#glacier shut the fuck up

[glacierclear]

leon kennedy headcanons (things he would do that arent positive)(lighthearted/don't take these too seriously)

- he would leave the toilet seat up

- and he would never put the toilet paper roll in the right way

- he'd get up and leave in the middle of any conversation that upsets him (like, in the middle of his partner trying to talk to him about difficult topics)

- he would sneeze/cough like a dad

- he would wear socks until they have holes in the toes

- he would grab you a little too hard when he's nervous about your safety. in that weird helicopter partner way.

- .......passive aggression

- bad at communication. doesn't text or call enough. can't take a compliment.

- emotionally unavailable as fuck

- he would leave a sliver of milk left in the carton and put it back into the fridge instead of just drinking the rest

- on that note; drinks straight out of the bottle or jug. like, standing in front of the open fridge. (I do this too lmao)

- would get mad if you give him gifts that are too expensive.

- mega light sleeper.

- kicks in his sleep.

- I have no evidence to support this but I think this man picks out the veggies in his fried rice.

- doesn't separate the colors in the washing machine

- maybe a little road rage. as a treat.

- wouldn't know the difference between an alligator and a crocodile

- so sweaty. even when he's asleep. sweaty sweaty man.

- wouldn't let you even split the cost of any meal he takes you too. (maybe positive or negative depending on who you are)

- hogs the blanket

- falls asleep during movies sometimes (you're happy he's getting some rest but goddammit leon this is plot relevant dialogue you're missing)

- wouldn't tell you if you have a booger hanging out of your nose

- his feet are so fucking cold leon get your toes off of me I'm gonna die

[softer-ua]

Villain getting handcuffed and put in the van

🦹🏼: OH THANK GOD YOUR FINALLY HERE!!! GET ME AWAY FROM THESE FREAKS!!!!

🐷: … you mean the top three hero’s??? You can’t call the hero’s of our nation freaks?!

🦹🏼: Look at them!!! The blonde clearly has rabies, he’s literally frothing at the mouth and has tried to bite me once already?!! The red and white haired freak in the boiler man suit hasn’t blinked once since he arrived, not once!!!

🦹🏼:And, and the green one?!! His smile hasn’t wavered, not even when he dislocated my knee with his steal shoes, not even when I managed to have a street lamp fall on him, not when the unblinking maintenance guy set my cap on fire and trapped the remains ice(chocking me!!), not when the blonde dog blew up a overhanging statue and almost killed me and he smiled even brighter!!!

🦹🏼: in fucking fact he’s only gotten happier?!!! He’s loving that he’s holding that rabid fucker back from biting me!!! He’s a psychopath!!! He’s a deranged menace who not only enjoys hurting me but gets satisfaction from being hit, frankly I don’t think his heavy breathing is from exertion, I think he’s imagining letting the blonde rip out my spleen rn

🐷: you’re the insane one here buddy, those three are shining pillars of our community and you should show some respect!

🦹🏼: this can’t be legal, it’s at minimum excessive force, and it feels cruel and unusual

[clarafordahwin]

Good:

[peachesofteal]

The Pit

COD masterlist Part 1/2 - Part 2

Ghost/Soap/female reader 6.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dub con, kidnapping, manipulative hurt/comfort, whump, the guys shave you, humiliation, forced orgasm, predator/prey, medical inaccuracies. Clothed males/naked female. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Horror-ish. Misery inspired.

Winter in the mountains can be cruel. 

This is something you’ve always known, even as a child. You were raised with it. Chose to return to it after school, decided to make a go of it, of a life here, as an adult. You knew what you were getting yourself into, long cold winters that felt both bleak and promising, unblemished blankets of snow possessing the ability to be stunning, while also lethal. Winters were dangerous, silent killers that left corpses in their wake and no amount of lupine or paintbrushes, glacier fed lakes or springtime moose calves could make up for the hell that winter wrought. Winter brings most living things to the knife’s edge of survival, forcing most to bow beneath the weight of its fury, backs breaking with the burden of just existing in an environment that truly acts, and feels, inhospitable. 

Although, there are those who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter.

There are predators who thrive. 

“You closin’?” Your coworker, the new one, asks from where she’s settled across the dark wood bar, two amber Budweiser bottles empty in front her idle hands, eyes wandering to guys posted up by the loneliest pool table in fifty square miles. 

“I am.” She casts the only window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top. 

“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod. 

“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new place this weekend.” 

“Fall River? Is that even open right now?” Andy, a regular who lives a few streets over from you, chimes in, twisting an empty rocks glass in his fist. You pull the bottle of Jameson from the rail and tip it vertical, honey brown liquid sloshing like a wave until his glass is halfway full, and he gives you a flirty kind of smile, the same one he’s been giving you for a year now. Yeeesh.

“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with weekend traffic.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. The traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts. 

“Like you haven’t been gettin’ good use out of them? First real snow was before Halloween this year.” You nod. He’s not wrong. You did get dumped on two weeks before the end of October, twenty-three inches piling up within two days, before half the area was even ready for it. You throw him a polite smile, one that you hope reads like ‘okay thanks for the concern, we’re done now’ and he sighs. “Well, drive safe.” 

Fall River pass, it turns out, is not open. It’s closed by the time you split off from the interstate and start the windy, switch-backed trek in your jeep, flashing orange and yellow lights dotting the top of a barricade just barely visible through the speckled snow flying by in your headlights. 

Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained option, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse. 

The other road, a sharp, narrow, desolate path that cuts through a large swath of unmanaged forest just outside the national park, is easy at first. You’ve been driving the same jeep for years, a 2007 two door Wrangler, and you know how it handles like the back of your hand. With snow tires, it could pretty much cut through anything, even unplowed, fire watch roads like this one. 

Which is why, after the first few miles, your nerves fully settle, and you allow yourself to relax a little bit behind the wheel, easing the jeep across the dips and slicks in the road as you cautiously build speed, snow falling fast through night, growing thicker the higher you travel into wilderness territory, and the farther you left modern civilization behind. 

An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It runs perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.

Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded. 

You pull your phone from the center console, thumbing at the screen, allowing your eyes to linger too long without looking back up through the windshield. No one else is out here. It’s not like you need to worry about oncoming traffic. The little SOS insignia blinks at the top corner, and you tap on the map icon, hoping it will bring up your geo location so you can glance at the satellite image of the area. 

You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, shoving the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling. 

Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and streaks spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you alone in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body. 

It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm. 

You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and- 

You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, darkness pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath. 

You could just close your eyes. Just for a moment. 

Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding. 

But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black depth, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind. 

Sleep. 

You’re drifting. Falling through a stardusted, molasses filled haze, your mind ebbs and flows with consciousness; soft and warm feelings contrasted with sharp pain that bites through your body as if it’s slowly trying to eat you, chipping away piece by piece.

There are words, voices. There are hands too, fingers walking across your skin, limbs being moved, arranged, always with pain that’s followed by a hushed whisper of apology, a confusing sentiment in the dark. Your eyes won’t open. Your mouth won’t work. Your head is stuffed with cotton, wispy strands of connections that can’t quite get there, scrounging along the walls of your skull, trying to meet in the middle. You’re drowning, sinking to the bottom of a macabre pool, the one that’s infected your synapses and kept you just inside the shelter of delirium.

You try to call for help, but you can’t.

You try to swim to the surface, but the grisly black of your mind is never ending.

You’re dying, the tiny sliver of rational thought assures. Or you’re already dead.

Despair swells, and if you could feel your face, you’d think you were crying, lost to the sweeping desolation of your pain. It steals your breathe. Your sense. Everything becomes secondary to the obliterating agony that you feel. 

Something touches your cheek. Your eyes fight to open, straining against the heaviness that weighs on them, just barely blinking wide enough to let some light in, your vision fuzzily trying to focus.

Wood beams come into view. A ceiling? Where-

You try to turn your head but an electric shock rattles through your brain, forcing you to slam your eyes shut again, world spinning on an uneven axis as something on the edge of your sight shifts. A monster. A man?

Something is said, whispered, and then everything fades away, your mind and body slipping beneath the waves of darkness.

The next time you surface, you manage to cling to consciousness long enough to take stock of your surroundings, realizing you’re tucked into a soft, warm bed almost immediately, something hot near your feet, pillows fluffed beneath you. A hand stitched quilt is spread across the top of copious other blankets and sheets, and your fingertips scratch against the fabric. Flannel.

You’re also awake long enough to truly experience the pain you’re in.

One thousand tiny knives rattle around in your skull, slicing into the soft matter of your brain, tearing you apart piece by piece, everything in you unmoored and off balance. Searing pain radiates up your leg, through your arm and wrist to your head and neck, and when your instinct urges you to try to move, your body screams in protest, the pain so intense that you cry out.

That’s when you see him.

A man steps towards you from the edge of your peripheral, and you freeze in terror.

“Shhh. We’re not goin’ hurt ye. Ye had a terrible accident. Pure luck we found ye when we did, dove. Ye would’ve died out there.” He coos in an accent, inching closer, and you manage to get a better look at him, recognition failing immediately. An accident? An accident… memories come flooding back, broken clips of the jeep spinning, rolling, the woods, the fear. Who is he? Where are you? Brilliant blue eyes look down at you with concern, handsome face tweaked into worry, furrow in his brow partially covered by the long strands of an overgrown mohawk. He’s pretty. “Can ye follow my finger?” He presents one in front of your nose, but it splits into two, and then three, just the attempt to focus enough to make your head throb, and a whimper escapes from your throat. “I know, I know.” There’s a ceramic mug in his hand, and he carefully lifts it to your lips, encouraging you as he tips it back, warm, sweet liquid washing down your throat. You can’t even move your arms to push him away, and when he seems to be satisfied, his thumb wipes the corner of your mouth. “Good love. Well done.” You feel woozy all of the sudden, maybe even a little nauseous, and you think you could be hallucinating when another man appears at the foot of the bed, handsome, but in a rugged way, watching you with honeyed brown eyes, the broadest, biggest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Those bones need setting.” He says, and the pretty one grimaces, fingertips trailing along your cheek.

“Maybe tomorrow. I’m still worried about the concussion.” His thumb cards across your brow.

“It’s been three days, Johnny. Can’t put it off too much longer.” Three days? Your brain latches onto the time. Three days of what? Since when? You’re starting to fade, trying to focus on what they’re saying but losing the battle horrendously when the blankets shift, warmth tucking down around your waist and shoulders, unable to react or even speak when they both press a kiss to your forehead, affectionate and longing touch that startles you until you’re losing the battle to sleep.

It's snowing.

You don’t have to see to know. There’s something about how it hangs in the air, how the world sounds during a snowfall that blankets everything: houses, trees, mountains… your mind.

You love the snow. Even as a child, winter was your favorite. Winter brought you a sense of calm, of peace. It’s what brought you back here, kept you here, even amidst the perils. The feeling of a forest, lying still beneath the soft spun expanse of white, the crisp smell of the air the morning of a big snow, the eternal quiet that exists in the night when everything is dampened by the weight of a million, billion, uniquely crystalized webs of frozen water.

This snow feels different. It doesn’t feel like a velvety white, candy-coated dream world; but a nightmare… one filled with pain, anxiety. Where are you? What’s happened? 

And why do you hurt so fucking bad? 

“You’re awake.” A deep voice says from your side, and you flinch on instinct, immediately wishing you hadn’t as lightning sharp pain zings through you, your voice breaking with a cry. “Easy.” He cautions, and your head stops swimming long enough for you to realize it’s the brown eyed man, the bigger one. He’s sitting in a chair that looks far too small for his width, watching you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Where… am I?” You manage to choke out through stiff lips, your head spinning and the world tilting at the same time. It sours your stomach, more than you thought possible, and you try to swallow the burn of bile that’s racing up your throat.

“Are you going to be sick?” He strokes your face, the touch nearly sweet, but confusing, and you hold your tongue, unsure. He sighs, expression shifting into disapproval, and then a frown. “Tell me.”

“N-no, I don’t-“ You can’t even finish your denial before your stomach is heaving and he’s springing into action, shifting you onto your side where a clean bucket sits right next to the bed. You wail in misery, pain shooting through your leg and arm, your ribs, bile and spit leaking from your mouth.

“It’s alright, that’s it.” A hand soothes up and down your back as you dry heave, sputtering on nothing, tears dripping to the wooden floorboards with a splash.

“Nnrgh-“

“I know, I know. Poor thing.” He coos, and it sounds… endearing, so sweet yet… frightening, like the poison of a predatory, a pretty display meant to draw you in before it snaps a set of jaws shut around your face.

Somewhere, nestled inside the last shards of your sanity, an alarm bell whistles, but the intensity of your pain quickly drowns it out, and you cry aloud.

“Hurts.” He rolls you back to your original position, arranging you like a doll. “It hurts.”

“I know it does, sweet girl, I know. We’re going to fix it.” A cloth dabs at your forehead and then down to clean your mouth, just as the man with the mohawk appears on the bed, one knee down, leaning over you, worry rife in his features.

“Poor baby. Were ye sick again?” Again? You blink up at him. What is going on? He presses a glass to your lips, urging you to drink, and then pulling it away after you’ve had a few sips with a gentle “not too much.”

“Who are you?” The water is cold, refreshing, but a ting acidic, and you wonder if it’s well water, maybe?

“I’m Johnny.” He’s setting up something beside you, organizing it, but you can’t turn your head to look, and can’t quite catch it from your peripheral. “An’ this is Simon. Or Si, but ye probably willnae be callin’ him that quite yet.” Quite yet? What? Did they find you? Did they rescue you? Why can’t you remember? 

“What happened.” You try again, gritting your teeth.

“Ye had an accident, remember? We talked about it yesterday. Ye rolled off the road, ended up nearly down the mountain, in the thick of the trees. Ye’re lucky the one didnae impale ye.” Impale?

“And you found me?” You're starting to feel tired again, all the sudden, woozy and weird, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. Shouldn't you be in a hospital? Why haven't they taken you to a doctor?

“Aye, we did. Pulled ye out, brought ye home.” Home?

“You don’t have to worry.” Simon, the bigger one, tells you. “We’re going to take care of you.” Take care of who? Everything is foggy, clouded, and you try to shake your head in confusion.

“I don’t… why-“

“Storm is pretty bad. One of those, once in a lifetime types. Pass is closed.” You close your eyes. Of course. The pass is closed. You guess you’re lucky. They could have left you to die, and you could have never been found. You could have frozen to death. Bled out.

“Thank… thank you.” Johnny hums, and then you ripple in shock as he leans forward and brushes his lips against your mouth in a kiss. This… this is not normal? Are Scottish people just… more affectionate? 

“Want ye to know, if we didnae have to do this, we woudnae.” What?

“Do what?” Simon casts you a mournful glance, rising from the chair. He’s got piece of leather in his hand, like a cut from a belt, and your eyes dart between them, fear freezing solid inside your pores. Do what?

“Bite down on this, precious.” Simon instructs, placing the swatch against your bottom lip, and you jerk away in protest, pain burning through your body.

“Do what?” You try to sound strong, demanding, but it comes out a little less than timid, and he gives you a sad smile.

“Your femur is broken.” A warm hand rests on your leg, over the covers, and you try to click the pieces together. “And I suspect your radius is, too. We need to set them.”

Oh. Oh no. 

“N-no, no, you… you ca-can’t.” You stutter. They can’t. A doctor should be doing that, shouldn’t they? Johnny hovers over you, placing his palm on your belly, stroking upwards to the middle of your chest, the other holding firm across your collarbone. His touch is gentle, but strong, and his thumb rubs in a cautious motion against your skin, lightly grazing the underside of your breast. It feels weird, and wrong… intimate in a way that makes you shiver. “Please. Please, please… don’t-“

“It’s alright.” He shushes you, and the pressure increases against your body as Simon wedges a thick finger between your teeth, slipping the worn leather in your mouth, bracing around your wrist, his other hand holding your elbow. You gasp for air, adrenaline fueled by pain and fear coursing through you, and Johnny coos, telling you ye’ll be alright, that ye’re with them now, and they’ll take such good care of ye. 

“Take a deep breath.” Simon urges, and you stare at him, wide eyed, pulse thundering in your ears.

“Ye’ll probably pass out, bonnie. We’ll get the second one done while ye’re down, and I already gave ye somethin’ for the pain.” He assures, like it’s supposed to relieve you, and your nostrils flare as something tightens against your arm. Simon’s grip. 

This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. How can this happen? No, nononono-

There’s a crack. A crunch. Burning, obliterating torture rockets up your arm, exploding inside you like a shot. You scream and bite down at the same time, raw misery trying to claw it’s way out of your throat. You think you’re crying, hallucinating from the pain, having a heart attack, fucking dying, all at once. It hurts, it hurts so bad, stop, please-

“We’re sorry, we’re sorry.” Simon soothes, thumb wiping your cheek, but you can hardly hear him, your brain starting to sever itself from reality, floating away as you slip inside the dark tomb of your mind, losing yourself to the fog as they both stare down at you, sickeningly saccharine concern layered overtop the faces of wolves, predators licking their maws in preparation for a meal.

You sleep and wake in a haze.

You sleep. Your dreams are torments, visions of being chased through the mountains by monsters, being pinned to the ground, teeth tearing into your throat with no preamble, or nightmares of drowning, being swallowed by the ocean, lungs sputtering with concrete laden sea water.

You wake. Your vision blurs, mind scrambled by pain, vaguely aware of being moved, carried to the bathroom, held upright over a toilet, gentle touch soothing up and down your back, heavy palm cupping curve of your skull when your head is tipped back and something is dribbled past your lips. You blink blearily with stone weighted lids, taking in the room bit by bit, the wrought iron bed frame, crackling flames sparking in a fireplace, mountain of pillows sagging with the imprint of your body. Your limbs are wrapped and unwrapped, immobilized, and shifted, and the pain is enough to make you gasp for air, tipping you over into the decaying depths of unconsciousness again and again.

You sleep. Restless, chilled. Ice spreads from the nerves in the tip of your nose to your brain, your fingers, and you try to burrow it deeper, seeking the comfort of the pillows, but finding warm skin and muscle instead. In your sleep, it’s lovely. It’s comforting. Even when you’re rolled to your side, something sticking under your tongue, you chase the heady thick heat that seems to roll off the limbs around you.

You wake. There are voices, deep and rumbling, bouncing through the room. Warm water dabbing down your neck, your belly, your legs. You’re too hot, uncomfortable and smothered until you hear a sharp pitched snarl accompanied by a yank, and then there’s a void of emptiness around you.

You sleep.

You wake. The pain starts to change, melting into something that’s consistent, throbbing, but a little less sharp, unless you move, and then it shrieks through your nerves like an electrical shock, vibrating your jaw shut.

You sleep.

You wake. They’re there. Simon is dabbing a cool washcloth across your forehead. You try to flex away on instinct, but firm hands stop you, holding you in place.

“Hey there, dove.” Johnny whispers, smiling. It’s a shy kind of smile, sweet, and the world spins. You grapple with reality, trying to remind yourself where you are, what happened. The fire snaps and pops behind Simon, who stands at his side, massive hand on his shoulder. “Made ye some breakfast. Think ye can eat somethin’?” Breakfast? A steaming bowl of oats sits cradled in his hand, spoon at the ready. Nausea roars, enflamed by the pain in your bones, and you shake your head. “Ye need to eat. Been givin’ ye soup for the past few days, but ye need more carbs.”

“I- I don’t understand.” You try to explain your confusion, hundreds of questions brewing on your tongue, trying to spill out.

“You’ve been in and out consciousness for the last week.” Simon explains, and your eyes widen.

“What?” Panic knots, twisting you up tight, heart fluttering in your chest.

“We had to sedate you. Needed to keep you still through the first part of the healing process.”

“You… you drugged me?” You stammer, and Simon smiles, but it’s not sweet like Johnny’s. It’s severe. It’s dangerous.

“Soft calluses form around fractures, after they’ve been set.” He sits down on the other side of the bed, across your hips from Johnny. “Your breaks aren’t in casts, so we needed to minimize your movement until the calluses could strengthen.”

“Ye willnae be able to walk on the leg, or lift anything with that arm, but we’ll help ye.” Johnny assures. “We’ll be here for ye, as ye get better.” The words don’t compute, and you look at both of their faces, sweeping back and forth, blue eyes to brown, brown to blue, until the only thing that you can think of blurts out of your mouth:

“Where’s my phone?” There’s a flash of discontent in Johnny’s features, but it’s quickly smoothed away, and you wonder if it even there in the first place.

“I imagine it’s somewhere near where your jeep rolled. We weren’t exactly concerned with finding it, considering we were trying to save your life.” Simon’s hands flex in the sheets, and then relax, serious look on his face, and guilt swamps you. Right. They saved your life. You could have died. And the pass is closed. Maybe this is all… as normal as it can be, given the situation. Calm down. 

Still… 

Didn’t Johnny kiss you? 

The spoon clinks against the bowl, jolting you back to the moment, eyeing the scoop of oats as it drifts closer to your mouth, lips parting on instinct.

The first bite is difficult, an insipid, unsavory lump sliding down into your stomach, toothy grin stretching across Johnny’s face as you swallow. The second bite is easier. So is the third, and you manage a few more after that until you start to feel wooly, head fuzzy and stomach sick. “I can’t.” You bleat, and he nods sympathetically.

“Alright, ye did good.” Sleep tugs, insistent again, strong surge of fog pulling at your eyes, and you yawn.

“Tired?” Simon’s already moving, hovering, patiently adjusting your pillows and lazily urging you into them. “You should rest.” You’re too weak, too miserable to argue, so you let yourself fade to black, easily falling back into the webbed slush of sleep.

You drift in and out for days after that. A bright spot of consciousness here and there before it dissipates and you fall into oblivion, and you find yourself embracing it as often as possible, trying to escape into yourself, away from wooden beams and potential predators that flank you.

You’re content to let it stay that way, hiding away behind closed lids for as long as possible, until the morning you feel the washcloth.

“Sh-sh-shhh.” Johnny hums when you garble out a distressed question, tipping a glass to your mouth. Cold liquid rushes across your tongue, and you have no choice but to swallow, confusion webbing across your thoughts. Simon has the blankets pulled away, chilled air nipping and your skin, and you moan. It’s strange, like you’re exposed, half floating like you’re high, and half spiraling through your pain.

“It’s okay, we’ve got you.” They’re repositioning you, arms and legs like a little doll, and you frown. “Jus’ need to get you clean.” Clean? The washcloth coasts across your neck and down to your chest, warm water soaking a trail down your breasts. You’re naked, fully, a hot palm against your hip, skin on skin contact registering as you blink fuzzily, watching the way Johnny focuses on you, concentration shining in his stunning blue eyes.

Water sloshes. Squeezing and dripping, and then the warm, nearly hot cloth is being pressed against you, stroking over your nipples, washing the underside of your breasts. It feels nice, and you whine a little when it pulls away. Simon chuckles.

“Do ye like that?” Johnny coos, reapplying the cloth to your belly. “Does that feel good?” Does it? Is it supposed to? Your vision doubles then realigns, and you stare at the underside of Simon’s jaw, mesmerized by the scar on his chin, the width of his neck. He readjusts you, again, slowly moving your knees apart, spreading your legs, and heat climbs through your bones to your cheeks.

You’re naked. They’re fully clothed. 

“We’re goin’ clean this up a bit.” Simon murmurs, a thick finger tracing along your slit, through the soft curls between your legs, and you balk. Clean what? How?

“My… my-“ you can’t even get the words out, too embarrassed, and he nods, sliver flash of a razor twinkling in his hand. The air in your chest sputters.

“Your hair.” Johnny works the washcloth back and forth, water dripping down your skin to the towel that’s been placed under your hips, you can only lay there in mortification when you feel yourself getting wet, tepid arousal roaring to life between your legs. “If you’re a good girl for us,” Simon continues, spraying a big glob of shaving cream into Johnny’s palm, “we’ll give you a treat afterwards. How’s that sound?”

“A treat?”  You squeak, and then whimper, Johnny’s fingers creeping down your slit, rubbing the cream across your pubis and labia, heel brushing against your clit. You make a noise of a protest, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Ye’re alright.” He coos, bumping against the swollen bud again, and you try to stop the moan that builds in your chest with no success, slamming your eyes shut and trying to disappear into the pillows. “It’s natural, dove. Ye dinnae need to feel embarrassed.” He leans forward, slotting his mouth against yours, lips soft and fragrant in a pillowy sweet kiss that lasts too long, his eyes blissfully closed in front of your almost crossed ones. 

“Please…” you whisper, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, and Johnny coos at you, bending at the waist to get a better vantage point between your legs. You shake your head, eyes wide with disbelief, with fear, your mind trying to catch up, trying to rationalize what’s happening at the same time as your body is betraying you, slicking the cream that’s lathered between your thighs, clit pulsing with desperate need.

“I- I don’t want you to… shave me.” You whisper. You don’t want them to touch you… there, and the panic that’s pulsing between your ears continues to rise as your protests go unnoticed. Just saying it out loud makes you want to die of embarrassment, and Simon clucks.

“We have to take care of you, sweet girl.” Simon grips your thigh, fingers pressing into flesh, and the cool blade of the razor moves against the grain with a flick of his wrist, drawing back to a bucket for a rinse before a repeat, breath frozen in your chest as he slowly eliminates the curls of your pubic hair. “It will be easier to do that, to see what you need without all this.” He hums, the smile of a wolf coy on his face. “Stay nice and still for us.” They work in tandem, perfectly synchronized, and your unwanted arousal starts to overpower the pain that’s radiating from your broken bones. It’s been so, so long since you’ve been touched by anyone, and your body does not care that you didn’t want this, or agree to it, too eager to be satisfied, to be touched in anyway it can get, and it gets worse, more intense the longer it goes on, the precise movements of their hands, the slow and methodical approach to your cunt. “Almost done.” Simon tells you, and the side of his finger passes over your clit unintentionally, and you whine. “I know, I know. You’re bein’ so good. Such a good girl.” Your good hand is shaking, gripping the sheets, and when he finishes, Johnny wipes you down with a clean cloth, passing over your clit again and again, electric shocks sparking in your belly. You’re paralyzed, helpless, and yet… soaked. Desperate. The warring emotions tear at you, shame and fear and desire rendering you speechless.

“I think ye need some relief, dove.” Johnny hums, looking from your pussy to Simon, both of them tilting their heads to stare between your legs. “Poor thing is so swollen, Si.”

“Do you want to touch her, Johnny? Give her a reward?” Simon asks him, so sweetly, and Johnny shimmies down to be eye level with your pussy, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Half of you screams no. Half of you shouts yes.

All you can do is watch, helplessly, as they settle themselves between your legs, Simon over Johnny’s shoulder, tempering his frenzied excitement with assured patience. 

“Will ye show me how?” He’s eager, and you frown, confused.

“Johnny’s never made a girl come before,” Simon tells you gently. “You’ll be his first.” Oh my god. “Will you help him? Tell him what feels good?” Your brain melts. You don’t know what to say, mouth half open, staring at the both of them, and after a few seconds, Simon sighs like he’s exasperated with you, before ducking back down next to Johnny and murmuring softly to him, probing along your cunt, finger dipping into your hole, swirling in the wetness gathered there and then moving up to your slit. You gasp, eyes nearly rolling back in your head.

“She likes that.” Johnny groans, breath blowing over your exposed flesh, and Simon takes his hand, thumb over thumb, guiding him in small circles around your clit.

 “Nice an’ slow at first, when you’re rubbin’ her clit. Feel how hard it is?” He instructs, pressing a kiss to the side of Johnny’s head, and he nods enthusiastically, looking up at Simon with wide, puppy dog eyes, sappy and saturated with love. It’s sweet, and affectionate, like they’re the only ones in the room, in the world… and you’re intruding on a private moment between these two men and your body. Like you’re a bystander. Or a doll. It’s confusing, your brain trying to sort everything that’s happening into neat little boxes that keep overflowing or falling apart, fracturing under the weight of your helplessness, the shock and fear that’s nearly made you dizzy. “See how her little hole is clenchin’ like that? It’s ‘cause she’s empty, needs to be filled up. When she comes, she’ll get real tight.” He explains, your body enflaming in mortified heat. They’re pushing you closer and closer to an orgasm, and Simon increases the speed as your hips jolt.

“Fuck.” You hiss.

“That’s it.” Simon coaches. “Are you close, sweet girl? Gonna come for us?” You shake your head, but even if you wanted to close your legs, you couldn’t. You’re trapped, lost in a sea of wild waves that break directly over your head, one after another until you’re drowning, gasping, muscles so tight they burn, pain in your arm and leg a secondary concern behind the pressure in your belly, the zap of your clit as they drag you too easily to the bottom, before sending you breaking through the surface.

You come with a distressed moan, hips jerking, and then a raspy plea for them to stop, telling them it’s too much, you’re too sensitive, to which Simon wraps his hand around Johnny’s wrist and pulls his hand away.

“We can’t overwhelm her just yet. Gotta wait until she’s healed up, hm?” He murmurs, reaching for the cloth. You blink at the ceiling, drifting, floating away, little boxes in your mind broken up into gnarled pieces that don’t make sense.

What just happened?

You stay silent, blank, as they settle you, cloth cleaning between your legs, blankets being fussed with around your body, pillows plumped. Simon curls some of your unruly hair behind your ear, swooping down until the breadth of his body blocks out all the light in the room, lips brushing over your ear. “What a good girl you are, dove. Did so well, letting Johnny give you an orgasm. So sweet for him.” He tucks you in a little tighter, and Johnny ducks around him, kissing you gently, like you’re made of glass, thrilled smile tugging at his cheeks, unfettered joy the last thing you see before your eyes slip shut.

The next time you wake, Johnny is in bed with you. It’s dark, a flickering orange glow casting shadow across the room, and you startle at the weight of his arm stretched across your chest, cradling you close, half curled around you like a cat. You turn, face to face, his mouth slightly agape, breath blowing over your cheek. You can’t get enough leverage on one leg to slide out from under him, and when you squirm, he only tightens his grip, pinning you to the bed. You’re overheated, and when you peek over his shoulder to get a look at the fire, you see Simon instead, sitting upright in a chair, fully awake, watching you. White hot fear shocks your system, forcing your eyes down in disbelief, surprise, his chair creaking in the night. Your breath stops in your chest, and then there’s a hand smoothing over your forehead, as he leans past you to brush his lips against Johnny’s, and then rough stubble presses against your cheek with a jagged whisper.

“Sweet dreams, little dove.”

[quietthoughtsandmusings]

Desperate Desires

I'm having too much fun with this so here is part 2 of Depth of Devotion from the readers POV.

Minors DO NOT INTERACT.

Mentions of female anatomy.

Art is from @k_yodaka_02 on Twitter

You were brooding on the couch. Your already horrible day was made only the better when your grocery bag ripped sending all your purchased wares scattering across the floor. You wanted to tear your hair out and break down right at that moment, you were overwhelmed and certainly overstimulated. You begin to pick up the fresh produce from the floor cursing each one when your behemoth of a neighbor, arms full of peppers and your restock of lotion approaches you. You look up at him and there is Adonis himself. The first thing you always notice is his eyes. Beautiful crystalline blue, the color of glaciers. Deep set and piercing, bordered with long blonde lashes. Aquamarine set in gold. Who gave him those eyes? He was absurdly handsome with his chiseled jawline, full lips, long romanesque nose that is slightly crooked to the left like it was broken at some point, short choppy auburn hair. Did he cut it himself? You wonder until suddenly you become aware that you were probably staring silently for a little too long and he's speaking to you. German, It's not pronounced but subtle. “Here,” he says holding out his arms towards you, “happens to me all the time.” He offers a sympathetic crooked smile. You huff and grab your things from his arms shoving them in what was left of the broken bag. Cheeks flushed from embarrassment and frustration. “Thanks' ' you reply curtly as you turn away to go to your apartment. Quickly sliding your key in and opening the door. You shove it shut with your shoulder making it slam more aggressively than you intended. What. A. Fucking. Day.

Later after having showered and changed into your comfort clothes you begin to burn with guilt. It wasn't König's fault your day was shit and you certainly didn't mean to take it out on him the way you did. The feeling was made to feel more intense by the fact you had a burning crush on him. Groaning, you rub your face with your hands when you hear him. You know it's him because only he has those heavy footsteps. Your head snaps in the direction of your front door as you listen, his footsteps are hurried. Like he doesn't want to run into you? Of course. You were an asshole to him for no reason! Then you hear the crisp shut of his door. Sighing you know you have to apologize especially were never one to shy away from your wrongdoings. Making your way to your door you open it as quietly as you can so not to draw anymore attention to yourself less the universe throws something else your way. You made your way to his door, each of your footsteps timid as your face began to burn hotter and hotter. Each encounter you've ever had with König always left you feeling frazzled in a way you weren't accustomed to. Taking a deep breath you raise your hand to knock on his door when you hear it, a moan? Curious and slightly concerned you lean your ear to the door to hear better and that's when you unmistakably hear König's voice albeit a bit more gruff “Show me how you play with it, show me” followed by a series of pants like he was in the throws of ecstasy. “That's a good girl, that's a good fucking girl” followed by a shaky moan. You pull yourself away from the door, mouth agape and breath shaky. You slowly back away before turning around and silently sprinting back to the safety of your apartment. Closing the door as quietly as possible. The walls were thin here but you never realized they were that thin. Your heart is pounding not just from the short sprint. Standing there you feel the desire burning in the pit of your belly. The desperate need for release forms quickly as your pussy begins to leak, your arousal soaking through your panties as you reflect on everything you just heard. Stripping out of your lounge shorts and panties you lay yourself down on the couch, spreading your legs.

You can feel your pussy lips parting exposing your cunt and slick to the air which makes you shiver slightly. Not just from the slight chill but the friction that causes your clit to throb. Closing your eyes you stroke your thigh softly before sliding up the side of your belly and down your public bone, slightly glazing your engorged, sensitive clit, to your wet hole. Your breath hitches as you push a finger into your warm, wet cunt. You wonder what his fingers would feel like. They were so large and his fingers thick. You imagine one of them would fill you to bursting. Slowly drawing your finger out causes you to jolt and moan lewdly. Hearing the squelching as your pussy tries to suck you back in. Taking the slick you gathered you begin to slowly rub your clit. “Show me how you play with it, show me” in that desperate lust filled tone rings through your head and you imagine König is there watching you rub yourself, chasing that blissful high. “That's a good girl, that's a good fucking girl” König's praise making you rub harder, faster. Feeling your hips buck in response, legs opening wider. You try and imagine König between your knees, his hands traveling down your outer thighs to grip your hips tightly. You work your bud in circles, the coil begins to tighten, breath shaky, muscles tensing. “Ko…. Oh God Ko. Please…” you whimper. Then there it is, the cork pops. You jolt and shake as your orgasm washes over you, bathing you in its warmth. “König!” You croak out, eyes flying open. You pant, feeling your hole spasming suddenly the fact he's not stuffed inside you makes you realize it wasn't enough. The desire is unsatisfied. You need König to fuck you senseless. You need to hear him praise you and your pussy. You need König. God, you need him. It started as a crush but now you've heard a snippet of what could be and now you need it all for yourself. All the shame you could have felt for accidentally eavesdropping on something private was gone, you don't care how lewd it makes you seem. You have needs, wants, desires. To be filed with his cum, to be utterly and totally his

[loviingpedri]

tolerate it - k. mbappe

prompt: when has your relationship become so low?

warnings: toxic!mbappe, cursing, arguments, fighting, mostly angst, grammar issues, subtle fluff at end (not much)

credits to owners for all images

your relationship with mbappe has been going on for a solid two years. the silence and distance have never been bigger. the gap was starting to turn both of you crazy. during dinner, it would be silent as he read and ate. you sat and watched him ignore you.

has his career grown so much that he doesn’t care about you anymore? you try your best with him. you cook for him, set the table for him, you clean for him.

but he only tolerates it.

was there something wrong? you weren’t sure. there was no type of communication with him. if you tried, he would shrug you off. you always continue to think you weren’t good enough for him. you use to listen to whatever he said. it was always going to be about him.

“kylian, how was your day today?” you cut your potatoes with shaky hands. this was the first time you attempted to have a decent conversation with him. and you weren’t going to stop until more then 10 sentences are said.

“it was fine.” he continued to read and scroll on whatever he’s looking at on his phone.

you cleared your throat. he didn’t even ask how you were. or comment on how good the food was, or how bad it was. he just tolerated it. no feelings were ever expressed from him.

“yeah, my day was also fine. do you like the new plates? i changed it up to the fancy shit.” you smiled a little bit, hoping to see him glance up at you for once. he was only tolerating it.

he did a small ‘mhm’ and kept eating.

“how’s the food?” your legs started bouncing. this wasn’t going up to plan.

he sighed in annoyance. “what’s going on with you today? you’re talking so much. just shut up and eat, okay? no need for all of this.” he finally fully talked to you. he finally looked at you. although, this was different. he looked and talked to you in the worst way possible.

you looked down at your food. your eyes started to blur from the water wanting to burst out. you bit your lip to stop it from quivering.

his ego was getting to him. he was always known as the famous kylian mbappe, but where were you in his story? he lifted you up to show the world how much your support means to him. now, you were just like a random person who he happened to know. someone who was always going to be viewed as under his power and control.

where was the old mbappe? the one who held you while you were cold. the one who fed you soup while you were sick. the one who protected you from all the danger. this mbappe only tolerated your love and his love was no longer existent for you. he was gleaming and glistening in the world, while you were just an accessory that didn’t seem to match.

“y/n. you didn’t answer my question. what the fuck happened today? why all of a sudden you want to be quiet?” his words were like fire. you were a glacier, melting and disappearing as the fire kept going. his ‘love’ is intolerable.

“nothing happened.” you sat up and collected your dishes. you walked to the kitchen as kylian followed you. as you put your dishes in the sink, he grabbed your arm.

“just answer already. you’re playing so hard to get. all of this shit is so unnecessary.”

you looked at him in disbelief. your eyes were losing at suppressing the tears. “have i done something wrong to you? you barely talk to me anymore. kyky, you’re losing me. your words are like daggers in my chest. i know my love should be celebrated. you only tolerate it. i can’t do this anymore. i’ve made too many sacrificed to only dismiss me every single day.”

he looked at you confused. “no, you didn’t do anything. it’s all my fault. i know i’ve changed and i’m sorry. time has been slipping away and this season has been so stressful. i appreciate you so much, i can’t express it enough. these past few days have been rough.”

“please tell me i’ve got it all wrong.”

he placed you on the counter and attempted to wipe all of your endless tears off. “yeah, you’ve got it all wrong. i will always include you in the story of my life. believe me, i could do it.”

[anamenooneowns]

See Me

AN: This is my second attempt at posting on this blog. I haven't written in years, especially smut so it isnt my fault if it sucks. My blog is also a mess but i'll fix it eventually. (it took fucking forever to find a plus-size photo, bc ✨inclusion✨ and i'm plus-size) the reader is black bc i'm black. enjoy.

Warnings: Hair pulling, cursing (lemme know if there's more i missed), daddy kink, sucky ending

MINORS AND BLANK BLOGS DNI

"Fuck... wha'j'ya do to me sweetness, hm?" Ari growled in Faye's ear. His hips slammed against her ass in tandem with every honeyed sound that slipped from her parted lips. "Look at me- look at the spell you put over your Daddy with this pussy."

Faye's eyes cracked open and her knees almost buckled at the sight she was blessed with. Through her bangs, Ari was staring into her eyes through the mirror in front of them. Their glacier color sent a chill down her spine that made her nipples tight and achy. He grabbed her neck with a meaty paw and pressed his thumb under her chin, pushing her head back for a nasty kiss. His nose pressed against her cheek, beard tickling the side of her face as he licked into her mouth.

The faint taste of the sweet cigar Ari had just a few hours ago swirled and plumed into her mouth as if the smoke was still present. Sweet cigars and mint. A taste she wanted to devour from his mouth for the rest of time. A taste disrupted when his strokes became slow and deep, hitting the right spot inside of her.

"God- Ari, m'right... right there, daddy."

He pressed his nose behind the shell of her ear before dragging it up to the softness of her hair in all of it's bedhead wildness. The sweat beading at her hairline was curling her straightened hair. A smile twitched at his lips as he saw her smacking him with astounding force for ruining it even though he'd drop stacks for whatever hairstyle she desired.

"Right there?" Ari teased. "Not here?" he brushed a hand over her nipple. "Or even here?" pressing his fingertips against her swollen clit.

Faye clenched her walls around him, almost laughing when his pace stuttered and an airy sigh traveled down her back. Almost. A cry echoed in the tiled room as Ari wrapped her hair in a tight makeshift ponytail.

"Does your voice work?" he hissed in her ear.

Whimpering, Faye breathed out, "yes."

"Then fucking use it."

Her eyes slipped shut at the sheer dominance in his voice. "Your fingers- I want, fuck.. I want your fingers to rub my clit until I-"

Ari pushed his knee against the inside of her leg, spreading them open wider before slipping a hand down to her sopping heat. He Faye sobbed, head falling forward as he relieved the tightness of the throbbing nub between her lips before being pulled back. Her eyes snapped open and she was staring at herself in the mirror. Teary, lidded eyes and a trembling lower lip as she cried in relief for her pussy.

"Atta-fucking-girl," Ari punctuated with deep thrusts that Faye felt in the core of her stomach. "Yer' right there, arent'cha sweetness? Let go. S'alright, cum for me."

Faye's body shuddered and let her hair fall through his fingers and her cheek pressed against the cool marble of the counter. Her hips rose back and wetness streamed down her bitten inner thighs, soaking Ari's length and his thick brown happy trail. In her seconds of near unconsciousness she felt the counter vibrate as something slammed down on it before heat and weight pressed against her back.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and brown wisps of hair brushed against her lashes. Faye laughed, a full and rich sound that made Ari stir from above her. He pressed his lips against her rounded cheek, "What're you laughin' at?"

"You! I mean- are you trying to crush me?" she asked.

Ari huffed and pressed his body up from the counter, muttering something about liking to be crushed in a mating press. Faye followed suit, hissing as his cock slipped out of her. The feeling of wetness renewed as his cum rolled down her inner thighs.

"Christ, mother of Mary- Is there something wrong with your dick?" Faye shrieked.

"The hell are you talking about woman?"

"Why is there so much cum?" she said, talking more to herself than Ari.

Ari stared at the woman as she twisted around, trying to view the back of her thighs in the mirror. He scrubbed a hand over his face, smiling at himself. "I really wonder what amazing thing I did to have the honor put a ring on your finger."

"It's still coming out!"

[wambsgansshoelaces]

Ruined

Siobhan Roy x fem!Reader

Oneshot

summary: a chess move gone wrong. but it brought you two back together, so how can she complain?

thank you anon 🫀 for requesting this! you’re so loved and appreciated <3

Word Count: 2.257k

When the invitation comes in the mail, you think nothing of it. Because of your job, Waystar was always trying to kiss your ass and trying to convince you they were the perfect employer.

It was also because of your previous relationship.

Even though you and Siobhan had been separated for a few weeks now, you weren’t sure that many people knew. Not only did Royco execs invite you to try and convince you to ‘join the ranks’, they’d invite you to try and get closer to Shiv. The daughter of the man in possession of the biggest media conglomerate in the world, a mega billionaire.

You assume this is just another dinner to kiss ass to prospective employees. You didn’t really mind, though. It’s free food, and even though you’d never admit it out loud, a boost to your ego.

Post breakup with Shiv felt apocalyptic. You didn’t want to eat, sleep, breathe. But you had to. You had shit to get done.

You’re happy for the excuse to get dressed up. It makes you feel good about yourself, and god knows you need that right now. You stare at yourself in the mirror, dark colored turtleneck and high waisted pants accentuating the curves of your body. You gloss your lips, mentally preparing for the night out.

The place is gorgeous, as always. The hallways are dimly lit, warm orange light dappling the space around you. You find yourself with a finger sandwich in hand, waiting for dinner to be announced so you can congregate in the dining room with everyone else and actually eat.

You watch as Logan Roy plucks a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing servant. If he was here, then that means this thing was important. But that raised a question- why are you here?

Your answer arrives right with Siobhan Roy. You spot her the moment she sets foot in the room. Despite how messy your brakeup was, you just couldn’t get yourself to get over her. She’s radiant, beautiful like the sunset, like the time-old glaciers, like the condensed dew on an ageless bottle of wine. She lit up your world, bringing day to your dystopian world of eternal night.

She was stressing over something, you could tell, even from across the room. Her shoulders were set tautly, her phone gripped in her hand. Her eyes sweep hastily over the gathered people, and yours subconsciously follow. You recognize all the high profile politicians, the big whales of finance and business. You’re beginning to feel out of place.

Lost in your daze, you don’t realize as she steps up beside you. When she speaks, you think you’re dreaming for a split second. In recent history, the only time you’d ever heard her voice, spoken to her, was in the depths of your mind’s eye.

“Are you fucking with me?” Shiv hisses from beside you, fake smile pasted to her face.

You’re taken aback. “Hello to you, too,” you mutter in response.

Her hand falls immediately to the small of your back, and she steers you away from the crowd. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I was invited. I didn’t fucking drop from the face of the Earth after you broke up with me,” you say dryly. Once you’re out in the hall, her voice raises slightly from her original whisper.

“Who invited you? How the hell are you even here?”

She leads you into an empty spare room and shuts the door firmly behind her. “What the fuck, Siobhan?”

“This is a dinner to introduce an acquisition. I would know if you were hired by Waystar. So why are you here?”

“Like I said, I was invited.”

“Why? For what?”

You scoff. “How encouraging of my career,” you drawl.

She snorts in response, turning to pace the room. “What’s he up to? Do you know?” she asks quickly, referring to her dad.

“How should I fucking know?” You cross your arms over your chest. “I didn’t know we were on speaking terms, anyway.”

“We’re not,” she spits. “Not after what you put me through.”

“What I put you through?” You laugh. “Siobhan, you dumped me because you were too busy fucking your work rather than me.”

She barks out a laugh. “Is that how you see it?”

“That’s how everybody but you fucking sees it. You got angry I wanted to talk about the fact that you did nothing but work, and work overtime, and neglect me, that you ended things and ran,” you spit back, voice dripping with venom.

She puts her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry I take my job seriously.” Her bracelets tinkle as her hands flit back down. “And that’s not what happened.” She twists to face away from you, hands carding through her hair.

“Then, pray tell, what did? You didn’t exactly wait around for me to even process. This is the first time we’ve spoken since then.”

When she turns back around, tears dot her waterline. Your chest swells with anxiety, struggling to differentiate between the stone-cold killer Siobhan and your sweet Shiv.

“I’m sorry, I’m deflecting. It’s not like that, I swear,” she says, voice cracking. “Oh, my fucking god. I got fucking scared, baby. I have all of these complicated feelings for you, and when they never went away, I got scared. I realized I loved you, that I love you, and I got horrified I’d fuck things up.”

Your heart flutters at the pet name. “That’s not a fucking excuse, Shiv. You left me by myself. You never even said goodbye properly.”

“I know, I know it’s not.” Her face drops into her hands. “It’s just… I can’t bear the idea of getting hurt. Being hurt by you, no less. I’d never recover. I haven’t recovered. I can’t move on. I can’t think of beauty without thinking of you. You’re in every goddamn sunrise, piece of jewelry, every starry night sky. Nothing I’m scared of matters anyway, because you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

You’re rendered speechless. Your mouth opens, then closes. You don’t know what to say.

“I can’t,” she says weakly. “I compare every single person to you. And every single time, I love you so much fucking better.” She chokes on a sob, face still covered by her hands.

Without thinking, you step towards her, taking her in your arms. Her head rests on your shoulder as sobs rack her body. You’d never, ever seen her like this. Not when you were together, not in any sort of public media. You rub soothing circles into her back.

“I’m sorry,” she laments, her voice wavering. “I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve never let you go. I want you back. I need you back. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this bullshit. You’re it for me. You’ll always be it for me.”

“Shiv,” you breathe. “Shiv, take a breath. Come on, you’re working yourself up.”

She obeys, attempting to regulate her breathing. She sniffs roughly, wiping at her eyes, before pulling away from you and turning her back to you.

“What I did was inexcusable,” she says, voice quieter. “I… I understand if you want nothing to do with me anymore. I’m sorry. I love you.” She inhales shakily, her hands smoothing down her blouse. “Dad knew what would happen if you came today. I need to go.”

Without another word, she leaves you behind.

You see no point in sticking around. You’re confused, strangely swelling with love. You want to both chuck your phone into a river and pick up and dial her number immediately. You hunt around for someone who can get you your coat, and before you know it, you’re out in the blistering cold by yourself.

You spend the rest of your night face down in bed. You’re so conflicted. Does she want you, or does she not? Should you contact her first, or can you still hold onto the hope that she’ll come find you?

The night drags on, and there’s nothing. Early the next morning, you bolster the confidence to send her a text asking her if she’s alright. Your anxiety runs rampant the moment you hit send, and your face burns with heat. You both pray she answers as soon as she sees it and pray she never sees it at all. You want to belt your phone at the wall.

You find yourself at a coffee shop at seven thirty. You need to get out, to think about literally anything else. You have the day off, and you’re not sure if it’ll be good or bad for you yet.

The moment you set foot in the shop, you see her, and she sees you. Her hair is tied back, and she’s wearing an old sweater of yours. This is when she’s prettiest, you think. When she’s not playing the game of succession, not strategizing, just sitting comfortably in her skin.

Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying. She beckons you over, doe eyes still glinting with tears.

Hesitantly, you go over and sit across from her.

“How did you…?”

“You come here every day,” she says quietly. She pushes a cardboard cup of coffee towards you. “I never forgot your order.”

You murmur your thanks, taking a sip. “We should talk,” you say stupidly.

“Yeah. We should,” she responds, folding her hands together and setting them on the table in between you two.

“Can we just… talk things through?”

“I want that. Please.”

You sit back in your chair, unsure of where to begin. “Did you actually mean it? Last night, I mean?”

“Everything I said. I would’ve stayed, but… ironically, duty called.”

“What’ll change?” you ask softly. “If we… if we try again?”

“Everything,” Shiv whispers. “You’re my world. I can’t go a second without thinking about you. You’re my top priority, I swear. I’ll never fucking leave your side again. I was a shitty girlfriend before. But I’ll change. I’d do anything for you.”

“I missed you,” you choke out. “So much.”

She loses it a bit, too, tear escaping and sliding down her cheek. You reach across the table and wipe it away. “I did, too. I missed you.”

“Do you want to come home?” you ask, hopeful. She smiles.

“Finally. I’ve been living in a shithole with my cousin since you.”

You roll your eyes, knowing she’s playing it up. She takes your hand, and before you know it, you’re sat on the couch, making out. Her fingers dig into your jaw, keeping your mouth locked with hers. Shiv kisses are hard, needy. She’s been waiting for you, craving you the last few weeks.

She pulls away to kiss and suck at your neck. “Shiv,” you say breathily, not expecting it. Despite her fervor, she’s gentle, successfully pleasing you.

“Shh, baby. Let me do this. Let me make you feel good. I need to make it up to you. I was an asshole.”

You laugh. “You’re just being territorial.”

She sighs, leaning back and inspecting a developing purple hickey on your skin. She buries her head into your shoulder after dotting soothing kisses along the new bruises.

“I love you. I’m sorry,” she says into your skin.

“I love you too.” Your hand strays to her back, stroking lightly.

“I promise I’ll do it right this time,” she murmurs. “You’ll never stop feeling fucking amazing.”

“I hope you’re right,” you respond.

“Really. I’m going to be better.” She kisses at your shoulder. “I’ll start skipping meetings for you.”

“You don’t need to neglect your job, Shiv.”

“I want to, anyway. I want to spend every second right here, with you.”

Your hand smoothes down to her thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I’m so fucking happy. You make everything better.”

Shiv slips out of your grasp, padding into your kitchen. You stay sprawled out on the couch, content.

The days go by slowly, and you’re grateful. The two of you spend morning tangled together, nights intertwined. You come home to her, she comes home to you. You never leave each other without a kiss goodbye, and you never say anything before kissing hello.

Shiv wasn’t lying. She prioritized you, and solely you. If she couldn’t come home on time, she’d send flowers and crawl into bed with you late at night, peppering your face with kisses. She’s become more affectionate, her touches always lingering and her always curled up against you.

You make sure to never neglect her, either. Despite your massive differences in salary, you make sure to give thoughtful gifts, and kiss her whenever you can. You find that you enjoy cooking for her, watching her face brighten whenever she eats something she likes.

You’ve both begun to keep pictures of each other in your wallets. You always catch her staring at a miniature portrait of you in her hands, her thumb gently stroking over your face.

Every night, your bed is warm with affection. You never feel alone again.

When it happens, she doesn’t get down on one knee. It’s when you’re both half asleep on the couch, your head cradled in her lap when she shows you the ring. She giggles when you let her slip it onto your finger, the word fiancé falling giddily from her lips.

You spend a moment rummaging around in your purse, then hurry back to her, another ring in hand.

She kisses you so hard your head spins.

“I love you. I love you so much. And that’ll never change.”

[etherealily]

​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇱​​🇮​​🇳​​🇪​ // 𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘪 𝘷𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘬𝘺

Alexei Vronsky + fem!reader

Warnings : Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

'Cross that line for me, sweetheart?'

Desc. : You are not a temptress, but he is tempted.

══════════════════ ⋆🍷⋆ ══════════════════

It was curious, to say the least, how land was divided. The conch next to you was half your property and half the Vronsky estate's property. It had remained that way for ages.

The waves lapped up the sand, like a heart reaching desperately for its other half as you sat watching the entire ordeal.

The Line - one drawn up every morning and marked by tiny flags as placeholders - had always pissed you off. Intrigued you. What would happen if you were to... just a finger? The hem of your dress. Would you immediately be shot at by concealed snipers? Perhaps you'd have to be tried in court.

You had never really noticed much about this Vronsky character before. Another handsome, manipulative bastard. Nothing much.

In turn, he'd also never noticed you. A face. One of many. Beautiful, of course, he was not blind, but never seen as worthy of his efforts. You were not rebellious. You were not adorably innocent. He could not entice you. He could not corrupt you.

In theory, your paths were never to cross. Different lives, same circles.

The key word : theory.

Because there are moments in life when you know that nothing will ever be the same again, when you know that your proverbial pathway is forever skewed and rerouted. These may appear to you embossed in calamities such as loss and grief, or these may be whispered in your ear by silent smiles, lovestruck looks across a ballroom, or the simple offer of champagne.

Or, in the case of you and Alexei Vronsky, all of the above.

And this was one of those torturous, life-altering moments.

"-And that's when I said, it was just a bloody goat !"

Booming, drunken laughter ensued from your left - the other side of the Line. Fuck. Keep drawing, shut up, keep drawing, shut up.

Your pencil made unintelligible sounds as it scratched out a somewhat passable depiction of the moonlit waves. The screams and guffaws grew louder, but the issue was that if you moved, he'd assume you did it because you were on his side. You were not, but it would look highly suspicious if you fled.

No. They'd quietened down. Meaning either they left - highly unlikely - or, they'd noticed you.

"Oi!"

Don't respond, don't respond.

"You! Pretty girl!"

Drunk men are terrifying. How could such kind words be said in a way that made your skin crawl?

"Mate, maybe she's a mute. Or deaf. Or both."

"I know for a fact she's not. She's got quite a mouth on her, as I can remember from last year- HEY! LADY WITH THE SKETCHBOOK!"

And that was Alexei Vronsky. His story with the goat had ended, apparently. Ugh.

You turned. "Uh, hello."

"ARE YOU A MUTE?" his companion yelled.

"Are you daft? She just answered! How could she be mute?"

Drunk men are also idiotic.

"WHY DON'T YOU COME ON OVER HERE, WE'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO DRAW?"

Bellowing laughter followed.

For fuck's sake.

"I'm alright, THANKS!"

"OI, C'MON! WE DON'T BITE!"

From what you'd heard, he does.

"IS IT 'CAUSE OF THAT LINE?"

"Good night, Count Vronsky.", you called back, as you gathered up your things and stood, dusting the sand off your dress.

"HOLD ON! WAIT!"

"Let'r go, mate, c'mon, we've got a party to get back to."

"I WAS JUST BEING NEIGHBOURLY, YOU BITCH!"

FUCKING HELL.

"What did you just call me?!", you yelled, turning. He looked back at you in a swaying, inebriated haze, trying to focus those glaciers he called eyes on yours in the darkness.

"A witch. You've cast a spell on me, bewitched me, so to speak. You're magic."

Ugh. "Whatever."

"Just come over here, or I'll have to come there, and you wouldn't like that.", he slurred, his friends chortling and egging him on.

Buggering Christ.

"You can't. See?", you replied defiantly, pointing deliberately at the faint white outline of the line they renewed every morning with chalk powder. "That would be trespassing."

"I'm Alexei Vronsky."

What was that supposed to mean?

"So? It's still trespassing. My family's had it in for you for a long time - we'll take you to court."

"Then you come here.", he shrugged, taking an unstable stumble closer. "Cross that line for me, sweetheart? Yeah?"

"You're a creep. And you're drunk."

"You're a beauty. And you're technically trespassing, so I need to punish you."

"HOW am I-"

"Your pencil." Fuck. How is it he's sober enough to notice that, but not sober enough to know that his buddy said 'the coat storage' not 'the goat story'?

"It blew in the wind."

"Yes. To my estate."

"You can keep it."

"Are you sure? Isn't this your, uh, fabulous pencil from Paris you were talking of?"

"No." Yes.

"No?", he frowned, picking it up. NO! Not in his grimy, disgustingly delicate fingers. "Seems pretty French to me."

"Are you actually inebriated or do you simply enjoy pretending to be so that you can get away with things?"

He stopped swaying, pointing the pencil in your direction as he placed the other hand behind his back. "You're sharp."

"So you're sober?"

Drunk Vronsky could have been molded. Sober Vronsky was a cunt.

"More or less. My friends feel left out because they are unable to hold their liquor as well as I can, so I act for them.", he explained, with a small look behind him, at his comrades trying to jump over the waves as they came.

"You should be in theatre, then."

"Adding performer to my resume is just a smidge too over-accomplished.", he retorted, an amused glint in his eye.

Ugh.

"So you're going to hold on to my pencil, then, I'm guessing."

"What? No, I know how much this means to you."

Trap. You'd bet your entire estate it was a trap.

"I will give it back.", he continued as he paced, his hand still placed behind his back as though he were planning war strategies. "On one condition."

See? Trap.

"Dinner. With me. Tomorrow."

Did he think this was a smart way to secure an evening with a woman?

"I won't be here tomorrow." Bold-faced lie, and he could tell.

"Then tonight. Right now." You couldn't think of anything you were doing.

"And I'll get my pencil back."

"Yes."

"That can't be it. There's a catch."

"You are... remarkable. Yes. There is.", he whispered, softly, as though impressed that you caught on. "Champagne. I wish to see you drunk. Drunk, in denial and... ruined."

Lot of darkness for someone who'd just been talking about a goat.

"In denial?"

"Nothing. Just... join me for dinner and drink a little, and I promise you shall have your pencil back."

"I do not drink."

"Then I do not return fancy French pencils."

"I can always purchase another."

"You do not have sentimentality, then?"

"No." Yes.

"I see. Then you may be on your way."

"I don't have to go anywhere. I have every right to be here! This is still my side of The Line."

"Suit yourself, darling."

The silence that followed was torturous and unbearable. "I do not like steak."

"Then you shall have no steak."

══════════════════ ⋆🍷⋆ ══════════════════

His eyes focused on you from across the table, his spoon paused midway above his plate. Eyes like the ocean in a storm. Terrifying but alluring.

"Enjoying your not-steak?"

You hid a smile. "Yes, I am."

He nodded, bringing his spoon up to his lips as he watched you do the same.

"You've left your friends out there?"

"They know not to cross The Line. They will be alright."

"Why is it you wanted to have dinner with me? To trap me into trespassing?"

"I've wanted to speak with you since I first saw you." Lie.

"And I you." Lie.

"What was it you wished to say?"

"Simply a greeting. You?"

"The same."

He set down his spoon, scrunching up his napkin as he stood up and walked the short distance across the table to you, resting his hands on the back of your chair. "You promised you'd drink."

"I did?"

"You did.", he whispers, accepting the newly-uncorked bottle the servant handed him, and pouring it into the glass next to your plate, smoothly. "And you're a good girl who keeps promises, yes?"

You'd heard he loved using such degrading language, but this was the first time you'd seen it firsthand.

"What gave you that idea?"

"I just figured you were of proper breeding and were raised right."

Good answer.

"Well, the words 'I promise' never left my mouth."

"Well-bred women do not look for loopholes. And they most certainly do not argue."

Lord knows where he'd worked up the audacity to brush some hair off your shoulder, but perhaps he was born with it imbibed in his blood.

He narrowed his eyes at your unchanging expression. "Drink."

"I am not done with my food."

He breathes out loudly, taking your plate and thrusting it into the hands of the nearest servant. "Yes, you are."

"I still have dessert."

"No, you don't. Drink."

"This is not champagne. You said champagne."

"And you said you'd drink. We both have uttered falsities. Drink."

"I fear you may be trying to-"

"Poison you? I am not. I would not like to see you die."

Was that supposed to be some form of assurance? Romantic? Caring? That did not have the intended effect.

"Drink, lovely."

It irked you how invested he was to see you drunk.

You wrapped your fingers around the glass, bringing it to your lips. Tilting it upwards, you let the liquor cascade down your throat, and echoes of your sputtering filled the room - it burned.

He laughed heartily, shaking his head as he stroked your shoulder from behind you. "Do you know what that was?"

"No. But I do know I will not take another sip."

"It was vodka, my dear, and in a few moments, you will want more. Trust me."

"I'm not taking another sip of that ghastly liquid!"

"Not even for me? Not even if I begged?"

"You think your begging has any effect on me?"

"Doesn't it? I'm known to be quite persuasive, and- besides, aren't you supposed to be the empathetic one in the family?"

"And where did you hear that?"

"Just about everywhere, really.", he huffed, resting his elbow on the table as he knelt down by your side. "'Y/N is the nicest one. She cares the most. Empathetic.' Surely you are not telling me those are lies?"

"Not lies, but exaggerations, perhaps."

"I am quite literally on my knees, Y/N, and you should realize how rare that is. Drink more or I will have to force you."

You frowned at him.

"I will do it. Force you. Don't think that because I have let you in my house so courteously that I will continue to be a gentleman with you."

"How could you be? You're nothing but a cad.", you scoffed, as you took another stingingly painful gulp.

He watched the glass, your tongue, your throat, almost mesmerized as he replied. "A cad?", he questioned softly, amused but still fascinated by your every movement.

"A cad.", you nodded, trying not to show how much you were gasping for breath. It hurt, satisfyingly.

"That's a first. No one has ever said 'oh, Alexei Vronsky, that cad'.", he murmured against his palm as he observed you meticulously.

"Then they have met a different person."

"You say this out of personal experience, do you?"

"I've met him. The Alexei Vronsky. He only thinks of one thing."

A lilt of his lips. "And that is?"

"Himself."

He concealed a grin.

"Or perhaps...", he mused, fingertips on the back of your neck as though he were playing your skin as one would a piano. "He is one who shows different versions of himself to different people."

"So he is deceitful."

"I'd say careful."

"Would you, now?"

"I think we put up far too many false pretences anyway. No point in fighting it - it is necessary, to be part of society."

"And what false pretences am I putting up, in your expert opinion?"

He smiled, one too pure to match the description you had so harshly delivered a moment before, but you knew more than most that it was a ruse. "Drink more."

"You're an incredibly demanding man, aren't you? Dine with me. Drink more. Not a single please, nor thank you.", you retorted, as though that could take away from the fact that you obeyed.

"When you are incredibly in demand, you learn to be incredibly demanding."

If ever a smoother talker existed, you'd wager he'd simply be Alexei Vronsky in disguise.

"So tell me, then. Are you a gentleman, a cad, or an opportunist, Count Vronsky?"

You had to steer the conversation back to him, because whatever this vilely beguiling liquor was, it was shooting through your veins at a rate too fast to risk talking about yourself, lest any family secrets spilled out.

"I am whatever you want me to be. And you? Are the rumours true? Are you a virgin, a temptress, or a genius?"

"I am whatever I want to be. For tonight."

"Come morning?", he murmured against your neck as he slipped a finger under a loose strand of hair, and twirled it with such dedication you would think that were his only purpose in life.

"A memory."

"Well, we can't have that.", he pouted, as he stood up, gently taking the glass away from you and finishing the last of it. "What does it take for a memory to stay in the present?"

"Vronsky-"

"A dance, perhaps, as they say you enjoy?"

If you weren't unsure of the functionality of your motor skills in your drunken haze, you'd have punched him right then and there.

"The rumours aren't true, you know?"

"What rumours?", he asked, feigning obliviousness.

He'd just spoken of them, but you were quite sure if you reminded him, he'd attribute it to the vodka. Tell you you were 'surely imagining things, dear one'.

"The ones that led you to come and have a go at me."

"Those? Oh, I didn't believe them for a second.", he grinned, his eyes examining the filthiest, most remote parts of your soul - ones that even you had never been privy to.

A moment washed over the both of you, tauntingly. You looked for any secrets in his eyes, and he looked for any in yours, albeit, more calmly than you.

"Come.", he mumbled, finally, offering his hand for you to get up out of his disgustingly well-crafted chair. "Let's get you back on your side of The Line."

══════════════════ ⋆🍷⋆ ══════════════════

"There. Oh, and here. I am of proper manners.", he added after you'd leapt over The Line, handing your pencil back over to you.

It felt oddly anticlimactic after the events of the evening.

His icy blue eyes - striking, so striking that they pierced you - fell onto your lips for just a moment before landing on the pencil in your hand. "You don't want it back."

"What? Of course I do."

He had you. He was onto you.

"Let me rephrase. You don't need it back."

"Sentimentality. Of course I do."

"You really don't want it to stay in my possession, instead?"

"No."

"Liar.", he smirked, his lips curving deliciously, and you just about lost it. "You know I'll take very good care of it, no? Like I took care of you, tonight. No complaints, yes?"

"Besides the aggressive persuasion to drink a fiery liquid that most probably burnt my throat off, no."

"You exaggerate. Tell me tonight was just another of your dull nights. Tell me I haven't been a source of reprieve from your tedious, mundane days of fakeness and gossip."

You scoffed, refusing to dignify that with a reply, although you already knew that any response- or lack thereof - would be all too telling.

"You cannot, can you?"

There was nothing you hated more than when men were right.

Especially men who were as captivating as Vronsky. It was unnecessary and dangerous.

He beamed, clearly so fucking proud of himself, as he looked out at the waves. "It is a lovely dress you are wearing."

No, it wasn't. It was the most commonplace of dresses one could wear. But he'd say it anyway. Because that was his play.

"Thank you."

"It is disgusting, though."

"In what way? A disgusting display of my wealth, or disgustingly lovely?"

He knelt down next to you from the other side, on the sand. "It is disgusting that such beauty and purity like yours can exist and people continue to slander its name."

Had you been a lesser woman, you'd have fallen for it.

It seemed, however, that he knew you wouldn't. It was confusing, to say the least, whether he was being genuine or being genuinely fake.

"It is how I live."

If you'd read him right, he should say something along the lines of...

"It shouldn't be."

There.

"However... the dress in itself is not disgusting?"

"No, it is spectacular- although, I must say, the woman wearing it is far more ravishing."

Games get boring when they are predictable.

"So. What is it you normally do after parties, since you cannot get drunk? Unless blackmailing women to dine with you and drink your vodka is your usual pastime."

He snickered, although a slight maliciousness infiltrated his gaze for a moment. "It isn't so much a pastime as... an unfortunately common occurence. Perhaps that's why you've got an opinion of me as a - how'd you put it?"

"A cad."

"Ah, yes, a cad. I wonder if your opinion has changed."

That was not hope in his eyes, no. That was a challenge. 'Go ahead, Y/N, say no. If you dare.', his look said.

"I wonder that, too. Perhaps it will if you keep your promise."

"Promise?", he repeated, raising a brow. He knew. He knew all too well what you were saying.

"False pretences.", you reminded, watching him as he watched the waves distort the light of the moon. "You said you would tell me what false pretences you think I put up."

He was far too close. The incredibly fragile, entirely imaginary Line wouldn't be able to stop him from reaching over and touching your shoulder once more.

"I think... do you want to know what I think?"

"I might."

"I think that you're lying when you brush off the rumours."

"You think I am a slut? A temptress?" Now, suddenly, the monotonous nature of everyday seemed far more interesting than the thousandth iteration of the same conversation.

"No, I think you brushing them off is the lie. They affect you far too much." Alright. That was... progress.

"Do they, now?"

"Very much. And there is one more, as well, although I doubt you will like to hear it. You crave to prove them right."

Congratulations, Alexei Vronsky, you've caught my attention.

"That is an extremely, extremely bold suggestion."

"Yet you are not denying it."

"I do not wish to have my virtue questioned, Vronsky, and us having dinner does not change that."

"But it pokes at it, does it not? A slight scratch, an itch, asking if that is what you really want. It blurred the lines, did it not?"

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

"You're an incredibly delusional man, Count Vronsky."

"A delusional cad."

"Precisely."

You didn't miss the amusement in his tone, the laughter, the way he knew how perfectly right he was.

"Well, this delusional cad did not lie, earlier. You truly have bewitched me, my dear, and I do not think I shall ever turn you down."

He stood up, dusting the sand off his gloves and pants. You stood up too, not out of respect, but out of the desire to relish his face once more.

"Turn me down?"

"When you inevitably ask for me when your marriage is dry, lifeless and torturous."

Good lord. How long had he been- how far ahead was he thinking?

"I will be right here. On this side."

"Why are you so adamant that my marriage will be-"

"Because I'm the one you need. You've broken quite literally every rule tonight. Crossed the line, fraternized with the enemy, drank unfamiliar alcohol that could so easily have been poisoned or used against you."

"How does that make you the one I-"

"I'm taking you out of your comfort zone. Freeing you. What more would one want from a lover?"

So casual with that word. Lover. As though that was all you two had been, since the beginning.

"Have I mentioned that you're-"

"Delusional? Yes, you have. But you have also yet to mean it."

Who the hell allowed this man to be so confident?

His thumb rubbed against your cheek in pure tenderness that you are well-prepared for - you've learnt over the years he's unpredictable, and since his mercurial nature was the only predictable thing about him, it was easy for you to guess his next move.

Or at least, figure out that it would be the exact opposite of the tone of his words.

"I can help you, you see?", he said, words so faint they were almost whisked away in the sea breeze. "Honest."

"Was that the point of tonight?"

"No, the point of tonight was to get you so utterly inebriated that you would tell me your family's secrets, and hence, your own."

That was the only thing that had come out of his mouth all night that you could guarantee was the truth.

"And since that did not happen, you are doing this?"

"No, I couldn't let that happen. Unwrapping you, figuring you out, it is far too intriguing a task to complete with a glass of vodka and enticing words. I want to spend years, decades, the rest of my life, performing this task, revealing you slowly and addictively, until I have lost myself or driven myself crazy trying to reach the core of your soul."

The silence kissed you two over and over until you couldn't take it anymore. "You are terrifyingly good at this."

He almost looked like he was about to say 'at what', but it seemed his mood had turned too serious to coax a half-hearted insult out of you.

"And you are terrifying. You are like the eye of a storm, intricately, almost... sinisterly drawing me closer."

"I'm not sure what you want me to-"

His lips devoured your words, and you could not help but think that this night had progressed far too rapidly to your liking. He was a stranger, a random man who you shared nothing but a flimsy little line with, but here you were, letting him kiss you, letting him ruin you, letting him convince you with his words that this was a good idea.

"Come on, darling.", he murmured against your lips, his eyes still half-lidded in a triumphant haze. "Cross the line. I promise, I'll take care of you."

You surrendered, and all you could do was hope that his beauty was simply angelic in nature, and was not designed for the sole purpose of ruining you and every iota of self-respect you had.

Hard to tell, but perhaps he had meant it that way.

[cosmic-crybaby]

Blue Skies - Tommy Shelby

Chapter 16: 'You're No Good For Me'

Warnings In This Chapter: Hinted affair, mentions of blood, manipulation etc etc. ANGST

Masterlist:

---

It took you almost twenty minutes to calm your children down.

Reassuring them that things were going to be okay. But even you yourself were unsure. Giving them a tight hug and a kiss goodnight, making sure to tell Frances to stay with them until they fell asleep, before you entered the bedroom.

You didn't want them to hear the absolute terror you were about to unleash.

Thomas sat on the bed, his jacket discarded and his white shirt somewhat unbuttoned. His hand was still wrapped in the blood-stained cloth from the dining table. You harshly slammed the door behind you, making the room rattle, approaching him and stopping to stand in front of him with your arms crossed.

“You lost your temper with my kids, Thomas…That can never happen again, do you understand?” 

He only nods once before he purses his lips and looks up at you.

“Your kids are out of control,” He stated with raised brows and condescension behind his words. Your brows furrowed in confusion. 

“They’re fuckin’ kids! That is how kids behave when they’re tired, hungry, and disappointed,” You listed. He arched a brow at you. 'Disappointed' he repeated with a bitter laugh.

“I told you I wasn’t ready for this, didn’t I? I warned ya…I fuckin’ warned ya,” He pointed a finger at you with his non-injured hand before he stood up and struggled to unknot his tie with one hand, taking strides to his wardrobe. You stood in your place as you stared at him, bewildered.

“It’s not that hard to ask for help, you could have asked your Aunt or your sister for help, but it’s a little too late to turn back now,” You shook your head in disbelief.

“Yeah, I am sure Aunt Pol would have some great advice on how to discipline your kids for you,” He simply said with a small glance. Perplexed, you screwed your brows together. 

“Don’t you dare,” You seethed.

“What?” He taunted, walking to his wardrobe to put his clothes away. 

“Don’t you dare blame my kids, the only person acting like a child tonight was you!” 

He exhales heavily as he slammed the door to the wardrobe shut before turning to you, the obvious frustration on his face. His normal glacier eyes were dark like the darkest depths of the ocean as he wore a stern look on his face. He approached you, at least a few inches away from your face. Under any other circumstances, he would just be a kiss away. And everything would have been forgotten.

“I’m acting like a child?” Shock laced his question.

“Yes, you are,” You argued. You looked down and reached for his wrist, bringing it up to show him. “You slammed your hands so hard, that you broke a fucking glass and you cut yourself…you threw a tantrum just like a fuckin’ baby,” He jerked his hand away from you. He wasn’t in any pain, his anger numbed it.

“I have made big sacrifices for you…huge fuckin’ sacrifices, I am behind on my work because I spent all my time with you-” 

“And you think I haven’t? I have to commute at least forty minutes back and forth everyday,” You interrupted. 

“And that wouldn't have been a problem if you just took everyone’s advice and hired someone to help you,” He said quietly. 

You took a deep breath before speaking again. 

“You walked into my family…my beautiful family that took years to grow and create, one that you would have started by now if you had any strength, courage, or restraint,” You stepped back from him, glaring at him with disgust. “Esme was right, you’re unstable…I get it…work is hard but that does not give you the right to act the way you do,” 

“And how is that, (Y/n)?” His condescending tone was pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your blood boils with every second. 

“Oh, would you like me to list it off for you, Thomas?” You asked. “Your terrible temper, your unstable mood, your drinking problem, and the fact that I found snow in your office and opium in your nightstand!” You yelled. 

He chuckled.

“Ah, after all this time…I still stand by what I assumed,” 

“Which assumption would that be? Because you’ve made so many,” You laughed. You stood far away from each other. You were by your vanity while he leaned against the bedpost. 

“You pretended to be drunk to get me to fuck you, get you pregent,” 

You both fell silent. The only noises in the room were your heavy breaths and the crackling of the wood in the fireplace as the flames cast an intimidating shadow upon your face. Your chest heaved up and down rapidly as you gulped down the lump in your throat as your hands moved to rub your stomach, protectively as the baby began to move about and kick. 

“Oh God…How could you say that?” You asked yourself as you turned away from him. You held your hand over your mouth to side the sobs as you bent over, one hand leaning on the vanity. Thomas slowly approaches you and attempts to hold you. 

“This is just an obstacle…eh? Listen to me…Listen to me (Y/n), I am sorry I shouldn’t have said that, this was only a setback,” 

You pulled your arms away from his touch. Overwhelmed by everything around you. His smell, his touch, his voice, the hot temperature of the room, the weight of the baby, everything had you wanting to just tear your hair out and scream. 

“No…No this isn’t a setback, Thomas…this is a fuckin’ disaster!” 

“I warned you that the stress of what I do and the stress of this is going to ruin our relationship-” 

“The stress of what?” You asked, turning to him with tears in your eyes. 

“Having a baby together,” He answered. You shook your head. 

“No…Three…” You held up your shaky hand, showing three fingers. “Thomas…Three children!” 

“I didn’t even ask for one!” His voice boomed.

“You act like you’re the only one who fucked up their life,” 

He shook his head before he sat down at your vanity chair, picking up a cigarette to rub it across his lips before lighting it.  

“I guess that’s what happens…” He took a deep breath. “When strangers get drunk and fuck,” he exhales the smoke. 

You paused and swallow thickly. Your eyes scanned him. Until you spotted the red smudge on the collar of his shirt, the red and purple spots on his clavicle. Everything seems so clear now. Your eyes began to tear up as you gasp in doubt.

"I knew it," You muttered as you looked away. Thomas lifted his head to look at you.

"I fucking knew it!" You shouted, picking up a glass perfume bottle and raising it to throw it at him, Thomas quickly leaves the vanity chair and rushes to the washroom, dropping the cigarette as the glass bottle shattered against the hardwood as it merely missed him.

"What the fuck?!" He shouted from behind the door. He could only hear you shouting, crying and the loud crashing of only what he assumed was you breaking the valuables on the vanity. He scrambles to look in the mirror, cursing to himself as he looked at the love-bites and the lipstick that were evidently clear now that he was sober.

"You're a fucking coward Thomas Shelby!" You cried as you leaned against the door.

"It was nothing (y/n), you're overreacting!"

You chuckled sourly. leaving the door to sit on the bed. Thomas cautiously opened the door, looking out into the room, the broken glass of the beauty products were haphazardly spread across the floor. There you sat, tears glistening on your cheekbones as you looked down at the floor.

"(y/n)…please," He held his uninjured hand out as if you were a wild animal. You tsked and roll your eyes at him.

"Oh please, Thomas..." You mumbled.

He threw his hands up, breathing heavily.

"Humor me, Thomas..." You started, slowly standing up. "Who was it?"

"I don't know what you're-"

"Stop lying for one second and tell me!" You snapped. He blinks, his body seemed less tense as he conjured up the courage to tell you.

"You know who," He simply stated.

"At least have some courage and say her fuckin' name...you owe me that at least,"

Thomas licks his lips and looks down. Suddenly feeling brave he says her name. It felt like a curse leaving his lips.

"Lizzie Stark,"

You nod bitterly, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“I’m packing my shit and I’m leaving…tonight,” You told him, turning back around to pack whatever little you had left into a trunk. He watched as you then went into your children's room to wake them up and help them pack a small bag, fetching some maids to help you take them to the car as you threw whatever gifts, dresses, jewelry, other materialistic things he got for you onto the floor. Throwing your coat on as you made your way down the stairs with Frances’s help. Your children, although confused and still tired, sat in the backseat of the company car, knowing this was the last time you would have that kind of luxury. You sat in the middle as they rested their heads on your shoulders and cuddled into your sides. A single tear escaped your eye as the car began to take off down the long entry path. If only Thomas knew of the agony you felt in your heart.

Thomas stood outside, watching in somberness as you left. Without a goodbye and second glance. You and Thomas had argued before, of course but it never got this bad. It was always resolved by the morning, but he feared that this was the last time. 

He wanted to cry, scream, and yell over the fact that he really fucked up his last chance with you. He loved you more than words could say. As the car disappears into the dark distance he retreats back inside. 

"Should I assume she is coming back, sir?" Frances asked. 

"That...I am unsure, Frances..." He shook his head. 

"Please get some rest, Mr. Shelby...have some peace of mind," 

And so he did. He tried at least. He cleaned up most of your mess but as he laid in bed he held the engagement ring between his fingers. You had left it on your vanity before you took off. 

Oh how beautiful it would have looked on your finger when you got married. 

---

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[spaceprincessem]

and some things you just can’t speak about | 42k buddie fic | ao3

[or the 118 support group therapy au]

All of the lightheartedness seeps out of the room and Eddie purses his lips together, pushing them to the side of his mouth. He doesn’t want to think about Shannon. The lingering anger and bitterness. The guilt snaked around his ribcage, reminding him that it’s unfair to be upset with a dead person. He doesn’t want to think about the way her eyes fluttered when she told him she wanted a divorce. How her lashes feathered together when they fell shut for the last time. In the end, Eddie knows they wouldn’t have worked out. High school sweethearts who just wanted to have fun, thrown into life too quickly by two pink lines and a recruiting pamphlet that promised a rewarding future. But now that Shannon is gone, really, truly gone, Eddie feels alone. Alone and undeserving and stumbling through the dark with his hands tied behind his back. And he gets that it won’t always be like this, or he holds onto the idea that things will get better with grasping fingers — he is paying Frank for a reason, but —

But.

But maybe Eddie will always be alone. And he has Christopher, the best goddamn kid in the entire world, but having a child and having a partner are two very different things. He doesn’t even have a fucking best friend, let alone any close friends he’d lean on when everything gets too heavy. It’s a small comfort to know his Abuela and Tía Pepa are only a phone call away, but he can’t ask them to shoulder his burdens.

“People are supposed to wake up from comas speaking a new language or discover they’re suddenly a musical genius,” Chimney says, his smile forced as his eyes gloss over. “I survived a life altering event, but I still feel the same.” 

Chimney shudders on the inhale and Eddie bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood. It’s the only thing keeping him from screaming.

“I feel,” Chimney starts again, he’s leaning forward, elbows pressed into his knees, eyes hard on the floor, “I feel—” he cuts off with a wounded noise trapped in the back of his throat.

“Stuck.” Buck says quietly.

Chimney scrubs a hand over his face, “Yeah,” he looks at Buck, something close to a self-deprecating smile tugging up in the corner of his mouth, “stuck.”

 “Me too.”

Eddie’s surprise at hearing himself speak for the first time since he was introduced isn’t nearly as shocking as realizing that both he and Buck say the same thing at the same time. Eddie trails his gaze up the line of Buck’s neck, watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, and finds those glacier lake eyes looking right at him. Eddie’s never been the type of person to stand down. To roll over and bare his belly. He won’t look away, can’t concede to that, but the idea of being seen by a complete stranger is unnerving and Eddie feels a little defenseless. Bobby clears his throat and they both blink out of their strange standoff. Eddie’s flush only burns hotter when he sees Hen and Chim share a look like it’s an entire conversation and something deep and unknown twinkle in Bobby’s eyes.

“That’s something we can all think about for next week,” Bobby smiles knowingly, “where are we stuck in life? And, maybe,” he turns towards all of them, “we just might figure out how to help each other move forward.”

hello all my lovely friends it is here! tagging everyone who showed interest in the story! 

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[laylaackles]

Supermassive (MOC Dean Smut)

Warnings: rough sex, smut, hair pulling, choking, mark of Cain Dean.

Song is: Supermassive Black Hole by Muse.

Ooh baby, don't you know I suffer?

Ooh baby, can you hear me moan?

You caught me under false pretenses

How long before you let me go?

Two weeks ago, Dean was given the Mark of Cain. Two weeks ago, he became a completely different person. He became cold, distant, and just plain rude. He didn't mean to. He couldn't control it.

Ooh

You set my soul alight

Ooh

You set my soul alight

Dean shut you out, even though you just wanted to be there for him. After all, you've been dating him for three years. He told you he didn't want to scare you. He didn't want to do anything to hurt you.

Glaciers melting in the dead of night (ooh)

And the superstars sucked into the supermassive (you set my soul alight)

Glaciers melting in the dead of night

And the superstars sucked into the (you set my soul)

(Into the supermassive)

Tonight, you had had enough. You begged Dean to let you in. You wanted him to open up to you about how he was feeling. Or to at least give you some attention. And now, you find yourself here.

I thought I was a fool for no one

Ooh baby, I'm a fool for you

You're the queen of the superficial

And how long before you tell the truth?

Dean had enough of your begging and decided to give you the attention you wanted. It wasn't normal for you guys to go so long without having sex. So that was how he was going to give you attention.

Ooh

You set my soul alight

Ooh

You set my soul alight

Dean's hand is wrapped around your throat. Your back is pressed to his chest, and his cock is pounding into you relentlessly. His hand on your throat is squeezing a little tighter than it usually does, but you don't mind one bit. If him using your body like this is how you get him to open up to you, then so be it.

Glaciers melting in the dead of night (ooh)

And the superstars sucked into the supermassive (you set my soul alight)

Glaciers melting in the dead of night

And the superstars sucked into the (you set my soul)

(Into the supermassive)

Dean let go of your throat and pushed you down so you were positioned on your hands and knees. You loved the way he was tossing you around. Dean isn't always the rough and dominant type in bed. But you love it when he is.

Supermassive black hole

Supermassive black hole

Supermassive black hole

Supermassive black hole

"You're doing so good." He said.

His words surprised you. That was the first thing he's said since he finally gave in earlier.

Glaciers melting in the dead of night

And the superstars sucked into the supermassive

Glaciers melting in the dead of night

And the superstars sucked into the supermassive

Glaciers melting in the dead of night (ooh)

And the superstars sucked into the supermassive (you set my soul alight)

Glaciers melting in the dead of night

And the superstars sucked into the (you set my soul)

(Into the supermassive)

Dean wrapped your hair around one of his hands and used it to pull you up once again.

"Your pussy was fucking made for me. You were made for me." He said.

Dean's cock was throbbing as he pounded into your clenching pussy over and over again. He's so fucking good at this. He has ruined you for all men.

In one quick motion, Dean flipped you, so you were lying on your back staring up at him.

"Wanna see your face when you cum on my cock." He said.

Supermassive black hole

Supermassive black hole

Supermassive black hole

Supermassive black hole

With a final thrust, you and Dean came at the same time. When he pulled out, he laid his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

You combed your fingers through his hair as he laid there.

"I'm sorry for being an asshole." Was all he said before the two of you drifted off to sleep in each other's arms.

LA<3

[safewavess]

I present; 99 Castoff Incorrect Quotes. Don’t ask why

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3 (this one))

(67)

Rori: I'm quick at math.

Arianna: Ok, what's 38 times 76?

Rori: 24

Arianna: That wasn't even close.

Rori: But it was quick.

(68)

Vector: Am I in trouble?

Arianna: Take a guess.

Vector: No?

Arianna: Take another guess.

(69)

Frankie: Wow, it sure smells like wrong dog in here!

Vector: Oh buddy…

Frankie, already sobbing: ASK.

(70)

Rori: You can take away my rights, but can you take away my lefts?

(71)

Vector: What scares you guys the most?

Frankie: Werewolves!

Marina: Sharks.

Sage: The unstoppable marching of time that is slowly guiding us all towards an inevitable death.

Sage:

Sage: Arianna.

(72)

Arianna: We have to plan, we have to figure something out.

Frankie: Arianna, when have any of our plans ever actually worked? We plan, we get there, all hell breaks loose.

(73)

Frankie: Oh, hey, I didn't see you come in! You should have come by and said hello!

Arianna: Oh! Yeah, I uh...

Arianna: Didn't want to bother you.

Arianna: Or talk to or listen to or be around you.

(74)

Frankie: There are three ways to handle a difficult situation. The right way, the wrong way, and the Arianna way.

Vector: Isn't that the wrong way?

Frankie: Yes, but it's faster.

(75)

Arianna: We wouldn't last two minutes without Frankie.

Arianna:

Arianna: Don't tell them I said that.

(76)

Arianna: Why do you hang out with me?

Vector: You're the best thing that's ever happened to me!

Arianna: ...

Arianna: I feel a bit sorry for you.

(77)

Frankie: Oh, fiddlesticks! That really ruffles my feathers!

Rori: Please, just say fuck.

(78)

Vector, texting Marina: sends a voice message

Marina, texting back: I'm a little busy, is it urgent?

Vector: No, don't worry, just listen later. later

Marina: presses play

Vector's voice message: THERE'S A FIRE-

(79)

Marina: You need to stop swearing so much.

Arianna: Shut the fuck up.

Marina: Yeah, that's not how you do it.

Arianna: Alright sorry. It's just that it's hard not to swear. The words just creep up on me when I least expect it.

Marina: Now now, don't be like that. Just replace the swear words with 'beep' and you'll be fine.

Arianna: Shit the beep up.

Marina:

Arianna: SHUT, DAMMIT! I MEANT SHUT!

(80)

Frankie: I have a bad feeling about this, guys.

Arianna: Oh don't worry, you'll be fine.

Vector: Yeah, what's the worst that could happen?

Frankie, being bailed out of jail the next morning: I hate you all.

(81)

Arianna: fast-forwards all the way through the movie

Frankie: You can't just skip to the happy ending!

Arianna: I don't have time for their problems.

(82)

Marina: Do you ever want to talk about your emotions, Arianna?

Arianna: No.

Frankie: I do!

Marina: I know, Frankie.

Frankie: I'm sad.

Marina: I know, Frankie.

(83)

Arianna: When do I get my own gun?

TheStarfishface: I wouldn't trust you with my kid's lightsaber.

(84)

Arianna: Well, well, well, if it isn't the consequences of my actions.

(85)

Arianna: I keep a picture of all of us in my wallet. Whenever I face difficulties, I take it out and stare at the picture.

The Squad: Awwww-

Arianna: And I tell myself "If I can deal with these idiots, then I can deal with anything."

The Squad: Oh.

(86)

Rori: Ha! What are you gonna do? Stab mе?

Five minutes later

Rori, calling 911: HELP, IVE BEEN STABBED.

(87)

Rori: I'd roast you, but my mom says you can't burn trash.

Rori: slow-mo walks out of the room

(88)

Frankie: Hey.

Arianna: pissed off You... complete ... ASS, Frankie! You show up here after WEEKS, and you say "hey"?!

(89)

Sage: The dinosaurs didn't rule the earth they were just alive. Stop giving them credit for administration skills they didn't have.

(90)

Rori: Advice of the day kids, if you ever meet someone who calls Gatorade flavors the actual name of the flavor instead of just the color then they are a certified nerd.

Vector: Yeah but you have to specify, frost glacier or cool blue? You can't just say blue because there's more than one blue.

Rori: Blue and light blue, nice try nerd.

(91)

Rori: I will beat all of you in Rock, Paper, Scissors. You go first.

Vector: Rock.

Rori: Paper.

(92)

Frankie: Why's it called an oven when you of in the cold food and you of out hot eat the food?

Marina: ...What???

(93)

Marina: I hate to disagree with you, but-

Rori: Please, you love to disagree with me. Its your favorite thing to do.

(94)

Arianna: Underestimate me. That'll be fun.

(95)

Vector: What does "take out" mean?

Frankie: Food.

Marina: Dating.

Arianna: Murder.

Rori: It can be all three if you're brave enough.

(96)

Vector: I am very small and I have no money, so you can imagine the kind of stress that I'm under.

(97)

Rori: on the phone Hey Marina, do you know my blood type?

Marina: Of course, it's B-.

Rori: Oh, I guessed wrong. Excuse me, nurse-!

(98)

Frankie: Vector, I'm afraid.

Vector: Just stay close to Arianna.

Frankie: That's why I'm afraid.

(99)

Marina: What did you two do?

Rori:

Arianna:

Marina: You're not in trouble, I just need to know if I have to lie to the police again or not.

[peachesofteal]

Who wants to read the first like 1.4k of the winter ghoap fic even though it has absolutely no ghoap in it?

Winter in the mountains can be cruel. 

This is something you’ve always known, even as a child. You were raised with it. Chose to return to it after school, decided to make a go of it, of a life here, as an adult. You knew what you were getting yourself into, long cold winters that felt both bleak and promising, unblemished blankets of snow possessing the ability to be stunning, while also lethal. Winters were dangerous, silent killers that left corpses in their wake and no amount of lupine or paintbrushes, glacier fed lakes or springtime moose calves could make up for the hell that winter wrought. Winter brings most living things to the knife’s edge of survival, forcing most to bow beneath the weight of its fury, backs breaking with the burden of just existing in a below freezing environment. 

Although, there are some who do more than survive the cold, violent stretch of winter. There are predators who thrive. 

“You closin’?” Your coworker, the new one, asks from where she’s settled across the dark wood bar, two amber Budweiser bottles empty in front her idle hands, eyes wandering to guys posted up by the loneliest pool table in fifty square miles. 

“I am.” She casts the one window in the entire place a surreptitious glance, fingers peeling away at a label. It’s snowing, has been for hours, flakes fat and wet, fluffy enough that the density of the snow on the ground is light, but dangerous, as it hides the real risk underneath; packed snow sitting with a slick sheen of ice on top. 

“You still trying to make it over Fall River pass tonight?” You nod. 

“Yeah. Supposed to see my brother and his new baby this weekend.” 

“Fall River? Is that even open right now?” Andy, a regular who lives a few streets over from you, chimes in, twisting an empty rocks glass in his fist. You pull the bottle of Jameson from the rail and tip it vertical, honey brown liquid sloshing like a wave until his glass is halfway full, and he gives you a flirty kind of smile, the same one he’s been giving you for a year now. Yeeesh.

“It is. I could go around, but it just takes too long. And it’s Friday. I’m not trying to be stuck on the highway with ski traffic and the tourists in their rental cars.” You complain, and they both commiserate your opinion. Weekend traffic is brutal, especially in the winter. Driving in hazardous conditions is considered to be a talent more than an innate ability here, and people often overestimate their aptitude for it, causing crashes and delays that get the highway shut down for hours, or even days, at times. You shrug. “I’ve had my snow tires on for weeks. Might as well get some use out of them.” Andy snorts. 

“Like you haven’t been gettin’ good use out of them? First real snow was before Halloween this year.” You nod. He’s not wrong. You did get dumped on two weeks before the end of October, twenty-three inches piling up within two days, before half the area was even ready for it. You throw him a polite smile, one that you hope reads like ‘okay thanks for the concern, we’re done now’ and he sighs. “Well, drive safe.” 

Fall River pass, it turns out, is not open. It’s closed by the time you split off from the interstate and start the windy, switch-backed trek in your jeep, flashing orange and yellow lights dotting the top of a barricade just barely visible through the speckled snow flying by in your headlights. 

Fuck. You could have sworn the DOT website said it was open. You take a deep breath, quelling the anxiety that roils your stomach. Okay. Not the end of the world. There’s another road. A less maintained road, but… you’ll be fine. You’ve driven in worse. 

The other road, a sharp, narrow, desolate path that cuts through a large swath of unmanaged forest just outside the national park, is easy at first. You’ve been driving the same jeep for years, a 2007 two door Wrangler, and you know how it handles like the back of your hand. With snow tires, it could pretty much cut through anything, even unplowed, fire watch roads like this one. 

Which is why, after the first few miles, your nerves fully settle, and you allow yourself to relax a little bit behind the wheel, easing the jeep across the dips and slicks in the road as you cautiously build speed, snow falling fast through night, growing thicker the higher you travel into wilderness territory, and the farther you left modern civilization behind. 

An hour creeps by, and then two. Long enough that you’ve now realized you’re the only one using this road, fresh snow blanketing the woods around you, topography and vegetation starting to change as you encroach on what you assume must be eleven thousand feet. You’ve seen this road on google maps once, or twice maybe, having noted it for future travel just in case of a situation like this. It travels perpendicular to Fall River, and eventually meets another, one that must be similar, on the other side of the range. The secondary road is one that takes you along the ridge, and then down, you’re pretty sure, although you can’t be one hundred percent certain, because you lost cell reception before you even turned off from Fall River.

Still, won’t hurt to check and see if you have this area downloaded. 

You pull your phone from the center console, thumbing at the screen, allowing your eyes to linger too long without looking back up through the windshield. No one else is out here. It’s not like you need to worry about oncoming traffic. The little SOS insignia blinks at the top corner, and you tap on the map icon, hoping it will bring up your geo location so you can glance at the satellite map of the area. 

You’re so fixated watching the little circle of death try to load, that by the time you look up and see the tree laying across the road, it’s far too late. You do the first thing you were always taught not to do in winter conditions, and slam on the brake, slamming the pedal to floor, heart rate sky rocketing as you panic and lose total control of the jeep. You spin, shoulders and chest jamming against the seatbelt, headlights flashing off into the woods, illuminating an endlessly dark web of trees, bark and branch scratching across the paint as you careen off the road, tipping too precariously onto two wheels and then rolling. 

Time, your life, stands completely still for a moment. You see every individual fiber of the pine needles, every uniquely designed snowflake, every single droplet of blood that floats away from your face and through midair as you crash through the forest, your grasp on consciousness slipping farther and farther away as you’re jostled around, the jeep finally coming to a stop on its side, your head cracked against the driver’s window, stars and lights spawning out across your vision, headlights finally blinking out completely, leaving you in the dark. Your head spins like you’re still rolling, and the only sound in the dead silent snow is your harsh breathing, frantic terror bubbling up through your throat as pain surges through your body. 

It's freezing, but you feel surprisingly warm. 

You’re going to die out here. No one knows you took this road, you don’t have service, by the time they find you, it’ll be too late. You’ll be a bled out, frozen corpse, long gone and- 

You lose your train of thought quickly. Everything starts to fracture, fissures forming in your consciousness, part of you already losing the battle to the inevitable, black pulling over your eyes like a knit hat, lungs heaving just a little harder with each breath. 

Sleep. You could just close your eyes. Close your eyes, and sleep. 

Light sweeps across the ground, flashing across your face. You think, if you were truly with it, in your right mind, you’d think it was too bright. You’d say it was blinding. 

But you can’t formulate anything of the sort, mind too busy slipping away, falling into an inky black pool, just barely on the verge when you feel a gloved hand on your skin, the lilt of an accent on the wind. 

Sleep. 

[moral-terpitude]

Misadventures - 8.5

don’t start shaking again • she can make the salt taste like sugar on her hands but • if love is a way out then please let me in • don’t start darling • don’t you turn my nightmares into dreams again

A/N: I’ve had to play with the ages here to make this work, which was one of the things I did at the very beginning before even starting the whole series, but it still may not be airtight. I’m still muscling my way through the 11,000+ words that the next modern day part is right now, but got thinking of a little flashback of some context to some things I’ve included, so here it is! I had to google loads of stuff about that timeframe so correct me if something is off.

The lyrics are from Hills Like White Elephants by Isles & Glaciers, which was formed in 2008, is the first recorded album that Vic Fuentes of Pierce the Veil sang on.

Word count: 1824

Summary: It’s 2009. Arthur is gone fighting in the midst of the Iraq war, which leaves the Shelby’s short on money and struggling while Tommy gets some important news.

Warnings: none. typical swearing.

[Masterlist][Series Masterlist]

2009

“It’s fuckin’ hot, Tommy.”

“Don’t say fuck, John. You’re fourteen. Aunt Pol will wash your mouth with soap if she comes home and hears you saying fuck.”

The toaster popped and Ada, stood at the counter on a stool, put the two pieces of bread on a plate and slathered them with butter before she crammed two more pieces in and pushed the lever down.

“I’ll take that,” John said, reaching over his sister's shoulder, ruffling her hose-dampened hair, now half dry, before she turned on him, butter knife still in hand.

“John!” Her voice was a shrill whine as she swatted at her brother, “Those are mine!”

“Yeah, you put all the fuckin’ butter on those two—“

“Enough!” one, two, three, Tommy counted off the sausage links before depositing them on his brother's plate, gesturing at him with the tongs as he spoke, “John. No fucking fighting with Ada over the toast.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, “How am I supposed to leave you in charge to go help Uncle Charlie and Curly if you can’t all get along, eh?”

Tommy glanced into the sitting room where Anna was sprawled out on the rug, fishing through the nubs of crayons with Michael, as they watched the same Wallace & Gromit tape that they had asked for yesterday.

They hadn’t been having the easiest time since they’d come back to Watery Lane but it seemed to be their one comfort.

Ada and Finn were sick of it over and over again, but Pol hadn’t renewed the TV license, said they couldn’t keep doing it.

The money wasn’t there. The kids didn’t take kindly to it, but they didn’t understand that the £142.50 the BBC wanted paid for the year was a month's worth of groceries if they played it right.

“Will you be late?” Ada asked, sweet as sugar, as she sat next to John at the table.

“Don’t know.”

“Are you going to see Grace?” John asked, cramming a bit of toast in his mouth as Tommy rounded up the other kids for breakfast.

“Don’t know. Where’s Finn?”

Ada shrugged, running her foot along the cat's back as it sat at her feet, and she took a long drink of juice.

Tommy sighed, grabbing the now cold mug of coffee from the counter, spilling some on the grey cotton sleep shorts as he padded across the laminate tile to the back door to see Finn enjoying the water coming through the plastic drink bottle they had poked holes in with a screwdriver and taped to the end of the garden hose that morning.

They were creative with what they had if nothing else.

“Oi! Get in here and eat. Turn that off.”

Finn grabbed the towel, running to the spigot to shut off the hose, wet feet leaving dents in the sopping grass before wiping himself down and tossing the towel over the washing line.

“Remember, if Arthur calls, leave the phone off the hook and someone run down and grab Pol. He should be calling any day now. Don’t want to miss him.”

John nodded, as Tommy put a hand on his shoulder, “No fucking fighting. Don't let anyone break anything. Don’t let anyone choke on anything. No using the stove. Snacks are in the cupboard. Don’t drink all the juice or Pol will have a fit.”

“Okay, Tommy.”

“Fucking going to be late,” Tommy grumbled, taking the stairs two at a time before putting on an old pair of jeans and a shirt that he knew had a hole in it somewhere, cramming a spare change of clothes and trainers in the old rucksack hidden in the bottom of the closet before throwing it over his shoulder.

Tommy was positive when he had seen Grace that Tuesday she said once he left from helping Charlie on Friday she would pick him up near the Bull Ring.

That had to have been what she said. He racked his brain for anything they had talked about and it was the only thing that made sense.

The whole thirty five minutes it had taken him to walk there he figured he would be keeping her and her roommate waiting, but they were nowhere to be found.

He flicked the butt from the Pall Mall off in the distance before lighting another one.

She had been strange on Tuesday.

She’s probably sick of you, Tommy.

Sick of the Shelby house full of small kids and never a quiet moment.

Sick of the last time time they could fuck in private and actually in a bed being eight weeks ago when Polly took all the kids out camping behind Charlie’s yard, despite John’s protest of being too old for that.

Sick of them being a fucking poor bunch of—

“Tommy!”

He chuckled as her roommate honked the horn, a few beeps to get his attention, before he stomped out the cigarette butt and squeezed into the back of the little white Ford Escort.

“Hi,” she whispered, turning around in the seat, the wide faux leather belt she wore squeaking as she ran her white painted nails through the shaved short hair at the nape of his neck, capturing his lips for a quick kiss, before sitting back the right way in the seat and strapping in.

Of course, he’d managed to fuck up the trim a little this time around. Arthur usually managed to get the back for him, but now everything was a bit too short except the top.

He tucked the bag behind the seat on the floor. Polly would kill him if she knew how much of a stash he was keeping in the house with kids there, with them being on the verge of being overcrowded according to the Council, and with Social Services being in and out for checks on Michael and Anna, he was treading thin ice.

Right now, money was money.

The party Grace had managed to get invited to tonight was bigger than most. More strangers than usual and it gave Tommy a sinking in his gut that something wasn’t quite right.

Some cunt from one of Grace’s study groups wouldn’t leave him alone, asking too many questions for Tommy’s liking.

“You work with fucking horses and can’t get fucking K?”

“No. I’m not the fucking veterinarian.” Tommy didn’t figure it was the time to try and educate them that ketamine wasn’t always the solution for putting an animal down, Curly hated it but a 9mm round was cheaper. “If you don’t want anything then fuck off.”

Where is Johnny when you need him, Tommy? For not doing drugs he sure knew where and who to get anything and everything from.

Tommy sat on the curb, feet firmly planted, elbows resting on his knees and a cigarette smoldering between his lips.

The heat made everyone weird. Some of the people Grace knew from University were just weird in general, but the heat somehow made them even more strange.

“Tommy…” she hesitated, pacing the sidewalk next to him.

Had she been talking?

“What, Grace?”

“Were you listening to me?”

He shook his head, stuffing some of the bills he had been counting in his back pocket, before lighting another cigarette, “Sorry. Lost in thought. What did you say?”

“Have you thought about what I said? About, if you could get a scholarship, take some classes, maybe—“

“Can’t, Grace.” Tommy cut her off, trying to curtail the heat of embarrassment rising up his neck, as he thought of the tongue lashing Polly had given him when he started looking into even a few courses about not having the money for that right now.

“Tommy,” she sat next to him on the curb, lacing her fingers as she held her skirt in place at the knee, proceeding gently, “I think you underestimate yourself. You can figure out how to do all this to make extra money. It’s product sourcing and acquisition, it’s distribution and sales, I think if you really—“

“Can’t go to school if you don’t have any papers, Grace.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, the words hanging in the warm night air the same way the smoke from the smoldering cigarette did.

“Do you know how many days people have to register a baby after they’re born? Forty-two.” Tommy ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth before continuing. “Do you know what happens if they don’t? There’s no birth certificate, there’s no, no, anything. So, me mom and dad, they only ever registered Arthur. Polly doesn’t have the money to try to fix all of it right now.”

There was silence as they both stared at the car that passed, Tommy stared at his feet, another thing to add to the list that the Shelby’s had fucked up and couldn’t do right.

“Well,” she stood, smoothing her skirt, her tone indignant as she continued, “I need you to figure something out, because I’m pregnant.”

“Ada, get the cat out of my bed.” Tommy spoke, not uncovering his eyes to check and see if the weight on his mattress was indeed his sister.

Ada huffed, picking the animal up around the middle before she opened the door, tossing her out on her feet, before crawling back on top of the sheets once again.

He could feel her identical blue eyes as they bored a hole into him before she gently lifted his arm to check if he was asleep or not.

“What, Ada?”

“Are you sick?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

“Are you drunk? I can get the—“

“No, Ada, I’m not drunk, eh.”

She sat cross legged, bunching Polly’s worn tee shirt between her legs as she waited for Tommy to tell her the crazy stories from his night.

Ada was a good secret keeper, and Tommy always had some story, some silly voice, to entertain her with.

“I’m just—“ he groaned, sitting up and bunching the well worn pillow up behind himself, bleary eyed, as the fan ruffled a few of the Polaroid pictures taped to the wall, “dead man walking, I guess.”

He looked at the pack of Pall Mall’s on the dresser. He usually kept them stashed in the top drawer so no one found them, and really two years ago Polly could still sit at the table and smoke a cigarette while they had breakfast, but now it was being pushed to “take it outside” like it was some kind of crime.

Ada eyed him inquisitively, damp curls bunched behind her neck, resting her chin on her hand as she waited for an explanation.

“Grace is pregnant.”

Arthur Sr. and their mother forgetting to register their children was the only thing I could think that would prevent Tommy enlisting at the same time as Arthur and letting them be split up.

Let me know what you think! I don’t know fuck all about the TV licensing fees (I googled the 2009 cost for color, because yeah there was a difference between black and white or color) or how Council Housing works but from what I could gather it’s similar to our Section 8 in the US.

[leebrontide]

Fuck yes 50% off hydrangeas! Got 6 fairly well established Seaside Serenade Glacier Bay hydrangea at one of those pop up stores that are shutting down this time of year. I'm going to put them about where the cherries I'm relocating are right now.

The flowers on them now are white, with pretty neutral soil in the pot. I intend to rake up some of my masses and masses of dropped larch needles to put under the mulch and maybe in the planting hole, to try to tempt them blue, or at least keep them out of the pink range. I think this variety tends to keep more stalwartly to white than some others, but we'll see what happens!

Mainly I don't want the plants on the larch side of the house to be blue and then across the yard them to be white or pink. I don't want a Sleeping Beauty's dress situation.

I had been feeling pretty done with hydrangeas last year when we moved in, but I have to appreciate the eevee-like nature of their coloration. Plus I can get the right height, and it'll add some English cottage flare to my native planting beds in the front.