and made sure everything was in place. Plenty of rope. Blindfold. A few basic toys.  His favorite crop. A ball gag if his new toy needed it. He pulled out a jar of cream that he preferred for aftercare and put it in the fridge to cool. He retrieved three bottles of water. Put two in the bag along with a bottle of Tylenol — still sealed— and opened the third bottle.

He took a drink and waited.

Two minutes down.

He took another drink.

He’d wait exactly five minutes. It would be long enough that Alexander wouldn’t have to rush in his preparations. Long enough that by now he was most likely already in the bed, waiting.

George took another drink.

Five minutes wasn’t long. Three minutes in position was even less time. The younger man’s arms wouldn’t start to ache. His leg muscles wouldn’t tighten. It wasn’t long enough to make him uncomfortable but George knew for a fact that someone like Alexander? Three minutes of perfect stillness, waiting with his eyes closed, would be enough of a strain to put him on edge, push him just to the brink of his patience and then he’d be ready to have his barriers broken down so he could submit himself to George like the sweet angel George knew was hidden underneath the demanding exterior.  

[sunfloooooower]

Mended. Chapter 15.

Chapter 1| Chapter 2| Chapter 3| Chapter 4| Chapter 5| Chapter 6| Chapter 7| Chapter 8| Chapter 9| Chapter 10| Chapter 11| Chapter 12| Chapter 13| Chapter 14|

There’s one more chapter after this one! I hope you’ve enjoyed the story so far!

...

Ari’s Point of View

Summer was winding to an end and senior year was quickly approaching. Even if I already had friends, I really didn’t want to start a new school. Audrey reassured me things were going to be fine multiple times, but my stomach was still in knots. We were laying in my bed together the night before school started, my head on her chest as I babbled on about how nervous I was and she rubbed my back.

“I’ve never been the new girl, but it looks awful in movies,” I whined, twisting the fabric of her shirt in my hands absentmindedly.

She lifted me off her for a second and reached for her backpack resting on my floor. When she came back up, she had a camera in her hands and a happy smile on her face. What was she doing?

“I don’t like those movies, let’s make a new one,” she told me, pointing the camera at my face. “In a world where a beautiful new girl and her broody girlfriend are going to be seniors, it’s time to make George Washington High our bitch.”

I was laughing so hard my eyes started watering as I laid flat on my back. “You are such a dork! Oh, my god.”

She sat astride my hips and held the camera so it was focused on me again. “So, Ari, what are your plans for tomorrow? How are you going to combat all the cliché new girl and obscure horror movie references I’m sure Noah’s going to make?”

“Mhm, I kind of figured my beautiful girlfriend would help,” I replied, taking the camera from her and shifting around until she was in shot. “How does it feel to be dating the most beautiful, most amazing girl in the entire tristate area?”

She was so freaking beautiful when she smiled, it made my heart beat faster every single time. Before she could answer my question, I laid the camera on my nightstand and pulled her mouth down to mine. She hummed happily, focusing all her attention on me as I ran my tongue over the seam of her lips. She parted them and sucked my bottom lip into her mouth, making me grip her hip tighter.

We’d been kissing for a while when she sat back up on my hips and pulled her shirt off. I sat up with her and tossed mine to the floor too before pulling her back down to me. Our kisses were different, they felt deeper and more intimate than usual. I had my hands resting on her back when she reached behind her and took one, her mouth leaving scorching kisses along my throat, and slid it up so I was touching the clasp of her bra.  

I stopped her, moving her face up so she was looking at me before I spoke. “Hey, this is fine. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to for me.”

She rolled her eyes and unclasped her bra herself, tossing it to the ground with her t-shirt. I bit the side of my lip as I looked at her for the first time without a bra in the way. She was so perfect, I couldn’t decide where I wanted to touch first so I just stared. She must’ve felt uncomfortable because she brought her arms up to cover herself, but that was the last thing I wanted. I took her wrists in my hands and rolled her underneath me, lowering myself down so I could kiss just under her ear.

“You are so beautiful,” I breathed, barely loud enough for her to hear. “Jesus, I can’t deal with how gorgeous you are.”

I could feel the heat coming off her face against my shoulder from my praises. I sat astride her hips this time and pulled my bralette over my head so I was just as naked as she was. Her eyes widened and she rested her hand on my waist, her thumb moving over my hipbone.

I’m not a very confident person, but I’d never felt better about myself than in this moment. She was looking at me like I was precious and it made warmth build in my stomach. I didn’t shrink away from her gaze, instead I took her hand resting on the bed and brought it up to cup one of my breasts.

“Looking’s nice, but touching’s better,” I told her, leaning down to kiss her neck. “Do anything you want, baby girl.”

She let out a moan I’d never heard her make before, a shiver coursed through my body. I started kissing her neck and working my way down. I’d just passed her collarbone when her hands got braver than just squeezing and a hushed gasp left my lips paused their exploration.

“This is at your pace, okay? We’re doing this how you want,” I promised her, moving back up with my face hovering above hers. “What do you want, baby?”

Instead of answering me, she took a deep breath and moved her hand down into my shorts and past panties.

…

Audrey’s Point of View

Ari and I were lying in her bed, just looking at each other. Ari’s face was resting on her hands and her eyes looked heavy, but she kept struggling to keep them open. God, I don’t know who decided I should get a girl like her, but I was so thankful for them.

“Mhm, I’m sleepy,” she said in a quiet voice. “Are you staying with me?”

“Of course, princess,” I replied, opening my arms and pulling her closer. “You are always so cold. How do you survive?”

“By stealing all your warmth,” she giggled, pressing her icy feet to my calves and her hands to my stomach. “You are so warm. I love it!”

I just laughed and brushed her hair over her shoulder so I could press a kiss to it. A flashing red light in the otherwise dark room caught my eye. My camera was still sitting on her nightstand and it was recording, pointing straight at the two of us.

“Shit,” I swore, reaching over Ari to grab the camera and shut it off. When she looked at me with curious eyes, I smiled nervously and said, “We might have just made a sex tape”

“Are you serious?” she asked, rolling over so she could see the footage that was recorded. “Wow, how artsy.”

“I am so sorry! I didn’t mean for that to happen!” I swore, sitting the camera on the bed and turning to look at her. “I swear I didn’t mean to violate your privacy during something that intimate.”

She sat up in front of me and covered my mouth with her hand. “Hush, it’s not a big deal as long as it’s for your eyes only. I mean, everyone wants to remember their first time, right?”

As sexy as that was, I couldn’t help but think back to when Emma and Will had a similar video leaked. “I guess I’m freaked because when all the murders started, a video of Emma and Will having sex for the first time was leaked to the entire high school. I really don’t want that to happen again, even if the murders are over.”

Her face was serene as she moved onto my lap, the two of us still very naked. “Hey, everything’s going to be okay, I promise. No one’s going to leak the video and it’s mostly blurry anyway so you can’t see anything interesting.”

I was about to start another long winded, nervous rant when she reached up and brushed my fringe back out of my face. Everything inside of me fluttered at the action, making my words die on my tongue. She was looking at me with so much trust and adoration, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that I’d keep the video to myself. This was a big moment for her, I realized, she was finally trusting me completely.

“Okay,” I told her finally, letting out a breath of relief. “You’re right, it’s going to be fine.”

“I have one request about the video though,” she said, an evil smirk tugging at her lips. Then she leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “You have to Facetime me when you watch it.”

“So fucking dirty,” I murmured, gripping her hips so I could move us back to the center of the bed. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were innocent.”

She laughed and hooked her leg over my hip, sliding her foot down my thigh. The smile on her lips was pure sin and I couldn’t believe this was happening. I never thought I would find someone who wanted me, all my baggage included. Yet here I was with the most amazing person I’ve ever met, giggling about an accidental sex tape and rolling back on her bed and pulling me with her.

It was exactly where I needed to be.

[jeichanhaka]

If Any Would Avenge: 35

Chapter 35: Fortune's Chest

Centuries Ago: Enchanted Forest

Rumplestiltskin tittered, gazing expectantly as Isobelle opened the chest. His heart raced, all his muscles tensing as he wondered what the chest would summon for him. A magic bean? Silver slippers? Some other means of realm jumping? He didn't much care what it summoned, so long as it helped him find his lost son. Helped him find Bae.

His exuberant expression faltered when all that greeted him was a single page, ripped from a book. Blank. Nothing, not a single word or drop of ink on either side of it. His heart sunk low, deep into the depths of despair, he snatched the page from the chest. Every part of his soul burned with anger, and his veins filled with frustration as he turned it over, trying to fathom what or how it would lead him to Baelfire.

"What the hell is this?" He growled, not bothering to attach the diminutive 'dearie' to his sentence. Isobelle flinched, hearing the growing wrath in his tone. She knew, even without needing to hear his anger, that the chest hadn't provided what Rumplestiltskin had wanted. Or at least what he assumed it should've given him.

"I'm sorry. But what did you expect to get? The chest is tricky especially with vague requests like 'something to help you find your lost son.'" Isobelle whispered, her chin scrunching up as she thought a moment. "Perhaps if you'd been more specific…."

Rumplestiltskin glowered, his face heavily darkened from anger as well as shadow from the approaching sunset. "I only have one son. One. And a piece of paper isn't going to help me find him. I need a magic bean or slippers. Something to get me to a Land Without Magic, not…." He glowered at the page, which suddenly felt warmer. A faint humming sound, too quiet for normal ears to hear reverberated from the page. His breath caught, lulled by the sound and the warmth. The page he realized wasn't an ordinary sheet of paper, traces of magic was imbued in it. "This is…."

He lifted his head up, ready to address Isobelle only to catch sight of her wrapping a cloak around herself. The last thing he saw of her were her frightened eyes disappearing beneath the hood, then nothing. Once covered with the cloak, the knight vanished completely, invisible to both his sight and his other senses. Including his magic.

"…where did you go, dearie?" Rumplestiltskin called out, intrigued by the enchanted cloak as well as annoyed. He scowled and started forward, only to stop when the toe of his shoe hit something. Glancing down, his annoyance faded seeing the Blue Rose brooch, its brilliant blue diamond glinting beneath the sunlight peeking through the trees. His lips twitching with bemusement, he picked it up and pocketed it, before turning his gaze back to the paper Fortuné's chest had given. Before teleporting away, he glanced around the forest clearing once more and called out. "Well, dearie, I'm off to uphold my end of our deal. But you better hope this paper does lead me to my son, otherwise…." He broke off and tittered, the sound a menacing one. "...It won't be pretty."

x

Present: Storybrooke

"Argh." Gold groaned as he pulled out the knife from his side, too late to prevent the dreamshade from seeping into his blood. It burned, the pain much more excruciating than he'd expected. Whatever substance Lacey had mixed together with the dreamshade had increased its potency, enough that even with the power of all dark ones combined running through him, he couldn't simply heal it. Nor would it be easy to magic himself to his shop where he kept a bottle of the cure for dreamshade poisoning. "...fuck."

Biting sharply down on his lip, he made a flourish motion with his hand and summoned a cloud of magic around him. Its dark smoke enveloped him slower than usual, but still teleported him into his shop. Relief filled his brown eyes upon arrival in the front room of his shop and forcing himself to his feet, he staggered towards the back room. Upon passing the curtain acting as a barrier separating the back and front of his shop, Gold froze.

"What…?" He gaped at the broken cabinet doors and shelving, at the various artifacts both magical and not scattered helter-skelter, and the general disarray of his backroom. Something had happened here while he was away, some violent confrontation that had left most of his stored potions and knickknacks broken or spilled all over the floor. Immediately he thought of Belle, his first thought wondering if this was where Fortunato had stabbed her, only to remember Regina mentioning that that attack had taken place at their home. "What the hell happened…."

'You'll have enough time to worry about who made this mess later, dearie.' His imp self cut in, pulling him away from the suspicion and fear brewing in his brain. 'Find the potion. Or it won't matter what the future holds.'

Even as his subconscious hissed out those words, Gold surveyed the pile of baubles and broken glass, sucking in a breath when he saw the vial he sought. Though not shattered into bits like the other potion jars laying around it, the vial of dreamshade cure was visibly cracked down its length. The clear liquid that it once contained was no longer in it, but rather mixed together with the other potions that'd been on the shelves or soaked into the wooden floor.

"No." Gold swallowed, his vision blurring as the poison spread out from the wound, burrowing its way slowly towards his heart. It felt cold yet burned all the same, the sensation much worse than back when Killian had tried to kill him with a similarly potent brew of dreamshade. He stumbled forward, the table in the center of the room breaking his fall. His sight blurred even more, and the pain from the dreamshade, intensified by whatever alloy had been mixed within the deadly toxin, darkened his vision.

"Gold!" Shouted Emma as she threw open the door to the pawnshop, her countenance chock full of maternal fury. Following closely behind her was Snow White. "Where the hell's Sadie?! I know you took her. You're the only one who'd…."

"Emma." Snow grabbed for her daughter's sleeve, and chewed on her lips nervously. Her own heart and mind were a-mixed with emotion and thoughts, the strongest a desire to find her granddaughter. But slightly less strong was a hope that Gold wasn't behind Sadie's kidnapping. After everything that had happened and how much Belle lost, Snow didn't want the unfortunate mother to lose anyone else. If Gold was behind Sadie's kidnapping, and if anything happened to the infant, he couldn't be allowed to be free in Storybrooke. "According to David, it was George who took…."

Emma glared at her mother. "No. I don't believe that for a moment….Even if it was George who took Sadie, I bet you Gold is behind it." She snapped and headed further into the shop, barely caring about caution or looking around for traps the pawnbroker may have laid. It wasn't until she reached the curtain separating the front and back rooms without resistance that her gut screamed at her that something wasn't right. Gold was cautious and cunning, he would never leave his shop unprotected if there was anything to glean about his plan or whereabouts in it. Emma grimaced. 'Is he not….'

"Argh…kh…."

The sounds of coughing and heavy, struggling breaths from the backroom drew both Emma's and Snow's attention. The former quickly drew back the curtain acting as a door, and entered the backroom, followed swiftly by Snow.

Emma's eyes widened upon seeing Gold collapsed on the floor, clenching his side and struggling to stay conscious. The collapsed shelves, scattered baubles and trinkets cluttering the floor, along with the broken potion vials and whatnot around the struggling pawnbroker painted a picture that caused trepidation to bubble in the sheriff's gut. It froze her, gazing at the disarray; and it took her mother rushing towards Gold while ignoring all else, for Emma to push aside her paralytic fear.

"What happened? Are you all right?!" Snow asked Gold, concerned and apprehensive as she looked over the pawnbroker. Though nothing should've been enough to harm the Dark One, other than the dagger, here Gold was barely able to move and clenching his side.

"Gold?" Emma knelt beside the Dark One, her gut roiling while her brain needled her with questions of who or what could harm Gold, and what it could mean in terms of what happened with Sadie. Swallowing back the urge to simply yell at the pawnbroker and demand to know where Sadie was, Emma grabbed the pawnbroker's wrist to move his hand away so she could see his wound. Although she knew anything that could harm Gold like this was beyond her magic's healing ability.

"...rh." Gold resisted and pulled away from the sheriff's touch, his conscious awareness muddied by pain. The dreamshade burned and gnawed at his insides yet was less agonizing than realizing that Lacey had stabbed him - his wife's future self had done this to him. Poisoned him with dreamshade, and for all he knew it could've been her who destroyed the back of his shop and the vial of dreamshade cure he kept.

'This isn't the time to mope, dearie.' His subconscious hissed in his ear, the imp's expression reflecting displeasure at the Dark One's dire predicament. 'You need to get that cure.'

"How?!" Gold grumbled at the imp, his eyes still shut tight in attempt to block out both the pain and his subconscious pestering him. "It's gone. There's nothing…."

'Nothing to be done?' The imp tittered, his lips spread in a mad and diabolical smirk. 'That isn't entirely true, dearie. And you know it. You just don't want to accept it.' The imp paused a moment, tapping his lip and mulling things over. 'Not that I blame you, considering what it'll mean if it does work.'

Gold bristled unable to ignore his subconscious, and oblivious to Emma and Snow staring at him confused. Neither woman able to see or hear his manifested subconscious, nor could they fully understand his mumbling. It took Emma, furious and worried for her daughter, grabbing hold of Gold's wrist again and wrenching it from his wound, while yelling at him for the pawnbroker to notice either woman.

"You better tell us where Sadie is now." Emma seethed, not at all hesitant to assume that the pawnbroker was behind her daughter's kidnapping. It didn't matter at all that he was wounded and his shop was a mess - she knew in her gut that he was behind Sadie's disappearance. "Now, Rumplestiltskin…." She hissed and grabbed the other by his suit shirt, her eyes livid.

"...hm." His eyes opening as he successfully managed to block out the imp tittering in his ear, Gold stared at Emma, his lips twitching as he focused on her. Her words laced with anger and desperation rung in his ears - he hardly cared that his ruse to frame George for Sadie's kidnapping had apparently failed, all that mattered was Sadie's mother standing before him desperate to find her daughter. "Swan."

"Tell me where Sadie is, Gold." The sheriff scowled, glaring at the pawnbroker.

"...Why would I do that, dearie?" Gold replied, his brogue shifting toward the higher pitched tone of his imp form. That sound much more menacing than his Storybrooke voice, and the two women before him tensed just hearing it.

"Y...you admit you took Sadie?" Snow mumbled, shaking her head as she thought of what David had said upon waking. Her husband had been adamant that George took Sadie, and that the ex-king had knocked him out shortly before leaving.

Gold didn't reply to Snow White's question and instead simply sneered and leered at Emma. The savior's eyes were livid staring back at the pawnbroker's, who seemed to enjoy the other's anger. "Well, dearie?" The Dark One muttered after a prolonged pause, doing his best to ignore the dreamshade burning towards his heart. "Why would I help you?"

Emma sucked in a breath, bristling. "You...want to make a deal? You…." The blonde glared at the pawnbroker, shaking her head in furious disbelief. The next second she elbowed Gold's side hard, causing the man to curse in pain as the assault hit his stab wound. "You tell me where my daughter is or I'll do that again and leave you here to…."

"Emma!" Snow chastised, shocked at her daughter's threat and assault on the wounded pawnbroker. Emma simply flashed her a look. "You can't...he's wounded pretty badly, you can't just…."

"More than wounded, dearie. Dying, actually." Gold interrupted, breathing in a few deep breaths to steady himself. "Dreamshade. A much more potent mixture than what your pirate husband once used in an attempt to kill me." He added after the two woman gaped at his dying comment, and to drive it home, he removed his hand from his side so both could see the tell tale signs of dreamshade poisoning. Once neither woman doubted him, he continued. "Now, dearie, you could continue trying to force me to answer your question, but rest assured I'll be dead before you can get anything out of me. And, in case you need further incentive, I'm the only one who can tell you who has your baby and, more importantly, why she was taken."

He watched, smugly, as Emma grimaced repulsed by the idea of helping Gold, but unable to refuse.

"I…."

"Actually, I might be able to help answer the first part of that." Regina interjected, stepping into the backroom. Glancing around quickly, she too was surprised by the disarray, but recovered from it quicker than either Emma or Snow.

"Regina, you know who took Sadie?" Emma tensed, more shocked at the raven haired mayor knowing who took her daughter than Gold.

Regina cocked an eyebrow, reading the savior's expression easily. "Easy. I'm not responsible. I...have an hunch who took Sadie." She glanced down at Gold, her expression unfathomable as she looked him over. "Considering that who I think it is, attacked me and Maleficent while we were hunting down Kidd's partner."

"...rgh." Gold groaned as he pushed himself up from where he lay, or at least tried to. He only managed to shift himself a few inches. His eyes were filled with apprehension staring at the mayor. "Don't."

"Who is it? Who has my daughter?!" Emma rounded on Regina, ignoring Gold. Her eyebrows furrowed considerably when the mayor hesitated, and glanced at the Dark One struggling on the floor. "Well?"

Regina grimaced, irritated slightly by the sheriff's snapping at her, but mostly her thoughts were on the woman who'd attacked her and the dragon sorceress. "...Belle." She replied while Gold sucked in a breath and tried again to stand up or at least use a spell to stop the ex-evil queen from saying anymore. "Belle has Sadie. Or at least a version of her does."

"...Belle?" Snow gaped while Emma crossed her arms and stared disbelievingly at Regina. It didn't take long though for Emma's disbelief to shift into bafflement, her lie-detecting power telling her that the mayor was telling the truth. "There's no way Belle would kidnap a baby. Regina, you…."

"Why would Belle…." Emma muttered noticing as she did how Gold tried to get up, struggling to get to the ex-evil queen before she said anything more. It wasn't concrete evidence, but the expression on the Dark One's face at mention of his wife's name erased all doubt in Emma's head. "You said, 'a version of her' has Sadie. What do you mean?"

"I'm not entirely sure what's going on, but the Belle who attacked me and Maleficent, and who likely has Sadie, isn't exactly...current...Belle. I caught a glimpse of her and she seemed older. Sounded older too. Older and...harsher."

"Older? She…."

"Shut up, Regina." Gold snapped, glaring at the raven-haired mayor, his face contorted in rage and pain, while his eyes reflected fear. Wariness. "Don't…."

"I think that this other Belle has traveled back from the future, somehow. Why, I have no idea. But…." Regina stared down at Gold, her expression softening a bit. "She took Belle...our Belle with her."

"What?!" Gold's eyes widened, the fearful gleam in his eyes shifting to anger. "She has her? She…." The venom in the Dark One's voice surprised all three women, not a single one of them expecting Gold to direct such anger towards his wife.

"...Gold? What…."

"We need to find her, she can't...urgh…." Gold bit down harshly on his lip, drawing blood as he pulled himself up, worry for his wife propelling him past his agony. "Belle's…." He mumbled before staggering forward, crashing to Emma and Snow. The two of them along with Regina helped to stop him stumbling back to the floor, while he bristled against needing the help. "I…."

"Gold, it's okay, you need to sit and…."

Gold scowled angrily at Emma who spoke without thinking, the glare he gave her chilling. It took very little other prodding for Emma as well as Snow to remember about the dreamshade and the Dark One's comment about dying.

"Rumplestiltskin…." Snow chewed on her fingernail, while Gold pulled away from Emma and Regina, propping himself up using the table in the center of the room. As he did so the hole in his shirt where the poisoned knife was stabbed through was visible to Regina, and her eyes widened seeing the evidence of dreamshade poisoning around the wound. Having reached the backroom as the pawnbroker mentioned being the only one who knew who took Sadie, the ex-evil queen had missed the part on Gold being poisoned.

"Gold, who…."

"That isn't your concern, dearie." He growled and raised his right hand a bit while holding himself up with his left. Before any of the women could stop him, he made a flourishing motion with his hand and magicked a small gilded chest onto the table. "This is."

"...What is that?" Emma asked, tilting her head as she glanced over the gilded, yet otherwise ordinary seeming jewelry box.

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The Time Reggie Jackson Got His Ass Whooped In The Clubhouse By A Teammate

Oakland Outfielder Reggie Jackson, left, pulls the collar of his boss, club owner Charles Finley, right, with As Manager Dick Williams, center, watching, Oct. 2, 1971, Baltimore, Md. Jackson was remarking about Finleys bright green jacket as they waited out a rainy day at a Baltimore hotel. (Photo credit: Bob Daugherty/AP)

The following is excerpted from Dynastic, Bombastic, Fantastic: Reggie, Rollie, Catfish, and Charlie Finley’s Swingin’ A’s, by Jason Turbow. The book is available now on Amazon. Jason will be joining us later today to take your questions, and chat about the book.

It was late May when the A’s reached Arlington Stadium, the new home of the Texas Rangers, freshly relocated from Washington, DC, and things were terrific. With Vida recently back, Oakland was 23-11, two games up in the American League West. It was the start of a 14-game road trip, and as players filtered into the clubhouse they began to settle into their travel routines. The team’s pass lists sat atop a picnic table at the far side of the room: a blue sheet for players to leave tickets for family members (the better seats), and a white sheet for friends. Reggie Jackson hovered above them, eyes squinting in scrutiny, until one name in particular caught his eye. “Berman?” he asked, perusing the blue list. “Who put down for these?” Per Rangers policy, players were allowed four seats from the blue list and only two from the white, so first baseman Mike Epstein had used his family passes for friends of his father—the delightfully named Sherman Berman and family—to ensure that they sat together. This was not unusual practice.

“I did,” said the slugger, “and it’s none of your business.”

“I’m appointing it my business,” replied Jackson.

Epstein had arrived in the middle of the 1971 season, along with reliever Darold Knowles, via a trade with Washington. The six-foot-three, 230-pounder had hit 30 home runs for the Senators in 1969, but soon thereafter fell into platoon use, during which time he was increasingly described as temperamental. (“Moodiness,” Epstein rationalized in response, “is an outgrowth of pride in a person.”) Still, he was just what the A’s needed, slugging 18 home runs in 104 games after coming over, and becoming a staple in the heart of their order. Now he was in a stare-down with the team’s biggest star. “Don’t buy more than you can handle,” Epstein warned.

Years’ worth of proximity enabled the players who came up with Jackson—Duncan, Rudi, Bando—to differentiate his confrontational, bark-not-bite nature from something actually nefarious. For guys like Epstein who were new to the team, however, such distinctions were not always so easy.

Most of the players had only just arrived at the ballpark and were still dressing when the exchange took place. Watching the brewing confrontation warily, Joe Rudi was the first to pipe up. “Back off,” he sternly warned Reggie. “Don’t mess with him.”

Reggie did not back off. “Those are family tickets, and there ain’t no Jews in Texas,” he said, invoking Epstein’s Semitic heritage. With that, he grabbed a pen and crossed out the names, one by one. Epstein, a former fullback on the Cal football team, flew off his seat as if at a tackling dummy. Reggie had no chance. “This was not a typical baseball fight,” recalled Ken Holtzman, who watched it go down from his nearby locker. “This was a fight fight.”

Epstein threw Jackson to the floor, straddling him and peppering him with punches. When he grabbed Reggie by the throat and began choking him, traveling secretary Tom Corwin raced to get Dick Williams, and players jumped up to intercede. First to the fray was Gene Tenace, hardly a diminutive figure, who found himself entirely unable to budge the irate behemoth. “Reggie’s eyes are spinning around in his head and I think, this ain’t working,” said Tenace, looking back. “I’ve got to get his hands off of Reggie. How am I going to do that?” Eventually the catcher wrapped his forearm around Epstein’s windpipe and, with full force, pulled. Epstein fell backward onto Tenace, sending both men tumbling to the floor. With all three players on the ground, Williams burst into the room.

“When Dick came out, it must have looked like Mike and I were taking out Reggie,” recalled Tenace. “Reggie’s laying over there on the floor, and Mike is laying on my chest. I’m exhausted from pulling this stinking animal off of Reggie, and then all of a sudden here comes Dick, and Dick’s screaming at me and Mike. I’m going, ‘Why is he screaming at me?’”

Tenace’s response—“Man, if I wasn’t here you might not have a right fielder”—bought him little goodwill. Williams ordered all three players into his office. Reggie—“cross-eyed and half out of it,” according to Tenace—took one of two chairs, Epstein the other. Tenace leaned against a wall. When Williams began to yell, the catcher piped up.

“Hey, Skip, wait a second,” he said. “You’ve got this all wrong. First of all . . .”

Williams wanted no part of it. “Shut up!” he shouted. “I’ll ask the questions!”

By that point the entire team had gathered outside the closed office door, trying to catch snippets of conversation. The manager’s anger—a hail of proclamations, curses, and threats—was directed primarily at Tenace and Epstein, until Epstein interrupted. “Gene is right,” he said. “He’s the one who got me off of Reggie. He wasn’t even involved.”

Williams eyed Tenace warily. “Get your ass out of here, Geno,” he spat.

Never one to miss an opening, Tenace piped up. “You sure you want me to leave you in here with these two guys?” he grinned.

“Get your ass out of here, Geno!” Williams screamed.

When Tenace opened the office door, he found himself nose to nose with half the roster. “Screw it,” he thought to himself. “If something else goes down, they’ll take care of it.”

Eventually, Williams talked Epstein and Jackson into agreeing that they could hate each other without killing each other. Clubhouse opinion, meanwhile, was divided. Those who came up with Jackson understood the delicacy of his personality, but some of the younger players were less forgiving. As Hunter walked by the whirlpool later in the day, rookie George Hendrick, having a soak, called him over. “Who the hell grabbed Epstein and broke up the fight?” he asked, angry at the intervention. “I wanted to see Epstein kick the shit out of Reggie.”

Drama or no, upon leaving Texas, Oakland won nine of ten games. If anything, the fight solidified their ability to derive strength from strife, and served to illustrate that no matter how much the players might loathe one another, there was always one guy in the equation they loathed even more. Enter Finley.

The Owner had enjoined Reggie in repeated battles of will ever since the slugger reached the big leagues in 1967. Now, however, he surprised many by taking Jackson’s side. Maybe it was that despite Reggie’s faults he was still Finley’s guy—drafted and raised and nurtured into stardom by the Owner—while Epstein was an outsider. Or maybe Finley simply wanted to break somebody new. Before the following day’s game he got Epstein on the phone and cut to the chase. “Who the fuck do you think you are, beating up my star player?” he shouted.

“Excuse me?” said Epstein.

“I traded for you,” Finley said. “You’re not one of my players. I could get you back to Washington just as fast as a phone call. You’re the apple that’s going to spoil the bunch. You’re ruining this team!”

Epstein was uncowed. “You’ve got it reversed,” he said. “The guy who’s the problem is the guy that I knocked out on the floor. I did you a favor.” Then he cut to his own chase: “Why don’t you just trade me now?” he asked.

Finley was angry, but he was not stupid. Epstein was a key cog. A trade could wait until after the season, Finley told the first baseman, at which point he’d be good as gone.

After the season, he was.

From Dynastic, Bombastic, Fantastic. Copyright 2017, Jason Turbow. Excerpted with permission by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

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