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The Doom of the Griffiths (1858) by Elizabeth Gaskell, chapter 1

I have always been much interested by the traditions which are scattered up and down North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is the national spelling of the name), and I fully enter into the feeling which makes the Welsh peasant still look upon him as the hero of his country. There was great joy among many of the inhabitants of the principality, when the subject of the Welsh prize poem at Oxford, some fifteen or sixteen years ago, was announced to be 'Owain Glendwr.' It was the most proudly national subject that had been given for years.

Perhaps some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even in the present days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiterate countrymen for his magical powers as for his patriotism. He says himself--or Shakespeare says it for him, which is much the same thing:

'At my nativity The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes Of burning cressets . . . . . . I can call spirits from the vasty deep.'

And few among the lower orders in the principality would think of asking Hotspur's irreverent question in reply.

Among other traditions preserved relative to this part of the Welsh hero's character, is the old family prophecy which gives title to this tale. When Sir David Gam, 'as black a traitor as if he had been born in Bluith', sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth, there was one with him whose name Glendwr little dreamed of having associated with his enemies. Rhys ap Gryfydd, his 'old familiar friend,' his relation, his more than brother, had consented unto his blood. Sir David Gam might be forgiven, but one whom he had loved, and who had betrayed him, could never be forgiven. Glendwr was too deeply read in the human heart to kill him. No, he let him live on, the loathing and scorn of his compatriots, and the victim of bitter remorse. The mark of Cain was upon him.

But before he went forth--while he yet stood a prisoner, cowering beneath his conscience before Owain Glendwr--that chieftain passed a doom upon him, and his race:

'I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt pray for death. Thou shalt live on beyond the natural term of the life of man, the scorn of all good men. The very children shall point to thee with hissing tongue, and say, "There goes one who would have shed a brother's blood!" For I loved thee more than a brother, O Rhys ap Gryfydd! Thou shalt live on to see all of thy house, except the weakling in arms, perish by the sword. Thy race shall be accursed. Each generation shall see their lands melt away like snow; yea, their wealth shall vanish, though they may labour night and day to heap up gold. And when nine generations have passed from the face of the earth, thy blood shall no longer flow in the veins of any human being. In those days the last male of thy race shall avenge me. The son shall slay the father.'

Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glendwr's speech to his once-trusted friend. And it was declared that the doom had been fulfilled in all things; that, live in as miserly a manner as they would, the Griffiths never were wealthy and prosperous--indeed, that their worldly stock diminished without any visible cause.

But the lapse of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiring power of the whole curse. It was only brought forth from the hoards of Memory when some untoward event happened to the Griffiths family; and in the eighth generation the faith in the prophecy was nearly destroyed, by the marriage of the Griffiths of that day to a Miss Owen, who, unexpectedly, by the death of a brother, became an heiress--to no considerable amount, to be sure, but enough to make the prophecy appear reversed. The heiress and her husband removed from his small patrimonial estate in Merionethshire, to her heritage in Caernarvonshire, and for a time the prophecy lay dormant.

If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth, you pass by the parochial church of Ynysynhanarn, situated in a boggy valley running from the mountains, which shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay. This tract of land has every appearance of having been redeemed at no distant period of time from the sea, and has all the desolate rankness often attendant upon such marshes. But the valley beyond, similar in character, had yet more of gloom at the time of which I write. In the higher part there were large plantations of firs, set too closely to attain any size, and remaining stunted in height and scrubby in appearance. Indeed, many of the smaller and more weakly had died, and the bark had fallen down on the brown soil neglected and unnoticed. These trees had a ghastly appearance, with their white trunks, seen by the dim light which struggled through the thick boughs above. Nearer to the sea, the valley assumed a more open, though hardly a more cheerful character; it looked dark and was overhung by sea-fog through the greater part of the year; and even a farmhouse, which usually imparts something of cheerfulness to a landscape, failed to do so here. This valley formed the greater part of the estate to which Owen Griffiths became entitled by right of his wife. In the higher part of the valley was situated the family mansion, or rather dwelling-house; for 'mansion' is too grand a word to apply to the clumsy, but substantially-built Bodowen. It was square and heavy-looking, with just that much pretension to ornament necessary to distinguish it from the mere farmhouse.

In this dwelling Mrs. Owen Griffiths bore her husband two sons--Llewellyn, the future Squire, and Robert, who was early destined for the Church. The only difference in their situation, up to the time when Robert was entered at Jesus College, was that the elder was invariably indulged by all around him, while Robert was thwarted and indulged by turns; that Llewellyn never learned anything from the poor Welsh parson, who was nominally his private tutor; while occasionally Squire Griffiths made a great point of enforcing Robert's diligence, telling him that, as he had his bread to earn, he must pay attention to his learning. There is no knowing how far the very irregular education he had received would have carried Robert through his college examinations; but, luckily for him in this respect, before such a trial of his learning came round, he heard of the death of his elder brother, after a short illness, brought on by a hard drinking-bout. Of course, Robert was summoned home; and it seemed quite as much of course, now that there was no necessity for him to 'earn his bread by his learning,' that he should not return to Oxford. So the half-educated, but not unintelligent, young man continued at home, during the short remainder of his parents' lifetime.

His was not an uncommon character. In general he was mild, indolent, and easily managed; but once thoroughly roused, his passions were vehement and fearful. He seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in common hardly dared to give way to justifiable anger--so much did he dread losing his self-control. Had he been judiciously educated, he would, probably, have distinguished himself in those branches of literature which call for taste and imagination, rather than for any exertion of reflection or judgment. As it was, his literary taste showed itself in making collections of Cambrian antiquities of every description, till his stock of Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr. Pugh himself, had he been alive at the time of which I write.

There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted to note, and which was peculiar among his class. He was no hard drinker; whether it was that his head was easily affected, or that his partially-refined taste led him to dislike intoxication and its attendant circumstances, I cannot say; but at five-and-twenty Robert Griffiths was habitually sober--a thing so rare in Llyn, that he was almost shunned as a churlish, unsociable being, and passed much of his time in solitude.

About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at the Caernarvon assizes and, while there, was a guest at the house of his agent, a shrewd, sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had charms enough to captivate Robert Griffiths. Though he remained only a few days at her father's house, they were sufficient to decide his affections, and short was the period allowed to elapse before he brought home a mistress to Bodowen. The new Mrs. Griffiths was a gentle, yielding person, full of love toward her husband, of whom, nevertheless, she stood something in awe, partly arising from the difference in their ages, partly from his devoting much time to studies of which she could understand nothing.

She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, called Augharad after her mother. Then there came several uneventful years in the household of Bodowen: and, when the old women had one and all declared that the cradle would not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore the son and heir. His birth was soon followed by his mother's death: she had been ailing and low-spirited during her pregnancy, and she seemed to lack the buoyancy of body and mind requisite to bring her round after her time of trial. Her husband, who loved her all the more from having few other claims on his affections, was deeply grieved by her early death, and his only comforter was the sweet little boy whom she had left behind. That part of the squire's character, which was so tender, and almost feminine, seemed called forth by the helpless situation of the little infant, who stretched out his arms to his father with the same earnest cooing that happier children make use of to their mother alone. Augharad was almost neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; still, next to his father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so accustomed to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By night and by day Owen was the constant companion of his father, and increasing years seemed only to confirm the custom. It was an unnatural life for the child, seeing no bright little faces peering into his own (for Augharad was, as I said before, five or six years older, and her face, poor motherless girl! was often anything but bright), hearing no din of clear ringing voices, but day after day sharing the otherwise solitary hours of his father, whether in the dim room surrounded by wizard-like antiquities, or pattering his little feet to keep up with his 'tada' in his mountain rambles or shooting excursions. When the pair came to some little foaming brook, where the stepping-stones were far and wide, the father carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when the lad was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father's arms, or the Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy was indulged (for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his wish of sharing his meals and keeping the same hours. All this indulgence did not render Owen unamiable, but it made him wilful, and not a happy child. He had a thoughtful look, not common to the face of a young boy. He knew no games, no merry sports; his information was of an imaginative and speculative character. His father delighted to interest him in his own studies, without considering how far they were healthy for so young a mind.

Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the prophecy which was to be fulfilled in his generation. He would occasionally refer to it when among his friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay nearer to his heart than he chose to acknowledge. His strong imagination rendered him peculiarly impressionable on such subjects; while his judgment, seldom exercised or fortified by severe thought, could not prevent his continually recurring to it. He used to gaze on the half-sad countenance of the child, who sat looking up into his face with his large dark eyes, so fondly yet so inquiringly, till the old legend swelled around his heart, and became too painful for him not to require sympathy. Besides, the overpowering love he bore to the child seemed to demand fuller vent than tender words; it made him like, yet dread, to upbraid its object for the fearful contrast foretold. Still Squire Griffiths told the legend, in a half-jesting manner, to his little son, when they were roaming over the wild heaths in the autumn days, 'the saddest of the year,' or while they sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mysterious relics that gleamed strangely forth by the flickering fire-light. The legend was wrought into the boy's mind, and he would crave, yet tremble, to hear it told over and over again, while the words were intermingled with caresses and questions as to his love. Occasionally his loving words and actions were cut short by his father's light yet bitter speech 'Get thee away, my lad; thou knowest not what is to come of all this love.'

When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven or twelve, the rector of the parish in which Bodowen was situated endeavoured to prevail on Squire Griffiths to send the boy to school. Now, this rector had many tastes in common with his parishioner, and was his only intimate; and, by repeated arguments, he succeeded in convincing the Squire that the unnatural life Owen was leading was in every way injurious. Unwillingly was the father brought to part from his son; but he did at length send him to the Grammar School at Bangor, then under the management of an excellent classic. Here Owen showed that he had more talents than the rector had given him credit for, when he affirmed that the lad had been completely stupefied by the life he led at Bodowen. He bade fair to do credit to the school in the peculiar branch of learning for which it was famous. But he was not popular among his schoolfellows. He was wayward, though, to a certain degree, generous and unselfish; he was reserved but gentle, except when the tremendous bursts of passion (similar in character to those of his father) forced their way.

On his return from school one Christmas-time, when he had been a year or so at Bangor, he was stunned by hearing that the undervalued Augharad was about to be married to a gentleman of South Wales, residing near Aberystwith. Boys seldom appreciate their sisters; but Owen thought of the many slights with which he had requited the patient Augharad, and he gave way to bitter regrets, which, with a selfish want of control over his words, he kept expressing to his father, until the Squire was thoroughly hurt and chagrined at the repeated exclamations of 'What shall we do when Augharad is gone?' 'How dull we shall be when Augharad is married!' Owen's holidays were prolonged a few weeks, in order that he might be present at the wedding; and when all the festivities were over, and the bride and bridegroom had left Bodowen, the boy and his father really felt how much they missed the quiet, loving Augharad. She had performed so many thoughtful, noiseless little offices, on which their daily comfort depended; and, now she was gone, the household seemed to miss the spirit that peacefully kept it in order; the servants roamed about in search of commands and directions; the rooms had no longer the unobtrusive ordering of taste to make them cheerful; the very fires burned dim, and were always sinking down into dull heaps of grey ashes. Altogether Owen did not regret his return to Bangor, and this also the mortified parent observed. Squire Griffiths was a selfish parent.

Letters in those days were a rare occurrence. Owen usually received one during his half-yearly absences from home, and occasionally his father paid him a visit. This half-year the boy had no visit, nor even a letter, till very near the time of his leaving school, and then he was astounded by the intelligence that his father was married again.

Then came one of his paroxysms of rage; the more disastrous in its effects upon his character because it could find no vent in action. Independently of slight to the memory of his first wife, which children are so apt to fancy such an action implies, Owen had hitherto considered himself (and with justice) the first object of his father's life. They had been so much to each other; and now a shapeless, but too real, something had come between him and his father for ever. He felt as if his permission should have been asked, as if he should have been consulted. Certainly he ought to have been told of the intended event. So the Squire felt, and hence his constrained letter, which had so much increased the bitterness of Owen's feelings.

With all this anger, when Owen saw his stepmother, he thought he had never seen so beautiful a woman for her age; for she was no longer in the bloom of youth, being a widow when his father married her. Her manners, to the Welsh lad, who had seen little of female grace among the families of the few antiquarians with whom his father visited, were so fascinating that he watched her with a sort of breathless admiration. Her measured grace, her faultless movements, her tones of voice, sweet, till the ear was sated with their sweetness, made Owen less angry at his father's marriage. Yet he felt, more than ever, that the cloud was between him and his father; that the hasty letter he had sent in answer to the announcement of his wedding was not forgotten, although no allusion was ever made to it. He was no longer his father's confidant--hardly ever his father's companion; for the newly-married wife was all in all to the Squire, and his son felt himself almost a cipher, where he had so long been everything. The lady herself had ever the softest consideration for her stepson; almost too obtrusive was the attention paid to his wishes; but still he fancied that the heart had no part in the winning advances. There was a watchful glance of the eye that Owen once or twice caught when she had imagined herself unobserved, and many other nameless little circumstances, that gave him a strong feeling of want of sincerity in his stepmother. Mrs. Owen brought with her into the family her little child by her first husband, a boy nearly three years old. He was one of those selfish, observant, mocking children, over whose feelings you seem to have no control; agile and mischievous, his little practical jokes, at first performed in ignorance of the pain he gave, but afterward proceeding to a malicious pleasure in suffering, really seemed to afford some ground to the superstitious notion of some of the common people that he was a fairy changeling.

Years passed on; and as Owen grew older he became more observant. He saw, even in his occasional visits at home (for from school he had passed on to college), that a great change had taken place in the outward manifestations of his father's character; and, by degrees, Owen traced this change to the influence of his stepmother; so slight, so imperceptible to the common observer, yet so resistless in its effects. Squire Griffiths caught up his wife's humbly advanced opinions, and, unawares to himself, adopted them as his own, defying all argument and opposition. It was the same with her wishes; they met their fulfilment, from the extreme and delicate art with which she insinuated them into her husband's mind as his own. She sacrificed the show of authority for the power. At last, when Owen perceived some oppressive act in his father's conduct towards his dependants, or some unaccountable thwarting of his own wishes, he fancied he saw his stepmother's secret influence thus displayed, however much she might regret the injustice of his father's actions in her conversations with him when they were alone. His father was fast losing his temperate habits, and frequent intoxication soon took its usual effect upon the temper. Yet even here was the spell of his wife upon him. Before her he placed a restraint upon his passion, yet she was perfectly aware of his irritable disposition, and directed it hither and thither with the same apparent ignorance of the tendency of her words.

Meanwhile Owen's situation became peculiarly mortifying to a youth whose early remembrances afforded such a contrast to his present state. As a child, he had been elevated to the consequence of a man before his years gave any mental check to the selfishness which such conduct was likely to engender; he could remember when his will was law to the servants and dependants, and his sympathy necessary to his father; now he was as a cipher in his father's house; and the Squire, estranged in the first instance by a feeling of the injury he had done his son in not sooner acquainting him with his purposed marriage, seemed rather to avoid than to seek him as a companion, and too frequently showed the most utter indifference to the feelings and wishes which a young man of a high and independent spirit might be supposed to indulge.

Perhaps Owen was not fully aware of the force of all these circumstances; for an actor in a family drama is seldom unimpassioned enough to be perfectly observant. But he became moody and soured; brooding over his unloved existence, and craving with a human heart after sympathy.

This feeling took more full possession of his mind when he had left college, and returned home to lead an idle and purposeless life. As the heir, there was no worldly necessity for exertion: his father was too much of a Welsh squire to dream of the moral necessity; and he himself had not sufficient strength of mind to decide at once upon abandoning a place and mode of life which abounded in daily mortifications. Yet to this course his judgment was slowly tending, when some circumstances occurred to detain him at Bodowen.

It was not to be expected that harmony would long be preserved, even in appearance, between an unguarded and soured young man, such as Owen, and his wary stepmother, when he had once left college, and come, not as a visitor, but as the heir, to his father's house. Some cause of difference occurred, where the woman subdued her hidden anger sufficiently to become convinced that Owen was not entirely the dupe she had believed him to be. Henceforward there was no peace between them. Not in vulgar altercations did this show itself, but in moody reserve on Owen's part, and in undisguised and contemptuous pursuance of her own plans by his stepmother. Bodowen was no longer a place where, if Owen was not loved or attended to, he could at least find peace and care for himself: he was thwarted at every step, and in every wish, by his father's desire, apparently, while the wife sat by with a smile of triumph on her beautiful lips.

So Owen went forth at the early day-dawn, sometimes roaming about on the shore or the upland, shooting or fishing, as the season might be, but oftener 'stretched in indolent repose' on the short, sweet grass, indulging in gloomy and morbid reveries. He would fancy that this mortified state of existence was a dream, a horrible dream, from which he should awake and find himself again the sole object and darling of his father. And then he would start up and strive to shake off the incubus. There was the molten sunset of his childish memory; the gorgeous crimson piles of glory in the west, fading away into the cold calm light of the rising moon, while here and there a cloud floated across the western heaven, like a seraph's wing, in its flaming beauty; the earth was the same as in his childhood's days, full of gentle evening sounds, and the harmonies of twilight--the breeze came sweeping low over the heather and bluebells by his side, and the turf was sending up its evening incense of perfume. But life, and heart, and hope were changed for ever since those bygone days!

Or he would seat himself in a favourite niche of the rocks on Moel Gest, hidden by the stunted growth of the whitty, or mountain-ash, from general observation, with a rich-tinted cushion of stone-crop for his feet, and a straight precipice of rock rising just above. Here would he sit for hours, gazing idly at the bay below with its background of purple hills, and the little fishing-sail on its bosom, showing white in the sunbeam, and gliding on in such harmony with the quiet beauty of the glassy sea; or he would pull out an old school-volume, his companion for years, and in morbid accordance with the dark legend that still lurked in the recesses of his mind--a shape of gloom in those innermost haunts awaiting its time to come forth in distinct outline--would he turn to the old Greek dramas which treat of a family foredoomed by an avenging Fate. The worn page opened of itself at the play of the Oedipus Tyrannus, and Owen dwelt with the craving disease upon the prophecy so nearly resembling that which concerned himself. With his consciousness of neglect, there was a sort of self-flattery in the consequence which the legend gave him. He almost wondered how they durst, with slights and insults, thus provoke the Avenger.

The days drifted onward. Often he would vehemently pursue some sylvan sport, till thought and feeling were lost in the violence of bodily exertion. Occasionally his evenings were spent at a small public-house, such as stood by the unfrequented wayside, where the welcome--hearty, though bought--seemed so strongly to contrast with the gloomy negligence of home--unsympathising home.

One evening (Owen might be four or five-and-twenty), wearied with a day's shooting on the Clenneny Moors, he passed by the open door of 'The Goat' at Penmorfa. The light and the cheeriness within tempted him, poor self-exhausted man! as it has done many a one more wretched in worldly circumstances, to step in, and take his evening meal where at least his presence was of some consequence. It was a busy day in that little hostel. A flock of sheep, amounting to some hundreds, had arrived at Penmorfa, on their road to England, and thronged the space before the house. Inside was the shrewd, kind-hearted hostess, bustling to and fro, with merry greetings for every tired drover who was to pass the night in her house, while the sheep were penned in a field close by. Ever and anon, she kept attending to the second crowd of guests, who were celebrating a rural wedding in her house. It was busy work to Martha Thomas, yet her smile never flagged; and when Owen Griffiths had finished his evening meal she was there, ready with a hope that it had done him good, and was to his mind, and a word of intelligence that the wedding-folk were about to dance in the kitchen, and the harper was the famous Edward of Corwen.

Owen, partly from good-natured compliance with his hostess's implied wish, and partly from curiosity, lounged to the passage which led to the kitchen--not the every-day working, cooking kitchen, which was behind, but a goodsized room, where the mistress sat when her work was done, and the country people were commonly entertained at such merry-makings as the present. The lintels of the door formed a frame for the animated picture which Owen saw within, as he leaned against the wall in the dark passage. The red light of the fire, with every now and then a falling piece of turf sending forth a fresh blaze, shone full upon four young men who were dancing a measure something like a Scotch reel, keeping admirable time in their rapid movements to the capital tune the harper was playing. They had their hats on when Owen first took his stand, but as they grew more and more animated they flung them away, and presently their shoes were kicked off with like disregard to the spot where they might happen to alight. Shouts of applause followed any remarkable exertion of agility, in which each seemed to try to excel his companions. At length, wearied and exhausted, they sat down, and the harper gradually changed to one of those wild, inspiring national airs for which he was so famous. The thronged audience sat earnest and breathless, and you might have heard a pin drop, except when some maiden passed hurriedly, with flaring candle and busy look, through to the real kitchen beyond. When he had finished his beautiful theme of The March of the Men of Harlech, he changed the measure again to Tri chant o' bunnan (Three hundred pounds) and immediately a most unmusical-looking man began chanting 'Pennillion,' or a sort of recitative stanzas, which were soon taken up by another; and this amusement lasted so long that Owen grew weary, and was thinking of retreating from his post by the door, when some little bustle was occasioned, on the opposite side of the room, by the entrance of a middle-aged man, and a young girl, apparently his daughter. The man advanced to the bench occupied by the seniors of the party, who welcomed him with the usual pretty Welsh greeting, 'Pa sut mae dy galon?' ('How is thy heart?') and drinking his health passed on to him the cup of excellent cwrw. The girl, evidently a village belle, was as warmly greeted by the young men, while the girls eyed her rather askance with a half-jealous look, which Owen set down to the score of her extreme prettiness. Like most Welsh women, she was of middle size as to height, but beautifully made, with the most perfect yet delicate roundness in every limb. Her little mobcap was carefully adjusted to a face which was excessively pretty, though it never could be called handsome. It also was round, with the slightest tendency to the oval shape, richly coloured, though somewhat olive in complexion, with dimples in cheek and chin, and the most scarlet lips Owen had ever seen, that were too short to meet over the small pearly teeth. The nose was the most defective feature; but the eyes were splendid. They were so long, so lustrous, yet at times so very soft under their thick fringe of eyelash! The nut-brown hair was carefully braided beneath the border of delicate lace: it was evident the little village beauty knew how to make the most of all her attractions, for the gay colours which were displayed in her neckerchief were in complete harmony with the complexion.

Owen was much attracted, while yet he was amused, by the evident coquetry the girl displayed, collecting around her a whole bevy of young fellows, for each of whom she seemed to have some gay speech, some attractive look or action. In a few minutes young Griffiths of Bodowen was at her side, brought thither by a variety of idle motives, and as her undivided attention was given to the Welsh heir, her admirers, one by one, dropped off, to seat themselves by some less fascinating but more attentive fair one. The more Owen conversed with the girl, the more he was taken; she had more wit and talent than he had fancied possible; a self-abandon and thoughtfulness, to boot, that seemed full of charms; and then her voice was so clear and sweet, and her actions so full of grace, that Owen was fascinated before he was well aware, and kept looking into her bright, blushing face, till her uplifted flashing eye fell beneath his earnest gaze.

While it thus happened that they were silent--she from confusion at the unexpected warmth of his admiration, he from an unconsciousness of anything but the beautiful changes in her flexile countenance--the man whom Owen took for her father came up and addressed some observation to his daughter, from whence he glided into some commonplace though respectful remark to Owen; and at length, engaging him in some slight, local conversation, he led the way to the account of a spot on the peninsula of Penthryn, where teal abounded, and concluded with begging Owen to allow him to show him the exact place, saying that whenever the young Squire felt so inclined, if he would honour him by a call at his house, he would take him across in his boat. While Owen listened, his attention was not so much absorbed as to be unaware that the little beauty at his side was refusing one or two who endeavoured to draw her from her place by invitations to dance. Flattered by his own construction of her refusals, he again directed all his attention to her, till she was called away by her father, who was leaving the scene of festivity. Before he left he reminded Owen of his promise, and added:

'Perhaps, sir, you do not know me. My name is Ellis Pritchard, and I live at Ty Glas, on this side of Mod Gest; any one can point it out to you.'

When the father and daughter had left, Owen slowly prepared for his ride home; but, encountering the hostess, he could not resist asking a few questions relative to Ellis Pritchard and his pretty daughter. She answered shortly but respectfully, and then said, rather hesitatingly:

'Master Griffiths, you know the triad, Tri pheth tebyg y naill i'r llall, ysgnbwr heb yd, mail deg heb ddiawd, a merch deg heb ei geirda' (Three things are alike: a fine barn without corn, a fine cup without drink, a fine woman without her reputation).' She hastily quitted him, and Owen rode slowly to his unhappy home.

Ellis Pritchard, half farmer and half fisherman, was shrewd, and keen, and worldly; yet he was good-natured, and sufficiently generous to have become rather a popular man among his equals. He had been struck with the young Squire's attention to his pretty daughter, and was not insensible to the advantages to be derived from it. Nest would not be the first peasant-girl, by any means, who had been transplanted to a Welsh manor-house, as its mistress; and, accordingly, her father had shrewdly given the admiring young man some pretext for further opportunities of seeing her.

As for Nest herself, she had somewhat of her father's worldliness, and was fully alive to the superior station of her new admirer, and quite prepared to slight all her old sweethearts on his account. But then she had something more of feeling in her reckoning; she had not been insensible to the earnest yet comparatively refined homage which Owen paid her; she had noticed his expressive and occasionally handsome countenance with admiration, and was flattered by his so immediately singling her out from her companions. As to the hint which Martha Thomas had thrown out, it is enough to say that Nest was very giddy, and that she was motherless. She had high spirits and a great love of admiration, or, to use a softer term, she loved to please; men, women, and children, all, she delighted to gladden with her smile and voice. She coquetted, and flirted, and went to the extreme lengths of Welsh courtship, till the seniors of the village shook their heads, and cautioned their daughters against her acquaintance. If not absolutely guilty, she had too frequently been on the verge of guilt.

Even at the time, Martha Thomas's hint made but little impression on Owen, for his senses were otherwise occupied; but in a few days the recollection thereof had wholly died away, and one warm glorious summer's day he bent his steps towards Ellis Pritchard's with a beating heart; for, except some very slight flirtations at Oxford, Owen had never been touched; his thoughts, his fancy, had been otherwise engaged.

Ty Glas was built against one of the lower rocks of Moel Gest, which, indeed, formed a side to the low, lengthy house. The materials of the cottage were the shingly stones which had fallen from above, plastered rudely together, with deep recesses for the small oblong windows. Altogether, the exterior was much ruder than Owen had expected; but inside there seemed no lack of comforts. The house was divided into two apartments, one large, roomy and dark, into which Owen entered immediately; and before the blushing Nest came from the inner chamber (for she had seen the young Squire coming, and hastily gone to make some alteration in her dress), he had had time to look around him, and note the various little particulars of the room. Beneath the window (which commanded a magnificent view) was an oaken dresser, replete with drawers and cupboards, and brightly polished to a rich dark colour. In the farther part of the room Owen could at first distinguish little, entering as he did from the glaring sunlight; but he soon saw that there were two oaken beds, closed up after the manner of the Welsh: in fact, the dormitories of Ellis Pritchard and the man who served under him, both on sea and on land. There was the large wheel used for spinning wool, left standing on the middle of the floor, as if in use only a few minutes before; and around the ample chimney hung flitches of bacon, dried kids'-flesh, and fish, that was in process of smoking for winter's store.

Before Nest had shyly dared to enter, her father, who had been mending his nets down below, and seen Owen winding up to the house, came in and gave him a hearty yet respectful welcome; and then Nest, downcast and blushing, full of the consciousness which her father's advice and conversation had not failed to inspire, ventured to join them. To Owen's mind this reserve and shyness gave her new charms.

It was too bright, too hot, too anything to think of going to shoot teal till later in the day, and Owen was delighted to accept a hesitating invitation to share the noonday meal. Some ewe-milk cheese, very hard and dry, oat-cake, slips of the dried kid's-flesh broiled, after having been previously soaked in water for a few minutes, delicious butter and fresh buttermilk, with a liquor called 'diod griafol' (made from the berries of the Sorbus aucuparia, infused in water and then fermented), composed the frugal repast; but there was something so clean and neat, and withal such a true welcome, that Owen had seldom enjoyed a meal so much. Indeed, at that time of day the Welsh squires differed from the farmers more in the plenty and rough abundance of their manner of living than in the refinement of style of their table.

At the present day, down in Llyn, the Welsh gentry are not a wit behind their Saxon equals in the expensive elegances of life; but then (when there was but one pewter-service in all Northumberland) there was nothing in Ellis Pritchard's mode of living that grated on the young Squire's sense of refinement.

Little was said by that young pair of wooers during the meal; the father had all the conversation to himself, apparently heedless of the ardent looks and inattentive mien of his guest. As Owen became more serious in his feelings, he grew more timid in their expression, and at night, when they returned from their shooting-excursion, the caress he gave Nest was almost as bashfully offered as received.

This was but the first of a series of days devoted to Nest in reality, though at first he thought some little disguise of his object was necessary. The past, the future, was all forgotten in those happy days of love.

And every worldly plan, every womanly wile was put in practice by Ellis Pritchard and his daughter, to render his visits agreeable and alluring. Indeed, the very circumstance of his being welcome was enough to attract the poor young man, to whom the feeling so produced was new and full of charms. He left a home where the certainty of being thwarted made him chary in expressing his wishes; where no tones of love ever fell on his ear, save those addressed to others; where his presence or absence was a matter of utter indifference; and when he entered Ty Glas, all, down to the little cur which, with clamorous barkings, claimed a part of his attention, seemed to rejoice. His account of his day's employment found a willing listener in Ellis; and when he passed on to Nest, busy at her wheel or at her churn, the deepened colour, the conscious eye, and the gradual yielding of herself up to his lover-like caress, had worlds of charms. Ellis Pritchard was a tenant on the Bodowen estate, and therefore had reasons in plenty for wishing to keep the young Squire's visits secret; and Owen, unwilling to disturb the sunny calm of these halcyon days by any storm at home, was ready to use all the artifice which Ellis suggested as to the mode of his calls at Ty Glas. Nor was he unaware of the probable, nay, the hoped-for termination of these repeated days of happiness. He was quite conscious that the father wished for nothing better than the marriage of his daughter to the heir of Bodowen; and when Nest had hidden her face in his neck, which was encircled by her clasping arms, and murmured into his ear her acknowledgment of love, he felt only too desirous of finding some one to love him for ever. Though not highly principled, he would not have tried to obtain Nest on other terms save those of marriage: he did so pine after enduring love, and fancied he should have bound her heart for evermore to his, when they had taken the solemn oaths of matrimony.

There was no great difficulty attending a secret marriage at such a place and at such a time. One gusty autumn day, Ellis ferried them round Penthryn to Llandutrwyn, and there saw his little Nest become future Lady of Bodowen.

How often do we see giddy, coquetting, restless girls become sobered by marriage? A great object in life is decided, one on which their thoughts have been running in all their vagaries; and they seem to verify the beautiful fable of Undine. A new soul beams out in the gentleness and repose of their future life. An undescribable softness and tenderness takes the place of the wearying vanity of their former endeavours to attract admiration. Something of this sort happened to Nest Pritchard. If at first she had been anxious to attract the young Squire of Bodowen, long before her marriage this feeling had merged into a truer love than she had ever felt before; and now that he was her own, her husband, her whole soul was bent toward making him amends, as far as in her lay, for the misery which, with a woman's tact, she saw that he had to endure at his home. Her greetings were abounding in delicately-expressed love; her study of his tastes unwearying, in the arrangement of her dress, her time, her very thoughts.

No wonder that he looked back on his wedding-day with a thankfulness which is seldom the result of unequal marriages. No wonder that his heart beat aloud as formerly when he wound up the little path to Ty Glas, and saw--keen though the winter's wind might be--that Nest was standing out at the door to watch for his dimly-seen approach, while the candle flared in the little window as a beacon to guide him aright.

The angry words and unkind actions of home fell deadened on his heart; he thought of the love that was surely his, and of the new promise of love that a short time would bring forth; and he could almost have smiled at the impotent efforts to disturb his peace.

A few more months, and the young father was greeted by a feeble little cry, when he hastily entered Ty Glas, one morning early, in consequence of a summons conveyed mysteriously to Bodowen; and the pale mother, smiling, and feebly holding up her babe to its father's kiss, seemed to him even more lovely than the bright, gay Nest who had won his heart at the little inn of Penmorfa.

But the curse was at work! The fulfilment of the prophecy was nigh at hand!

#Elizabeth gaskell #gothic #gothic stories #historical literature #spooktober #gothic literature #books and libraries

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

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The Boy in the Window 7 ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Series)

Chapter Summary: (Y/N) reveals a secret, Tommy's secret, which she has kept for nearly fifteen years.

Notes: I'm so glad you're back and thank you for all your lovely words, likes and reblog. I am most nervous about this part and desperate for your thoughts...I hope you enjoy! I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Here, you can find my [Masterlist] and the [Series Masterlist]

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Expect spoilers for Peaky Blinders Season 1-4.

Wordcount: 4538

Part 7

[Previously]

That particular morning lingered in her memory like an old wound that, while healed to the clear eye, still ached if one applied pressure.

The day after, Tommy had explained the positioning of his guards, of how it was impossible for the Italians to get anywhere close to Small Heath without them knowing, let alone this part of it. He also reaffirmed the deal - no civilians, no children.

“So you are out of it.”

“But you’re not.”

It was a foolish thing to say. Of course he wasn’t out of it. He was the reason they were in it, after all.

But time went on, and soon something else was on her mind, a subject she broached with Tommy on a particularly cold evening, when ice flowers appeared on the window. They wouldn’t last of course, like snow, in Small Heath they never did.

But it wasn’t cold in here, not when he was there to tend to the fire.

“It’s Charlie’s birthday soon.”, she said, running her fingers along her cup of tea.

“How do you know?”, he asked.

She almost smiled.

“You do know that you and your family are the main topic of gossip for the people in this city?”, she asked.

That almost made him blush.

“People talk about us?”

“Of course they do. How could they not?”

“No, not like that.”, he mumbled, “about the children too.”

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.

“You’re like our own royal family.”, she said. He shot her a scolding gaze.

But even if he didn't approve, it was the truth. And in addition to that, his late wife did not have many friends in Small Heath, at least not after they found out that she was the reason all their houses had been invaded and searched by the police, with all the broken glass, splintered woods, black eyes and bruises it brought with it. And when it seeped through that she was the reason Danny Wizzbang was dead, any chances of redemption were long buried.

So when Tommy Shelby not only bought a house with her before and married her after she had what was officially another man’s child, of course everyone knew.

“Anyway, I wanted to do something nice for his birthday.”, she said.

“He won’t know it is his birthday.”, he argued.

“But I’ll know.”, she insisted at once. “I’ll know and I want it to be nice. Don’t you?”

He tilted his head and nodded his acceptance.

“Alright.”

“We have to do something about the cake.”

Tommy blinked slowly, once more staring at her with curious eyes, as if she was performing a very strange magic trick in front of him which he was desperate to decipher.

“I’ll give you money to order one at the bakery.”, he said.

“That’s very kind but I want to do it myself.”, she said. “It won’t be as big and fancy, but it’s a birthday cake. Just a small one for breakfast. He likes chocolate, so probably that.”

He huffed and leaned back, twirling the whisky in his glass.

“Fine.”

“Good.”, she said with a smile. “But that means, the children have to be out of the house for a bit - for an afternoon so it can be a surprise.”

Once more he shook his head in disbelief, but then he agreed.

“When’s Emma’s birthday?”, he wanted to know.

“In May.”, she told him. “She was a spring child.”

“Emma.”, he mused, letting her daughter’s name roll off of his tongue. “That was your mother’s name, wasn’t it?”

(Y/N) nodded. Her smile turned a little sad, but it was still a smile.

She hadn’t been sure at first, if it was the right decision to name her daughter after her mother, and it had hurt, but somehow it felt as if she was keeping her mother alive through that connection between her and the granddaughter she never got to meet - her only grandchild. And she would have such a wonderful grandmother.

“I remember your mother.”, Tommy said. “She’d bake that cake with the butter crumbles on top and she’d leave it in the open window to cool.”

He smiled slightly as he shook his head.

“And we’d always sneak up and pick off the crumbles from the edges.”

“Why do you think she put it there?”, she asked, making his smile widen, as he nodded.

“She was a good woman.”, he affirmed.

For a while, she let that statement sit between them, feeling pride at his assessment.

But the comforting warmth soon vanished like smoke on a cold winter night.

“She died right before my mother, didn’t she?”

(Y/N) swallowed hard.

“My mother died in winter. Your mother died in the summer.”

He nodded slowly, bringing his glass to his lips and taking a deep gulp. He then got up, and walked over to the whisky bottle he had decided to leave here. When he returned, he held a second glass out to her.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst idea, she thought. After all, they were headed into dangerous territory.

“How come we never talked?”, he sighed.

“Did you expect us to?”, she asked curiously. “We weren’t close. John and David, maybe, but not the rest of us.”

“You were close with Ada.”, he reminded her.

“When we were five.”

Then they had gone to school, and Ada had gotten louder and braver, too brash for her while she grew too boring for the only Shelby sister.

Maybe it was the whisky, or her own curiosity for his reaction, but (Y/N) gathered the courage to speak.

“We did talk, you know.”, she finally said, staring into the crackling flames.

“You and Ada?”, he asked.

“You and me.”

She could feel him lean forward slightly, a line between his brows.

“No we didn’t.”

(Y/N) drew her legs under her on the sofa and took a deep breath.

“I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”, she admitted. “You were very drunk.”

His lips parted slightly as he stared at her in a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

(Y/N) brought the glass to her lips before daring to continue.

That whole year was so strange in her memory. The time her mother had been sick was a blur, with gaps so large they filled days and whatever few memories she had, she couldn't put them in order. Only after her death, did she remember- and she remembered it like it was yesterday, the grief, the confusion, the sharp pain of losing and dull ache of missing her.

“I couldn’t sleep for ages after my mother,", she began, before clearing her throat in an attempt to stop if from closing fully.

If he noticed, he didn't show her.

"Back then, I had Emma’s room and I heard noises one night. I thought you had been on the roofs again and fallen.”

It was an open secret that Tommy Shelby sometimes climbed out of his bedroom window and onto the roof to lie there during the night.

Like a stray cat, he could climb over the roofs of the city and gaze at the stars.

“So I went out to see if you needed help. I thought you might’ve broken a leg.”

He had made enough noise for her to suspect it.

“Anyway, you weren’t hurt, but you had had a lot to drink and I offered to open the door for you, but you said you didn’t want to go back in there.”

Her chest tightened at the memory, and she could no longer meet his eyes, not when his begging still echoed in her memory.

"Not yet, please, not yet."

His hands had trembled as they had found her arms, like a suppliant at court.

“You told me why.”, she told him, as she ran a finger over the top of her glass.

“And what exactly did I tell you?”, he asked, his voice strained with fear and suspicion.

He remembers.

He might not remember their encounter, but he remembers where he went, what he had done or rather planned on doing.

She bit her lip and chose her words carefully, but in the end, she decided to repeat his.

“Well,”, she sighed, “you told you couldn’t stand it anymore, that hearing the cries of the baby made you sick...that you could no longer see Ada’s tears, that you had no time for John’s anger, even if you felt the very same rage but couldn't show it, and that Arthur’s helplessness brought you to the edge. And that you didn't want to listen to your aunt's lectures because you had been the one making sure she didn't drink herself to death in the last months."

That year hadn't been kind to the Shelbys- first the parish had taken Elizabeth Gray's children, and then they had lost their mother only to be abandoned by their father.

Her throat burned.

“You said that it all made you feel like you would explode at any moment, like the world was caving in on you."

His eyes never left her, making the hair on the back of her neck rise but she had gone to far to turn back now.

"You said that it all made your skin itch so badly you wanted to rip it off just to end it.”

All this was not what he had asked for but she had to tell him that, so that he knew she understood, or at least heard his explanation.

When (Y/N) reminded him of the last part, she couldn't look at him. Instead, she focussed her eyes on the dancing flames.

“You said that you took your horse and wanted to ride away, because you couldn't stand it any more.”

She traced the glass with her thumb. He had been angry then, raging at the world who put him in a situation like this. She still remembered how he had paced up and down, long strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead and falling into his face.

He had frightened her, but not enough to make her return to the safety of her home. Because a hurt animal might be the most dangerous, but it was still hurt.

“You said you wanted to leave it all behind and ride off to some place where no one knew you and where no one needed you and never come back. That you made it all the way to Yorkshire before -"

When she glanced up, she saw his jaw was clenched to bursting, and his eyes shone like two pale sapphires. Like they had all those years ago.

Hers were the first that broke, a single silent tear running down her cheek.

“You said you couldn’t, because if you went away, no one would be left to take care of them. That it had to be you, or there would have been no one but that didn't mean you were any less hurt, any less tired…and any less scared."

She felt a chill run down her arms. She had still been frightened, but she had pitied him more than she had feared him.

“You asked me why it had to be you, but I couldn’t tell you of course.”

One never could in situations like these.

“And then-”, she broke off and shook her head. There was no reason she could find to keep it from him, but she still hesitated.

“Then?”, Tommy demanded to know.

She glanced up at him and took a deep breath. So she decided to tell him.

“Then you cried.”

He averted his eyes, which was ironic, since now he too knew that the sight was already familiar to her.

“I cried, eh?”, he asked, staring into the fire.

“Yes.”

He huffed and shook his head in disbelief, before downing the glass in one go.

“Scared you off, did it?”, he wanted to know.

“Not really.”, she said, remembering how she on the absence of guidance has reached out to him.

Back then, his tears had burned on her skin as they ran down the side neck, as her fingers had tried to draw calming circles under his long hair.

He trembled so fiercely, it had made her own teeth rattle.

“You cried yourself to sleep- you were so exhausted I think."

Less from the journey than from the strength it took to come back from it.

"I didn’t want to wake you.”

He had been heavy, and she couldn’t have gotten him off of her without a lot of effort, but she didn’t want to leave him all alone.

Instead, she had let him sleep with his head in her lap, stroking through the dark strands of hair as she cried with him, or perhaps for him…for the both of them, and all the other orphaned children in the broken homes they lived in.

“Fucking hell, (Y/N).”, he whispered. “You never said.”

She shrugged. “What was I supposed to say?”

He had no answer for that. The truth was that Mrs Gray had come out in the morning and seen them, her dark eyes glaring at the sight, before she had rushed back into the house. The last thing (Y/N) saw was her pouring a bowl of cold water over his head and shouting at him to get moving, demanding to know where he had been the last few days.

“You gonna finish that?”, he asked, tearing her from her memories.

She shook her head and handed him her glass.

The whisky burned his tears away, it seemed, and he took both glasses to the kitchen, returning to the living room with his coat slung over his arm.

“Good night.”, she told him, getting up from the sofa. If he left, she could go to bed as well. He’d lock the door just fine without her. He always did.

She was already halfway out of the room, when he said her name.

For a moment he looked as if he wanted to say something, but he only turned and disappeared out into the darkness.

After the conversation they had, Tommy kept his distance in more ways than one. Gone were the meals together, the drinks after, traded back for short visits and fleeting encounters. And get Tommy kept his word and took the children to his house the day before Charlie's birthday, giving her time to bake, prepare and decorate. And he was also early, arriving before the children did, who were equally giddy.

(Y/N) and Emma sang for Charlie, which made him beam from ear to ear.

"Dad, look, there's a horse on my cake!", He exclaimed, pointing at it.

She had spent the better part of an hour cutting dark chocolate into tiny pieces, small enough to use like little mosaic pieces to create the image.

"Be quick with the candles or you'll have wax in your cake.", His father told him.

All three of them clapped, when he blew out the five candles in one go.

"Happy Birthday, Charlie.", She told him for the second time that day as she handed him the knife to cut the cake.

The relief she felt when he found it tasty was incomparable. But she knew that with the cake and the other chocolate treats she had prepared for his birthday breakfast would make the children run on a sugar high for hours.

Today, she'd have to bear it. Today was a special day.

"There's a gathering at Charlie's yard.", Tommy told her, while she began her cleaning up "Just family. Some food and things, but there he'll get his present."

"Alright.", (Y/N) told him as she collected the plates. "Just tell me the time and I'll make sure he's ready."

"What are you talking about? You're coming with us.", He announced bluntly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"A-are you sure?", She asked. "With your family there?"

"So?", He asked. "Charlie barely knows them, apart from Lizzie, and I want you there."

"Oh.", She said because she did not know what else to say to that.

If he had said it at any other place, at any other time, she would have been glad, but the prospect of encountering his family, all at once, made her skin crawl.

As if sensing her distress, his hand found her shoulder.

"It'll fine, eh?", He assured her. "Nothing you don't know, well, and Linda."

But that was easy for him to say.

She didn't know what to expect, when the four of them reached Charlie Strong's Yard. It smelled of mud and metal, with sparks and ash floating in the air like snowflakes.

But Tommy didn't take them in through the front from where she could hear voices, but instead guided them towards the stables.

"Where are we going, Dad?", Charlie asked, clinging to his father's hand.

"To unwrap your birthday present."

“Emma, stay with me please.”, she instructed, calling her daughter back.

This was Charlie’s birthday and his moment with his father. Emma had no business sticking her curious little nose in it.

“We’ll wait here.”

Tommy turned, looking at her in confusion.

“No they won’t, will they, Charlie?”

“Don’t you want to see my present?”, he asked, tilting his head.

“Course I do!”, Emma insisted, and with that she was overruled.

The present made her jaw drop, even though there was nothing to unwrap.

Charlie had squealed in excitement, clasping his hands over his mouth.

“Really? Really, Dad? Is he really, really mine?”

“Yes, my boy.”, Tommy said, smiling down at where Charlie jumped up and down.

“Mine to ride? All on my own?”

“All on your own!”

“I want to try! Lift me up!”, he instructed, running towards his father with outstretched arms.

She saw his small smile as he placed his son on the top of the back of the large, brown horse. His dark fur shone in the early afternoon sun like waves of the ocean.

"Best stay back, Emma.", She told her, placing her hands on her shoulder for good measure.

Horses were beautiful, but most beautiful from afar. Their strength, and the skittish nature made them as intimidating as they were intriguing to her and all sorts of horrid accidents could happen if Emma's excitable spirit got the better of her

"Can we go riding together then? Both on big horses?"

"We can.", Tommy promised. Charlie beamed at him with all the love and joy he could hold in his little heart.

"What's his name?", Emma asked.

"Don't decide now, Charlie. Give it a day or two.", Tommy advised his son as he lifted him off of the horse.

"Come on. You can help Curly brush him later."

"But Dad, can't I brush him now?", Charlie asked.

"Later.", He promised. "Now run ahead."

He did and Emma wasn't far behind.

"So you got him an actual horse?", She asked as he fell in step with her, lighting a cigarette.

"You disapprove?", He asked, as he let the lighter disappear in his pockets once more. There was a hint of amusement in his voice.

"It's not mine to approve or disapprove.", She reminded him.

"But you do."

It was no longer a question, but a statement that he didn't seem to mind.

"I'm just not sure it's safe.", She argued.

"He already rides a pony better than most adults."

"But a pony isn't a horse, Tommy. And he's only five. Only just."

He only ever smiled, a strange, almost distant smile that hid more than it revealed.

"Hm."

But that smile faded as soon as his family came into view.

Of all the people gathered here today, Lizzie was the one she was most familiar with.

The others she knew of course, but years and circumstance had driven them so far apart, she wondered how true her memories yet were of them.

But they were just that- memories, distorted by time and illusion.

With Lizzie at least, she could claim to know her.

Lizzie was still around. Despite the looks and despite the sneers, she did a lot of work around here, with charities and gave generous donations, especially to girls and women in need.

So (Y/N) often saw her around the church and its initiatives and right now she was more than grateful for a familiar face.

They had gathered, either around the table or in small groups, talking and smoking. But they stopped the chatter as soon as they came into view, curious eyes digging into them.

As soon as she felt their piercing gazes, she knew she had made a mistake coming here today.

What did she have to offer these people? What answers could she have to their questions and demands? What could she possibly possess to satiate their curiosity and fulfil their expectations?

Once, a lifetime ago, she could have. But Ada Shelby now wore coats laced with fur smoother than silk that looked to be straight from a magazine and was held in place by a glittering brooch.

Mrs. Gray's were still sharp, but so was the jewelled hat needles that held a milliner's work in place.

Arthur's wife was new to her, blonde and well dressed, with a smile that cut through her the same way Mrs. Gray's eyes did.

Arthur looked like Arthur always had, at least since the war, resembling his father more by the day.

She recognised Finn of course, how could she not? He was the most present of them all, with Jeremiah's son.

With them was Michael Gray, whom she only knew from sight- well dressed in tailored suits with materials one couldn't possibly procure in Small Heath.

But among all the little differences that overshadowed what remained of the similarities, one burned brighter than all the others.

John.

Beside her, she felt the head of this family tense and Charlie sensed it too.

His hand searched in the flaps of her coat for a moment before they found her hand, his fingers wrapping around her own.

For a while the other Shelbys just stared at them as if they were some sort of curiosity in a zoo, only she was separated by more than glass or fences.

She was from a different world and had no place in theirs.

I shouldn't have come here.

But she was here now, and before she could excuse herself and Emma, Ada Thorne strode towards her with confident steps and a beaming smile.

"(Y/N)!", She greeted as if they had parted only yesterday and not half an eternity ago.

"You look well."

She could do nothing but respond in kind to the woman's greeting, feeling like she would melt of shame even in iciness of the cold winter air.

"And you must be Emma.", She said, as she looked down at her daughter.

"I am. It's Charlie's birthday today.", She announced. "That's why we got cake for breakfast."

"Did you now?", She asked, her eyes fluttering up to her.

"Well, I don't think you've met my son before. He's a little older than you, but I am sure you'll get on just fine.", She said.

Karl Throne looked just like his father had done at that age, only that Freddie's hair had never been that long and his clothes never that expensive.

"Hello Karl.", Emma greeted, beaming from ear to ear.

The boy had come with slow, cautious steps, but Emma had that effect on children which drew them to her more than anything and in less than five minutes, he was following her on her exploration quest.

"Come. Sit.", Ada instructed. It was worded sweetly, but she knew that she had an interrogation coming her way.

And an inevitable judgement where they will deem her unworthy and pathetic, too small for the likes of them.

And there'd be no reason against their call.

But Emma wasn't concerned at all with the questioning gaze. To her, this was like unwrapping a present of her own- a brand new playground. And she had the time of her life exploring it.

She was running and climbing, touching and prodding under the impatient and ever watchful argus eye of Charlie Strong.

"Don't touch that.", He'd sometimes call.

"Don't climb up there."

"Don't crawl under there."

The answer was always the same.

"Why?"

To her it soon became a game, and every 'no' seemed to spur her on further.

(Y/N) reached her bursting point when Emma decided to climb up on a pile of metal, which looked dangerously structurally unsafe.

It made her leave Ada and her sharp question standing as she rushed across the yard.

"Emma Marjorie Hale!", She snapped.

At the sound of her full name, Emma stilled, her eyes wide.

"Come down at once.", She said.

Slowly but surely, Emma made her descent. As soon as she came in arms reach, (Y/N) picked her up and sat her down herself, before crouching down in eye level and taking her hands in hers.

"Mr. Strong has told you not to climb up there, hasn't he?"

Emma nodded.

"And what did you do?"

"Climb up anyways."

(Y/N) nodded.

"Now, first of all- this is Mr. Strong's Yard and we are his guests. If he tells you not to do something, you don't do it. Is that understood?"

Her daughter once more, pouting slightly.

"And then- it's dangerous to climb on things that aren't secure. Because you could fall and slip and hurt yourself."

"I understand, Mummy.", She muttered, addressing the tips of her shoes.

"Good girl.", She sighed, stroking over the top of her head.

"Can I go back and play?", She asked.

"How about you sit down instead?"

Emma wasn't pleased with that but she had no ground to argue on.

As soon as she sat down on the bench next to her, eyes downcast and pouting, Charlie climbed off of the chair at his father's side and ran across the table to sit next to her.

Even though she couldn't hear the words, she could see that whatever he was whispering in her ear made her smile slightly.

"These two seem to be getting along.", Ada remarked.

"They are.", (Y/N) confirmed.

It was also why she agreed to let Emma, after half an hour of comparable quiet time, join Charlie and Karl for another game.

By then, the party had separated into several smaller groups, with only Arthur's wife leaving early, having spent the entire time staring at her with suspicious eyes.

The only person standing alone was Tommy, leaning in the shadows, a cigarette between his lips.

His eyes met hers once he realised she was approaching.

"Is there anything you need?", She asked. "Anything I can get you?"

He shook his head slightly, staring out at something she couldn't see.

"Someone reminded me of something recently.", He said. "Of something I thought I had forgotten."

"Oh?", She asked.

He dropped the cigarette and killed the spark with his polished leather shoe, turning to leave. He had barely taken a few steps, when the children stopped him.

"Dad, where are you going?", Charlie asked. Even throughout the children's games, his eyes had hardly ever left either (Y/N) or his father.

"For a walk."

"Can we come?", Emma asked.

"No.", (Y/N) said.

At the same time a "Why not, eh?" came from Tommy Shelby's lips.

The children looked from him to her and back again.

"You can come.", He affirmed. "If you want to."

The last part sounded almost like a question.

End of Part 7

[Part 8]

Thank you for reading! I’d be very grateful for feedback of any kind! If you are interested in more, here is my [Masterlist].

Taglist:

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @watercolorskyy

TBITW Taglist:

@kaitebugg03

@esistmon

@chlorrox

@theshelbyslimited

@budugu

@woofgocows

@orkwardx0

@judig92

@100percentamess

@kabbuu

@esposadomd

@im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere

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#Peaky Blinders #Tommy Shelby #Thomas Shelby #Thomas Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby Imagine #Thomas Shelby Imagine #The Boy in the Window #valentineswritings

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Sugar, Sugar 15

[FIFTEEN/END]

MASTERLIST

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape, violence, mean sugary Steve

This is a dark! sugar daddy! Steve fic. Obvious AU so please keep that in mind. :) That being said, it will be an explicit fic (18+) with noncon. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

(This chapter: violence, threats, fear :O)

Series Summary: The reader is struggling in the big city but find opportunity before her. Will she take it?

This Chapter: The wedding day approaches but not everything goes to plan.

Author Notes: So this is another series wrapped up after a grueling two years, haha. Sorry y’all.

Please let me know what you think, like and reblog <3 love ya

🍭 🍭 🍭

The floor length mirror was trimmed with twisted gold. You stared at your reflection as your shaky hands pressed against the front of the ivory dress. The cut hid the small bump but you could not forget it. Ever since you confessed, it all happened so fast; the wedding was pushed up, the dress tailored and expedited, and invitations sent out in a rush.

It all felt surreal. The day had come but you just couldn’t accept it. How could you go through those doors and smile through it all?

You closed your eyes and let your breath out. They would knock when it was your time. Your father would be waiting to walk you down the aisle. The guests waited eagerly for the most talked about ceremony in the city. And you still felt like just a footnote in your own wedding.

You moved away from the mirror and sat unsteadily, gripping the arms of the cushioned chair, careful not to catch your veil under you. That night you told him, that was the final straw. But you didn’t forget what Sasha said. You took a picture of the broken door and wrote down the entire scene. You sent it to yourself in an email as proof.

That wasn’t the last time. You recorded Steve one day when he came in as you were texting your sister about the new date. You hadn’t answered his last message about your first appointment with the doctor. He was livid and you sat and listened to him rant as the red dots pulsed. You wrote down every instance, every time he made you appease him, every terrifying word.

Then there were the police reports. Nothing more than words in a filing cabinet but the night he choked you was just the beginning. He threatened to break your finger when you took your ring off because your hands were swelling. Then he broke your laptop when you didn’t pay him enough attention.

As the wedding loomed closer, he only seemed to get worse. He was clingy, always touching you, marveling over your stomach. He checked in almost every hour on the hour when he was working, and you weren’t stupid enough not to notice that the building was being watched.

It was like you were living two lives and yet you were entirely trapped with him. What good could the emails do? Or the reports when the police wouldn’t act on them? You were going to marry this man and that would be the end of it; of you, of your life.

Knuckles tapped on the door and you stood. You crossed the room and inched it open the door. You flinched as you were met by an unexpected and uninvited guest.

“Sasha?” you gasped.

“You’re marrying him then?” he held the handle but you didn’t try to close the door, “the account gone, I heard nothing from you.”

“I… I’m scared,” you admitted, “when he found out, I thought he was going to--” you shook your head. He wouldn’t actually kill you.

“You know it’s not too late,” Sasha urged.

“You can’t be here, it he finds out, he’ll--”

“I’ll defend myself,” Sasha snarled uncharacteristically, “I’ll give him what he deserves.’

“No, I don’t want you to get hurt. You need to go,” you begged as you glanced past him furtively.

“I will. Come with me,” he said, “just go. Everyone’s distracted, they won’t know--”

“I can’t just leave. You don’t understand--”

“No, you don’t understand,” he argued, “if you marry him, it all gets so much more complicated. I told you that day at the café. It will be harder to fight after the vows, but right now, you can still get out.”

“And go where?”

He swallowed and looked down the hall. You could hear the distant murmur of the crowd.

“Did you do any of it? Keep a journal? Something?” he asked.

“I tried. I went to the police but nothing,” you sniffed and gripped the door tight.

“Nothing yet but that’s a start,” he chewed the inside of his lip.

“Why are you here? Why is this so important to you?”

“Because I can do something,” he hissed, “because I can’t live with it if I don’t. So come on. Come with me, I got a bigger place. It’ll have to do for now and then we’ll work on getting you standing, getting the baby somewhere to grow--”

“Am I trading him for you?”

“I’m your friend,” he said evenly, “that will never change. All I want is you safe. If it makes you feel better, I’ll sleep in the hall. You can lock me out and I’ll sleep against the door. But I came down here knowing I wouldn’t leave without you.”

“It’s a sweet fantasy but--”

“Come on,” he grabbed your hand and pushed the door open, “please, don’t go with him. It doesn’t end well. You don’t get out. It doesn’t get better.”

“I have nothing,” you quavered.

“You have me,” he said, “please don’t make me walk out of here alone.”

“I….” you uttered as your heart squeezed. “He’ll come after you.”

“Good, I want him to,” he clung to you, “please?”

You inhaled and heard the voices. Your father and your sister. You had no time to think but you knew it was your only chance.

“Let’s go,” you lifted your skirt and pulled the door shut behind you as you stepped out, “now.”

He held onto your hand as you rushed away from the voices and skirted around the corner. Sasha urged you on down the back stairs and through the maze like halls of the extravagant church. You nearly tumbled down the stairs and he caught you as you came along the narrow passage beside the main room, the guests and groom just on the other side of the wall.

You came out into the sunlight and Sasha lifted the train of your skirts as he directed you over the grass. our heels sank into the dirt as you rushed over and the organ began to play Here Comes the Bride. As he helped stuff the swathes of fabric in behind you in his modest car, the music stopped suddenly.

He closed the door as you were squished in the back seat amid your layered skirts and he got in the front. The engine turned and he nearly side swept another car as he pulled out without looking. You peeked back behind you but saw no one coming down the large steps of the church.

He turned the corner and sidled in behind a yellow cab. He looked at you in the mirror and nodded. You bit your lips nervously as reality sank in. Your chest hammered and your entire body buzzed with adrenaline. You knew it was only the beginning.

🍭

The day passed in a daze. You sat in your wedding dress waiting for all hell to break loose. Sasha sat with a beer, silently, and tapped his foot endlessly. When the silence was too much, he turned on the television but neither of you paid any attention to the old sitcom.

When the trance of disbelief dissipated, he showed you around his spacious loft. He was being paid well by Stark but you worried how long he would stay on the payroll after what he’d done. Steve wasn’t stupid and there were more photographers at the church then you’d seen collectively over the last year and a half.

“This is the second bedroom,” he showed you into a room with gleaming windows. There was a bed, a dresser, curtains, a cozy rug, all carefully selected, “I thought you’d be here sooner.”

Your eyes lingered on the box leaned against the far wall. A crib.

“Didn’t know how long…” his voice trailed off as he followed your eye line, “I’m not trying to be him. You can go anytime but I… you have a place here.”

Your eyes welled and you blotted them with your knuckles, the rough lace of your gloves scratching your cheeks, “you did all this for me?”

“I told you, I’d do anything,” he said.

“But… Sasha, I don’t--”

“I don’t expect anything from you. High school was a long time ago but you made it bearable for the biggest dweeb in the class.” He sighed and paced a circle around the room, “you know, I had the biggest crush on you. That doesn’t mean anything now, it doesn’t mean I want you to fall into my arms, but it means I want to help you. It’s the right thing to do, somehow I made a career of doing the right thing so what’s one more?”

You felt your chest sink and you covered your cheeks with your hands, “Sasha?”

“Please,” he cringed, “I was a teen boy, I think I had a thing for Oprah once. Really, it’s just… we’re friends. We’ll always be friends.”

“I can’t…” you sniffled and dropped your hands, “I don’t deserve any of this.”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Sasha intoned, “and you don’t deserve to live like that. I know this isn’t much but I know you. You’ll find your way, you just got a little lost.”

“I…” you shook your head speechless.

“We’ll figure everything else out tomorrow. You can borrow some of my clothes for tonight and then we can see about retrieving your things from Steve,” he neared the door and stopped beside you, “or we can say fuck it and you can start all over.”

You turned and slung your arms around him. You buried your face against his shoulder as tears spilled out onto his jacket.

“How did you know?” you sobbed.

“That day at the shower,” he rubbed your back gently, “you know, lawyers learn how to read people and you never were very good at subtlety.”

“No,” you chuckled through your tears, “No, it’s why I was great as a bard.”

“Mmm,” he grumbled, “if that’s how you remember it.”

🍭

It felt like Sasha was gone forever but when you checked the clock, it had only been twenty minutes.

You sat on the couch with your feet under you as you watched the news and rocked nervously. All anyone was talking about was Steve Rogers’ runaway bride. Your face was everywhere and the statement issued by Steve made it all the worse.

He painted you as a gold-digger, as an adulterer, as a swindler. He was the heartbroken fiancé and you were the wrongdoer. You knew it would go this way but expectation never softened reality.

You flinched as the lock turned and Sasha entered with a bag in hand. He came to the couch and set it down beside you.

“I don’t know about my taste in women's clothes but those should do,” he said as he checked his watch, “we should go soon.”

“Yeah,” you stood and opened the bag to reveal the lavender blouse and dark jeans, “you really didn’t have to--”

“You kidding, he’s gonna be surrounded by cameras. You can’t win his game if you don’t play it. I’ve dealt with his type before, they’re the ones who need lawyers on standby,” he sneered, “did you eat?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you swiped up the bag and headed for the hallway, “it was good.”

“No problem,” he shrugged as he grabbed the remote and shut off the tv, “and ignore all that nonsense.”

You got dressed and emerged as your anxiety grew to impatience. You left the apartment in brittle silence and the car ride fed the uneasy bubbling of your stomach. .

As you came up to Steve’s building, you sat for a moment before you got out. Sasha followed and shoulder away the cameras as you neared the front door

The elevator moved slowly and fidgeted uncontrollably as it dinged on Steve’s floor. You swallowed and braced yourself to face Steve. Sasha kept a few feet back as you walked down the hall and stopped at the door. You knocked as you found it locked.

It was a while before it opened but when it did, you were startled as Steve grabbed the front of your blouse and wrenched you inside. He spun you but quickly released you as he was knocked off balance and sent sprawling over the floor. Sasha stood above him with his hands in fists.

“Hey,” he pointed at Steve then looked at you, “you okay?”

You nodded as Steve glared between the two of you and cautiously got to his feet, “so you brought your little boyfriend?”

“She’s here to get her stuff. We thought we’d avoid a police escort, as her lawyer I thought it prudent, but we can always make that phone call,” Sasha said sternly, “she is entitled to her possessions.”

“Her stuff? I paid for every single thing she has to her name. Hers? Mine.” Steve spat and reared on you again, only to be caught by Sasha as he inserted himself between you.

“You will not touch her again. Those things you bought for her were gifts. You have no legal rights to them once they are given. She will take her clothes, her phone, and any other necessities.”

“Pfft, she’s not taking anything. She’s not going anywhere,” Steve growled, “she not yours--”

“I am certain the photogs would appreciate a show,” Sasha pulled out his phone, “police? That can only be a domestic dispute.”

Steve squinted and his nose flared as he looked at you over Sasha’s shoulder, “fucking slut.” He crossed his arms and stepped aside, “get your shit, get out…” he hissed, “but I have my rights too. You will not keep me from my baby.”

“That will be settled in court,” Sasha replied coolly, “go on, get your things.”

He waved you past him as he kept you shield from Steve. He was of a height with Steve but not as broad. Even so, you felt safe behind him. You rushed down to the bedroom and quickly gathered up your toiletries and those clothes you didn’t absolutely hate. Your phone screen was shattered but you took it anyway.

As you emerged again, a bag slung on your shoulder, you slid the ring from your finger.

“You can keep the rest,” you said as you placed the band on the small round table just inside the front room, “goodbye Steve.”

“Goodbye? Goodbye?” he spat, “this isn’t the end and you fucking know it.”

“Calm down,” Sasha warned.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” Steve shoved him, “I should fucking smash your head in--”

“I’d like you to try,” Sasha stood his ground, “really. You think the court would let a violent man be around an infant?”

Steve scoffed and rolled his eyes. He backed down and shouldered by Sasha. “Get the fuck out.”

You left quickly. You had no desire to hang around. As you stepped onto the elevator, Sasha softly touched your elbow and you winced. The bag fell to your elbow and he quickly scooped it up and heaved it over his own shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” you said, “he was so angry. I--”

“I was stupid, we should’ve brought the police. Fuck the cameras,” he said, “from this point on, no contact with him whatsoever. Only through me and the court. No talking to reporters, no nothing.”

“Yeah, that won’t be hard,” you uttered as he led you out of the elevator.

As you came outside, cameras flashed and voices called out. You collided with Sasha as he was blocked by a photographer shouting questions, “is it true you’re pregnant? Is it Steve’s?”

“My client will not be answering questions,” Sasha kept on and made a path for you, “go, she’s not answering any of your questions.”

He elbowed past more cameras and opened the car door for you. You fell inside and quickly huddled down in your seat. As he sat behind the wheel, he mumbled and pulled out into traffic. He gripped the wheel tightly and pushed himself back into the vinyl.

“That asshole,” he said, “he’s gonna want the paternity test. This isn’t gonna be pretty.”

“I can’t… he fucking told them. I mean, I’m not surprised but… god,” you grimaced.

“We’ll get the test done before he makes a formal request,” Sasha said, “it shows transparency and when we hand over those results, we’ll include those police reports too.”

“Police reports?” you blinked.

“Sorry, I… It’s a suggestion,” he said tersely, “but he’s going to make this a trial by media.”

“No, no, I want to,” you said firmly, “I want everyone to know the real Steve Rogers.”

🍭

‘I was just like many struggling in the city. I worked a low-paying job in data entry and lived in an apartment which was little more than a box. The dreams of the big city were passing me by as there was little opportunity to be found.

Then I met Steve Rogers. Like a dream or a Lifetime movie. I was in debt, I was desperate, and he offered me a safety net. I can own my part in the relationship; I was interested and I accepted his generosity. I was all too happy with the arrangement.

That was until I found out that it was all based on a lie. I didn’t know that he had access to my accounts even before I knew him, that he had used his connections to force me into that dire situation. And I could not know the real man behind the billionaire façade.

It was little things at first. Any woman loves to feel wanted but his possessiveness soon turned to control. He kept me isolated from my own family and did not permit me to do anything without his permission. His affection turned to obsession and when it was not reciprocated he forced it from me.

He took me on vacation and did not allow me to wear clothes. He chose what I wore, how I looked, and what I did. He coerced me into acts I was reluctant about, and when he was too rough, he did not listen to my pleas for him to stop.

When I tried to leave him, he followed me and dragged me back. He had me watched by PIs and surveilled all my communications. He used his financial power to control me and when that did not work, he used his physical power.

Steve Rogers abused me. He yelled in my face, he threatened my family, and he choked me.

Steve Rogers raped me. He expected me to bend to his will whenever he desired and when I refused, he held me down and did what he wanted.

Steve Rogers took my whole life and when I chose to leave, he set his eyes on the life inside of me.

The only thing I want from him is freedom. I want to live safely with my child and I want that child to never experience the abuse of their father. I never want anyone to know that horror again which is why I have written this and released the police records. I am not asking for anything but peace for me and my unborn child.’

The statement was carefully edited by Sasha. You reread the font across the glossy pages of Vanity Fair, the article spliced with excerpts not only from the police reports, but your own emailed accounts of your relationship, and the whole thing began with an image of that broken bathroom door.

It was two months since you ran away from the altar but life was not a romcom. It was a disaster. Even with the article, you knew not all would believe you. You knew it would open you to doubt and vitriol. And you knew Steve would have a response.

You closed the magazine and groaned as you rubbed your hips. Freedom didn’t feel so… freeing. There was a long way to go; court dates, doctor’s appointment, and depositions. But it was a start.

You rested your hand on your stomach and pushed on the arm of the couch as you stood stiffly. When you were halfway up, you felt a hand on your elbow and Sasha helped you stand straight. You smiled guiltily. You’d grown a lot in the last few weeks and still had nearly four months to go.

“The reviews are good,” he said, “I know that is kinda grim but… people seem to believe you.”

“Seem to?” you echoed as you went to the kitchen and pulled out the container of sliced strawberries, “or they don’t?”

“Well,” he leaned on the counter as he watched you add too much cream to the berries and smiled, “Stark Industries has cut ties with Shield, Inc. and Tony has made a sizeable donation to several shelters across the city,” he cupped his chin coyly as he leaned on his elbow, “and will be covering legal costs for the support hearings seeing as I can’t legally represent you anymore.”

“Oh,” your mouth fell open before you could spray some cream onto your tongue, “when were you going to tell me this?”

“I’m telling you now,” he crossed his arms as he shifted them further over the island, “I thought I’d give the good news first.”

“And the bad?” you put down the can of cream as you neared the marble across from him.

“I have several requests for interviews and I think you should do at least one,” he said, “I know you hate reporters and all that but… with a little Rogers baby on board, it’s just another part of the process.”

“Oh, and what should I tell them,” you edged around the counter towards him, “that I moved? That I found someone better?” He turned to you, his lips curved as he leaned in and you turned your face up to peck his lips, “or maybe I should tell them I’m single? Keep the intrigue?”

“As long as you tell them I’m handsome, I don’t mind,” he purred as he placed his hand on your side.

“Oh, how could I leave that out?” you cooed and kissed him again, “patient, loving, kind… but what a geek?”

“A geek?” he smirked and framed your chin with his hands, “says the dungeon master.”

You giggled and ran your hands up his chest, “someone’s gotta raise this little bard well.”

“Oh, no, no, she’s not gonna be a bard. Maybe a cleric?”

“No way! That’s lame,” you chirped, “how about… a sorcerer? Ours is a bit lacking.”

“Excuse you,” he quipped, “what was your AC again? Maybe next session I’ll run out of healing spells.”

“See?” you taunted, “geek.”

You drew him to you until he was pressed to your belly and he swept you up in a kiss. You rocked with him as he turned you against the counter and slowly parted.

You squeezed his wrist as you went back around to your strawberries and cream. You took a spoon and scooped up a mouthful as you slid your phone towards you. Sasha stayed as he was, watching you scroll through the emails and piled up texts.

You stopped as one blared in all caps. There was no name, only ‘Private’. You opened the conversation and found a dozen bubbles; ‘THIS ISN’T OVER’, ‘HE CAN’T KEEP YOUR FROM ME’, ‘CUTE, YOU THINK PEOPLE BELIEVE YOUR SHIT.’ Another message blipped up, an image and you dropped your spoon as it opened.

You saw the picture of your sister and her son. You shook as you put your hand down on the counter and choked on the cream.

“What?” Sasha reached over and turned your phone to him, “Shit,” he sighed and blocked the number, “he’s just stacking the evidence against himself.”

“I--” you blinked as tears boiled behind your eyes.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he screencapped the conversation, “this just makes the case even easier.”

“No, I will always be afraid of him,” you said as you touched your stomach, “it’s not just about me anymore.”

“And it’s not just you anymore,” he took your hand and rubbed the back of it with his thumb, “we’ve been through worse. If we can get through a cave full of orcs, we can defeat Steve Rogers.”

END (or is it?)

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #sugar daddy au #au #sugar daddy!steve Rogers #sugar sugar #marvel #mcu #captain america

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sunflowervolvimp3 · 4 years

Text

you’re someone i just want around: II

“You can call me when you feel like

I’m your good time, I’ll be your temporary fix

You can own me, and we’ll call this what you like

Let me be your goodnight”

-Temporary Fix, One Direction

A/N: honestly can y’all believe @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy and i finished part 2 within a week like what kind of productive hyper fixated legends are we??? if you haven’t heard, this started as a random concept between andrea and i to discuss at 3am and then we accidentally fell in love with vampirerry and his stupid asshole ways and now we’re here!!! we really hope you like this part, and the next parts coming (which are in the works and begin to dive into harry’s tragic backstory because who doesn’t love a lil pain :)))) just a reminder that if you like this, then reblog it!! not just our work but the work of all content creators!!! and feedback is also greatly appreciated 💌

ysijwa masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : andrea’s masterlist

word count: 15.8k

content/warnings: vampire!harry laughing at a mortal not being able to open a door until he realizes his immportal ass can’t come inside, bloody good sex (literally), face f*cking, female-received oral, harry condemning stephanie meyer’s portrayal of vampires, psychological demolition of a quaint bedroom, and a cocky vampire with shitty taste in coffee

///

If Y/N can’t find her goddamn keys, she’s going to lose her mind.

Of course, she may just lose her mind anyways, given the way the handsome, tall, tattooed, and British (because of course he’s British, of fucking course) stranger whose name she can’t quite remember is smearing his lips against hers in the dim light of the hallway outside her apartment. All Y/N wants to do is pull him--Henry? Harrison? --into her apartment, into her bed, and tell him to fuck her until she can’t walk, but the stubborn lock of her door and the strangely bottomless clutch bag in her hand have other plans.

It does occur to Y/N, in a flicker of a drunken thought, that if she took a step back from the man--Hayden? --she may stand a better chance of finding the silver key ring she could swear she tossed in her bag before she left that night, but then the man’s tequila tinted mouth ghosts over hers once more, and the thought burns out completely.

“Y’alright, dove?” The man asks, his pillowy pink lips still hovering over hers as he speaks, low and soft and tantalizing. “Are you going to open the door, or do you want me to take you out here?”

A soft squeak stutters from Y/N at the lewd comment, and the brunette separates from her just enough that she can see the very corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk.

“Sorry.” He says, despite his voice sounding not very sorry at all. “Was that too much?”

“I--no, I just--” Y/N sucks in a deep breath to steady herself, but it backfires when traces of alcohol and his tobacco and vanilla scented cologne catch in the back of her throat. “I can’t find my keys.”

A small chuckle of mirth rolls from the stranger. “You can’t find your keys? Shall I take a look for you?”

The thought of him-- his name starts with an H, she knows it does-- poking around in her bag which, by her normal standards, is quite organized, but by regular standards, is a fucking mess, brings a heated flush to her already warm cheeks. “No, I can get them, just--” Taking another reluctant step back from him, Y/N digs her hand down into her clutch, blindly pressing her fingers into the corners until she feels the touch of cool metal. “Got them!”

“Wonderful.” The man’s irises glint in the flickering hallway light, emerald glee flashing back at Y/N’s own drunken stare. His eyes really are hypnotizing, Y/N thinks, with the way the forest shades seem to swirl around in each other, the way they seem to shine and darken over and over, how--

“Are you going to actually unlock the door, darling?” His lilting accent interrupts Y/N’s mesmerized thoughts as his hands smooth over the small of her back. “Or are we back to the idea of me taking you in the hallway?”

As more embarrassment flushes through Y/N’s body, heating every inch of her skin, she manages to shake her head quickly, the motion making her vision spin. “No, sorry, I--sorry.” She clears her throat once, the alcohol making her tongue feel heavy in her mouth. “Here--”

There’s another peal of laughter from behind her as Y/N spends a moment forcing her key into the lock of her door, having to give it an extra shove with all of her body weight before the stubborn mechanism twists and allows her to swing the door open. With a relieved sigh, Y/N steps over the threshold, noticing that the stranger’s touch has fallen away once she’s inside.

With a confused and heavy glance, Y/N regards the curly-haired boy over her shoulder, turning slowly around to see him standing just outside the step of her apartment. The hands that had just been groping every inch of her that they could get ahold of are now braced against the doorway, his tanned and inked muscles exposed beneath the sleeves of his blue t-shirt that fits him so perfectly, Y/N thinks she may faint. Although his smirk is still tugging at his lips, his eyes have shifted to definitive darkness, and his expression has become more guarded.

“Is everything okay?” Y/N asks slowly, her own brows furrowing to match his own. “Aren’t you going to come in?”

The man’s eyes flash once more, and--Harry! His name is Harry, Y/N remembers, and an alleviant feeling flushes through her veins while she struggles to keep the realization off her face as Harry straightens up to appraise her properly.

As his eyes scan over Y/N’s liquor-loose body, her eyes wide, trusting, and curious, her hair tangled from Harry’s fingers mussing it, a hickey just starting to colour at the base of her neck. The spot sends a flood of venom through Harry’s mouth and he knows that it’s time. The moment that Harry dreads with each drunken club hookup has finally arrived. The moment he has to figure out a way to get whatever poor soul he’s chosen as his midnight snack to explicitly invite him into their home.

There are a lot of abilities that come with being a vampire that Harry is thankful for. The compulsion, he’d learned from his very first day in his afterlife, is one of the most useful and commonly used traits Harry possesses; after all, it’s a lot easier to take a little bite from an unsuspecting college student when you can make them forget it after. The inhuman strength, of course, and the accompanying speed was handy, but mostly used for fun more than anything else. When you barely sleep, you end up with a lot of free time, and impossible strength and speed makes for never ending wrestling matches, races, and various sporting competitions with Niall (they’d tried chess once, but Niall only lasted fifteen minutes before his attention drifted to the scent of a nighttime jogger outside the condo).

However, with all the sweetness that comes with being undead, there’s also the sour. Iron has a tendency to burn the diamond-like skin of a vampire as if they were mere humans being prodded with a white hot brand, which Harry had learned the hard way back in his early days. Stepping out into the sunlight has the same effect. While these two issues could be easily remedied by dipping an iron object into gold, or wearing a sunlight ring respectively, there’s still one downside to life after death that irks Harry every time he’s presented with it.

Like every old folklore about vampires he had ever heard growing up, Harry has to be invited inside before he can cross the threshold of someone’s home.

And, as he’d learned over the years, it has to be an explicit invitation. A beckoning of a hand or head won’t do, nor will a quiet whisper of “Follow me.” No, a resident of the home has to clearly state that they want Harry inside their space, or else he’ll be blocked from crossing under the door frame like there’s an invisible wall that only appears for him.

Given that Harry was raised in a time where proper manners were of the utmost importance, and an invitation had to be extended by a girl’s family before Harry was permitted to step onto the premises of their estate, getting this permission from someone isn’t too difficult for him. However, if his meal is a little too soaked in alcohol, pulling an invitation from their slurring mouths can sometimes prove to be a challenge.

So when Y/N asks if he’s going to come in with confusion clearly tinging her voice, Harry knows he has to play his next moments very carefully. He drops his eyelids halfway, giving her a sultry look that indicates every one of his intentions with her (at least, the ones he wants her to know about). When he answers, his voice is low and drawling, dripping with thirst disguised as need despite the careful cadence of his words. “Do you want me to come in?”

While Y/N’s blood alcohol content is a little higher than usual, she still has enough awareness in her to show her surprise at the question Harry poses.

“Do I--?” She cuts herself off to rephrase her words in an incredulous tone. Was he serious? “You literally had your tongue down my throat a minute ago, and now you’re asking if I want you to come in?”

Harry-- Y/N keeps repeating his name in her head to commit it to memory-- lifts one shoulder in a quick shrugging motion as he worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “I just want to make sure you’re okay with this,” He says, motioning between the two of them from outside the door. “Before we go any further. Spoken consent is important, too.”

If Y/N hadn’t already been ready to drop to her knees and do whatever Harry wanted, that one sentence would’ve been enough to pull the reaction from her. It takes every ounce of effort in her slightly intoxicated body to not tug his pants off right there in her doorway, and instead she takes a deep breath, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Yes.” She tries to keep her voice as steady as she possibly can. “Yes, I want you to come in, Harry.”

The vampire’s nearly blindingly white teeth flash at her as a smile overtakes his face, and he confidently yet slowly strides into her apartment, his eyes flickering over the interior space, but keeping most of their attention trained on her.

As he steps towards her, Y/N steps backwards, leading him down the hallway, past her bathroom and small bedroom, and to the main kitchen and living area. For once, Y/N is thankful that she took the time to do a quick sweep of her apartment the day before, as she would’ve been mortified if Harry had seen her half folded laundry spread out on her couch like it normally is.

“Do you, um--” She clears her throat once as she motions to the bar cart in the corner of the room. “Do you want a drink?”

Harry can’t help the small laugh that peels from his lips. If only Y/N knew, he thinks, as he takes another step closer to her so he can grip her chin between his thumb and forefinger. From the fluttering of her eyes, stuttering of her breath, and the audible increase of blood rushing through her body, concentrating in the areas that interest him the most, Harry can tell that she likes when he displays a dominant air over her. Keeping his voice sultry to hide the growing smugness-- not completely, but enough that he doesn’t sound too cocky, Harry asks what’s meant to be a simple question. “You’re nervous. What’s got you all worked up, hm?”

Tongue unfeeling in her mouth, Y/N struggles to answer as she stumbles over her words, distracted by the feeling of Harry’s ringed thumb caressing her chin, just barely grazing her lips.

“You’re just--I--” She sucks in a quick breath, trying to push down her embarrassment as her voice emerges more breathless than before. “You’re just really hot.”

Ah, the praise. If the pleasure of swallowing down mouthful after mouthful of warm, sweet blood wasn’t Harry’s literal reason for existence, his most favourite thing in the world would be the way humans fawn over him. The beauty of a vampire is part of what lures a human in, and while Harry has foggy memories of being bashful in his human life, he’s fully transformed that part of himself in death.

“Am I?” He asks, and the snarky remark goes straight to the heat between Y/N’s thighs as he drops his face, his cool forehead pressing against her own flushed skin.

Y/N nods slowly, her nose bumping against Harry’s with every motion. “Yeah, you are. I couldn’t believe that…” Her cheeks heat again as she trails off, and it’s only the insistent tap of Harry’s fingers against her hip that make her continue. “Couldn’t believe that you were interested in me. Out of all the girls there…”

Harry uses his grip on her side to tug Y/N closer to him, despite already being only inches apart. Although her scent had hit him like a train back at the club, here, in her own apartment, the fragrance is ten times as intense. Y/N’s personal perfume of honey and lavender lingers in every breath he takes in, drifts off the couch, the throw pillows, the books on the coffee table...everything is drenched in her, and Harry almost feels drunk from it.

“Didn’t care about the others. You--” He catches himself just in time, before the words “you smelled the best” tumble from his open mouth. “You just caught my attention. You looked so shy.” That’s true enough, Harry thinks, as his hand moves from her chin to grip the opposite side of her torso tightly in his large hands. “Wanted to see if I could break through that.”

Y/N yelps softly as Harry picks her up as if she weighs no more than a dandelion picked from a field, and drops her onto the couch behind her. Although the worn fabric of the sofa is familiar, Y/N almost thinks that she should ask Harry to take her to her bedroom. And then she gets a good look at Harry standing over her with lust clouding his jade irises and his lips so red she could name a lipstick after them, and every thought of anything besides him leaves her mind.

Harry straightens his spine after he drops her on the couch, his ringed hands easily finding the buckle of his belt to yank it free from his trousers in one swift motion, letting it fall to the IKEA rug below him. His gaze flickers to lock eyes with Y/N as he fiddles with his zipper, catching and basking in the way her eyes keep falling to the movement.

He can see the neediness that’s practically dripping from her irises just as easily as tears would, and the way she catches her lip between her teeth in impatience forces Harry to bite back a groan. It’s been so long since he had someone so...so fucking delectable, not just in smell, but in their actions.

“Would you like to do it?” Harry asks the question quietly, dancing his fingers over his zipper one last time before letting go.

Y/N’s answering nod is timid, and her actions are almost trancelike as she slowly reaches towards him, but Harry catches her wrist and grips it tightly before she can reach her goal.

Giving her a stern look, he raises his voice a few decibels louder than it was. “Use your words, then, darling. Tell me.”

Harry can smell the flood between her legs as a lustful whimper falls from Y/N’s lips, the desperation that’s coursing through her veins amplifying with every passing moment.

“I want to--” She nearly stutters over the words, and takes a moment to collect herself before continuing in a more self-assured voice. “I want to undress you.”

Harry’s responding smile is so big that, if she weren’t slightly intoxicated, and if there was more than just the light of one lamp illuminating the pair, Y/N might have noticed the sinister glint of his teeth.

“Good girl.” His voice is as smooth as molasses when he praises her. “Go ahead.”

Although her hands are clumsy, Y/N manages to work around the button and zipper of his pants until she can ease the fabric down his legs, her desperation only growing as his boxers-- and the clear outline of his hardening cock-- become visible. The erotic sight pulls a quiet but defined gasp from Y/N as she drags her index finger over the bulge, too entranced in her own actions to catch the way Harry’s eyes roll back into his head at the sensation.

“Oh.” With her heart thumping in her chest, Y/N finally raises her eyes to his. “You’re-- you’re so big, Harry…”

“Is that a problem?” Despite knowing that it isn’t-- and has never been before-- Harry still asks the question, wanting to extract as much praise from the mortal girl as he can before the night is over. He’s always had a bit of a praise kink, adoring the way humans adored him, but there’s something about the voice of the girl in front of him that makes the compliments sound sugar-coated in the best way.

Y/N’s response is so quick and sharp that it almost pulls a laugh from Harry’s chest.

“No.” She insists immediately, giving a rough shake of her head. “No, absolutely not.”

The sides of Harry’s kiss-swollen lips twitch arrogantly, but the next words he speaks are genuine. Although he’s a lot of things, certainly, a careless lover is not one of them.

“If it gets to be too much…” He brings a ringed hand to caress Y/N’s hair, his eyes softening for just a moment. “Don’t hesitate to tell me. I don’t want to do anything if it doesn’t make you feel just as good as it makes me feel.”

And with those words, that same desperation that Y/N had felt when he asked if he could come inside earlier reignites in her belly. It had never gone out, true, but it had dulled to a dim spark for just a moment, yet with the fanning of Harry’s latest words, exploded into a renewed bonfire deep inside her.

“God, I can’t believe you’re real.” Y/N half mutters the words to herself as she scoots towards the edge of the sofa, knees bumping against the front of Harry’s bare calves as he takes a step forward.

With his ring-clad fingers still carding through her hair, Harry guides the girl’s head closer to the tent in his briefs, biting back a chuckle at her comment. God has nothing to do with it.

“I’m real.” He murmurs in a sweet tone. “And now that you know that...what are you going to do?”

Y/N looks up at him through heavy lashes, pressing her trembling lips to the crest of his exposed belly button as a response, dragging damp kisses down his happy trail as she tugs his underwear down his deliciously thick thighs.

“Fuck, that’s it…” The words are strained when they leave Harry’s mouth with a feathery moan, his head throwing back in bliss as he enjoys the teasing actions.

This is always one of his favourite moments, he thinks. The moment his flings-- his girls, as he sometimes affectionately thinks of them, or his boys-- get their lips around him for the first time. Just as mortals fawn over his appearance, they worship his naked body, and his pulsing cock is no exception to that rule. All of his lovers show an eagerness to please him, and Y/N is no different.

When Harry looks back on this moment six months down the road, he’ll curse himself for thinking something so naive, and for believing that Y/N really was no different than anyone else, especially when her smell alone was already enough to send him into a frenzy. But right now, in this moment, she’s just doing exactly what he wants her to. And that’s what he needs.

Y/N slowly wraps her hand around his girth, unable to meet her fingers in the middle as she slowly begins to stroke him.

“You’re so…” She searches her (less, but still a bit) inebriated mind for the right word. Despite hardly having been touched by Harry, her voice is already wrecked. “So pretty.”

The innocuous adjective catches Harry by surprise, but only for a moment before he tugs her hair lightly, stocking the new compliment in the back of his mind for later reflection.

“Give it a little kiss, baby.” He murmurs, the cadence of his voice equal parts soft and dominant. “Show me how pretty you think it is, yeah?”

The request sends a shiver down Y/N’s spine as she complies, watching Harry through thick lashes as she leans forward with lips puckered, gently pressing them to the red and leaking tip of his cock. Another strained moan rolls from his lips as her tongue darts out to carefully collect the precum gathering at his slit.

“That’s a good girl…” The praise that leaves Harry’s mouth is breathless, half whispered as he wraps her hair around his wrist and pulls her forward. “Y’can take a bit more now, dove. C’mon.”

Y/N gingerly takes the head of his cock into her mouth, the underside of his length catching on her bottom lip and earning an elongated hiss from Harry. His own eyes are fluttering as he watches her rub the textured surface of her tongue over him, mewling softly as the taste of his warm precum invades her senses.

The vibrations from the sound of pleasure makes the whites of Harry’s half lidded eyes momentarily tinge blood red as the sensation pinballs up his spine, causing his grip on her roots to tighten. Harry sucks in a deep breath, waiting until he knows his eyes have returned to a more human-like state before drawing her attention back to him as he speaks.

“You look so cute like that.” He coos admiringly, the pads of his fingers careful in massaging her scalp without tangling strands of her hair in his rings. “Y’look like a proper angel with those soft lips wrapped around my cock.”

The filthy comment stokes the fire churning in the pit of Y/N’s stomach as she blinks tears from her eyes. With a stuttering inhale, she tries to carve out a mental foothold in her mind, something to stop her from completely falling into the tension of the atmosphere.

“You taste really good.” She finally whimpers after a moment, the sentence spoken around his prick before she draws him from her mouth. Y/N can see the way Harry’s eyes are glued to the string of saliva connecting his length to her lips, and the uninhibited lustful look almost sends her spiraling completely. Pressing tender kisses up and down his extent, she begins to rub her silky lips along the prominent vein that stretches from his base to the tip.

If she’s going to succumb to the tension, she wants Harry right there beside her.

And from what she can tell, he is. Garbled moans are tearing from his mouth over and over, his large cock twitching within her grasp. When he speaks again, his voice is further from honey than it’s ever been.

“Christ, you’re such a dirty little thing.” Harry growls, raking his hands through her hair once more. “So excited to please, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Y/N whispers the words as she continues to smear kisses along his length, just enough to tease him, but not enough to push him over the edge. There’s a feeling of intense desire rising inside her, not just for her own pleasure, but for his pleasure as well. It’s a new feeling, quite unfamiliar inside her, but then again, why wouldn’t it be? She’s never met anyone like Harry before. She’s never lifted her head to look someone in the eye with their cock at her lips and been so mesmerized by the image of their swollen lips tugged between their teeth, dark eyes hooded with want as they stare back down at her. It’s completely new, and completely everything she’d ever needed.

“Take more, baby. Know you can.” Harry’s words are still growled as he grasps the base of his cock in his large hand, directing it towards her mouth, but pausing just outside of her lips. For a moment, Y/N wonders why he won’t continue, but the quick quirk of his eyebrow raising makes her realize that he’s doing exactly what he did earlier in her doorway.

He’s waiting for an invitation.

A whimpering noise falls out when Y/N opens her mouth wide for him, flattening her tongue and extending it just past her lips so that the textured surface will slide along his expanse as he pushes into her mouth.

A crease appears between Harry’s eyebrows as his face contorts in bliss. “That’s it, darling. Show me how well you suck cock.”

Y/N hums around his length, lifting her hand to replace Harry’s grip, but he grasps her wrist before she can accomplish the task, pushing her hand back down to her thigh and flattening it against the fabric of her pants.

“No hands.” Harry rasps, eyes glinting with dominance. “Just that pretty mouth.”

Despite her vulnerable position, Y/N manages to give half a nod, closing her watering eyes as Harry continues to dive deeper down her throat. She feels the cool touch of his ringed hand against her bulging cheek, his thumb rubbing over the apple of her bone structure in a tender motion that contrasts their actions.

“Look at me.” Harry beckons her gently, but keeps a command in the tone of his voice. When Y/N’s eyes flicker open again, he directs her gaze up to his own as his jade eyes flash darker, pupils dilating ever so slightly.

Despite his very existence being unethical by nature of what he is, Harry doesn’t use compulsion on his partners inside the bedroom (or living room, or car, or wherever else he takes someone for a quick fuck and a bite to eat); he may be a monster, but he’s not a monster. And his mother raised him better than that, even if she didn’t remember doing so. No, if Harry is going to be engaging in a sexual act with anyone, it’ll be something that both parties have consented to while in their right minds.

That being said, he does use his power slightly just to encourage those he spends his nights with to be as honest and free as they’ve ever wanted to be. Meals taste best, he’s found, when his main courses have fully relaxed and unwinded, and Harry is a man-- well, not quite a man, but a being-- of fair play; if he’s going to be taking something from his partners, then he wants them to take something from him, as well. And sometimes humans need a little push to do so.

“You’re going to let go of your inhibitions tonight, do you understand?” Harry speaks in a soothing tone, his voice like a lullaby as he strokes his thumb against Y/N’s skin. “You’re going to do anything you’ve ever wanted to, but been too scared to speak out loud.”

Y/N blinks up at him as her heavy eyelids lift, her own pupils expanding slightly to match his own as Harry’s gentle influence washes over her. Her head jerks in a small nod of agreement, showing the understanding that she can’t quite speak in this position.

Harry rubs over the obvious bulge in her cheek, an imprint of his cock inside her warm mouth. The longer he rests inside her, the more his chest heaves as waves of pleasure begin to lap at the trench of his stomach. The sensation is distracting, and he refocuses himself more intently as a familiar prickling washes across the backs of his eyes. If he doesn’t keep himself in check, his words will be more powerful than he means them to be, and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Don’t be nervous or scared. I’m not going to hurt you, Y/N.” He continues the speech that he has memorized from how often he’s used it during one night stands, keeping his voice light and level. “You can trust me. Do whatever it is you want, and nothing you don’t. You’re safe with me.”

Y/N nods again, the action softer and fainter than it had been before. Harry can practically see the tension releasing from her shoulders. He drags a ringed knuckle across her cheekbone, admiring the sheen of tears gathering on her waterline as a result of his sheer girth.

“What is it you want then, darling?” He asks cooly, pulling back just a tad to give her enough relief to talk around his prick.

Harry watches as Y/N wrings her hands against her thighs, thinking her words through carefully and deliberately as her lashes flutter at the relaxing sensation of him caressing her heated skin. When she speaks, all previous timidness and hesitation is gone from her voice, replaced with unwavering desire that sends a shockwave down Harry’s spine.

“I want you to fuck my mouth.”

Y/N sounds so sure of herself, so desperate at the request, that Harry almost grips her head and snaps his hips forward the moment the words leave her mouth. However, years of control and restraint squash that instinct before he can even consider giving into it. Instead, he merely pauses his motions as he contemplates the mortal in front of him, reevaluating the girl he had thought would be bashful and reserved for what seems to be the thousandth time that night.

At the pause in his actions, Y/N’s brows pinch and she stares up at Harry with a confused and almost wounded look, eyelids fluttering as if she’s worried that her blunt request had done something to upset him. Harry, remembering the promise he had just made a moment ago, resumes his reassuring motions against her cheek, not speaking again until he feels the human unwind once more.

Once Y/N is leaning into him again, Harry asks the question that’s been spinning in his mind since she first spoke.

“Have you ever had anyone fuck your mouth before?” He asks curiously, despite being certain he already knows the answer.

Y/N rubs her palms flat over her thighs slowly as she gives the predicted answer in a quiet voice. “No. Never.”

“But you want me to do it.” Although his words indicate a question, Harry phrases it like a statement. He wants her to say it again, he realizes, closing his eyes as he revels in the feeling of her tongue massaging the head of his cock. He needs to hear her say it again.

Y/N complies to his unspoken want. “Yes.” She mumbles around him, and the concentration needed to keep her hands pressed to her lap is apparent all over her face. “I want to make you feel good.”

The pounding of Y/N’s heart is so loud that its thump echoes in Harry’s ears. He can see the pulse of her carotid artery in her strained neck, a warm and real reminder that this girl is alive and burning with need for him. Harry lets out a low moan as his mouth begins to fill with venom once again, watering as if he were a human presented with his favourite meal. Without thinking, he lets his fingers drift from her cheek to her neck, feeling the heated hammering rhythm beneath the icy pads.

All Harry wants to do is take a bite, and his fangs ache at the very thought of sinking his teeth into the young woman’s soft flesh, but he knows he has to restrain himself. She’ll taste so much sweeter post-orgasm, after oxytocin is flowing through her veins, deepening her flavour.

“Alright.” Harry gathers himself as he draws his hand from Y/N’s neck, returning his touch to her chin so she’ll look at him again as his voice takes on a persuasive tone (without adding compulsion-- Harry needs her to be completely aware of her actions). “Keep your hands pressed flat to your thighs. And keep your mouth and throat as open as you can, is that understood?”

Y/N gives a small nod, her jaw starting to ache around Harry’s cock in the most fulfilling fashion. Nerves are beginning to set in again, and she can’t help the shiver that tumbles down her spine and settles in her hands as she tightens them to her legs.

Harry frowns ever so slightly at the change in her demeanor. “You’re alright, pet. You know that, don’t you?” He asks, letting his voice shift to a more tender tone for just a moment. “Let yourself let go. I’ll take good care of you.”

With the calming aspect of Harry’s promise ringing in her ears, quieting the pounding of her own heart that echoes in her head like a drum, Y/N follows his suggestions. The young woman takes a deep breath through her nose to focus herself, and she’s so caught up in the moment— in the way he tastes and feels in her mouth, salty and velvety smooth— that she vaguely wonders how she’ll manage to move at all.

Nevertheless, with the help of Harry’s thumb gliding over her chin in reassurance, Y/N begins to bend to his will, her slightly aching jaw relaxing and shoulders unknotting. Gazing up at him with pliant and moony eyes, she waits for her next set of instructions. She has little experience with this ground— save a few porno videos she’d perused out of curiosity— and for some odd reason, she feels that she can put faith in him to guide her through it.

As if he can sense what she’s waiting for, Harry speaks with a voice that floats through the air softly, thick like syrup and just as appetizing. “Lean back against the couch.”

Y/N does so immediately, slumping into the cushions while making sure to keep her back somewhat straight. Her head rests against the surface, more comfortable than she expected to be (perhaps she’d have to leave that as a review on IKEA’s website; “If you’re interested in getting your face fucked by a stranger you met in a club, this couch is perfect!”) as Harry climbs over her, balancing his knees on either sides of her hips. He’s careful not to rest any weight on Y/N, just as he’s careful to grip the hair along the crown of her head securely, but not roughly. Despite his most basic instincts, he refuses to be rough unless she explicitly asks for it.

Going against his default behavior, Harry finds out with every passing second, is easier said than done. It takes every fiber of his being to internally talk himself into being patient as he watches the mortal lap at his cock with a form of drunken need, the tiny whines escaping the back of her throat only increasing his fervor. With a care that’s only developed over centuries, Harry gradually works his hips forward, sinking deeper into her mouth inch by inch, his half-lidded eyes watching every twitch and flicker of her expression to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries.

“S’that alright?” His tone holds the weight of the intense control he’s roping around himself, which tightens with every moan-induced vibration he feels around his length.

Y/N responds with an eager bob of her head, a broken mewl, muffled by his cock, encouraging him to go further.

Harry abides, holding her in place by her locks of hair and slowly sliding his hips forward until the base of his cock taps against her wet chin. His free hand rests beside her ear, twisting the navy blue couch cushion into his fist. It’s the only way to keep himself sane, he thinks, especially with how Y/N is ogling up at him with those big innocent eyes, swirling with alcohol yet still so clear, the skin of her cheeks boiling with heated blood as breaths falter past her nostrils.

The sight of the human girl so open and ready for him would have stopped Harry’s heart if it had a beat.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Harry gets a sudden urge and can’t stop himself from leaning down to press a lingering kiss to the center of her sweaty forehead, right between her brows. Given the nature of his other urges, a tender kiss is one he can let slide. “I’m going to leave your throat so fucking sore.”

The gentle action contrasted with his sinful promise pulls another whine from Y/N’s mouth, quiet and soft and so inaudible that if Harry were human, he might not hear it. And what a shame that would be, he sighs internally, as he tightens his vice-like grasp on her couch cushions, reminding himself not to rip the fragile fabric as he clenches his fist.

Harry holds himself there for a moment, enjoying the sensation of her wet and warm throat contracting around him. Y/N’s eyes, which were watering even before she opened herself up like this, release a small salty tear that traces down her cheekbone. Harry releases a hand’s grip on the couch to wipe the teardrop away with a ringed knuckle. Curiosity is what makes him bring the digit to his mouth, letting his tongue lick off the saline droplet.

It’s a strange flavour, Harry decides as he retracts his finger from his mouth. Salty, yes, but there’s a hint of the same underlying flavours that run through blood, depending on someone’s emotional state. It’s rather refreshing.

Not letting himself waste anymore time on thinking about anything except the girl in front of him, Harry shakes himself from his internal thoughts.

“Hold yourself right there for me, darling.” He says lowly before slowly retracting his hips, watching as his spit-slick cock slips from Y/N’s red lips, her lipstick smudged and faded. He keeps pulling back until just the tip rests on her tongue, and he lets himself enjoy the sight for a moment before he begins to thrust forward again. Repeating the same motion a few times, Harry takes careful and measured breaths through his nose before increasing his speed.

Y/N keeps her damp eyes on Harry with every move of his torso, staying as open for him as he requested. The obedience, trust, and desire written all over her face drives Harry mad.

“That’s— fuck, that’s perfect.” His voice drops lower, the tone smooth as liquid silk while he snaps his hips forward again. “Stay just like that for me, yeah? Like a proper good girl.”

There’s something about the simple praise that incites a craving deep in Y/N’s stomach. As Harry bulges in her throat over and over, her eyes roll back into her head at the foreign yet entirely pleasurable experience, and her insides burn with the sensation of him using her. There’s just something so satisfying about feeling him ram into her mouth, the crescent above her upper lip catching on the bristly hairs that sprinkle in a line down the center of his abdomen. Her nose nudges against the trough of his belly button repeatedly, the picture of his jolting fern tattoos— which she hadn’t even noticed until he was down her throat— becoming blurrier with every slam forward.

Harry doesn’t cap his noises of bliss either, and allows vulgar curses and grunts to slip down his tongue freely. Through a clenched jaw and bared teeth, he pants about how well she’s doing and how good she’s taking it, feeding the boiling satisfaction in her veins. She wants to please him. She needs to please him.

“God, look at you.” He begins tugging and pushing her head to match his thrusts, his fangs poking along the inside of his bottom lip as he feels how strong her heart is beating. He can feel the thundering pulse through her mouth, stringing right up his prick and deepening the thirst burning along the back of his tongue. “Taking that cock and loving every single bit of it. You like this? Like it when I use that pretty little mouth to make myself feel good?”

Y/N chokes out a shattered whimper of agreement, sniffling a gasp when his pace speeds up a smidge.

“Fucking hell, you’re filthy. S’always the quiet ones, isn’t it?” Harry rasps, the words flowing from his flushed mouth as he sucks in breaths between phrases.

Although his rings dig into her scalp, Y/N doesn’t alert him of it. If anything, she enjoys the minimal flare of pain the action brings, almost as much as she enjoys the way he gazes down at her with an open-mouthed simper, electricity coursing through the specks of gold around his pupils, head bobbing back and forth along to his steady stride.

“Shy girls like you are just nervous to say what they really want until the right person comes along. Isn’t that right, baby?” Harry can’t help the filthy exclamations spitting from his mouth, and he doesn’t want to. From his first remark, Y/N was hooked on every dirty claim, and if she wants to hear more, who is he to rob her of that? “You were just sitting there all prim and proper, waiting to find someone who could give you what you wanted. Someone who isn’t afraid to fuck you how you like it.”

Y/N’s hands tighten into loose fists in her lap, itching to grab onto the plushness of his hips and drag her fingers up his lean stomach, to feel it contract beneath her fingertips as Harry chases his high. And Harry can see her intention, any pleading she’d normally vocalize funneling into her watery eyes. The way she’s silently begging him to allow her to touch him is bound to dismantle him quickly. Too quickly, if he doesn’t keep himself on track.

Of course, there’s a voice in the back of Harry’s head, his most repressed instinct, telling him to do just that. The voice tells him to quicken his thrusts, push himself down Y/N’s throat as deep as he can, and release in her mouth before lifting her like a rag doll and biting into her neck to satiate the thirst that’s been burning in the back of his throat since he first caught her scent at the bar. But Harry suppresses that instinct far back down inside himself once again before slowly removing his cock from Y/N’s mouth. If he’s going to cum, he wants it to be inside her. It has to be inside of her. And he doesn’t want to be done just yet.

The moment Harry’s prick slips out of her mouth, Y/N gasps, drool slipping from the corner of her lips like the tears from her eyes. Despite her wrecked appearance and the soreness beginning to ache in the back of her throat, there’s a whine of displeasure mixed with her gasps as her glossy eyes track Harry’s movements. “Where—where are you going?”

The human girl’s eagerness for him brings a small yet pleased smile to Harry’s face, and he lets one chilly hand rest on her heated cheek as he climbs down from his position on the couch.

“There’s so much more for us to do tonight, angel.” An amused chuckle sounds from his throat as he straightens himself up. “Did you really think a quick blowie was all I wanted from you?”

Y/N wipes the edge of her mouth, smearing whatever lipstick had been left on her skin after Harry finished. “I would hope not.” She murmurs truthfully, managing to raise her brows in judgement. While she’d normally never sass somebody that easily, especially someone she barely knows, she feels that it’s acceptable given that this stranger had been shoved down her throat moments ago, spewing explicit comments about her without a single issue.

Y/N’s cheeks burn as Harry’s crude words from before run through her mind like an audio recording. She definitely has the right to sass him.

The way Harry grips her tired jaw firmly, however, tilting her chin upwards while leaning down to ghost his cherry lips over her own swollen pair, has her rethinking that within seconds.

Y/N knows that she should be embarrassed that all it takes is a touch to her chin and one kiss to send her back into a submissive state, but she can’t bring herself to care in the moment, especially as a few rogue curls fall across Harry’s forehead and frame the edges of his face. The stray strands give the dominant man a less intimidating appearance. Just less intense, Y/N thinks. Maybe even soft. She’d gotten so caught up in the whirlwind of dirty promises and brazen actions that she had failed to notice that the young man before her is exactly that— a young man. A young man with wild eyes, a strong grip, and a stern hold on her within just a few hours of meeting. But even with the reminder that Harry is around her age, Y/N can see that he carries himself with the confidence and persona of someone much older, hinting that he has much more experience than any normal adult in their twenties would have.

The possibility of where his extensive expertise and skills could apply to makes her stomach flutter.

Y/N thinks she might get lost in the feeling, until a tiny shot of pain snaps her out of her head. Her bottom lip throbs between Harry’s teeth after he’s captured it, his nose smudging along the bridge of her own, a messy action that he somehow makes thoughtful and concise. His eyes are the color of a forest at midnight, and when he speaks, his tone comes out even, yet commanding and assured in the most attractive sense.

“Take off your clothes.”

The order sends a rush of heat to Y/N’s core as her half-lidded eyes flutter, and she feels a pull in her to comply as Harry releases her lip from his teeth. Her hands reach for the hem of her blouse that’s already half-untucked from Harry’s wandering touch, but she pauses, fingers still gripping the sheer fabric.

“Will you—?” Y/N cuts herself off abruptly, tongue licking over the sting in her lip as she rephrases her speech. “I want you to help me.”

The simple request knocks the breath from Harry’s lungs so fast that he’s lucky he doesn’t actually need it to function. It takes him a moment to center himself enough so that he can suck in sharp breath to regain his dominance.

“Do you?” Harry does his best to keep his voice steady as he kinks a brow and leans back from Y/N, strong hands replacing her own at the hem of her shirt. He clicks his tongue against his teeth as he pulls her hold away, his fingers resting just over her racing pulse point. “Let go, then. Arms up.”

Once Y/N’s arms are in the air, Harry has no trouble removing her shirt, tossing the delicate fabric to the side before working his fingers around to the band of her pink lace bra. The scent of Y/N’s heated skin is too much for him to resist, all lavender and liquor, and he begins to pepper kisses along her collarbones and neck, making sure his teeth are hidden behind his pillowy lips. The task is easier said than done, especially when Harry can feel the human’s heartbeat throb beneath his touch, but he manages to restrain himself from taking a bite. It’ll come in due time, he knows it. His thirst will be handled, Y/N just needs to be taken care of first.

With another flick of his hand, Y/N’s bra joins her shirt in a puddle on the floor. Now that there are no barriers between Harry and her soft, supple skin, his hands travel to her bare chest, cupping and tweaking and massaging, pulling every sound imaginable out of Y/N as he touches her.

“Harry, I—“ Y/N can barely form a sentence as Harry synchronizes a wet kiss on her neck and a quick tug on her nipple, his lips smirked against her skin. “Oh...”

“What’s the matter, love?” The breathless, incoherent moans leaving Y/N’s mouth make Harry’s smirk widen. “Cat got your tongue?”

Despite the warmth rising to Y/N’s cheeks, she manages to sound indignant as she shoots Harry as much of a glare as she can muster with his hands on her breasts. “Shut up.”

Harry hums in response, sending vibrations down the length of Y/N’s throat. “Mm. I suppose I could use my mouth for something else…”

It’s almost comical how quickly Y/N’s heart rate increases at that comment. It would be comical, Harry thinks, if the pulsing of her neck didn’t excite Harry’s cock the way it does. As much as he pretends otherwise, he needs this as much as she does. Even more, if the dull ache running down the back of his jugular is any indication.

The vampire detaches his mouth from the girl’s neck, promising himself he’ll return there later once he’s properly prepared his dinner. While Y/N’s sweet-smelling blood is his main course of the night, he still has an appetizer sitting in front of him that he has yet to taste.

Harry’s shirt quickly joins the growing stack of clothing on the floor before his trousers do. He allows himself one ghost of a stroke on his cock, still slick with Y/N’s spit, but only to tease himself.

“Lay back down.” He demands, tucking himself back in his boxers before getting to his knees. Y/N watches the movement with hungry eyes, lip trapped beneath her own teeth just as Harry had done a few minutes ago.

“C’mon, love, don’t stop behaving now.” Harry chides her, smoothing his ringed hands over the fabric of her flowy pants before finding the button. “Lay down.”

At the repeat of the command, Y/N obeys him, wordlessly lifting her hips so Harry can tug down her now unbuttoned bottoms. He only gets the material halfway down her thighs before her scent hits him like a fucking truck, and then any semblance of rational thought leaves Harry’s mind completely.

If Y/N’s blood is a finely aged wine with notes of lavender and honey scattered throughout its bouquet, something that deserves to be sipped out of a fine crystal goblet and worshipped, then what lies between Y/N’s thighs is the most delectable tequila Harry has ever had the pleasure of tasting in his two hundred years, her signature honey scent still detectable beneath it all.

Harry’s hands are almost a blur as he reaches back up and hooks his fingers into the waistband of her underwear, tugging them down to meet the waist of her bottoms before pulling both articles off completely and throwing them to the side. He parts her legs just as quickly, and before Y/N can even say anything, his mouth is against her core, sedating his need the only way he can at this moment.

“Oh--!” A squeak of surprise falls from Y/N’s lips as one hand finds Harry’s curls, twisting into them tightly as her other finds her own hair. With her eyes falling closed, she misses the crimson hue that flashes through Harry’s emerald irises with every moan.

Harry’s control is beginning to slip, and he knows that. It would be frustrating, honestly, if it didn’t feel so fucking good. It’s been so long since he’s felt so feral for someone, so desperate— truly desperate— to press himself as close as possible to them, to lap up anything they’ll give him, and that’s all he wants to do right now. Harry’s nose nudges against Y/N’s clit, pulling another searing mewl from her throat as his tongue darts into her entrance. Every one of his heightened senses is filled with Y/N, consumed with every inch of her; her fragrance fogs his mind, her taste coats his tongue, and her soft thighs dimple beneath his grip that keeps her spread. The sensation of her hands tugging at his hair is the only thing keeping him grounded.

Flicking his tongue over her clit once more, Harry revels in the broken sounds spilling from above, audible proof that he’s making her fall apart with his mouth just as much as she did to him. It brings a sense of pride to Harry’s chest-- he doesn’t just take from his partners. He gives in return.

“H-Harry--” Y/N pants his name in a shattered voice, her face screwed up in pleasure as she drags her hand from her hair to her chest, gripping her own breasts in her palm as her chest heaves.

It’s not as though Y/N hasn’t had her fair share of sex, and she’s most certainly had someone go down on her before. The problem, she just manages to think as Harry suctions his lips over her clit, is that it’s never felt like this before.

In this moment, with Harry’s mouth working over her as if she was his last meal, Y/N would give up everything to memorize the sight and sensation of this man on his knees for her. Everything, from the filthy noises that slip from his mouth between movements, to the way his irises darken with every passing moment, indicates that Harry is just as into that scenario as she is. And that’s what it is, really. What sets Harry apart from anyone else she’s ever had. Any other man that’s gone down on her has treated it like a chore, while Harry—

“You’re fucking delectable, y’know that?” He rasps, the vibrations of his words rolling over her core with every phrase. “Like dessert. The sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Y/N drags her hand back up to her mouth, wedging her index finger between her teeth to stifle the borderline embarrassing moans threatening to overflow. “I’m—I’m so close, Harry...you’re gonna make me cum…”

“Mhmm.” Harry hums against her clit in agreement, stroking his tongue along her dripping opening once more before pulling away. “But not right now. You’re going to cum around my cock.”

Although Harry makes it sound like he’s teasing her, taunting her by holding her orgasm off until the very last second, he knows the truth: if Y/N were to cum right now, if her body were to shudder and give into every request Harry’s tongue is pulling from her, then Harry wouldn’t be able to take it. If Y/N were to cum with his head still buried between her thighs, it would only be a fraction of a second before Harry’s teeth would be buried in them instead.

Restraint, he tells himself as he slowly rises from his knees, reaching for Y/N’s face and gripping her cheeks in one hand as he steals a rough kiss from her supple lips. Restraint. Everything will come in due time.

“Wait—” Y/N makes a sound of protest as she falls back from the kiss. Although it’s a struggle for her to form a functioning and coherent thought, she needs to do it. “I— are you clean?”

Harry cocks his head to the side, the blunt and laughable response of “I’m dead, darling.” hanging on the tip of his tongue. He should add that to his list of vampire perks, he thinks. He already caught the worst thing anyone can catch— death— which means STDs and pregnancy scares are the furthest thing from his mind during sex.

Instead of that complicated answer, however, Harry opts for something simpler.

“Yes. Scout’s honour.” He assures her with a quick nod of his head. For the sake of appearances, he poses a question back to her. “What about you? Are you on birth control?”

A flash of relief lights up Y/N’s eyes. “Mhmm. And I’m on the pill, so…” Her cheeks burn beneath Harry’s touch. “We’re, um, we’re good to go.”

A choked laugh sounds from Harry’s throat as he shakes his head, smudging another kiss at the corner of Y/N’s mouth. “We’re good to go, are we? I’m glad to hear it.”

All of his teasing is for one purpose and one purpose only: to hear Y/N’s heartbeat spike in intensity and speed. When his comment easily receives the desired reaction, Harry brushes his fingers along the girl’s pulse point as he drifts his lips to her ear, grazing the cartilage with his teeth.

“Bend over.” He murmurs, accent thick as it rings in her ear. “I want you on your hand and knees for me.”

Y/N grips his tattooed shoulder tightly in her hands, kissing him one more time before obeying the directions offered. It takes her a moment to turn over on the couch and situate herself comfortably on her knees, bracing her hands on the back of the cushion as Harry’s strong grip finds her hips.

“You have the prettiest arse.” He smooths his hands over her backside as he speaks, admiring the softness of her skin beneath his calloused palms. “You’d look so pretty covered in marks, wouldn’t you?”

“I-I think so.” Y/N agrees breathlessly, glancing over her shoulder at the wild look in Harry’s eyes. He winks at her when he catches her gaze, tapping his fingers against her lower backside before spreading her legs apart more.

“Don’t worry, love. Won’t be doing that to you tonight. Don’t have the patience, honestly.” Harry keeps his tone casual, which is a miracle, Y/N thinks, considering he’s completely stripped himself and is stroking his hard cock as he speaks. The cadence of his voice in contrast with his actions makes her shiver, and the anticipation only crescendos when Harry rubs the tip of his prick against her soaked slit.

“‘M going to start, alright?” Harry’s voice is tight, and he’s barely able to wait for a sound of acknowledgement from Y/N before he begins to part her folds with his cock.

The relief is simultaneously instantaneous and completely out of reach. Yes, the wet and burning heat of her walls squeezing him satisfies the deep pulsing in the pit of his stomach, but it does nothing for the dry heat in the back of his throat. If anything, being so close to her is only a reminder of what he really, truly needs.

Harry forces himself to thrust slowly, to exercise the control he’s usually so good at displaying. Patience, he repeats to himself. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Focus on what’s happening in the moment.

And then he bottoms out, his pelvis pressing flat against Y/N’s soft flesh as her spongy walls squeeze him. Y/N lets out a moan so filthy that Harry’s knees buckle and every ounce of restraint disappears from his body.

“Fucking hell--” His voice doesn’t even sound his own as he digs the pads of his fingers into Y/N’s hips, surely leaving bruises that will blossom before the sun rises. He begins to quicken his thrusts as the sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, accompanied by the whimpers echoing from Y/N’s lips and the grunts falling from his own. With every stroke, Y/N’s fragrance fills the air more and more, pulling him further into a cloud of lust and hunger with every ragged breath he sucks through gritted teeth. When he sees the throbbing of Y/N’s veins in her neck, flashing at him like a signal, teasing him to the point of no return, Harry’s instincts grow louder, overshadowing any ounce of control he has left.

He grips the girl’s shoulder roughly, tugging her body up from its bent position to press flat against his sweaty inked chest. Once she’s in the desired position, Harry’s hand travels to her neck, squeezing just enough to win a choked moan from Y/N’s lips.

“Fuck, Harry--” She whines breathlessly, arching her back as she reaches to tangle her own fingers in his knotted curls. Her harsh tug pulls another groan from Harry’s swollen lips as they hover just over her neck, brushing against her hot skin with every ram. Her smell is so intoxicating, he could just--

And then he feels Y/N’s own lips on his neck and his senses overwhelm.

Even before Harry was turned, he had been a creature centered around touch. Of course, in the 1800s, touch was something that was fairly forbidden between anyone who was less than married, save for a rare dance at a ball with a beautiful girl. The first time Harry had been touched in this way, it had been by a young woman he has since tried so hard to block out of his memory. It had set his skin on fire, a feeling that never quite went away, even after her fingers had left his wrist that very first day. It was like she’d left an imprint on him, a candle burning in the window of his heart so that she’d be able to find her way back whenever she wanted to. And then her last touch had burned him more than he ever thought possible. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the whitehot pain as she cradled his head between her palms, still hear her soft, accented voice in his ear, reassuring him that everything would be alright, the sick sound of his own neck snapping--

He just doesn’t let people touch him there. Ever.

Harry’s hand tightens around Y/N’s throat, just for a moment, before guiding her kisses from the sensitive area to his collarbones. The memory still seems just as fresh and poignant in his mind as the day it happened, with time healing nothing, and Harry has to remind himself that he’s not that person anymore. He’s different now. He’s the one in control.

“I’m close, Harry--” Y/N’s sweet voice is a welcome reminder of where he is, cutting through his thoughts like a bird song cuts through a quiet morning. “Shit, I’m so close.”

“I know.” Harry growls the words into her ear as he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses along her jugular. He can smell it on her, how her blood is sweetening with every passing moment, like a fruit ripening for picking. “Cum for me, pet. C’mon. Y’can let go.”

Y/N takes his words to heart, throwing her head back onto Harry’s muscled shoulder as her orgasm builds to its peak. Harry can feel it-- how she contracts around him, how her juices drip down his cock and onto his thighs, how her pulse quickens beneath his lips.

And then Y/N cries out as she falls over the edge, Harry’s self control crumbling the moment he feels it, and the vampire sinks his teeth into the supple flesh of the mortal’s neck.

Y/N’s cry of surprise quickly turns into a moan as Harry’s venom begins to race through her bloodstream, the chemical hormones calming and sedating her in order to allow him to drink as much as he’d like. Normally, Harry waits until his partners are fast asleep, tired from their activities, but Y/N’s scent is so overpowering and consuming that, honestly, it’s a wonder he’s managed to keep himself together this long. And the moment Y/N’s blood washes over his tongue, he’s not sure if he’ll ever be so controlled again.

There are flavours that he predicted: honey, lavender, vanilla, a hint of the alcohol she poured back earlier, all sugared by the orgasm currently coursing through her body. But there’s something else underneath, too. A depth of flavour that he can’t quite place. Something he’s never experienced before. From the first taste, Harry knows he’s hooked. Every drink he’s had before this moment has paled in comparison, and he knows he’ll spend the rest of his life combing the Earth before he finds another that could match .

“H-Harry…” A gentle whimper falls from Y/N’s mouth as the waves of her climax finally recede. “Feels so good.”

Harry hums against her skin as he quickens his thrusts. As satisfying as drinking from the young woman is, now that his thirst is somewhat quenched, the need for his own orgasm increases.

“You’re gonna make me cum, y’know that?” Harry breathes against her skin, sucking one last gulp down before running his tongue over the bite. He’ll properly heal her once she’s asleep, but for now, the venom will form a temporary seal over the bite. And, honestly, Y/N appears to be too caught up in her own pleasure to notice the new mark on her neck. “Squeezing me so fucking tight...taking my cock like the good girl you are…”

Y/N’s head lulls back onto Harry’s shoulder, her hot breath panting in his ear as she begins to reach the point of overstimulation. “Please, Harry...want you to cum…”

“Yeah?” Harry pants roughly, licking his red-stained lips as his pelvis snaps against her. “You want me to cum for you? Want me to--fucking--give you--Christ--”

Harry usually pulls out before cumming, but his orgasm crashes over him so suddenly that he doesn’t have the chance. Instead, he buries himself to the hilt, throwing his head back in ecstasy, mouth wide open as a deep groan vibrates in his chest while thick ropes spill inside Y/N.

Even with his supernatural stamina, Harry is exhausted after he comes down from his high. It takes him a moment to collect himself enough to pull out, exhales hot and heavy in Y/N’s ear as he gathers his thoughts for his next move.

“Where--” He pants between his words as he watches the girl’s eyes flutter. “D’you have a cloth, or…?”

“There’s some--some paper towels in the kitchen.” Y/N nods her head to the right, her own chest still heaving with exertion.

Harry nods quickly, sponging his stained lips to her shoulder before climbing down from the couch. He hurriedly paces into the kitchen and locates the napkins, ripping off a few squares and wetting it under the sink before he returns.

“Bend over.” He says again, but the tone of the phrase is entirely different than it was earlier. He’s not desperate with thirst or lust anymore, but instead has settled into his role of providing aftercare.

Y/N, however, still has the same obedient reaction, and folds herself over the backrest of the couch, forehead braces against the cushions as Harry quickly but carefully cleans up the cum dripping from between her thighs.

“You’re so polite, y’know that?” She can’t help but giggle to herself, glimpsing back at him from between her parted legs. “Cleaning up the mess you made.”

Harry’s chuckle matches her own as he gives her one final wipe and a jesting smack to the ass, returning to toss the paper towel away. His voice carries from the other section of the flat. “S’only fair. I was raised right.”

Y/N hums in her throat in response as she climbs down from the couch, soreness already beginning to settle into her limbs in the most delightful way. She crosses her arms over her chest, still self-conscious despite Harry literally spreading her open only moments ago.

“Are you, um--” Her voice cracks, bringing a new wave of heat to her face as she clears her throat. “You can stay the night. If you’d like.”

Harry, who has ducked back into the living room area and is reaching for his discarded top on her floor, raises an eyebrow as he picks up the pastel blue t-shirt and turns it right side out. The puppy drawing smiles up at him ironically. “Yeah? You sure?”

“Yeah.” Y/N nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He can see his teeth marked all across the silky skin. “It’s late. And I normally like to have a bit of a cuddle with someone after they cum inside me.”

A surprised snort sounds from Harry’s chest. “I suppose I can’t refuse that.” He says in understanding entertainment, holding out his tee to her as an offering. “Here. If you’d like to cover yourself…”

Y/N accepts the article gratefully, pulling it over her exposed body. The shirt falls just past her bum, covering her enough that she can let her arms drop to her sides. She likes the way his clothes fit her. “Thank you. Do you want something to sleep in...?”

“I prefer going bare, actually.” Harry says in a cheeky tone, running a jeweled hand through his sex-mussed curls as he smirks. “Much more comfortable.”

Y/N laughs quietly, shaking her head in half disbelief, half amusement. “Of course you do.” She says with a roll of her eyes, holding out a hand for Harry to take. “C’mon, let’s go to bed. I’m fucking exhausted.”

Harry sews his fingers between her own, replying with a cheeky squeeze and a smug tone. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” Y/N laughs again, but she doesn’t mind the cockiness behind Harry’s quip. If anything, the banter reassures her. She’d take a smug reply over awkward post-hookup silence any day.

And maybe if the lingering buzz from the alcohol wasn’t fogging her eyes, and maybe if the intense aftermath of endorphins wasn’t clouding her mind, and maybe if she wasn’t distracted by how strangely comfortable it feels to joke around with Harry, Y/N would have noticed. She would have noticed it the instant she took his hand within her own. She would have noticed it when she had stepped into the hallway and gently tugged him after her playfully, the dim lightning from the single lamp in the living room coffee table casting a shadow across his figure and over the handsome features on his face. Maybe, if it wasn’t for all of that, she would have noticed that the jade of his irises was long gone, replaced by an ominous red hue with the same dangerous glint that had been present at the bar. She would have noticed that this time around, it carried very different intentions. She would have noticed how, after she climbed into her own bed after Harry, after he pulled her into his strong arms, and after she had laid her tired head onto his chest, that there was no heartbeat to greet her ears.

But she doesn’t notice it. And it only takes a moment for her eyes to drift shut in blissful ignorance, lulled by the sound of Harry’s breathing. Only Harry’s breathing.

///

It takes fifteen minutes for Harry to realize that he didn’t really think this through.

At the moment, when Y/N asked him to stay over, and he was still high on his last orgasm and on the lingering taste of her blood along the arch of his tongue, it seemed like a good idea. He could stay the night, he thought. He, just like she had mentioned about herself, was fond of cuddling after sex, and it wasn’t often that he got to have that. Perhaps it would be a nice way to cap off the night, he’d rationalized, and so he’d allowed the mortal girl to lead him to her bed for entirely innocent reasons (innocent only because they’d finished everything sinful in her living room).

And then Y/N fell asleep on Harry, and he remembered why he doesn’t ever spend the night at a one night stand’s place.

Harry is bored.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t sleep, because he does. Stephanie Meyer got that wrong in those insipid books that have haunted Harry since 2008, but that wasn’t surprising, considering that Harry doesn’t sparkle in the sun, either. Granted, if he steps into daylight without his lionhead ring, his skin will blister and burn until it falls off his body, but he won’t sparkle, and frankly, he’s offended that everyone thinks that he will. He also can’t read minds, although he wouldn’t mind it if he could. And he does need sleep. Just not as often as a regular mortal.

With increased stamina means increased everything, including how long Harry can go without sleeping. Although he slept more often when he was first turned out of habit, Harry finds that he can go two or three weeks, or even a month, without having to rest his body and mind. And even when he does finally manage to fall into a peaceful state, it’s only for a few hours before he wakes up involuntarily. It’s just as well. He doesn’t like to be unaware for that long. It’s in his nature to be alert, and he likes it that way. And because he doesn’t need to spend eight hours unconscious every night, Harry finds that he gets a lot more done in his life.

Except now, when he’s stuck under the body of a fragile and depleted human.

When Harry falls into bed with a partner, he’s normally itching for them to fall asleep so he can sink his fangs into their necks and take what he wanted all along. And then, after his thirst and libido are both satiated, Harry will climb out of bed, dress himself in whatever outfit he’d dragged himself to the club in, and make his way back to his condo before the sun begins to rise on the horizon. Simple as that.

But even he has to admit, he thinks as he ghosts his fingers down the barely healed mark on Y/N’s neck, that he’d gotten a little out of control tonight. He’d been so carried away by her touch, her sensations, her scent, that he’d lost his usual patience and bit her mid thrust. Thankfully, Y/N had been too caught up in her own orgasm to notice, and while Harry couldn’t deny that the heightened pleasure of her blood rolling down his throat as he slid his cock in and out of her hot cunt is something he thinks he’ll remember for eons, Harry knows that he was lucky to have gotten away with such a risky move.

Now that the young woman’s breath has completely evened out, Harry can evaluate the damage he’d done during his lapse in composure. In all honesty, he’s relieved to find that it isn’t as messy as he had feared. While he’s usually careful enough to make nearly surgical incisions into his partner’s flesh, he’d bitten Y/N with reckless abandon, too caught up in his pleasure to think about being neat. However, when he finds that the messiest thing about the bite is the few smears of blood still staining her skin, the anxiety— which Harry hadn’t even known was curled around his stomach like a vice— slips away. His venom had slowly begun to heal the bite mark already, but Harry knows that the only way it’ll be completely gone in the morning will be for Y/N to ingest his blood.

Allowing a human to ingest vampire blood was always a risk; after all, if they died with it in their systems, they would begin their second life a few mere hours after the first one ended. Despite that contingency, Harry had always rationalized the decision by telling himself it was better than the alternative, which was draining the human until they were dead. After all, a corpse doesn’t care about a few bite marks on their body. The police, on the other hand, do care about that, which was reason enough for Harry to take the time to heal anyone he drinks from. And, in all honesty, healing those he hurts is almost therapeutic for him. It’s a reminder that, despite his leftover humanity being barely present, he still has some nonetheless.

It’s those thoughts that are flowing through Harry’s mind when he carefully shifts under Y/N, drawing his arm free enough that he can carefully brush the human’s hair away from her supple skin. He leans down slowly, brushing his nose along the pulsing of Y/N’s neck before dragging his tongue along her warm skin. The taste of the few lingering streaks of blood incite a new burn in the back of Harry’s throat, a reminder of the sweet elixir that runs through the mortal girl’s veins. It takes all of Harry’s newly returned self-control to stop himself from creating a fresh bite next to the older one. Bringing a jewelled hand to his mouth, Harry lightly pricks his index finger on one of his pronounced fangs, hardly feeling the breaking of his icy skin in his mouth. He squeezes his finger tip with his thumb after pulling the digit from his teeth, watching with darkening eyes as a drop of midnight crimson blood beads on the end of his finger.

Y/N’s mouth is partially open already, hot breath falling from her unconscious lips with every movement of her chest, but Harry still grips her chin between his thumb and forefinger gently, nudging down her jaw until he can see her tongue. He pauses then, realizing how similar the sight is to how he had seen her an hour earlier. The memory of Y/N on her knees as she begged Harry to fuck her mouth sends a rush of electricity down his spine, but he shakes his head free of the thoughts before he can get carried away. He’d had his fun with the poor girl, he reminds himself, half wistful and half chastising. He can’t allow himself to take anything more from her. It’s his turn to give her something for all that she had gifted him.

With her mouth now fully open, Harry slowly slides his index finger along Y/N’s pink tongue, watching as his blood stains it red. He releases her chin from his grip as he does so, dragging his fingers from her jaw to her hair. Worrying that the mortal will begin to stir at the iron taste on her tongue, Harry figures that a soothing touch will be the best way to ensure that she’ll stay asleep. Once his grip strays from her chin, however, Y/N’s mouth slowly drifts closed, enveloping his ringed index finger in her cushiony lips. He then feels a gentle yet constant suction that tells him that Y/N is sucking his finger, just as she sucked something else earlier, and Harry nearly loses what little sanity he has left.

There’s a voice in the back of his head telling him that he should shift away from Y/N. If he had any more humanity, he’d peel away from her now, quickly dress himself in his abandoned clothes, and slip out her front door before she even notices. If Harry had an ounce of selflessness, he’d do it. But in this moment, all he can think about is how warm the young woman’s mouth is, how her smell is so sweet that Harry thinks he could get cavities just from inhaling her fragrance, and how fucking wonderful it feels to have her silky lips wrapped around his finger; it’s like even unconscious, her mind wants him as much as he wants her.

And so Harry stays in bed, listening to Y/N’s breathing, watching as the bite he gave her fades to a small bruise, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest tell him she’s deep in sleep in a way that Harry will never be again. The thought nearly saddens the vampire when he finally manages to pull his finger from Y/N’s mouth, smudging an impulsive kiss at the corner before he can stop himself. Harry remembers how lovely sleeping next to someone after sex felt when he was human. Of course, he’d always found himself in the same position Y/N would come to find herself in the next morning, with mysterious bruises scattered along her skin. But that caveat side, Harry had rather enjoyed sleep when he was human. And if he could sleep, then he would have something to distract himself from both the boredom of the quiet night and the gentle throbbing of his cock as Y/N shifts against him.

Harry’s eyes flit around Y/N’s room for the first time since she’d pulled him inside. The area is small, but decorated in a way that makes it seem cozy rather than claustrophobic. Her bed is nudged into the corner against the wall, covered in a mis-matched set of plain olive green sheets and a paisley-printed comforter that suggests their appropriate accompaniments are between washes. The bed is stout and close to the ground, hunkered down in a red oak wooden frame that is sanded and scratched in some places, making Harry come to the conclusion that it was probably thrifted. He likes that; he’s a fan of thrifting himself, which might seem contradictory considering the borrowed t-shirt Y/N is currently inhabiting is a sixty dollar Marc Jacobs piece. But at certain times, it’s the truth. Second hand shops hold a lot of neat stuff that humans tend to take for granted; they call it trash, whereas Harry deems it vintage treasure.

The walls are built of large bricks, covered in glossy creme paint on two panels and a cool grey on the opposite sides. The entrance to the room is a frosted glass sliding door with wallpaper strips lining its edges, the print of the detailing being messy doodles of different colored eyeballs. It’s cute in an indie sort of way. It screams California newborn.

The roof is a popcorn ceiling and Harry nearly gags in utter disgust, but manages to stifle it. It’s not like she can control that— not everyone can compel themselves a bachelor pad the way he had— and she’s lucky to have even found an affordable apartment this decent, especially in such a popular city. And she decorated the space pretty well, he’ll give her that much. Lots of antique knick-knacks, a few picture frames of family and friends littered around random surfaces, and a tapestry of what appears to be a hilled valley during a sunrise extended across the largest wall. The colors of the sky in the image are a mixture of dark purples, drunken blues, mellow oranges, and buttery yellows, and Harry has conflicting feelings about the article. Bluntly put, tapestries are stupid in his eyes. They’re trashy and hipster, which he’s grown to despise. But the photo Y/N’s drapery depicts is calming and pretty, so he’ll let it slide. At least it’s not one of those godforsaken dream-catchers.

He cranes his attention further along the other side of the room, noticing there’s an entire wall of bookshelves, stacked to the brim with a wide variety of genres. Harry’s eyes land on a few familiar titles, surprised by the contrast of topics lining the mantles, eyebrows raising in pleasant shock. He thinks that maybe the choices in novels can gain back the bit of respect he’d lost for her as a result of the tapestry and popcorn ceiling. He’ll think on it.

Y/N suddenly shifts against him again, and he’s reminded that he can’t get up to pick out a book. His gaze flickers to the plant-lined window sill and then the small nightstand, searching for anything within his reach that could occupy him for the next few hours. A halfway read novel discarded somewhere close, perhaps? A magazine? Some sort of video game system that he could play quietly until the sun rises?

It doesn’t take long for Harry’s search to come up empty. Apparently, Y/N’s bedroom has a place for everything, and everything is in its place. It’s no matter, Harry sighs to himself, wrapping his arms tighter around the girl sound asleep on his chest. He’ll just have to count Y/N’s breaths and heartbeats until dawn.

///

When Y/N wakes up the next morning, she’s unsurprised to find two things: a stiffness in her limbs, and an empty bed.

The former, she knows, is a sore reminder of the previous night’s activities, and how she’d allowed a complete stranger to use her however he wanted. Blood rushes to her cheeks as the night comes back to her in flickers: how Harry had kissed her, how she’d begged him to fuck her mouth, how he’d worked her over until she couldn’t take it anymore. If the aching in her thighs is proof enough, Y/N knows that it was some of the best sex she’s ever had, which may be why the latter observation of Harry already being gone sparks a new ache in her chest.

Still, Y/N didn’t expect anything different; although she’d asked the man to stay the night, he hadn’t promised her anything about the morning, and she can’t exactly blame him. After all, a one night stand is just that: one night. A morning is never promised.

After Y/N manages to climb out of bed with wobbly legs, she evaluates herself in the mirror hanging on the back of her closet door. Her hair, of course, is a rat’s nest, and although she attempts to tame it with her fingers and a scrunchie from her bag on the floor, Y/N knows that it’ll take a long, steaming shower and lots of conditioner to detangle the mess. A hot shower will probably be the only way to quell the throbbing of her muscles, she thinks, stepping closer to the mirror to examine her body. At the sight of bruises littered along her skin when she pulls up Harry’s blue t-shirt, Y/N’s mouth falls open, and her eyes widen as she examines the purple marks.

There’s a few scattered along her hips and thighs, small little indigo dots that could easily double as fingerprints. Y/N is certain that if Harry were here, his fingers would match the marks perfectly. And now that her hair is up, Y/N spots a mark along her neck. This bruise is much more pronounced than the others, and Y/N can almost make out the shape of individual teeth dotting the edge of the purple welt. Through her alcohol-muddled memories, Y/N can remember a moment where Harry bit down on her neck as their orgasms washed over each other. Remembering almost brings back that pleasure again, and the phantom feeling distracts her so much that she nearly misses the unmistakable sound of her kitchen cupboards opening.

By the time she pulls on a pair of cotton shorts to cover her bruised thighs and opens the sliding door of her bedroom, Harry’s already managed to figure out her coffee maker. Standing in front of the counter with his bare back to her (Y/N does her best not to focus on it-- he’s all creamy skin and defined muscles, and if she thinks about it too much, she’ll go insane), Harry whistles quietly under the sound of the percolating beverage, his tattooed arms reaching for a mug from the cupboard. Y/N watches as he picks out a blue mug she’d bought last year at Barnes & Noble, a small part of her secretly pleased that he chose her favourite out of all options.

“Good morning.” She says with a small smile, walking slowly (and a bit awkwardly) into the kitchen.

Harry’s whistling stops as he cranes his neck just enough to glance at her over his shoulder, his cheeks dimpling in greeting. “Morning, love. How’d you sleep?”

“Really good, actually, but that’s to be expected, given how exhausted I was.” Y/N opens the fridge to retrieve her milk carton, setting it down on the counter next to the two mugs Harry has picked out. “What about you?”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch once, and if Y/N hadn't already been gazing at his lips in want, she wouldn’t have caught the movement. “Like a baby.”

The beeping of the coffee pot interrupts the small conversation, and Harry reaches for it automatically, filling the two mugs with the freshly steaming liquid. “Do you take cream and sugar?”

Despite Y/N opening the cupboard above her, Harry manages to snag the sugar bowl before she can. “Milk and sugar, yeah. And you don’t have to do that.” Y/N says, watching as Harry spoons sugar into a mug for her before grabbing the milk carton.

“I know I don’t have to, but I figured I should.” Harry gives a quick shrug of his shoulders as he lightens the drink with milk, leaving his own mug completely black. “Thought you might be a bit sore after last night.”

Harry can practically hear the blood rushing to Y/N’s cheeks, and the dull ache in the back of his jugular flares up as she reaches for her coffee mug, her smell washing over him as she moves closer. He grasps his own mug, lifting it to his lips in an attempt to quell the thirst in him with a less satisfying alternative.

“I, um,” Y/N stutters over her words for a moment, taking a sip of the hot coffee as an excuse not to talk while she collects herself. “I’m a little sore, yeah. But nothing too bad, and certainly not sore enough that I can’t make coffee. Or breakfast.”

Harry pauses with his mug half raised to his strawberry lips. “Breakfast?”

“I could make us breakfast, if you’d like.” Y/N swallows hard, her throat thick as she speaks carefully. “I make pretty good pancakes. Blueberry lemon. My grandma taught me how to make them.”

“They sound delicious.” Harry takes another gulp of coffee, the high temperature not seeming to bother him in the slightest, before setting the half full cup back down on the counter. “But I should get going.”

“Oh, uh, right.” Y/N speaks in a tight voice, her head moving in a quick nod as she sets her own coffee down. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll, um, go change, so you can have your shirt back--”

“Why bother to go somewhere? It’s not like it’s something I haven’t seen before.” A cheeky grin pastes itself onto Harry’s face, and Y/N fights back her embarrassment with a roll of her eyes.

“Shut up and give me a minute.”

By the time Y/N exits her room with the garment in hand and one of her favourite sweatshirts providing her with a bit of modesty, Harry is already waiting by the front door. She hands him the article of clothing, trying to not let her eyes follow his every move as he slips the shirt over his toned chest and down his lean stomach, pulling his pearls and cross necklace out from beneath the fabric.

“Thanks.” He says, fixing his hair after he finishes adjusting the tee into the waistband of his slacks, shrugging his cropped blue and creme plaid jacket over his broad shoulders. “Your apartment is really cute, by the way. I like the wallpaper decal on the sliding bedroom door. And the colours all work really nice together.

“Uh, thanks?” Y/N says slowly, and the confusion must be apparent on her face because Harry once again has a grin on his face, like he’s the only one in on a secret.

“That’s why you invited me back here last night, remember? To look at your apartment?” He prompts, leaning against the doorframe as he crosses his tattooed arms across his chest. “Unless that was all a ploy to get in my pants.”

“Maybe it was.” Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth to hold back the soft smile threatening its way onto her face. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Harry slinks his head to the side as he appraises the unsuspecting mortal in front of him. Her messy hair that he’d tangled his fingers into the night before is pulled away from her heated face, exposing the healed bite mark on her neck. Her lips are still a little swollen from how he tugged on them with his teeth, and Harry remembers how careful he had to force himself to be to make sure he didn’t break her skin. Y/N shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and the movement is just awkward enough that Harry can tell she’s sore from how he bent her over the couch and fucked her, and he knows that it shouldn’t send a shiver of pleasure down his spine, but it does.

“Yeah. It worked.” He murmurs, reaching for the doorknob as he makes his final goodbye. “It was lovely meeting you, Y/N. Really, it was. I had a wonderful time.”

“So did I.” Y/N smiles shyly at him, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. “It was fun.”

Harry nods, and then he can’t stop nodding, and then before he knows what he’s doing, his mouth seems to move of his own accord. “You know, since I’m not taking you up on your offer for breakfast, would you allow me to give a counter offer?”

Y/N’s eyes perk up with curiosity as she responds in a careful voice. “Uh, sure?”

“Can I see your phone real quick?” Harry asks, holding out a ring-clad hand expectantly.

Y/N doesn’t hesitate before retrieving her phone from her sweater pocket, unlocking it and placing it in Harry’s cool hand as requested. A small spark of hope ignites in her stomach as she watches him open her contacts.

“Here.” Harry says after a moment, handing her back the phone with a smile of satisfaction. “I put a disco ball next to my name. Thought it fit, since we met at a club and all.”

“It does fit.” Y/N agrees as she looks down at the new contact in her phone. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with this?”

“Call it. Text it. Use it to let me know when you want more interior decorating advice.” Harry says snidely, watching with faint amusement as a sheepish look that washes across Y/N’s face. “Only if you want to, of course.”

“Of course.” Y/N repeats back to him, her voice matching his teasing tone. “I’ll see you around, Harry.”

Harry flashes her one more grin, his teeth seemingly glinting in the morning sunlight that shines through the window. “Yeah. You will.”

And as the vampire trots down the stairs of the human’s apartment complex, regaining the lighthearted whistling he’d been indulging earlier, he finds himself truly hoping that she’ll put his number to good use.

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sebstanseabass · 3 years

Text

Afterglow (A Bucky Barnes AU fan fiction) - Chapter 15

WARNING: Mature scenes ahead!!! ;)

A/N: Future u, i hope ur ok

Afterglow chapters

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The moonlight glimmered among the stars in the now pitch-black skies, fighting off against the bright lights hanging from above the tent. Bucky's digression to topics regarding his real family (or lack thereof, I think) never wore off, clearly avoiding talking about, dare you say, "the real stuff." But the classic "favorites" section of a date was indeed a delight. You had already covered favorite films (his was The Truman Show, while yours was Forrest Gump; but you also talked about other films that you both shared a liking to — Pulp Fiction, Me, Myself & Irene, Dead Poets Society, The Godfather, the Harry Potter series, Inception, and of course, any films that star the legendary Tom Hanks), favorite music to listen to (you both loved vintage rock and roll), and so much more favorites and would you rather and what ifs and if you weres. But you mostly talked about films — an in-depth discourse on their themes, writing, and cinematography (things you never thought you'd be able to talk about with anyone).

"Have you ever thought about shooting films?" Bucky asked.

You were now lying down on the blanket-covered ground, bodies upside down-like: your forehead aligned with his chin, and his chin aligned with your forehead, as if characters from The Fault In Our Stars.

"I did." You replied. "But I wanted to focus more on photography."

"Why?"

You turned your head, your breath fanning the side of his face. "There's something about the stillness of moving things, of people around me, beautiful people that strikes me as fascinating."

He hummed, closing his eyes. He was saying something, about how art, in all kinds of medium, connected people from all walks of life, how the beauty of it all can be different to each, and how he wished he could make one of his own: to give life to a canvas, to freeze a moment in time, to put his thoughts in pen and paper, and to embody a character different from his. At some point, you could feel him peeling down all his layers but then he stopped talking.

You respected the silence between you and took your sweet time studying his face. The wrinkles on his forehead looked like ridges of sand, ridges people would like to walk on for days, ridges that held untold stories of — perhaps — heartache, failure, and pain. His closed eyelids looked like a sleeping moon, gleaming. Almost touching his cheeks were his long, curved eyelashes. Then, my eyes trailed down to his nose, dotted with freckles, his nostrils releasing small puffs of air; then down to his mouth, slightly agape, and then down to the stubbles on the sides of his face. There was a small scar, almost concealed by where his beard started to grow.

You turned your body sideways, tracing the scar with your finger.

Bucky's body tensed under your touch.

"What happened to this fella?" You whispered, tracing the small scar.

He soon let himself relax, opening his eyes. "Car accident." He replied. "But I don't remember much of it. I don't know where it happened, or how it happened or if I hit something or worse, someone. But Tony told me he took care of everything. I haven't been behind the wheel since then. I fear history will repeat itself."

Then, you remembered all the times you've been in a vehicle with Bucky. Not once was he driving. "How old were you?"

"Nineteen? Twenty? I really don't know." He sighed, closing his eyes once again. It was the first time Bucky told you something so real — a fear, something personal, something close to home. "Hey, y/n?"

"Yes, Bucky?"

"Can you kiss it and make it feel better?"

You giggled, poking the scar. "You've got to be kidding me."

He pouted, his eyes still closed. "Please?"

You sighed, feigning exasperation. "Fine." You planted a soft kiss on the scar, your lower lip catching the rough edges of his beard.

"I'm still not feeling better."

"Oh Bucky, you are such a child." You laughed, giving it another kiss, and then another, and then another and then another, until rough edges turned into the soft textures of his lips. With lips entangled in an unusual position, you brought myself onto your knees, and positioned yourself on top of him — knees on each side of his hips, crotch pressed against his, hands on his jaws, lips on his lips, tongue inside of his mouth.

His hands found your neck, then up your jaws, cupping your face and pulling it closer to his. He then started to rake the roots of your hair, tugging it lightly, making a moan escape your lips. You felt one corner of his mouth turn a bit upward at the sound. He tugged your hair tighter and harder until your lips left his with your head pulled backwards, leaving your bare neck exposed.

Without any hesitation, his mouth moved onto neck. Gratified by the series of moans coming out of your mouth, he sucked deeper into your skin, biting every inch of your neck, making sure to leave damn marks. On impulse, you moved your hips against his, grinding his clothed crotch. Bucky groaned against your skin, his hot breath fanning your neck. You could feel your own wetness in between your thighs as you moved your hips more, Bucky's bulge growing under you getting bigger and bigger. The sensation left you breathless.

And you needed more.

You broke away from his grasp, returning the favor. You kissed him on the lips and moved your way towards his earlobes in which Bucky very much liked; so much that he thrusted his hips upwards, slamming loud onto yours.

"Oh, fuck." You moaned, moving your way towards his neck.

Bucky's hands immediately flew under your shirt. His cold hands making contact with your skin, sending you shivers.

"Wait." He said, pulling away from you. "Is this okay? Are you okay with this?"

You giggled and nodded, kissing him on the mouth to give him permission.

He cut the kiss short. "I'm sorry, but we live in a litigious society so I'm gonna need a verbal reply from you, especially that you're years younger than me."

You chuckled. "Yes, Mr. Barnes. You have my full consent."

He smirked. "Keep calling me that and I'll give you my full consent."

"Shut up already, Mr. Barnes."

He lifted the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, revealing a cotton white bra.

You bit your lip. "If you'd told me about the date, I would've worn a much better one."

"I don't mind." He breathed, sitting up. "I like white on you." He traced the lining of the bra with his finger, together with his eyes. He licked his lower lip before planting a kiss between your breasts. "So pure. Innocent."

"Innocent is not the word to describe me." You smirked. "Remember what I told you before?"

"Hmm, I seem to have forgotten." He teased. "What was it again?"

"I'm a devil on the sheets, Bucky."

"Then show it to me, doll." He purred.

As soon as those words left his mouth, all the worries and fear you talked about with Nat all washed away. And like always, she was again, right.

It was exactly like riding a bicycle.

And you were ready to be in control, in control of a man your senior, and to unleash something inside you you've never seen in quite a while.

You grabbed Bucky's face and kissed him on the mouth while pulling his shirt over his head. Every inch of his naked sculpted upper body glistened under the lights, like dewy grass under the sun.

You kissed his collarbones, shoulders, and chest. Before you could even move on to his tummy, a strong force came, flipping your body, your back hitting the blanket-covered ground.

"But not before I show it to you first." He growled, reaching something from above. He closed the front of the tent, pulling something from above. Within a second, the lights above went dim. The only light you now had was the moonlight.

You liked it this way. Darkness made you feel safe — but it was the kind of darkness with a sliver of light and Bucky was it. The inside of the tent grew hotter, making your body sweat, or perhaps it was just the sexual heat between you and Bucky as Bucky removed your pants, as well as his, leaving you in just your undergarments.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pressing up against him, making him feel that you were already dripping for him, that you wanted him.

He moaned inside your mouth as you grinded against each other. His teeth pulled your bra down. With your bare chest exposed, you usually had the instinct to cover them up because they were small for people's taste but you didn't do that with Bucky. He admired them with his eyes, and admired them more with his lips wrapped around your nipples, pulling each of them softly. He then left fluttered kisses on your breasts before moving down to your belly, kissing every curve, every wave fold there ever was, and every stretch mark he came across upon.

His mouth stopped right on the folds of your lower belly, his fingers making their way on your wet cotton panties. His lips went back to yours while his fingers were circling all around you, clothed, making you wetter each second. Then, he slipped your panties aside, taking no time at all in inserting a finger inside.

A moan escaped your lips, opening your mouth more, giving access to Bucky's tongue. With another finger slipping inside, you bit Bucky's lower lip, pulled it away from him. He watched you gasp for air, listened to each moan, and felt you deep inside as he continued to thrust his fingers in you.

"You're quite tight, doll." He said. "I'm going for another to ease you up, okay?"

You nodded then whimpered as soon as a third finger made its way inside. Because you were, in his own words, quite tight, Bucky had a bit of a difficult time moving inside. He pulled away after a few moments, giving you time to catch your breath. He folded your knees, and held your legs in place using his veiny hands. He left a trail of soft kisses on your inner thighs, his teeth grazing on your skin every once in a while. You watched him inched forward, nearing your core. You watched him take delight in each mark he imprinted.

He hooked his thumbs on your panties and slowly slid them down your legs. On his knees, he ravished your body with his eyes, then your face. He leaned down, kissing you

"Beautiful." He mumbled in the kiss.

He soon devoured your pussy, his tongue moving up and down your folds, his upper lip nibbling your clit. You closed your yes, threw your head back and raked his hair with your fingers, guiding his mouth deeper. With his mouth still exploring every bit of you, he inserted two fingers inside. You whimpered at the sensation of both his tongue flicking your clit, and his fingers fucking you.

You moaned louder, arching your back, rolling your eyes at the back of your head. You badly wanted to see him, to watch him greedily eat you but his mouth and fingers felt so good that you couldn't even keep your eyes open. The more you tried to, the faster his mouth and fingers moved. It made your legs tremble under his touch, your thighs pressing closer and closer to his ears, which he didn't like as he kept spreading your legs wider with his other hand.

"Bu-Bucky, please." You gasped. "I'm gonna cum."

"No. Not yet."

With that, he released his mouth and fingers, leaving you suspended in ecstasy. You opened your eyes, seeing Bucky on top of you, his face studying you. Then, he brought his fingers — the same ones that were just inside you — to his mouth, licking them. Now, you really did wish you could've kept your eyes open the whole time.

"You taste good, doll." He said, giving you his fingers.

You opened your mouth and reached for his fingers, sliding up and down, the taste of you sitting on your tongue. You could feel Bucky weaken above you as you continued to suck his fingers. Your right hand moved to his boxers, stroking his clothed hard-on. His eyelids quivered for a moment, losing touch of his dominance. You kissed his fingers one last time and flipped him over, not wasting any damn time taking his boxers off.

He sprung up in front of you. He was big (the biggest you've encountered), and was throbbing under your touch. He was hot, and a little bit wet. You looked at him while you pumped him slowly, then kissed him, returning the pleasure. A breath escaped his mouth as your pace went faster, and faster. His body became weaker under you, his lips agape, surrendering to submission, to your dominance.

Bucky felt so fragile underneath you, not being able to regain the control he once had. He wanted this. He wanted you to show him how much of a devil you were.

You pulled away from his mouth and moved lower on his body, his large, throbbing dick between your eyes. You kissed the top, making his legs quiver. You soon took him in — all of him, which made Bucky grab your head, pull your hair, and guide you all the way. You looked at him as you worked him all the way up, then down, then up and down: his mouth was kept open, a series of moans coming out, and at the same time, gasping for air; instead of eyes closed, his eyes were wide open, looking at the unlit lights above him.

Usually, giving head to people wasn't at all satisfying to you. What would it give you, anyway? It was either forced, or just because they told you to suck them. But with Bucky, you didn't even hesitate on doing so. It wasn't an itch you were trying to scratch away. It was on impulse, an instinct, a desire you wanted. And seeing Bucky in this state gave you so much pleasure.

So much.

Bucky let out the loudest moan, sitting up straight, his chest heaving, trying to catch his breath.

"I need you." He rasped. "Now."

You nodded, satisfied with what you received on his end. You straddled him, grinded on his bare dick, and glazed it with your wetness. He groaned, guiding your hips with his one hand, the other on the ground, keeping himself straight up.

"Don't worry. I'm on the pill." you whispered.

"I thought it's been over a year since you — "

"It's for acne, dumbass." You chuckled. "You can cum inside me if you want. You have my full consent."

"Good."

You held onto his broad shoulders as you lowered myself onto him and within a second, you felt his tip inside.

You bit your lip as you inched yourself lower. With his whole inside you, you leaned your forehead on his shoulder, and let out a small whimper.

"Are you okay?" He whispered in your ear. You nodded and placed a kiss on his neck, reassuring him.

You moved your body up and down, biting your lip to keep small cries from coming out, but soon enough, you were taking in pleasure within pain until all there was was pleasure.

Sweet, sweet pleasure.

You bounced on top of him faster, — god, he felt so big and so good in you — skin slapping on skin, echoing against the thin sheets, with his lips on yours, then on your neck, then on your breasts; his hands on your jaw, on your neck, your breasts (sometimes, together with his lips), on the small of your back, on your hips, then on your ass.

"Oh god, you feel so fucking good." Bucky said, kissing your skin as you kept on bouncing on top of him. "But it's my turn, babydoll."

You moaned at the nickname, making your body frail to move and then the next thing you knew, you were flipped over, with Bucky on his knees, thrusting faster, then deeper as he inched forward, your chests pressed together. Your fingers clawed on his back, his hot breath on your neck, your breath on his ear where he could hear you moaning his name.

"That's right." He whispered, kissing your neck. "Say my name."

You wrapped your legs around his waist (a kind of intimacy you had never done before), and with it, pulled him closer, deeper, giving you an astounding pleasure, making your whole body tremble under him, getting you higher and higher on staggering ecstasy, and sending you over your edge.

You cried out his name one last time, feeling your white juices come on his dick, mixed with his inside you.

"My god," he whispered, "I think I could never get enough of you."

"You just read my mind, Mr. Barnes."

"Hey, I feel a whole lot better now." He winked.

You chuckled.

You caught each others' breaths, kissing one last time before he removed himself from you, and laid down beside you where he wrapped his arms and legs around you, your head on his chest. You weren't the one to cuddle but at that moment, your body, frail and vulnerable, gave in. You didn't want to fight it, anyway. You were both surrounded with each others' pool of sweat but it didn't matter.

You were bathing in bliss.

In this bliss he had given you.

"You're not gonna kick me out the next morning, are you?" You asked, half-joking, scared that you'd be in the same position as that of the woman from before.

"No, doll." He replied, "you have my word," then kissed your forehead.

Bucky pulled you closer, his chin on top of your head. You listened to his heartbeat slow down every five seconds, giving you a rhythm you soon fell asleep to.

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ourladylennon · 4 years

Note

list of mclennon fanfics? 👀

Coming right up!

Camera-less by fingersfallingupwards | smut | AU | length: >10,000 | “The words register and Paul barely keeps back an incredulous laugh. Is Lennon… is he really trying it on with Paul? There’s no hiding the implication; it’s the same way Paul’s approached whores on the street, thriving on the ignominy of it all. Lennon must be taking the piss.If he is having Paul on, well, two can play at that game.”

What You’re Doing to Me by smothermeinrelish | smut | length: >10,000 | “John's not sure what is going on. Since arriving in Hamburg, the sex and parties are non-stop, yet he can't shake this growing feeling there is something going on with him and Paul.Is it the sin of the city? Or has John found a void within that is looking for it's missing piece?”

Initiation by unchained_daisychain | smut | length: >10,000 | “Initially, Paul thinks they’re all taking the piss. As the newest member of the band, he has learned to laugh off the jokes made at his expense. But a frown soon misshapes his smile as he dumbly watches the boys disperse themselves throughout the room.“Yer serious?” he asks, confusion cementing his feet on the carpet. “All of you just…sit around an’ wank together?” “If you don’t wanna join, just wait outside till the big boys are finished,” Len says with grating arrogance. It feels like some type of test or initiation. Buy into our daft game and you’ll secure your spot in the band; bow out and consider yourself nothing more than an expendable instrument. Paul’s hand tightens around the neck of his guitar. Soon enough it disappears from his grasp entirely as he deposits it against the wall and seats himself in a vacant armchair.”

Bright Are the Stars, Dark is the Sky by unchained_daisychain | smut | *warning: taboo with consent* | AU | length: >10,000 | “John can never recall precisely when the feelings arose. In the beginning, he had despised another figure of authority in his life, even if by association. Neatly kept and well-spoken, Mr. McCartney had seemed just that, too. From the very start, John had tried to break him down…only to later realize he was the one crumbling to pieces. Because, in an unforeseen twist, Paul proves to be unlike the other oppressive parents of his generation. For a while, he thinks it is a fatherly bond that keeps him a frequent visitor at the McCartney residence. But when respect begins to wane in the presence of something stronger, it frightens him to the core. He can count on one hand the number of times he has been blindsided in his life, and the realization of his attraction to Paul is one of them.”

Tessellate by cloudy_blue | hurt & comfort | length: >10,000 | “No one had prepared her for John. Maybe they could have put aside fifteen minutes in-between teaching her how to make her stitches even and her chicken cooked through – what to do if your man is also sleeping with his bassist.”

Whatever Gets you Through the Night by sleeprettydarling | smut | length: 10,000+ | “When John catches wind of a prostitute in Hamburg who's willing to do two blokes at once, he and Paul agree to pay her a visit. John has an ulterior motive, but he's unaware that Paul has a plan of his own. Misunderstandings, feelings, and an abundance of sex ensue.”

Lifting Latches by thinkpink20 | smut | length: 10,000 + | “Paul is used to talking about everything with John. About girls, sex, fantasies about Bridget Bardot - everything. They even talk about Mary and Julia, when they've had enough to drink. He doesn't talk like that to anyone else, and he senses from the way John speaks in such a rush about all the important things that he doesn't either.So when something happens that they don't speak about, he knows it must be serious.”/ OR: Paul and John swap t-shirts, and also somehow change the nature of their relationship...”

French Connection by smothermeinrelish & unchained_daisychain | smut | *warning: taboo with consent* | length: 10,000+ | “Running low on funds during their holiday in Paris, John and Paul have to find some way to finance the rest of their trip. A wealthy stranger approaches them with an offer impossible to refuse. He shook his head, slowly and confoundedly. “Bleedin’ hell, I can’t believe yer actually considering this.”“We aren’t really in the position to be refusin’ offers.” At the answering silence, he swatted Paul’s shoulder, pressing, “C’mon, a thousand francs, Macca.”

The Ballad of Lennon and McCartney by please_dont_wake_me | angst & smut | length: 30,000+ (wip) | "“I think that to make real art - like, if you want to tap into the current of what’s really going on, you can’t be fully aware of it. You can’t be all in your head about it. You’re not speakin’ the truth, you’re feeling it - lettin’ it speak through you. You’re taking from the realm of truth and transforming it into something a human can perceive, but you don’t always know what it is.” In late 1966, the baby-faced balladeer Paul McCartney meets an unsuccessful artist named John Lennon at an Avant Garde gala. The ensuing relationship causes him to publicly lose his mind.

What is Living is Burning by orphanbeat | fluff & smut | length: 40,000+ | “Looking at John, watching his hands, seeing the slope of his nose, Paul realizes he wants to kiss him, always has. He wants to tell him, but he’s too afraid. He wonders if it was the other way around between them, would John tell him? /OR: In 1968, Paul is publicly outed in a book called The Homosexual's Handbook, written by Angelo D'Arcangelo.”

Boy You’ve Been a Naughty Girl by merseysidestory | smut | length: 40,000+| “John makes Paul a bet. Paul takes him up on it. Crossdressing shenanigans and angst ensue, and ~feelings come out in the wash. 1961.”

Metered by fingersfallingupwards | smut | length: 40,000+ | "The bloke said something just the same as you did, about floating off unless tied down, or maybe it was the other way around, getting tied down to float off, y'know.”/OR: Canon-era John and Paul haphazardly invent BDSM, and learn a few things about power, surrender, pleasure, and themselves along the way”

Art & Obligation by imaginebeatles | length: 100,000+ | fluff & smut | AU-1800′s | “John Lennon works as the apprentice of a well-known portraitist and is tasked to do the picture of the young Mr. Paul McCartney. He is the son of Jim McCartney, a wealthy and powerful landowner, and has the reputation of an arrogant, spoilt brat with a pretty face, who has a way of wrapping anyone around his finger. But soon John finds that things are not as straightforward as they may seem.”

On Our Way Back Home by kathleenishereagain | fluff & smut | length: 300,000+ | “Something ticked in Paul’s mind as the familiar words washed through him. When he looked at John, his friend was already looking at him. And suddenly, it all became clear: He remembered having that conversation more than 50 years ago. He remembered it too well.He had been thinking about it for years, wondering what he should have understood, how he should have reacted. /OR: Summer 2019, 77-year-old Paul wakes up feeling surprisingly good. One tiny problem: he is back in December 1965.”

I originally had Red Hall fic on this list, before having actually read it and that was a huge mistake. I do not condone, support or recommend it. It's beyond deplorable and a line was crossed when it was written. I am so sorry I ever carelessly placed it on this list to begin with.

these are just some of my personal faves, so many more to read. You are all. so. AMAZING.

Bonus: beautiful mclennon artwork by auroralunatica

#happy reading!#in order by length #ugh you are all amazing and inspire me so much #asks #fic recs #mclennon #i'm actually on the ace spectrum and reading is actually my one way to experience romance & sex #so an EXTRA thank you to y'all seriously #anyone whose seen a previous version of this post...i've removed Red Hall #i haven't actually read it yet just heard lots about it #but i started reading it just last night #and i'm not sure i'm really cool with recommending it....so please forgive me there #i removed it off the post last night thru tumblr mobile but it didn't actually save my changes and i just realized that this morning

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lousy-old-shrimp · 3 years

Text

The Newsboys Rally of 1899!

The New York Sun

July 25, 1899 - Page 2

* Typed out under the cut *

GREAT MEET OF NEWSBOYS

————————

5,000 STRIKERS SWARM IN AND AROUND NEW IRVING HALL

————————

No More Violence, Their Orators Tell Them, and a Voice Responds, “Oh, Soytenly Not!”—East Side Politicians Catch On and Boom the Strike—It’s Broadening Out

The striking newsboys wound up a day of hard campaigning in their fight against the evening editions of the World and the Journal with a meeting last night in New Irving Hall, at Broome and Norfolk streets, which was a remarkable gathering. A citizen unused to the ways of the New York newsboy might have thought it was a riot. Kid Blink and his Strike Committee had sent the call for the meeting from the Bronx to the Battery, and from Brooklyn to Jersey City, and the arriving delegations choked Broome street from Essex to Norfolk and drove the neighborhood indoors. By 8 o’clock there were 5,000 boys on the block. Two thousand came from Broooklyn, led by Racetrack Higgins, and carrying with them a huge floral horseshoe, the gift of the Brooklyn Eagle. Jersey City sent a hundred boys, and the rest came mostly from Manhattan and the Bronx.

Five policemen and rounds man undertook to keep the boys in check until the hall opened, but in fifteen minutes the rounds man had sent for help. Fifteen policemen responded, but they were as helpless as the five had been. It was utterly impossible to handle the boys. They were a shrieking mob, and when the proprietor of the hall refused to open up at 8 because the meeting wasn’t to begin until 8:30 o'clock, they charged on the door and smashed it open.

Two thousand managed to get in, and there wasn’t an inch of room unoccupied in the hall. The outsiders were good-natured and yelled their approval every time the sounds of applause came to them through the open windows.

Nick Meyers of the Mail and Express was Chairman of the meeting, and he struggled for fifteen minutes before he could make himself heard. When the boys quoted down he stayed the object of the meeting, and called on Mr. Joe Bernstein, the pugilist, who used to sell papers himself, and Reiss, the yellow-barrel lemonade man of Printing House Square, to keep order. Messrs. Bernstein and Reiss armed themselves with far-reaching switches and took up positions. They had their hands full for the rest of the evening.

The first speaker of the evening was Leonard A. Suitkin, who was introduced as “a lawyer feller what’s got a message for us.”

Mr. Suitkin stated that he came as the representative of Assemblyman Charley Adler; that Mr. Adler was with the boys heart and soul, and that he sent them his best wishes.

“You’ve made a firm stand, boys,” he said, “and have made a better showing than the motormen either here or in Brooklyn. Hang together and you’ll win”

There was a yell of applause, and then—after Bernstein and Reiss had done some switching—Frank B. Wood, who used to send chills up people’s backs with his “Well, well, well!” at the Polo Grounds, was introduced.

Hooray for the strike!” began Mr. Wood in G below. “You boys have been successful so far, and you must stick it out to the end now.”

Ex-Assemblyman Phil Wissig, The next speaker, said that he was a newsboy himself in 1880 and that he was heart and soul with the newsboys in their strike.

“What right have these fellows got to hold out 10 cents on you?” he said. “Not a bit, and don’t you stand for it. Keep the law, boys, and don’t let me hear of you using an dynamite. You can win peacefully. Just try it and see.”

A large floral horseshoe came into the hall at this juncture, and Nick Meyers announced that a florist had sent it around to be given to the newsboy that made the best speech. There were roars of applause, and in boosting the chances of their favorites about a score of the boys fell to fighting. There was some lively punching among the little fellows, but the larger boys banged a few heads together, and then Dave Simons, the President of the Newsboys’ Union, read a set of resolutions. The last paragraph of the resolutions was addressed to the public and read:

“Please don’t buy the World or Journal, because we refuse to sell these papers until some satisfactory terms can be reached. The World and the Journal demand arbitration for the striking railroad men, but why don’t they arbitrate with the newsboys? If you have any sympathy with us help us boycott these advertisements: as no one sells these papers no one will be able to see them. * * * Youwill find all the news in THE EVENING SUN, Telegram and Daily News. They give us a chance to make a living. Buy them and help us, and we will thank you very kindly. We remain yours humbly, THE NEWSBOYS’ UNION.”

The resolutions were adopted with shouts that could be heard over on the Bowery. When the ardor of the boys had been suppressed by the keepers of the peace, Simons continued:

“We’re goin’ to win this fight, boys, only we must stick together and hold firm. The Journal and World has got the money, but we got the situation in our hands, and they know it. Now, I’m goin’ to ask you not to use no more violence. Let up on the scabs.”

“Oh, soytenly,” came a voice from the rear of the hall.

“Now, I mean it,” continued Simons. “We can’t gain nothing by banging these fellers around. Let’s fight on the level, and see if we can’t win out that way.”

“Who’s been a-talkin’ to yet like that, Dave?” inquired a shock-headed boy about 11 years old.

“It goes, Shorty,” replied the speaker. “an’ you kids are to remember it, see?”

Shorty and the kids around him had a great laugh over the “no-violence” attitude of the leaders, and because orderly again only when they were threatened with instant expulsion. Warhorse Brennan, who had been selling papers at West Broadway and Chambers street for twenty years, and Jack Tietjen, who had a stand at Church street and Park place, reported that the strike was going well n finely in their localities, and that the scabs were getting it in the neck.

Bob the Indian, whose surname is Stone, then rose to make a few remarks. Bob’s friends greeted him effusively.

“Whatcher goin’ ter says Bob?” queried one, and other remarks hurled at him were:

“Speak up, Bob.” “Hello, cigar sign.” “Don’t take no bluffs, Bob, but say what yer wanter.”

“I’m here fer union and nothin’ else,” said Bob. “I want this strike to keep agoin’ until we get these fellers what’s chockin’ us down. Say, what d’yer think Hearst says to-day? He says he can’t afford to sell two fer a cent. Now did yer ever? Say, he says he might cave if the World would give in, but he can’t sink first. Honest, ain’t that sickening? Now, I’m going to tell yer that yer not to soak the drivers any more.”

“Oh, no! soytenly not!” from the rear ranks.

“No, you’re not to soak ‘em. We’re a-goin’ to try to square this thing without violence: so keep cool. I think we’ll win in a walk-on the level I do.”

“Mr. Kid Blink, our master workman, will now address the meeting.” announced the Chairman. Kid Blink buttoned his shirt, brushed back his hair and walked forward, to be greeted by a storm of applause and a thousand friendly remarks.

“Yer know me, boys!” began the Kid, and there were cries of “yer bet we do.” “Well, I’m here to say if we are goin’ the win this strike we must stick like glue and never give in. Am I right?” Cries of “Yes! yes!”

“Ain’t that 10 cents worth as much to us as it is to Hearst and Pulitzer, who are millionaires? Well, I guess it is. If they can’t spare it, how can we?”

“Soak ’em, Blink,” yelled an enthusiast.

“Soak nothin’,” remarked the Kid. “I’m tellin’ the truth. I’m tryin’ to figure out how 10 cents on a hundred papers can mean more to a millionaire than it does to a newsboy, an’ I can’t see it. No, boys, I’m goin’ ter say like the rest: No more violence. Let up on the drivers. No more rackets like that one the other night where a Journal and a World wagon was tuned over in Madison street. Say, to tell the truth, I was there myself.”

“You bet yer was, Blink, an’ a-leadin’, too,” came a voice.

“Well, never mind, we’re goin’ to let up on the scabs now and with the strike on the square. Kid Blink’s a talkin’ to yer now. Do yer know him? We won in 1893 and will win in 1899, but stick together like plaster.”

“Boys, the next speaker is one of our old friends,” said the Chairman. “I won’t introduce him, because you all know Crazy Aborn.”

Crazy Aborn related an incident of the day. He said he had run across two tramps hired by the World at $2 a day to sell papers. They were hiding their papers in a dark hallway, he said, and looked so ashamed when he came up that he really felt sorry for them. They both promised not to take papers out again, and showed that they meant it by tearing up the papers they had.

Mr. Fitzgibbons, a delegate from the Tenderloin, was introduced, and was about to begin an eloquent address when there was a tumult in the back of the room. The commotion kept increasing, and those on the platform couldn’t understand it until a shrill young voice yollerd:

“Hey, Annie! Hey, Annie! Hooray for Annie!”

Annie’s arrival was really the event of the evening. Outside the hall and inside the boys cheered her, and it wasn’t until she went up on the platform and bowed three times that the boys consented to allow Mr. Fitzgibbons to resume. The Tenderloin delegate reported all well up his way, and wound up by saying:

“But you all know what you’re up against, and there ain’t no use my knocking the realization of it into your nuts.”

Mr. Fitzgibbons sat down and there were yells for a speech from Annie. Annie blushed and shook her head, but the Chairman went ahead, and after a glowing introduction, in the course of which he referred to the next speaker as the brick of all women and the most faithful of the strikers, called on Annie for a speech. Annie was really rattled. She had to be poked with the gavel before she’d get up, and then she only said:

“Well, boys, you know I’m with yer through thick and thin. Stick together and we’ll win.”

Annie sat down again and it was several minutes before the applause subsided. Racetrack Higgins of Brooklyn was then called upon.

“There’s 2,000 of us here from Brooklyn to-night,” he said, “but I think most of the gang got shut out. Never mind, though: we’re with the New York boys and we’re going to stick with them to the end. We took up a collection last night and got enough money to hire a band to lead us over here. I went up to Chief Devery today to get a permit, and what dy’er think he said? He says: ‘Git out, yer slobs.’ I told him we wasn’t slobs, but honest boys trying to make an honest living, but he wouldn’t give up the permit, so we had to leave the band home. I can only say to you, boys, to stand firm, and I bet we’ll win before Dewey comes home. Say, we struck six of those $2-a-day World and Journal fellers in front of Dennett’s in Brooklyn this afternoon—you know Sinker Dennett’s place—and we shamed them into giving up their jobs. They took their Journals back to Barber Clark and said they wasn’t going to help any paper do up a lot of boys. Now, wasn’t that square? [Applause.] I think we’ll win this fight all right. I ain’t made 20 cents this week, but I can stand a heap of that and so can all the Brooklyn boys. Don’t you touch Worlds or Journals until they give us a decent deal. We’re putting them out of business fast and they know it.”

Hungry Joe Kernan, the newsboy mascot, sang a patheic song about a one-legged newsboy, and then Mickey Myers and one or two others made brief speeches. Then the boys left the hall, yelling like demons, and spent the rest of the evening celebrating the successful strike and their great meeting.

The boys regard yesterday as the most successful day they have had since the strike began, because the boycotted newspapers went to the expense of paying men $2 a day to sell papers, only to have 75 percent of the men quit before they had sold a single paper. The boys had little trouble persuading the Bowervites to join them. The few dozen that remained loyal to their employers sold few papers, and the strikers think they enemy will soon tire of waging this kind of a warfare against them.

The Arbitration Committee, which was to meet Mr. Hearst yesterday to get his answer to the proposition that he reduce the price of Evening Journals from 60 to 50 cents a hundred, went to the Journal office in the afternoon, but say they were “chased out” and that the editor refused to see them. They got no answer, and so decided to keep up the fight and make no more advances to the Journal folks.

The parade that had been planned for yesterday morning had to be given up because Chief Devery refused to issue a permit to the boys. Two World drivers and one Journal driver quit work yesterday, according to the strike leaders, because they didn’t care to combat the boys any longer.

William Reese, a negro, was arrested while distributing circulars for the striking newsboys at Third avenue and Forty-second street yesterday. The negro had a bundle of the circulars under his arm and was handing them to passerby. An agent of the World called upon Policeman Phelan to arrest Reese.

“What for?” asked the policeman.

“Why, don’t you see what he’s doing?”rejoined the World man. “They’re advertisements about the World advising people not to buy the paper. The office sent me out to have any one giving out such things arrested.”

The policeman haled the negro to the Yorkville Police Court, and there the World man wanted to make a charge of conspiracy against the prisoner. The policeman finally made a charge of violating a corporation ordinance. Reese said he was a newsboy and distributed the circulars to help along the other boys who were on strike. He did not think he was breaking any law. Magistrate Zeller warned him not to do it again and discharged him.

At noon 300 of the striking newsboys swooped down on five men who were selling the forbidden papers at 125th street and Third avenue. The boys seized the papers and tore them up, filling the streets with the fragments. They chased the men into trolley cars and the the platforms of the elevated roads. At 125th street and Eighth avenue they chased away six men and destroyed their stock. They found eight men at 116th street and Eighth avenue, tore their papers and chased them off the corner. One of the boys, Edward Rowland, was arrested.

Mikki Fischler, 12 years old, and a crowd of other boys were casually clubbing some non-union boys who were selling the boycotted papers at Fifth avenue and Twenty-third street. A policeman caught Mikki and Magistrate Crane fined him $1. Mikki paid the dollar and retired weeping. John Falk, a negro newsboy, was caught belaboring with a club two men who were selling the papers on the Rialto. Magistrate Crane fined him $3.

One of a crowd of parading newsboys jumped on a Third avenue car at Fifth street and snatched a paper from the hand of an old man. The old man grabbed the boy. The boy explained. The old man apologized and contributed a dime to the strike fund.

A crowd of several hundred striking newsboys and their sympathizers discovered two piles of Worlds and Journals on a newsstand at the northeast corner of Second avenue and Forty-second street yesterday afternoon. They charged on the stand, tipped it over, grabbed the papers and had reduced them to strips before the newsdealer knew it. Then they went parading through the streets, yelling in triumph and threatening to to do up anybody they found either selling or buying Worlds and Journals. Policeman Zuck of the East Fifty-first street station attempted to disperse the boys. They attacked Zuck, hurling sticks, stones and old cans at him. Zuck stood it as long as he could and then retired to a nearby store. Among the things hurled at him was a bar of iron six inches long.

The Staten Island newsboys refused yesterday to buy the boycotted papers, and in Tompkinsville, Stapleton and Clifton, they held up the newspaper delivery wagons, pelted the drivers and discouraged would-be customers.

MOUNT VERNON, N.Y., July 24—Two hundred newsboys of this city, who decided to join the strike against the evening editions of the World and Journal, went out to-day. This morning the strikers assembled early at the railroad stations. Nearly every one of them carried a club of some description. At the Harlem station a mob surrounded Walter Gulliver, a dealer, who was on hand to sell the Worlds, and by threats of violence compelled him to join their ranks. The boy afterward became one of the most enthusiastic strikers, proving his fealty to the union by getting arrested for assaulting another agent of the World. A large crowd of strikers gathered at the New Haven Railroad station to await the earlier editions of the World and Journal. They had made all arrangements when the first train pulled in to seize the papers and tear them up, but the police drove the boys away. Later they attacked Arthur and Solomon Loevine, the World wholesale agents, and tore up their papers. P. T. Barguet, the wholesale agent for the Journal, armed a boy with a club and put him out on the corner of the leading business street to take the trade of the strikers. They boy had been on the street only a few minutes when a mob of strikers surrounded him and snatched his papers. Mr. Barguet, who had been watching the proceedings from his store, ran after the boys. Just as he was about to close in on them and recapture his property an outside stepped between him and the fugitives and shut off further pursuit. Barguet returned to his store and made no further attempt to sell Journals.

In the afternoon nearly fifty newsboys surrounded the Loevine brothers, and, after giving them a terrible beating, demolished their wagon and sent the horse off at a dead gallop down the street. About twenty boys threw the Loevines into the gutter and hammered and kicked them, while others broke the wagon into splinters and tore up the papers. The horse was beaten until he tore loose from the wagon and ran off down the street. The police arrested Thomas Madden, an outsider, and John Charge, a newsboy, and took them to the police station, followed by a crowd of about 1,000 people.

To-morrow, it is said, strikes will be declared by the newsboys in Yonkers, New Rochelle, and other towns in Westchester county.

PLAINSFIELD, N.J., July 24.—The strike among the local newsboys against handling or selling evening editions of the World and Journal reached an exciting point this afternoon. The boys gathered at the North avenue railroad station and met the various New York trains that carried the papers. In every instance they successfully prevented the sale of the papers, and in most cases they secured the package of papers and destroyed them. Philip Vanarsdale, the local agent for the Journal, was riding from the station on his wheel, carrying about eighty papers. The boys succeeded in knocking the papers from under his arm, and before he could do anything had them completely destroyed. Thomas Timbo, the agent for the World, did not send any papers on the streets. The police seemed inclined to favor the newsboys. During the afternoon and evening it was almost impossible to purchase a copy of either of the boycotted papers. There are about fifty boys on strike, and they declare they will neither sell nor handle the two papers until the publishers return to the former price.

TRENTON, N.J., July 24.—The newsboys of Trenton, about a hundred in number, who sell the evening editions of the World and Journal, held a meeting to-day and decided not to handle those papers again until their price is reduced from 60 cents to 50 cents a hundred. Tob Duck is the leader of the movement. he, Johnny Driscoll, Scadsy McGuidre and Joh Lipman called at the local newspaper offices to-night to say the strike would begin to-morrow and that any boy found selling the papers would get a slugging and maybe something worse. They declared further that the agents from whom they get their supply of Worlds and Journals would be rotten-egged on their wagons if they made any attempt to distribute the red-headed extras. The leading newsdealers declare that the boys have their sympathy and that they also will refrain from handling the papers while the strike lasts.

ELIZABETH, N.J., July 24.—The strike of the newsboys against the Evening World and Journal has spread to this city, and to-day the papers were handled by only a few newsdealers. The newsboys organized on Saturday night and they refused to take copies of the boycotted journals. Agents of the yellow journals distributed papers free, but the few “scabs” who accepted them were help up by the other boys and forced off the streets.

NEW HAVEN, Conn., July 24.—The newsboys of this city have joined in the strike against the evening editions of the World and Journal and to-day they asked Mayor Driscoll for permission to hold a massmeeting on the New Haven Green on Saturday night next to protest against their treatment by these two papers. They have decided that they will no longer pay war prices for these papers. Their leader is named McCarthy, and he went to New York on Saturday night to confer with the leaders of the newsboys’ strike there.

————————

TROY NEWSBOYS IN THE FIGHT

————————

They Boycott the World and Journal, and Try to Prevent Others from Selling Them.

TROY, July 24–The newsboys of this city have caught the strike fever. This afternoon, upon the arrival of the New York papers, nearly every newsboy in town declared his intention to boycott the World and Journal, and accordingly arranged to prevent the sale of these papers by other boys. Dealers who have been accustomed to handling the papers found that none of the boys would accept them.

A meeting of the newsboys has been called for to-morrow night, when plans will be arranged whereby all boys will be prevented from handling the boycotted papers.

Several fights occurred between newsboys this afternoon, and in one of them a boy named Perry was struck on the head with a stone, rendering him unconscious. Several agents for the boycotted papers have been threatened, and according to a sta’ement of one of the aggrieved newsboys the newsstands selling the boycotted papers will be stormed. The newsboys made a demonstration this afternoon, parading the principal streets of the city with banners inscribed: “Boycott the World and Journal.”

#newsies #newsies 1992 #newsies live #historical #newsboys strike of 1899 #the newsies rally #newspapers #i was informed this was all online when i was already a column through #and just kept with it #tw racial slurs #because 1899

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setsureadsshit · 4 years

Text

Lost At Sea: A List of WIP’s I am finally letting go of [ Part 5 ]

[ Part 1 ] [ Post 2 ] [ Post 3 ] [ Post 4 ]

*see posts 1-4*

I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for.....probably half a year now, it was a project I took up at the start of the Covid and then I, like the rest of the world, sort of lost interest in everything for a little while. And then I threw myself into projects I could do around the house and hanging out with my housemates and slowly mourning our lost year. So, here’s THE LIST. And uh. Yeah.

The Soldier In The House Of Birds by Bonnie131313

Summary: A young acolyte finds himself paired with a young soldier

Last Update: 2018

Fandom & Main Pairing: Person Of Interest ; Rinch

Personal Notes: I really wanted to like this fic, I really wanted to but just...something about the style of the writing just doesn’t grab me. But like, I KNOW it’s really good, I can tell it’s well thought out even if it’s not finished but I just can’t...get into it and I’m letting it go.

Sucker For The Classics by nisolex

Summary: Scott was such a bad friend. Stiles only agreed to go on this stupid "pack bonding" trip so he and Scott could spend some time togehter. And what does Scott do? He invites Allison: and he gives her Stiles' seat in the car. Now Stiles is stuck in the Camaro for a 6 hour car ride with Derek Hale. This is gonna be a long week.

**With the show coming to an end, I wanted to write a Sterek fic to take us back to the beginning. This is an ode to the classic Teen Wolf fanfics. It will feature tropes as old as time, and is set sometime around season 3. If nothing else, get ready for some nostalgia, angst, and eventual sexy times.

Last Update: 2018

Fandom & Main Pairing: Teen Wolf ; Sterek

Personal Notes: Ah man, this fic is so good and tbh it leaves off at a moderately satisfying spot so still worth a read.

Where the lost get found by Ninjanervana

Summary: The Nogitsune took a lot of things from Stiles: Allison, his peace of mind, his consent, his sanity, even his Spark. Maybe it’s time for Stiles to start taking things back.

Last Update: 2019

Fandom & Main Pairing: Teen Wolf ; Sterek

Personal Notes: I’d hold onto this - if all 7 chapters hadn’t all been posted at the same time and there hasn’t been so much as a peep since. Which is sad because it’s REALLY good but I have a harder time holding onto things that don’t have an update track record I can fall back on you know?

Can’t Hide From The Moonlight by Flarrow

Summary: The semi-unintended sequel to Might As Well Be the Sun, by reader request. One take, a potential telling of part of their married life together.

Last Update: 2016

Fandom & Main Pairing: The Flash ; Flarrow

Personal Notes: I just recently reblogged the first part of this series because I didn’t realize I hadn’t until I checked this, lol. The first one is really good, you should read it! A bummer this second part has kind fallen to the wayside but you know how it goes.

carpe diem by imadoki

Summary: The trials and tribulations that one Tsukishima Kei faces in the events leading up to spring graduation.(aka they're all third years and Tsukishima just wants to give Hinata his second gakuran button but there's a whole bunch of feelings in the way)

Last Update: 2015

Fandom & Main Pairing: Haikyuu!! ; Tsukihina

Personal Notes: I really love this idiot pairing. There...aren’t really any Hinata pairings I don’t like, he’s just so shippable, lmao. It’s a bummer that this one didn’t really get off the ground, it’s always so interesting seeing this pairing from Tsuki’s side of things.

Condo In The Woods by Strangeredlantern

Summary: Scott gets here in four weeks, hopefully bringing some supernatural answers with him. That leaves Stiles four weeks to figure out Isaac. Why he’s here in Bear Valley, why he’s a werewolf, and why his eyes changed from blue to gold and back again not fifteen hours ago over Camden Lahey’s dog tags.

Last Update: 2014

Fandom & Main Pairing: Teen Wolf ; Stisaac

Personal Notes: I HAVE HELD ONTO THIS FIC. FOR SO FUCKING LONG. IF YOU CAN’T TELL. I REALLY FUCKING LOVE IT, I HAVE HOPED AND HOPED AND HOPED FOR SO LONG AND I AM SO GUTTED TO FINALLY BE GIVING UP ON IT. I LOVED IT. I STILL LOVE IT. STRANGEREDLANTERN, IF YOU’RE OUT THERE, IF YOU SEE THIS, KNOW THAT THERE IS ONE PERSON ON THIS EARTH WHO LOVED YOUR STORY. WHO STILL LOVES YOUR STORY. WHO HOPES YOU’RE HAVING A GOOD LIFE AND STILL WRITING SOMEWHERE.

Dead To Rights by askanasshole

Summary: Stiles is picky when he chooses his jobs. Can't hurt anyone, can't end the world, can't end with him a different species or trapped in an alternate dimension. Can't be face to face. Simple. Easy. Necessary.

Of course his entire life goes to shit when he's forced into a face to face with a werewolf pack stupid enough to get their Second's heart stolen by a witch. Now if their Alpha would stop being so stupidly hot and he could get this job over with, that'd be great.

Last Update: 2015

Fandom & Main Pairing: Teen Wolf ; Sterek

Personal Notes: I really enjoyed this, it was such a wildly different take on things, I was really interested to see where it was gonna go. Sad to be finally throwing in the towel on it.

Destiny Knows Best by TaliskerMortem

Summary: It was supposed to be just an ordinary one-night stand. A quick tumble in the sheets and then good-bye. Derek’s wolf however, had other plans.

OR: The one in which Derek and Stiles do the do and a certain part of Derek’s wolfish anatomy decides they should be bonded for life.

Last Update: 2018

Fandom & Main Pairing: Teen Wolf ; Sterek

Personal Notes: Again, the start was pretty promising and it kinda leaves off in a satisfactory way even unfinished but I’m not interested in it enough to keep holding on it.

Dirty Dealing by lookslikenico, winglesswarrior

Summary: Stiles had a plan for his final summer before college. He was going to intern at the Sheriff's station, get ahead on the plans for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, his dad had some hazy idea of him having 'one last summer' as a lazy teenager. Now, he's stuck cooling his heels and feeling very out of place at some stuck up country club, where he feel he has more in common with the staff than the other members. Of course, that could be because the staff include his new 'how have we never met before' best friend Scott and the 'it should be physically impossible for someone to be that perfect' new crush, Derek. Who apparently hates him - but not enough that he won't swallow his pride and put up with Stiles' presence when he's needed to help get Erica out of trouble...

Last Update: 2016

Fandom & Main Pairing: Teen Wolf ; Sterek

Personal Notes: I honestly don’t remember anything about this fic. So. Enter at your own risk.

#Person Of Interest #Rinch #harold finch x john reese #teen wolf #sterek #derek hale x stiles stilinski #haikyuu!!#tsukishima kei x hinata shouyou #tsukihina #the flash #arrow #flarrow #olivarry #stisaac #stiles stilinski x isaac layhe

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ladyhallen · 4 years

Text

The Sentient House and Alice

Three weeks before the elections, Alice woke up with the nagging need to move to her grandmother’s house.

It was a nice house, but simply too large for one family to have. Just simply, impossible large. Alice had once tried to catalogue all the rooms in the house but just lost count. It was as if the house itself didn’t like to be measured.

Alice got used to inanimate objects having opinions of their own. It wasn’t so bad and at least if you treated them right, they wouldn’t object to being used. It was a side effect of having taken too strongly from her grandmother.

She had a feeling that nagging need to move into the house was another quirk of her blood. Her mother never could explain it properly, other than knowing more than people.

So, with just that urge, Alice packed up her bags for a weeks clothing, all her documentation that labelled her as having something extra and moved out of her tiny apartment.

Her landlord, a man with cat-yellow eyes, sighed.

“Must be something important, if you have to do it without any prior notice,” he murmured. He was one of the few people who knew about her. Being part of the Other community, people often knew everyone else. Mainly for self-defense.

“I don’t know if it’s a calling,” Alice said. “But…there’s a need? I don’t know. A need to hide.”

The landlords eyes were wide. “Alright. I’ll spread the word.”

Alice wished he wouldn’t. While there would be some people who would appreciate the warning, there would also be others who didn’t like false alarms.

“Alice, you’ve never actually given me false alarms before,” he reminded her. “Now, stop being modest and get moving.”

Alice nodded, feeling a little bit better. “Just remember, I’m not a Seer,” she repeated, feeling the need to reiterate things.

“Yeah, you just know.”

Alice gave up.

The house was situated in the middle of the city. It was a large, sprawling land bracketed by fruit trees and large, rustling grass. Even if it was in the middle of the city, the trees were tall enough and thick enough to block sound and make it seem isolated.

In the middle of it all was the house.

Wreathed in spells, the windows blurred as though it was moving. It made measuring things difficult. If Alice didn’t already know that the house was sentient, she would have believed it after spending a night inside. The bathroom tended to rearrange itself according to how she liked it.

“I’m here, I’m home,” she called, opening the door that didn’t even pretend to be locked. It swung invitingly open, like it had just been closed and not closed for a good twenty years. “Stop calling, I’m here.”

The chandelier flickered and turned on.

“What’s the problem?”

The lights turned on, one by one until Alice could clearly see what was lit and what wasn’t. The house was leading her to the library and she followed, leaving her bag on the sofa by the fireplace.

It was clearly agitated and it showed. By the time Alice reached the library on the second floor, the lights blazed.

On the bookstand by the door, a book was open and being flicked to and fro by the wind. She took the hint and bent close.

“Of all the creatures that witches spent battling,” she read aloud. “Demons are the worst. Banished to the Otherworld by the Coven of Witches in the year 1905 after the disaster that was the Spanish Influenza. They are characterized by their yellow eyes and the scent of sulfur that follows them. They also have an aversion to cats.”

Alice breathed deep, trying not to panic.

“But,” she whispered. “The UCO just declared demons to be a myth. If the Coven of Witches did this and then scattered afterwards, that leaves a mark on the World. Why would the UCO declare demons to be a myth?”

Alice had no answer and the house rattled around her in agitation.

Since the house was clearly averse to letting her leave the house – as evidenced by the doorknob that wouldn’t twist open and the trees that suddenly blocked her way outside the gates – Alice made herself at home.

She picked a bedroom, almost jumped out of her skin when she found the drawers to be full of clothes her size and even felt her eyebrows climbing when she saw the pantry overflowing with food.

Evidently, it had prepared itself for her arrival.

“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful,” she said.

The windows preened.

Half-forgotten lessons with her grandmother resurfaced and Alice ended up baking cookies. The scent wafted up to the third floor and the house actually felt lived in. She knew the house appreciated it by the bubble bath it drew up when she headed for bed.

On Alice’s third day, when she was arguing with the house on whether she could go outside and get some other supplies, the doorbell rang.

She paused in the act of wiping the glasses and glared at the nearest mirror. “This discussion is not yet finished,” she declared.

Opening the door, she found herself face to face with a petite woman, glossy wings protruding from her back and an energetic smile.

“Hi!” the half-fairy greeted. Alice knew she was half since her skin wasn’t green. “I saw your ad in the internet and wondered if you were still hiring? I’m a good cook and can work around substitutes in case of allergies and Other problems.” Alice blinked at her. The woman didn’t even pause. “I can also bake and clean and sew. So anything is really fine. I just need a place to stay. The cats are all saying their fur is standing up and – “

“Wait, wait, just stop,” Alice said, trying not to shout. Fairies didn’t like sudden loud noises. “Why are you here?”

The woman looked bewildered. “You posted an ad in the internet asking about housekeeping.”

Alice sighed and pulled the woman inside. Once they were seated inside the kitchen, Alice glared at the mirror. “You posted that ad, didn’t you? I thought I told you not to do things like these without asking?”

In response, all the drawers in the kitchen, which had been obligingly opened once Alice took out the polishing rag, drew shut.

The half-fairy goggled. “The drawers just moved.” She stated carefully.

Alice sighed again. “It has a mind of its own. Most things do, when they spend enough time around me. And the house was likely the one who posted the advert too. Most probably, it convinced my laptop to do it. People,” she said loudly. “We have consent issues. Didn’t we have this discussion when I was fifteen?”

The woman laughed, a gay and infectious sound. “You must have some sorcerer blood! They’re the only ones I know that can do that, even by accident. So can I work here?”

Alice nodded. “Why do you want to work for food and lodging anyway?”

“But that’s just it,” she said seriously. “Anyone who has a drop of Other in them are hiding. Apparently, someone with Seer blood said to be careful or something.”

Alice had the feeling she could blame her old landlord for that. But…

“Wait, where did you find my advert?” she asked, feeling dread.

The woman obligingly rolled out a printed sheet and Alice felt blood drain from her face. “Is that Facebook? And the UCO page? And that…”

“The official chat room for the Other community,” she supplied. “I was really lucky to get here first. I think there’s going to be a lot more people coming here.”

Alice dropped her forehead to the table and she couldn’t even hurt herself since the table softened to avoid hurting her.

“Oh my god. What are you planning, you crazy house?” she muttered.

…

The half-fairy woman’s name was Susan and Alice set her to cooking or baking.

It was amazing to have conversation that actually talked back.

“This was your grandmother’s house?” Susan asked. “Wow, it’s amazing the UCO hasn’t seized this yet.”

Alice shrugged, trying to peel the apples. It was slow going since she didn’t particularly like holding anything sharp. “I think they tried?” she said. “I remember a year when Mum was going gray about grandmum. She and dad had a spectacular row about it.”

“It’s really well taken care of,” Susan said. “Especially the garden. I really like your trees. There’s something…different about them.”

Since Alice had seen them move and walk around, they definitely weren’t ordinary trees.

…

Alice’s next applicant was an elf, pointy ears and all.

She stared at the man when he volunteered to be the gardener.

“Pick a room,” she said. “There’s a lot.”

“My name is Samuel,” he said, a melodic trill in his voice. “Thank you for sheltering me.”

Alice blinked dazedly at him and then marched determinedly up her room to continue arguing with the laptop about taking down the adverts. She didn’t need more people.

…

Even with the advert being taken down, people still arrived in staggering, slow numbers.

After Samuel came three more elves. They all took care of the gardens. A werewolf and his mate, a half-lizard. They started a vegetable garden – which struck Alice as ironic since werewolves and lizards didn’t like vegetables and were as carnivorous as possible.

Then came the pixies who roosted in the Roof Gardens and only came down to steal some desserts. They did amazing cleaning and swept the house of any dust at night when everyone slept.

Two gnomes arrive, bringing with them one earth nymph and two tree nymphs. Alice, at this point sits down with Susan and tries not to pull out her hair.

“How am I supposed to feed an earth nymph and the gnomes?” Alice hissed at the fairy. “Aren’t gnomes vegetarian?”

Susan giggled. “It’s a good thing Erik and James have just harvested their first crops then. It’s like fate. You gather such amazing people, Alice.”

It definitely wasn’t Alice’s doing. She merely stared at all the people arriving and kept worrying.

Meanwhile, the elections draw closer.

….

The first time Alice sees a cat when she’s doing laundry, she dismissed it as unimportant. Its green eyes stare at her, and then seemingly finds her suitable.

The next time she sees a cat; there are four of them sunning themselves on a patch of sunlight in the library.

“Okay, this is definitely not normal,” she said with a frown.

The cats ignore her.

Two pairs of vampire mates arrive and seek sanctuary. Alice tried not to cringe when Erik eyes them up.

“Please don’t fight,” she pleaded. “The house will definitely get angry.”

At that statement, the pixies that were watching the proceedings by the roof beams, gasp.

The vampires paused and Erik goes still.

“I’m not fighting them,” Erik announced. “But I’m not going to make any promises if they mess with my vegetables.”

The vampires nod at him regally.

“What can you do?” Alice asked before someone else exploded. Vampires tend to make people irritated. “We can sort your books. And do repairs. We also brought with us some animals. We know you like fresh milk and we can get blood from the cows as well so it balances evenly for us.”

Alice tried not to laugh out loud. Vampires volunteering for animal husbandry. Vampires volunteering to be repair men.

….

Marcia, one of the most well-known in the Other community, shows up and it nails the coffin to how weird her life is.

Because Marcia, White Mage extraordinaire, just volunteered to be her librarian.

“I can also help raise defensive spells,” Marcia adds at Alice’s flummoxed silence, mistaking it for hesitation.

“That’s fine,” Susan interjects for her. “But...”

The words, why are you here remains unsaid, but the White Mage hears it anyway.

“I did a divination spell once the warning reached me,” Marcia says, like its normal for someone to manage a divination spell and have it work. Gosh, it’s blowing Alice’s mind. “And my results said that the best place to be in right now is the house of a Witch.”

Her houseguests look at Alice in interest. The words take a while to penetrate.

“But!” Alice says with surprise. “I’m not a witch! I mean…I don’t think I am? I can’t work with plants for shit and my empathy is out of whack. I don’t have a green thumb!”

Marcia finally looks confused, which makes Alice feel better. There are finally two of them suffering here.

“I do agree that an affinity with plants is a sign of a witch, but you are so obviously magical and good with witchcraft that it’s affecting everything around you, even non-living things,” the White Mage says. “The cats agree with me,” she adds, pointing out the three cats twining by her feet.

Alice, for the first time in a while, finally knows what she is. And she doesn’t appreciate it in the slightest.

…

On the day of the election, the camera pans to the president candidate and Alice almost jumps a foot in the air when his eyes turn yellow. Not dragon-gold or cat-yellow but demon-yellow.

An instinctive revulsion rises up in her and Alice finally understands why she had known to hide.

Because demons had finally come back from their banishing and Alice was one of the few Witches left in the world.

...

wrote this a few years ago, just posted this now.

#original work #original post #did i post this because of the american elections?#you never know #witches #wizards #demons #a lot of fantasy people #fantasy au

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suffering-and-happy-about-it · 4 years

Text

Nicole’s rambling: In the defense of Oliver Ulliva and age gaps

Okay, first let me remind you - this is my POV on the book as a whole. Everyone has their way of understanding of what exactly happened in Call me by your name (the novel) and you don’t have to agree with everything I am about to say - WHICH IS TOTALLY FINE.

Second thing - I’m going to be using translations and page references to my copy of the book - that being the first Czech edition from the year 2018, translated by Lucie Podhorná because it varies from the OG book itself (for example, when Elio talks to Vimini, my copy says "when did he tell you?" instead of "when had he tell her?"; it's just small nuances). Also, that's why I'm referring to Oliver as ‘Oliver Ulliva’, because my copy canonically confirms this being his last name - it refers to his last name being ‘Ulliva’ a few times since Mafalda cracks his egg open.

What made me even wanna write this rant? I don’t wanna in any way talk about the author or the director, or the actors. But... Well, quite a few things - especially the statement that their relationship was predatory since the very begging (simply because Oliver is seven years older) and that it was practically a ‘consensual ra*e’ and... Listen.

1. The Age Gap

Most of these were from the American audience who viewed the movie - but let me explain why Europeans might view this relationship differently and why you might change your opinion about it as well. I am not saying Americans don't do these things as well, but from what I've seen on the forums, etc., it seems to me that European x American view on age gaps is way different.

For the sake of this statement, I interviewed 10 of my European friends - of which were mostly all Czech. Europeans do not see a problem with having a seven-year (and more) age gap between the partners - you rarely find a couple of which both are the same age; three-years being the “standard” gap.

Young people, around 17 - 19, at least in my country, are attracted to older partners for various reasons - some like the intellectual potential of their partner, some are searching for a form of certitude in an older partner having their priorities sorted out and figured out their lives and what they want to do with themselves; whether we are talking about m/m, w/m, w/w or a non-binary relationship. One of my friends told me she searches older partners solely because they feel more protected by them. It's the sense of serenity, a different feeling of connection and different understanding to your other half.

I've talked to four of my friends, who both have partners of the same age or max. 1-year gap and even they told me they absolutely can see themselves dating a partner older by minimally five years. So, it's not a controversial thing here, really.

Maybe it’s more common in here, but rarely anyone frowns upon such relationships. At the time of my first relationship, my first partner was five years older than me - and I honestly couldn’t see myself with someone my age. From my experience, the relationships and bonds have a higher probability to last longer (we had a beautiful relationship of three years), it isn’t only driven by hormonal side of things and such, the feelings can develop into something more meaningful than just simple and shallow lust. More for that matter - most of these age-gap relationships didn't end extra-bad breakups and the partners tended to continue seeing each other as friends.

When I interviewed my friends, asking them about the length of these relationships, it was never less than a year. Usually, they said that they learned a ton of new stuff about themselves and having a healthy, normal relationship than from dating someone their age. So... Yeah. I guess that personal, first-hand experience is what makes us see the relationship for its good and bad, but still assures us not to perceive the relationship as predatory.

Now, you might say that while were living in the 2020s', Call me by your name took place in 1983 - and guess what? It was written in the year 2007. Does that mean something? The answer is - no. My grandma met my grandpa in the 80s' (I asked her about this as well and they have 14 years gap; my other grandma and grandpa met at the end of 80s' and the start of 90s' and they, as well, have 8 years between them) and by this, you can see that the situation is more or less the same as it was.

For all of the above, I can see why Elio fell for Oliver so quickly. First and foremost - he mentions Oliver being older like... Three, four times in a book that has word count 76.996? Elio doesn't care about age - it's a story about two human beings falling in love. It's not trying to research the problem of age and such. Stop judging the story for the wrong reason, ffs.

2. The 'consensual ra*e' argument:

Another thing I've encountered is the audience calling the story 'consensual ra*e'... Let me elaborate and tell you why you're wrong. In America, the age of consent is 16 - 18. In Europe, we have the age of consent established at 15 (the lowest being Estonia with 14) and you are a lawful adult at 18 years old. Given that Elio was 17 in the summer and 18 in November, he was already perceived as an adult; given what were his parents like and what relationship they had to him. (Again, I am looking at the story from today's perspective since the audience did as well). He was a man at the time Oliver came to Italy, he was a man at the time he had sex with Marzia, he was a man when he had sex with Oliver and he was a man when he traveled to Rome.

Elio should be perceived as an adult who carries most of his personal responsibility on his shoulders (since you're more than partially punished for the laws you break from the age of fifteen) and if he decides that he wants to be in a sexual relationship with an older man - he can rightfully do so. Surely, the relationship had another big B U T (for some people) - homosexuality and homophobia. And from the historical standpoint, I don't wanna spend too much time over it. The LGBT movement foundation ties back to 1969; given that Italy was in the capitalistic pro-American part of Europe (Czechia was under the Communist regime at the time, so homosexuality was barbarically punished in my country), I think there wasn't a problem with a subtle, not-too-obvious gay relationship. Sure, you couldn't walk into the open and hold hands and such, but you wouldn't get you beheaded.

Yeah, I mean, I'm not an expert on Italian war history and I don't particularly know what happened with Italy after WW2, but I know that in 1985, first LGBT organization got founding from the republic and from that I assume the situation, especially if it would be a subtle relationship, wouldn't be as bad.

In the story, it is hinted that both Sami and Anella were aware of the whole relationship - I mean, come on. Sami knew (since he had the big speech about being corrupted at the age of thirty, ("I think he's better than me, dad".; "And I am sure he would say the same about you, which both of you makes seem like good people." - Call me by your name, page 221)) and Anella perfectly knew at least in the movie - I mean, the car-ride home? Oh, she knew very well and she even told Marzia at the dinner, IMO.

Now tell me why would the relationship be a consensual ra*e? Because it is not bent to accommodate American laws? Because it not an ordinary every-day relationship? In which way is it ra*e? At the age of 17, you are taken as A D U L T who has their responsibilities to fulfil, at least here in Europe.

3. Oliver didn't love Elio as much as Elio loved Oliver:

... What? I mean... What?

Sure, you are seeing the whole story from Elio's eyes and for that, you are more likely to take Elio's side in this matter. In the end, it was Oliver who was getting married, right? And he was the first one to reach out, right? Well... It was a both-sided thing. At the first few pages, Elio says “"Do you want to look at them? "Not now, maybe later." Polite indifference, as if he noticed my out of place zealous effort to make him like me as he pushed me away briskly."; page 12 and on page 18, Elio states "We started - he must've seen the hints way sooner than I did - to flirt.", let alone that Elio describes that probably, Oliver visited his room while he was asleep.

I can see where the opinion that Elio loved Oliver more could've come from - he was young, hasty and captivated by the entirety of Oliver. Since we see the story by his side, Oliver can seem to be the less active out of the two. But trust me, he loved him the same amount, if not more. This was confirmed by both Sami and Vimini -

Page 92, a conversation between Elio and Vimini, Oliver went to the sea with Anchise:

"Do you know where Oliver is?" "I don't know. I thought he went fishing with Anchise." "With Anchise? He's crazy! He almost killed himself the last time!" No response. She was looking at the sun slowly setting down. "You like him, don't you?" "Yes," I responded. "He likes you too. More than you do - I think." You really think so? - No, Oliver does. - When did he tell you? - Not too long ago.

and page 220, when Sami and Elio talk about their trip to Rome:

"Oliver may be very intelligent—," I began. Once again, the disingenuous rise intonation announced a damning but hanging invisibly between us. Anything not to let my father lead me any further down this road. “Intelligent? He was more than intelligent. What you two had had everything and nothing to do with intelligence. He was good, and you were both lucky to have found each other, because you too are good."

Which obviously shows that both of the people who are indirectly watching the relationship between Elio and Oliver blossom in front of their very eyes are aware that both were very much in love. And Vimini, even if she said 'Oliver does think he loves Elio more', she could see that these two are very much attracted to each other. She was spending a lot of time with Oliver throughout his stay in Italy and she was beyond intelligent - these two were an incapable pair idiots compared to her.

So, no, Oliver doesn't love Elio more; he's just not being as childish about it as Elio is. Once more, the age gap is tying into this topic; while Oliver has his 'hot-headed' days, he already went through the phase of being obsessed by someone (or at least the phase being obsessed and letting the surroundings know). He is slightly more mature than Elio, so he just doesn't let himself go that easily.

And I think that he maybe suffers from internalized homophobia - page 224, Oliver talks with Elio as he comes back for Christmas:

"You should leave then. They (Elio's parents) know about us." "I figured so," he responded. "How?" "By the way your father spoke. You're lucky. My father would have me carted me off to a correctional facility."

In this short piece of dialogue, you can see that Oliver's father isn't okay with LGBT (not too much to wonder about, the American society was different than it is now, it wasn't a safe space for queers). And it's plausible that if Oliver had listened to this as he grew up, he got scared when his mind and body reacted to Elio in this way. We can see that for Elio, he lets go for some time; as they sleep in the 2nd part of the book and visit Rome together in the 3rd part of the book. He tried to overcome the fear and simply because he was in love with the boy, he did overcome it.

But you can see the broken shell (which was tore down in Italy) slowly getting together as Oliver gets back to the USA. He, once more, is under the pressure of American society who is not LGBT friendly at the time, his own father would've never supported his decisions regarding his love life, it could cost him his academic career... And for all of these reasons, it was more logical for Oliver to get married. It was his way of putting order back into his life; it was his way of being good as he says Elio.

So, yeah. Here you have it. Oliver was in love, the relationship could benefit both parties and it wasn't a consensual ra*e, thank you very much.

#call me by your name #call me by your name movie #call me by your name novel #elio perlman #oliver ulliva #anella perlman #samuel perlman #cmbyn #luca guadagnino #andré aciman #armie hammer #timothée chamalet #call me by your name...#and I will call you by mine

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anonthenullifier · 4 years

Note

Tommy’s First Girlfriend

Thanks for the ask, I hope you enjoy it! -

It is not in Tommy’s nature to be nervous. Fifteen years of data so far has confirmed this. The last time there was any speck of a wavering self confidence was right before his first review with Sam after a mission, even then it was only a speck amongst the sea of almost endless assuredness that Vision admires (and may even envy) so much in his son. But here Tommy stands, refusing to make eye contact or keep his fingers still while asking a simple question, “Is it okay if I have a, uh,” Vision catalogs the way Tommy runs a hand through his hair, failing to find any similar instances of it being a nervous tic, “friend over to watch a movie, or something.” The last two words are muttered quickly and quietly.

The request is a common one, the Maximoff house slowly becoming a haven of sleepovers and study sessions, primarily for the Young Avengers crew, much to Vision’s delight. “Of course. When-”

“Tonight.”

Wanda glances at Vision, wordlessly seeking if he’s picking up on the general weirdness of Tommy’s on edge and too abrupt, even for a speedster, responses. A small nod provides confirmation and Wanda does what he cannot, easing seamlessly into a natural candor that masks her interrogation. “That’s fine. Is it the whole group or just Nate?”

The grout between the tiles of the backsplash becomes fascinating to their son, his feet developing a gentle forwards and backwards rock. Vision turns to inspect the area above the stove, just to be sure there is not a spectral demon coming through (an event that, sadly, happened a few months prior). There is nothing but the powder blue and white checkered pattern. Eventually, with an uneasy sigh, Tommy answers, “Her name’s Lisa.”

Vision sorts through all the files of people their boys have talked about and doesn’t find a match, even amongst the files from their old schools. This is not an issue, however, because they trust their sons in choosing friends. Before Vision can state this, Wanda mines for just a touch more background, a cheery smile on her face as she asks, “Who’s Lisa?”

Tommy’s rocking increases to a rate above a normal human’s, a sure sign he is contemplating whether he remains in the kitchen with them or abandons the entire endeavor by turning into a streak of green. “I met her during Avengers Give Back,” an annual community service event Pepper started five years prior, “we cleaned up the juvie cafeteria together.”

The attendee list for that site streams through Vision’s mind, stopping at the name Lisa Molinari, female, age fifteen, Springfield, New Jersey. Vision shrugs off the slight annoyance at the knowledge of Tommy hiding a friend from them, something that is within their son’s right but Vision thought they had a more open communication relationship with their children than that, and begins planning. “Does she have any food allergies?”

“Fine, geez,” Tommy’s confession bursts out, “she’s kinda my girlfriend, I think, I don’t know, we’re feeling it out, but I just need you all to be cool and just stay out of it.” A half second of silence is enough for him to actually process the question that was asked, as opposed to the one he thought was, his eyes wide, darting everywhere but Vision and Wanda. “I uh..” If not for Vision’s optimized visual processing, he never would have seen Tommy yank his phone out nor registered the furious tapping of his fingers before being informed, “I’ll let you know when she texts back.” With that Tommy extricates himself by disappearing in a blur.

—

If Tommy was nervous before, now he is veering into full blown anxiety, circling the room at a pace that threatens the integrity of their couch and has led to Wanda securing the bowl of popcorn in a cloud of red so they don’t have to clean up the room again. “Thomas…” for the majority of parenthood, Vision has found himself at a loss for how to fully advise their children, having never experienced a true childhood himself, but in this instance, he finally feels useful, remembering the way he would hover endlessly in thought at how to approach Wanda or analyze whether her laughter and gentle touches to his arm meant something more than just a close friendship. A second, “Thomas,” slows their son down. It doesn’t stop him completely, but he is now moving at a conversational pace. “Entering into a relationship can be exhilarating and terrifying. It is-”

“I’m not afraid of her, dad.”

“I should hope not.”

Tommy’s annoyance manifests in a moody sigh and an eye roll, an attitude not conducive to romance and one Vision hopes to quell. “You simply need to be yourself and enjoy your evening.” A flippant shrug is all he gets and Vision does his best to temper his own annoyance at how hard Tommy can make it to have a meaningful conversation, something Wanda assures him is fairly common for teenage humans. “You should also be sure to be respectful and remember that consent goes two ways. Neither pressure her or be pressured yourself into an action you are not ready for. There is ample time for physical developments in a relationship and thus there is no need to rush anything.”

“Oh my God.”

Wanda smirks, her hand finding Vision’s and providing him a commiserate squeeze, “Your father’s right. Relationships have to be built on trust and respect.” If he and Wanda were of the same mind, this is where the conversation would stop, however, his wife far prefers to throw a little chaos into any situation. “Plus, we’re going to be in the kitchen all night and don’t want to overhear anything, got it?”

Tommy’s flustered, “Mom,” ends abruptly at the descending two note chime of the door bell. They allow their son to answer the door, his “Hey,” deeper than usual and attempts to be suave, or so Vision assumes based on the clearly fake air of nonchalance Tommy tries to exude by shoving his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit. “Come on in.”

His date’s voice is the only thing that comes through the door, “My foster dad wanted to make sure your parents are here.”

The exasperated tone of the statement melds perfectly with the jerky wave of Tommy’s hand, directing Vision and Wanda towards the door. Once Tommy and his date move out of the way, Wanda sends a friendly wave to the man in the silver minivan. He acknowledges them with a single honk and then drives off.

“Thanks,” with the van gone Lisa relaxes just enough to smile politely at them while still making it known how ridiculous she thinks the request was, “He’s a bit protective.”

“Understandably so.” Vision cannot fault the man. Much to Billy’s chagrin, Vision always makes sure the Altman’s are around whenever their son goes to socialize, and the Altman’s, in return, always text to be sure Teddy can come over. Realizing they are all standing in an awkward circle, Vision allows his manners to soothe the air. “Welcome, I am-“

Tommy verbally elbows his way in, eager to move them along, “My dad and this is my mom and this” he waves a hand at his date, who grins nervously during the rushed intros, “is Lisa.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Mom, dad, you had something to do, right?”

Wanda nods, hands coming to wrap around Vision’s bicep to tug him towards the kitchen, “Let us know if you need anything.”

—

They remain, mostly, hidden for the duration of the night, tucked behind the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, conversing almost exclusively through Wanda’s telepathic link. At semi-random intervals either Vision or Wanda will cross the hardwood floors to get a cup of water or a snack, each time tracking the movements of the teens on the couch. Slowly Tommy inches closer to his date, their voices hushed but giddy, and on Vision’s trip back with another glass of water, his lips journey up into an easy arc at the way Lisa has slouched over, her ponytail laying across Tommy’s arm. When he sets the glass down for Wanda, taking her hand into his own so he can toy with the band of her wedding ring, Vision whispers his assessment. “They have reached the cuddling phase.”

This causes his wife’s nose to scrunch up, an adorably joyful sight, her eyes flashing red just to confirm his own conclusion, “They’re happy.”

“That’s all that matters.” Vision leans in, placing a kiss to his wife’s forehead, fond memories surfacing of their own movie night where they transitioned from friends to something more. “Would you care to join me on the deck for some stargazing?”

Instead of agreeing, she studies his face, an air of suspicion hovering between them, “You want to abandon our post?”

“I want to give them some time.”

The curl of her lips suggests she remembers their own pleas to their teammates, of just wanting time and space to exist as a couple instead of being subjected to prying eyes and whispers, “All right, Maximoff.”

Wanda accepts his arm and follows him out the back door and onto the swinging bench.

Time loses meaning under the stars with Wanda snugly wedged under his right arm. Which is why he’s surprised to hear the door open, gentle, unhurried footfalls bringing Tommy to the swing. Wanda brings her knees up, hugging them to her chest to give Tommy space to plop down, the action sending the swing into a wobble.

“How was your date?”

Unlike his usual sardonic avoidance, Tommy smiles, eyes upturned towards the sky, “It was fun.”

Vision cannot control how the world treats his children, no matter how valiantly he tries, and so he relishes moments like now, content in knowing Tommy is happy. “Wonderful.”

#Tommy shepherd #Tommy maximoff #wandavision #scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #ask anon #mine #the maximoffs

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dreamyjoons · 4 years

Text

Last Light ⥋ 03

⥋ Alone was how you preferred it. People came with feelings, feelings get you killed - and death in the new world wasn’t permanent. But not everything is avoidable, and Kim Taehyung is no exception.

Genre/warnings: zombie apocalypse!au, angst, injury mention

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: brushing a lil on the filler side but we’re getting there! Thank you all so much for your patience in the wait for this series, it means the world. I’m at a place where i feel i can start posting these again 🥰 i hope you all enjoy!

⥋ Chapter 03: soup

Masterlist

Before you even open your eyes, you feel the pain.

But then other things begin to sink into you, as your body slowly pulls out of the darkness it had been stuck in.

The pain in your ribs echoes out, a constant underlying throb made worse by certain unassuming movements. The rest of your body felt highly sprung, dotted with pockets of ache. Your limbs felt like lead, as if they weren't part of you. You were laying down on something softer than you'd slept on for... well, for too long.

There was movement nearby.

Your eyes fly open, ready to come face to face with a growling nightmare-

Only to be met with one of the prettiest faces you had ever seen, peering from just inches above you.

"Hi-"

"Get away from me!" You scream, scrabbling to sit up.

The stranger takes a step back with his hands in the air, flicking his dark brown hair out of his face. You sit bolt upright, the pain in your ribs so severe that a sob rises from your chest. Tears spring to your eyes, but you can't stop, shuffling to a sitting position.

"Look, I'm not gonna hurt you-"

"Where am I?" You yell, looking around for your weapon, for items, anything.

You're in a tent, that much is obvious. It's big, a pasty blue that had evidently been weathered through a lot. Dated-looking medical equipment was set up on a rickety camping table surrounded by a few random bags, the raised camping bed you were on was softened by a sleeping bag and blankets. It could have been cosy if you weren’t completely terrified.

But your things weren't here. And he was closer to the door than you were - you would never beat him to it.

"You're safe-"

"Like hell I am!"

He sighs harshly, concern darting across his face. His hands stay raised, and though he stands at a distance, you know he could be on you in an instant. Your eyes latch onto one of the syringe packets that sit neatly in the bag, before hastily looking back at him.

You could probably reach it and open the packet before he could get to you. It's not much of a weapon but it might just bide you enough time-

He follows your line of sight, and when he realises your thought process, his jaw drops.

"I'm just trying to help, you psycho!"

"How do I know that? I woke up in a strange place with a weird dude looming over me with a bunch of medical things next to him! What am I supposed to think?!" Your voice reaches new heights, pricked with pain from how rapidly you're breathing.

"Look, lady, I was trying to help you. But calling this face weird is the last straw-"

"What the fuck is going on?"

Taehyung throws himself into the tent, face a storm as he stares between you. You feel the prickles in your body subside, an inkling of safety trickling into your veins. The man opposite you visibly sags too, relief evident on his features.

"Nice person you bring back for help, Tae. Why don't you bring an axe-wielding madman next time? Oh, how about a plain old zombie too? That'll be fun." He snarks, crossing his arms, lips pulling into an angry pout.

"Stop whining, Jin. You'll get wrinkles."

The man opposite you - Jin - scoffs, but he lets the scowl drop from his face.

"Uh, Taehyung? What happened, where am I?" Your voice cracks, the adrenaline pulsing through you finally fading from your system. You begin to feel heavy, the weight of your aching body threatening to drag you back to the bed.

"You passed out, do you remember?" his voice is low, his intense gaze turning on you. You hold your ground under his heavy look and shrug. A crackle of pain his you at the movement, making you hiss.

"I remember... bits. The undead, pain... milk?" You offer weakly. Jin snorts, dragging your attention back to him.

"Oh, we have you to thank for that? He's been complaining about washing white chunks off his truck for hours now. I thought he'd finally given in and made a move on it-"

"Jin, don't finish that sentence, or I will shoot you." Taeyhyung snaps, curls of his dark hair falling in front of his eyes.

"Can someone just please... tell me what happened to me?" You asked, your voice small.

"Okay, but sit back down. Your body is already under enough stress." Jin's voice is soft, and despite yourself, you follow his instructions. He reaches out to try and help ease you down but thinks again, letting you take care of it. You're somewhat grateful.

"After you passed out I had to carry you back to my truck. It was a couple of hours drive here, then Jin helped me carry you into his tent. He took a quick look at you - just to check if you needed something serious or bitten - and we put you to rest. You've been out for about fifteen hours."

"Fifteen hours?!" You gasp, The action making you groan with pain.

"Your body really needed the time to start healing. By the looks of things, you may have a broken rib, or just some severely bruised some. I wanted to do a proper diagnosis when you were awake and consenting."

You're floored by his words, but the gratitude flows through you.

"Th-thank you."

"No worries. Tae's been keeping an eye on you ever since. He only went to try and sleep about an hour ago."

Casting your eyes back to Taehyung, you could see it, the tiredness. His black jeans and tee were rumpled, his hair at the back of his head poking in obscure angles. His eyes were a little puffy and barely focused, despite their intensity. Guilt settles in your gut as you look at him.

"You were watching over me?" You ask voice quiet.

He looks away from you, hiding his face from your gaze. Instead he faces Jin, shoulders held squarely as he addresses him.

"You have everything you need to treat her injuries?"

"Yes, there's only so much I can do." Jin sighs, a gentle nod offered. Taehyung then turns to you, forehead creased.

"Are you happy to be here alone with Jin whilst he looks you over?" His voice is harsh, but you understand the kindness below it.

You revel in his words. If he was happy to trust him, and assuming so did Namjoon, then you shouldn't need to worry. At least, you hoped so. Taehyung had not let you down so far.

"I'll be okay." You say, offering him a small smile.

"I'm gonna sleep." He turns, lifting the flap of the tent and stepping out.

"Thank you... Taehyung." You call out, voice dry. He falters in his step a little, only turning half back, frown visible even from his side. He nods his head stiffly before he continues to walk away.

You watch his shadow retreat, eyes lingering on the tent lining. It was a weird feeling, having someone looking out for you. You hadn't met a considerate person in so long, it was uncomfortably foreign. Even if that ‘considerate’ person was as prickly as Taehyung.

"Now that square is gone, you can tell me all about what happened to you. Spare no detail! and if you're comfortable, I’d like to take a proper look at your ribs.”

The next thirty minutes fly by. Your memories trickle back in as you talked Jin's ear off about how you met Namjoon and Taehyung, right up to the minute where you passed out in the grass. Jin doesn't interrupt, merely adding small sounds to encourage you to keep going. It was strange - you hadn't talked that much in months. Many many months.

All the while he proded at your ribs, delicate warm fingertips pressing into the bruised skin. You found yourself holding your breath when it was particularly agonizing, but he was as gentle as he could be and for that you were thankful. Once he was happy he moved onto the cuts on your face, carefully moving to clean the wounds. He even had to stitch one - with your full permission, of course.

As you finish talking, Jin moved to sit on the rickety table, big eyes taking you in. You smile awkwardly, embarrassment seeping under your skin.

"You've been through a lot."

"Could say that, yeah."

"Well it sounds like you were going to survive, even if you hadn't found our Tae. That much I know."

You let his kind words fill your chest. There was something so warming about him, something that made you feel completely at ease in his presence. It damn near choked you, remembering what humanity could be.

"Thanks, Jin."

"So, would you like my diagnosis?" You nod at his words, bracing yourself.

"Luckily for you, I don't think it's broken. I think you've seriously bruised two ribs to the near-point of breakage but unfortunately, without proper x-ray equipment, I can't say for sure."

"What should I do?"

"There's not a lot to do with rib injuries. Just a lot of careful movements, sleeping upright and if I can find anything cold, cool compresses. We just have to let you get better with time."

"Oh... oh. Well, thanks Doc."

"Ah, I'm not actually a full doctor. I was in my final year of medical school when all of this... happened." he sighs, gesturing around the tent.

"Well, you know much more than I do. So thank you." You smile softly.

His smile beams across his face, fingers idly fiddling with the hem of his tatty tee. You feel a yawn coming, and you can do nothing to stifle it as you're consumed by the rush of tiredness it brings. The intake of breath hurts and you groan, but Jin rushes forward and takes you by the shoulder.

"Don't fight it. It's better if you roll with it. And don't hold back coughs either."

"Aye aye." you mutter dumbly, letting him guide you back into a reclined sitting position. He laughs, his hands gently patting your shoulder as he steps back.

"Now it's best if you stay as upright as possible, but you should sleep. Want me to stick around?"

"I'll be okay - wait, this is your tent!" You try to sit up, remembering Taehyung’s words. He darts back forward and eases you back down, a pout forming on his lips.

"You don't have a tent and you need to sleep. I can sit in Tae and Jimin's for now."

"Jimin?" You ask.

"One of our group. He's been out on a run with two others... they should have been back a week ago." He avoids your pitiful eyes, lip pulled between his teeth as his eyes zone out at the tent door. The hurt you knew he was feeling was something you could never forget.

"Oh... I'm sorry, Jin." What else could you say?

"I'm hopeful... you have to be, right? Namjoon's gone to search for them, been out since yesterday morning. With any luck they'll be here any minute now."

You can't find the words to ease the agony on his face. You know that feeling all too well. It's why you don't stay with groups any more. You couldn't be in the position they were in ever again - your heart wouldn't be able to take it.

"Anyway, enough of that. Get some sleep, let your body heal. If I can find anything to put on for a cold compress are you happy for me to do it when you're asleep?”

You nod, sleep already pulling at your edges. He smiles at you before moving to the open medical bag and rooting through.

"Take these if you wake up, okay? Should help with the pain. Sleep well."

"Thank you, Jin. I'm sorry... about when I woke up." You wince a little, but it disappears quickly as you sag against the bed.

"Don't be silly - as long as you don't stab my face in the future we'll be fine." He offers with a wink, before slipping out of the tent. You slip into a dreamless sleep before he had even pulled the zip completely shut.

----

The sky was dark when you finally awoke.

You must have slept solidly for at least another seven hours, given how dark it was. Your body was stiff from how you had been half laying/half sitting, your mouth dry.

You scoop up the painkillers and water, haphazardly popping them in your mouth and swallowing. You grit at the pain, but make yourself finish the bottle. A now-lukewarm roll of damp bandages slips from under your shirt, the spot it slips from somewhat refreshingly cold. A small smile slides onto your face despite the ache.

In more time than you want to admit, you shuffle to the edge of the camp bed and struggle to your feet. You slowly shuffle to unzip the tent, side-stepping through the gap to finally take in your surroundings.

The cold night air fills your lungs, the rustle of trees surrounding you. The sky was impossibly black, stars dotted so brightly all you could do was stare in awe.

"Nothing quite like it is there?"

You spin to find the source of the voice. Jin sits in a camping chair just ahead of the tents, steaming cup in his hand as he beams at you.

Shuffling close, you realise Taehyung is sat on the chair next to him. He watches you approach, eyes examining you, paying particular attention to your ribs as if he could see the injury inside.his eyes then slip to your face, tracing along the cuts that freckle you, a frown crossing his face. You stop before them, a cautious smile on your face.

"I forget the sky can look like that." You offer, letting your eyes drift up again.

With the lack of light pollution, the galaxy seemed endless, stretching far above you. It wasn't often that you could stop what you were doing and look up, but when you do you seemed to find a piece of yourself. No matter how tumultuous the day was, the night was constant.

"Do you want something hot to eat? We've not got much in the way of excitement but it's better than nothing." Jin offers, and you snap your eyes away from the sky to look between the two men, both their attention firmly on you.

You finally breathe deeply enough to catch a whiff of something good. Really good. It smelled savoury, soupy and thick - better than the horrid prunes that you knew lay waiting in your backpack somewhere.

"Oh, no I couldn't. It's your food."

"As your doctor, I'm prescribing you a hot meal." Jin raises an eyebrow at you, challenging you.

"I have some food in my bag, I can trade for it." You offer, the prospect of hot food making your mouth water.

"Don't worry about it. It'd be a crime to not share my skills with anyone who can appreciate them." Jin smiles, moving to dish you out something from the bubbling pot on the tiny stove in front of him.

"Are you sure-"

"Just take the food, Y/N." Taehyung snaps. You turn to him, eyebrows furrowed as you stare down at him. He rips his dark eyes from you and staunchly avoids Jin's angry gaze.

“You what?” you mumble, annoyance bubbling under your skin.

"I'm going to bed." He grumbles, getting to his feet and stalking off into the tent behind him.

"Rude." Jin yells, gesturing for you to sit in the now empty chair. "Whatever. Y/N, slowly use the arms to lever yourself down."

Once you were seated, Jin holds out a tin canteen to you, the smoke visibly rolling out into the night. You let out a squawk as you take the food from him, grin growing on your face.

“Thank you.” You sigh, letting the Taehyung-sourced irritation leave you as the warmth from the canteen flows into your fingers.

"I haven't eaten a hot meal in... a long long time." You finish abruptly, silencing yourself by putting a spoonful of food in your mouth.

A loud guttural moan falls from your lips before you can stop it, your eyes growing wide at the noise as you look over to Jin. He laughs, and you can hear Taehyung clear his throat awkwardly in the tent behind you.

"Sorry." You murmur, mouth full of food.

"No no, I appreciate the positive feedback." Jin laughs. "So did Tae, apparently."

"So... uh, how long have you guys been camped here?" You ask swiftly, burying yourself in the food to hide the heat that bursts across your face. Jin’s grin still beams, but mercifully he takes the bait.

"We've been here... I don't know, it's hard to keep track any more. Probably a month?"

"And you feel safe here?" You ask, slowing down how fast you shovel food into your mouth. It was like a stew, thick and homely, and it made you want to cry. You wouldn’t, but damn was the motivation strong.

"Safe enough. Namjooon’s got a few defences lined up, and we're a strong team. It’s as good as it's gonna get."

You nod, spooning another bite in your mouth as you cast your eyes around you. Trees about fifty feet away circle the area which was probably once a small camping ground. A small dirt track leads to where they're camped; four tents in a semi-circle with Taehyung's truck sitting just off from the track.

Their set-up was good. No doubt they’d planned it to be that way. Jin mentioned some security measures Namjoon had set up and you couldn’t help the flush of jealousy that you felt. The reliance upon other people…

And the rest of their group. You were going to meet them eventually, right? The thought made you falter. The three you had met so far had been okay. But what about the rest of their group? You’d be deathly outnumbered.

"What about you? Do you have anywhere that you're heading?" Jin asks, sipping his cooling cup.

"Oh, I... no. I don't have a plan. Just... surviving." You shrug, but your voice is almost lost.

"I get that. It's not like you can have much of a five-year plan nowadays. Day to day is hard enough." Jin smiles sadly, letting his eyes drift over to the tent behind you.

"No. But don't worry, I'll be out of your hair soon." You sigh, regretfully spooning up the last of your food.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll be on my way as soon as I can."

"Why? I thought you were here to stay!" Jin chokes, sitting closer to you.

"I don't want to step on your toes. And I don't know of being with a group is such a good idea, for me. I do better alone." You tried to put strength in your voice, to find some semblance of resolve. But all you felt was fear and uncertainty. It creeps up whenever it can.

"Well... I'm sorry to hear that. It would've been nice to have some decent company." He sighs, propping his head on his hand as he looks at you.

"You'll survive, I'm sure." you laugh, despite the sadness that pits in your stomach.

A part of you wants to stay. Of course, this was a taste of something you'd not had in a while. People, a sense of community, hot food. It was enough to melt your brain.

But people meant feelings, ties. Those hold you down, get you killed. And though there's not much to live for, you weren't going to hurt others after you turn.

"Well, at least stay with us until you're fully healed. That's an order."

Jin pouts at you, forehead creased. You can't help but laugh, warmth at the sensation flooding you. You could probably indulge his request. For a little while, at least. And the prospect of getting to heal and not worry each second of the day… it was an overwhelming relief.

"I can't disobey a direct order, can I? But Jin... thank you.”

"No worries. Besides, it'll be nice to have someone aside from these assholes to talk to."

"Ah, yeah, the rest of your group." You look over your shoulder, eyeing the tent as if you can see Taehyung.

In some deep recess of your mind, maybe you thought that Taehyung would soften up to you. He did haul your unconscious body into his truck and keep watch over you. But his distrust for you was obvious, and it left a sour taste in your mouth.

"Pay him no mind. He just doesn't want to lose anyone. It's hard in this world to get attached to people." Jin’s voice is low, his head cocked to the side. You turn to him and chew the inside of your cheek, processing his words.

"Trust me, I know. But I'm not the enemy here." you sigh, moving awkwardly to hand back the canteen.

"I know. He's not a total ass, but he definitely has his moments." Jin jumps up out of the chair when he sees you struggling and takes the canteen from your hands. You flash him a grateful smile and sit back in the chair.

How long had it been since you had just… sat and existed?

“Is there anything I can do to earn my keep?”

“Like what? You’re injured.” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you feel a slight tinge of embarrassment flush through you.

“Nothing strenuous, then. But do you want me to keep watch or something?” You ask, head slightly stooped as you wait for his response.

You couldn’t let your guard down. As soon as you get comfortable and stop looking over your shoulder for a minute, you’ll be out on your own again. Vulnerable and easy prey. Besides, you couldn’t just accept their hospitality and do nothing. Everything had a price in this new world. And you’d rather pay your way than anyone else’s.

“Ah, that’s kind of you. But it’s okay. I’m going to wait up for the others.” His drop is subtle, but it’s there. He blinks heavily as he looks out into the night, the treetops swaying lightly in the breeze.

You breathe in the night air, the sound of the wind rustling against the side of the tents. For the first time in a long time, you soak it in. you had barely realised your eyes had closed before they were fluttering open again.

“I’d better keep you company then.” You smile, turning your eyes back to him.

“That would be nice.” Jin’s quiet voice cracked, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I don’t think it’ll be many hours until daylight. Hopefully.”

So there you sat. The hours dwindled as Jin talked. Occasionally you’d manage to eek in an answer or offer a counterpoint, but it was nice to be just talked at. From seeing the way you’d clam up, he avoided questions about your past and for that you were grateful. And you were careful to not probe about his group. He choked up each time you came close, the worry practically dripping from him.

The conversational tapdance stretched until the early glimmer of morning, a comfortable avoidance between you both. The night sky was just giving way to light, the glint of the stars disappearing as the faint hues of days begin to bleed in.

“... And that’s how I met Namjoon.”

“Wow. How has he managed to survive this long?” You laugh, wincing as the reverberations send pain shooting through your ribs.

“Oh, careful. Sorry, I shouldn’t be this funny. It’s causing you pain.”

“I don’t know about that.” you laugh, moving your hand to settle on your ribs.

“I can’t help being an incredible entertainer-”

“That’s definitely not it!” You cry out, but a smile slips onto your face. It felt good to laugh again - even if it was at your own expense.

“I think the pain’s getting to your head-”

He’s cut off by a rattling, causing him to pounce from the camping chair. You whip your head around searching for the source of the noise, only to find a tin can rattling like a bell. It was suspended in the air by a makeshift stand, with three other cans hanging beside it. Each had a string that lay flat to the ground and ran out of sight - but the ringing can was pulled taught.

The ringing suddenly drops off, and with the silence comes the dread that slides down your spine. You could piece together well enough what was happening but the confusion still cut through your senses.

“Perimeter!”

Taehyung throws himself out of the tent, shotgun clutched tightly in his hands. He looked like he hadn't slept at all, with dark bags under his eyes and the crumpled clothes of a restless night. His eyes skirt over you and Jin, before settling on the cans.

“Undead?”

“Not sure.” Jin dives into the doorway of a nearby tent and stumbles out with an axe nestled tightly in his palms.

You struggle to your feet, your heart lodged in your throat.

You weren’t prepared for the undead. One they could handle. But with if there was more? A whole horde of them? You barely had the strength to stand yourself up, let alone fight for your life once more.

Taehyung and Jin were already moving forwards, heading to the dirt track. You realise you were stood stiff, watching them approach possible danger. If there was a storm coming, you were going to have to weather it alone. You needed to find a way to protect yourself, most importantly your hockey stick.

You had barely taken a step when a beam of light flashed through the trees, a faint rumble of an engine following it. Then another set of headlights tightly behind. Your stomach flips. What scenario were you about to be thrown into? You were an outsider, you had to be prepared. It may not be the undead pulling up in trucks but uncertainty certainly rolled with them.

Taehyung sags, letting the shotgun drop to hang loosely by his side. He staggers on the spot before bolting forward, powering towards where they ascend the gravel path. The vehicles drew closer and closer, each foot closer increasing the nausea that threatened to consume you.

“Tae wait-“ Jin yells, eyes wide as he watches the vehicles approach. He seems to recognise them as he gasps, a quiver forming on his chin.

“It’s them!”

#bts x you #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts reader insert #bts series #taehyung x reader #taehyung x you #taehyung fanfic #taehyung series #taehyung angst #my writing

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

Life Goes On

This if for @buckybarnesplumwhore

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; grieving, funeral, breeding, handcuffs, warnings are not exhaustive so read at your own discretion.

This is dark! Andy Barber x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You volunteer at the local youth center but when one of the kids meets an unfortunate end, you cross paths with his father. No stranger to grief, you try to help him cope but find it a bigger than task that you expected.

Note: When I started writing, I had no plan. When I kept writing, there was still no plan. And then it just all kinda happened.

Thanks to everyone for sticking around and putting up with me and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

It was too sunny for a funeral. A funeral come too soon.

The service was held out in the sun, rows of wooden chairs and a sombre old priest. You never knew if the Barbers were religious but it was easy to find a holy man in Massachusetts, as easy as those early years of settlement found in textbooks.

There were no flowers, only two oblong caskets shrouded in black cloth, the name of each of the dead on silver placards, no pictures, no souvenir of who they were.

It was like Andy was already trying to forget them. He was at the front, the grieving widower and father. You were lost somewhere in the middle with his co-workers, there out of propriety more than empathy, and distant relatives who attended out of courtesy, some passing acquaintances who followed the story in the papers more than out of compassion. It was a spectacle and Andy had done his best from feeding the leering onlookers.

You knew Jacob more than his parents. He was younger than you, almost ten years apart. You knew him from the youth group you volunteered for, the same one you'd been in at his age. He was out of place there, he was from a better neighbourhood than the other kids, they called him the rich brat, and he resented himself more for it than he did them.

His attendance kept his mother happy. He didn't like the individual counseling, he didn't talk, so she put him in the group and he talked there. Sometimes. The kids never went on philosophical monologues but they understood each other and shared what they needed to.

Laurie was always late to pick him up. So he stayed to help stack the chairs and you ended up waiting with him, making sure he wasn't alone in the dark. He hated that at first too, until he realised you weren't on the stoop to council or judge. You were just two people, chatting to pass the time.

Sometimes Andy picked him up. He was friendlier than Laurie. Jacob's mother was always in a rush, even on her way home where there was no deadline. She said thanks, maybe, and drove off as she began to lecture Jacob about how he wore his hat. Andy offered you a ride, every time, as if he had some compulsion to be the good guy, the saviour. You always said no, the bus was a five minute ride to your building, fifteen minutes if you walked.

Now Jacob was dead, his mother too. Another tragedy inflicted upon those least likely. Even death didn't stop the whispers, even that venue, the priest's collar, the Biblical dirges, the grim family man in black did not silence them. It sickened you as the service ended and the people rose in a hushed murmur.

Andy left without talking to anyone. The procession of cars would drive through the streets with flags to mark the grieving on their way to the interment. It was as if Andy was doing what was expected more than what he felt he owed the deceased. He was ever the lawyer, formal and curt.

You followed the grey parade. Not out of obligation but out of genuine regret. Jacob seemed like a lost kid, even in death. The rumours, the accusations, the suspicion, followed him. The people didn't watch the dirt fall from the shovel to see him at peace, they watched it as some grand finale to the great show of the Barbers.

When the metal no longer cut and scattered the soil, the crowd thinned out. You stayed as the diggers packed up. You were sad for Jacob, for Laurie. Andy hadn't been there to see the burial. You couldn't blame him but you were surprised. He just disappeared after the service, apparently done with his part in the play.

You went closer and stared at the new stone that stretched above both plots. Laurie Barber… and her son, Jacob Barber. May they rest. It was as short, as minimal as anything else about the affair. You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. You didn't know if Jacob was a bad seed, it wasn't your job to make that call, but he had just been a kid and all that potential was now six feet down.

"Didn't think anyone would stick around," the dark figure stepped up beside you, his steps muted by the grass, "least of all, you."

"I'm sorry, I…" you looked at Andy and then the dirt, "I'll go."

"Wait," he said before you could move, "I thought-- I thought I wanted to be alone for this…" he shoved his hand in his pocket, "but I've been alone since it happened and I'm realising, I'm gonna be alone from here on out."

You didn't say a word. You didn't know what you could say. He'd heard a hundred apologies, a hundred condolences.

"I'm happy someone stayed, that someone cared," he cleared his throat, "thank you."

You nodded and played with the buttons on your cardigan.

"He was too. Happy, you know, that someone cared. I think back now and I realise that you probably saw him more than me. He was always excited to go to the centre but he got in that car and he just… deflated." He shook his head, "maybe this is better. One way or the other, he wanted to get away from me but he never could get away from Laurie. She wouldn't let him go."

He chuckled sardonically but it quickly fizzled in his throat.

"Sorry, I'm rambling…"

"You're processing," you said, "a lot of the kids down at the centre, they lost parents, one way or the other, orphans, fosters… I always told them that they didn't have to make sense because grief never really does."

"Now that makes a lot of sense," he said, "but you shouldn't have to listen to me."

"I shouldn't or you don't think you should say any of it?"

"Hmmm," he hummed, "yeah, maybe."

"I don't get paid to listen to those kids, I just get a time and a place to do so. This isn't different. It's just talking and a lot of that is just figuring things out. Listening is easy, you're doing the hard part."

"Jeez, you come up with this stuff on your own or is there some sort of how-to book?"

You lifted your chin and sucked in your lip. You could tell where Jacob got the bite from.

"Sorry, that was… mean," he said after the silence settled with the dirt, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure," you said.

"You got somewhere to be?"

"No…" you answered cautiously.

"Do you think you might wanna listen to me a little more? I'll buy you a coffee for the trouble."

"You wanna talk? To me?"

"Better than anyone I do know," he snorted, "they all just give me that dumb look. They pity me, judge me. You don't have to say yes but I started now, if I stop, I'll...stop."

"Coffee?" You glanced over at him, "I'd rather tea."

"I'm sure they got that too," he fiddled with the trim of his pocket, "anytime you wanna bail, let me know."

"If I can handle teen angst, I think I can handle you."

🖤

That afternoon wasted away in the corner of a café. It felt like any other day but for Andy, you knew, it was likely the worst day of his life. Likely a day he wouldn’t forget. You sat patiently until the last of your tea was cold. He didn’t finish his coffee, he hardly even touched it. When you checked the time, he looked down embarrassed.

“It’s late,” he said, “I… I’m sorry for keeping you so long.”

“I didn’t have anything to do. I doubt you did either,” you swept up the paper cup and your purse.

“No, really, I mean, you don’t know me. You knew Jacob and I just sat here and talked your ear off for hours. I--” he looked out the window, “I know that when I go home, the house will still be empty. That’s why I’m here.”

You looked past him as he turned back. You chewed your lip, “Andy, have you looked into counseling yet?”

“It feels… too early for that.”

“Too early?”

“I don’t want to let it go. Don’t want to let them go,” he sucked his hands in his pockets, “if I go, that’s what they’ll tell me to do.”

“No, they’d help you live with it, not forget it,” you said, “but I know, it’s scary. Have you done anything? Read anything?”

“Read?”

“Self-help isn’t for everyone and those dummy books aren’t great I admit, but sometimes a start is better than nothing. What about… a routine? Do you have one?”

“I work, I come home, I sleep, and try not to notice they’re gone,” he shrugged, “and repeat. Lot of overtime.”

“You’re still working?” you went to the door and he followed.

“Well, I talked to you. That’s what I’m going to do about it.”

You stepped out into the evening din and spun to look at him. You crossed your arms and stood across from him on the pavement.

“Well, unfortunately there’s an age limit down at the centre,” you said, “but I could give you a number for an adult group.”

“No, I don’t wanna talk to a group of sad parents and widowers. Just remind me how pathetic I really am,” he scoffed.

“Do you think that what you’re doing right now is better?”

“Do you have a degree in this?” he wondered, “what are you doing down at that youth centre talking to degenerates?”

“I have a certificate that says I’m good at listening, but no, I couldn’t afford a degree,” you dropped your arms, “but, will you come down? Sit in on a session. Just listen… for Jacob? It helped him, I think, after a while?”

“With the kids?”

“Yeah, with the kids,” you said, “maybe it will help you decide.”

“Decide what?”

“If you’re going to keep doing what you're doing; nothing, or if you’re going to try. Trust me, after a while, just sitting there, ignoring it, it gets old and it won’t get better.”

He looked down and stared at his leather shoe as he ground his toe into the pavement, “is that allowed? Am I allowed to do that?”

“I don’t see why not. I have parents sit in all the time.”

“But I’m not-- not anymore,” he gulped.

“You are,” you patted his arm gently, “you always will be.”

“What time?” he raised his head.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays at four-thirty. We do accept late arrivals. Kids come in and out. Usually hang out til seven before I let them go.”

“I think I can make that work,” he exhaled deeply, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For putting up with me.”

You nodded and gave a bittersweet smile, “I miss Jacob too. I might be little more than a glorified babysitter but it means something to me. The kids… they feel like they’re mine sometimes. At least on those two nights a week.”

“Well…” he peered down the street, “you need a ride?”

You chuckled quietly, “you now, I think this time, I do.”

🖤

Andy was early. He took a chair near the wall as the kids flopped on the low sofas and into the colourful armchairs. A government grant had seen an upgrade in the lounge, although the kitchen needed some work as the cooking classes were still short on supplies. Dark circles darkened his eyes and the hairline wrinkles around them added to the hollow effect. He wasn’t sleeping.

You waited for the room to quiet. You greeted the kids and went through the usual ice breaker; one bad thing, one good thing, and one way they could improve the bad. Many of them were reluctant at first, they resisted what they thought were cheesy and inane exercises but they all came around. They were able to voice things that otherwise would be kept to themselves and they were afforded a respectful and often rapt audience.

When you finished, you kept from naming your own three. You looked at Andy.

“I’m sorry, everyone, I’m so forgetful. This is Andy,” you gestured to him, “he’s sitting in with us today. Andy, why don’t you tell us your bad thing, your good thing, and one thing you can do to improve the bad.”

He looked startled but he stood and cleared his throat. He glanced around at the kids and the shadow left his face. “Well, I lost a file, there were free bagels at work, and… I guess I could try to look again tomorrow.”

“Very good,” you smiled, “alright, my turn at last. My bad thing is I spilled tea on my shirt, my good thing is it’s a dark shirt, and my thing to improve is… wear a bib.” You laughed as you audience stay stone faced, “alright, alright, I’ll just be more careful and not run with hot liquids.”

You sat and started with Danica. She was always the most talkative, that encouraged the other kids. Today was no exception and you had to remind her to save some time for everyone else. Erik was next, then Andre, and Shamea. You almost didn’t notice Andy as he stood and sidled against the wall. Not until he was at the door, he looked back darkly and you saw his chest fall heavily. His nostrils flared and he was gone.

You tried not to show your disappointment, tried not to let the kids notice. They were all caught up in the circle and breaking it was never good. Shamea passed the stuffed bunny to Naima and you focused on her. Maybe it was too soon for Andy, you understood that, but you hoped too that he might have found a piece of Jacob there.

Before the kids left, you handed out the coloured markers and they each scribbled down a few words before a high-five. They passed through the open door in pairs and singles, and you bent to add your own note. You tucked the card into your bag and locked up. Jacob was usually the only one to hang around. Not anymore.

You headed out the front door with a wave to Martha at the front desk and took a gulp of the fresh evening air. There was someone sat on the flat stone at the bottom of the broad rail of the stairs. You recognised Andy as you neared, much too big to be a teen.

“I’m sorry,” he dabbed his nose with his sleeve, “I couldn’t… I couldn’t stay in that room.”

“But you’re still here,” you said.

“I didn’t wanna just leave you hanging but… they all remind me of him,” he stood, “I’m sorry.”

“No more apologies,” you opened your purse and searched, “I had the kids put this together. Actually, it was Milo’s idea. He didn’t know it was you but he wanted to send it in the mail--”

“What?” he took the card and opened it. He turned so he could read it in the yellow light of the street lamp, “oh my god.”

“Is it too much?”

“No, no,” he ran his thumb over the ink, “it’s…” he closed it and tucked it into his jacket, “the only other thing I’ve got is the bill for the caskets. It’s… amazing. Thank you.”

“Not at all. They always surprise me,” you said, “most of the time, in good ways.”

“You need a ride?” he checked his watch.

“I don’t live far,” you waved him off, “but I always appreciate the offer.”

He nodded and frowned, “and if… if I didn’t want to be alone? Would you grab a burger with me? Have you eaten?”

“Not since lunch, I, uh… I guess it couldn’t hurt,” you said.

“You gotta be up early?”

“Nah, not too early.”

“What do you do? I mean, outside of this?” he turned and directed you to his car.

“Data entry,” you sighed, “it’s not very exciting but I work remotely and the pay is decent and I still have time for the kids.”

“It’s a living,” he said as the door locks clicked and you grabbed the handle, “no judgment. Trust me, being a lawyer, it’s really not as glamourous as it seems.”

🖤

Andy’s routine changed. He came around every Thursday and listened. After a few weeks, the kids figured out who he was. They didn’t treat him any differently and even invited him to join in on the teambuilding games you arranged. He wasn’t bad help as you welcomed a few new members from the group home.

That night, you weren’t feeling great. Even the kids hadn’t helped much. You were exhausted and nauseous. You blamed it on the late night shawarma. You said goodbye to the kids and packed up. Andy stacked the chairs without you asking, even when you told him not to.

You leaned heavily on the table and checked your phone before slipping it into your bag. You wiped your forehead and shivered. Some gravol, ginger ale, and sleep would be your indulgence that night.

“You okay?” Andy asked.

“Stomach thing,” you rubbed your middle, “nothing major.”

“You don’t look great,” he said, “well, I don’t mean it like-- are you sure--”

“Oh, gee,” you slid past him and out the door.

You ran to the restroom across the hall and into a stall. You wretched and the acid seared your throat. The bile bubbled in the toilet water and you shuddered. You heaved a few more times and rinsed your mouth in the sink.

Andy was waiting for you in the hall, “let me drive you tonight,” he insisted, “even if it’s just a block away.”

“I can’t even say no,” you grumbled as he handed you your purse.

“What’s wrong? You eat something?”

“I think,” you groaned as he held the door open and the cool air outside chilled the sweat on your neck, “urgh, I hope it’s only that.”

You got to his car and fell heavily into the seat. You slumped against the console as he started the car. He paused as the engine idled and felt your forehead. He nudged you back against the seat and turned his hand to press the back of his fingers to your cheek.

“You got a fever,” he said, “I don’t think it’s food poisoning.”

“Oh, those kids carry bugs like rats,” you muttered, “just take me home, I’ll get over it.”

He pulled out of his spot and you closed your eyes. You leaned against the window, frigid against your forehead and hugged yourself. You dozed off before he even turned out of the lot, the belt keeping you from folding over entirely.

🖤

You woke up between fresh linen. The sunlight was soft in its early hues. It wasn't your bed. You rolled onto your side and your stomach ached from how empty it was. You pushed back the thick duvet, you were sweating. You didn't remember more than the car ride and a few fuzzy glimpses of the bottom of a bucket.

You were cold again and pulled the blanket back. The door was open and Andy filled it as if he'd heard your grumbles. He stood at the bottom of the bed in a pair of plaid pants and a blue tee.

"Why am I here?" You asked.

"You fell asleep. You're sick. I couldn't just leave you outside your building," he said, "how are you feeling?"

"Bad," you replied curtly, "I can go," you sat up, "stop by the pharmacy, go hide in my own bed."

"You should stay here," he insisted, "just until the fever breaks."

"Really… ugh," you moaned as your belly clenched, "Andy, I should--"

"Lay down?" He came around and caught your shoulder, "I used to call in sometimes when Jacob was home sick. When he was a lot younger and… I stir up a man cup of noodles."

"You don't have to--"

"It's completely selfish," he interrupted, "it's been a long time since I had someone to take care of or at least it feels like it."

You were light-headed as you tried to stand but he kept you from getting to your feet, "I guess I can stay a little longer."

"Don't act like I don't owe you," he tutted, "now relax. I'll get you some soup. You need something in your system. I got some anti-nausea pills in the cupboard, too."

"Thanks but you don't owe me anything. I'm gonna owe you big."

"Why don't we just call it even then," he backed up, "seeing as that's my bed and my couch, it's really not made for sleeping." He stretched his arms and his shoulders cracked, "especially at my age."

🖤

You stayed another night. You tried to convince Andy to let you take the couch instead but he was a lawyer and rarely lost an argument. It was easier to eat by the evening but you were still dizzy and you couldn't stop yawning. You'd never been so tired.

Despite your uneasiness at overstaying your welcome, you slept more heavily than before. Your guilt didn't keep you awake for long as you sank into a deep sleep and you woke slowly, a murmur escaping your lips as grogginess weighed you down. You were still so very tired but it was already morning.

You stretched and your wrist caught. You winced and tugged at your arm. You sat up in horror as you stared at the metal cuff attached to the hoop drilled into the headboard. You tugged until your arm hurt and your hand throbbed. What the fuck.

"Andy! Andy! What--"

"Shhhhh," Andy hushed you as he entered, "it's okay, you're okay."

"No, I'm not. What did you do?" You pulled again and the metal pinched your skin.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he said calmly.

"Unlock it. Let me go," you struggled as you kicked off the blankets, "Andy, what the fuck?"

"Hey, don't talk like that. It's...nasty."

"I don't understand," you began to pant, "why are you doing this?"

The panic crawled like tendrils up your neck and back. You twisted and pulled but the metal cuff didn't budge. You felt the bed shift and Andy grabbed your shoulder. He forced you down, pinning your other hand beside your head.

"I'm taking care of you," he said, "don't be so ungrateful."

"I can take care of myself. Let me go, please."

"No, you need me," he snarled, "like I need you."

"Andy, you're wrong--"

"Stop!" He covered your mouth, "stop! You don't know what you need. Now be still. Be quiet." He squeezed until your jaw hurt, "don't make this difficult."

He slowly lifted his hand and you didn’t move. You stared at his hand then looked at his face. There was a desperate anger in the depths of his oceanic eyes. He sat back and his jaw clenched as he watched you.

"I'm going to make breakfast. Be good. You need to eat." He backed off the bed and went to the door, "I mean it."

He left you and you listened until pans clinked and clanged in the kitchen below. You folded your thumb against your palm and tried to wiggle free of the cuff. It was too tight. There was only one other way out and you couldn't do it alone.

"HELP! HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE!" You screamed, "someone help me!"

The footsteps hammered up the stairs and Andy stormed in. He grabbed you and clamped his hand over your mouth again.

"Listen, no one can hear you, you got that? Windows are soundproof, but I really don't want to hear it so it's up to you if I gag you."

You blinked and your lip trembled against his hand. Your eyes rounded and you nodded stiffly. He tore his hand away and sighed as he clapped his hands on his legs in frustration.

"Good," he said quietly, "now, let's just hope," he stood and strode to the door, "that the bacon didn't burn."

🖤

You fell asleep again shortly after eating, even with the adrenaline and panic surging through your veins. You woke again in the afternoon. Your limbs were heavy but the fever was gone and your stomach felt better but you were still terribly tired.

Andy was there. He had a leather file in his lap as he looked over papers and scratched his beard. He sensed your movement and looked over at you.

"Hungry?" He asked, "you slept through lunch."

"No," you smelled your sweat on the duvet, "but… can I have a shower? I haven't...since I got here."

"A shower?" He closed the folder and stood. He set it down and pursed his lips as he thought. "Fifteen minutes," he said as he dug around in his pocket, "I'll be here."

He unlocked the cuff and you rubbed your wrist as you sat up. He stayed close as you rose and stayed between you and the bedroom door as he pointed you to the bathroom.

"I don't have much for you to wear yet but you can take another one of my shirts," he said.

You nodded and closed the door between you. You closed your eyes and pressed yourself to the wind. How was this the same man that you spoke to that day at the cemetery?

🖤

He slept beside you that night. You were on your side, your arm bound again by the cuff with the pillow between it and your head. You were uncomfortable, more so with him against your back. He wore only a pair of boxers. You shied away when he undressed and never looked at him again.

You dozed despite your nerves. You couldn't shake the drowsiness. You just felt more and more tired. When you opened your eyes, his arm was around you. He ran his fingers over your stomach, fingers crawling beneath the baggy tee shirt. You shivered and he nuzzled the back of your neck.

"I was thinking… well, I've been thinking for a while now, how happy we could be," he said, "I'm still young enough to try again, do it right and you… you're young, ready." His hand brushed up to your chest and he cupped your tit, "you're kind, you're caring, you're...beautiful. You’re my second chance."

“Andy,” your voice was brittle as your pulse beat furiously, “what you’re doing, it’s not right. You need to let me go.”

He went rigid and his hand stopped. He unsnaked his arm from around you and the springs coiled as he fell heavily onto his back. In the silence, you could only hear his steady breaths and a low growl.

“No, I’m helping you,” he said, “like you’ve helped me.”

“Andy, please,” you eased onto your back and looked over at him, “this isn’t how you fix this.”

“How do I?” he snarled, “huh? How? You don’t know!” he sat up and glared down at you, “you can’t know.”

“You think hurting me is helping me? That’s what you’re doing.”

“No, no, no,” he bent his legs as he grasped his head and gripped it as if it would crack, “No! I haven’t hurt you. I feed you, I keep you clean, I… I take care of you!”

“Andy,” you reached over shakily and touched his bare shoulder, “this isn’t what I want and I know you don’t want it either. You want someone who really loves you--”

“You love me!” he turned so quickly you yelped. He gripped your jaw tightly as he held himself against you, “you love me,” he pressed his lips to yours and you murmured in surprise, “you love me,” it was a maddened chant as he pulled back, “...love me.”

“And--”

His hand flew up to smother you and he lifted himself over you. His knees pressed to your legs until they parted and his other hand explored your curves through the rumpled cotton. You squeaked and tensed against his touch, your wrist chafing from the cuff.

“Shhh,” he hushed as he pushed the shirt up.

He kept his hand on your mouth as he slid down your body and left a trail of kisses along your torso as he unveiled it. He bunched the tee above your chest and bent to dote on your tits. You shuddered and pushed on his head as you mumbled into his palm.

His fingers tickled along your side and hooked into the side of the drawstring shorts he gave you. He tugged until the string snapped and edged them down as he continued to tend to your chest. You kicked around him and felt his bulge as he leaned into you.

He ripped his hand away and sat up. He grabbed the waist of the shorts and wrenched them down your legs, quickly taking his between them again. You wriggled and batted out at his chest as his thumbs pressed against your hip bones and his hands crept down to knead your thighs.

“I can start again,” he brushed his fingers down your vee and you trembled as they danced along your cunt.

“No, Andy, please, you can still stop--”

“Shhhh, honey,” he pushed between your folds and you gasped, “it’s okay. I’ll still take care of you,” he glided over your cunt and made you twitch, “and the baby.”

He poked along your entrance and you whined helplessly as you reached to the cuff and pulled with both arms. Every muscles in your strained as you tried to break free of the headboard. He pushed a finger inside of you and you cried out.

“Andy, stop, please, no--”

He added another finger and slipped them in and out of you as he purred. You looked at his face and it sent a chill through you. His eyes were dark and clung to the movement of his hand, his brow set and his jaw squared with his intent. He wasn’t the grieving widower, he wasn’t the man lost and lonely, he was a monster.

“That’s it,” he turned his hand and flicked your clit with his thumb, “you want me. I feel it.”

You looked away as your wetness spread to his knuckles and along your folds. He kept his thumb moved as he curled his fingers inside of you and the pressure built as the tip of his touch. You gritted your teeth and shook your head helplessly.

“No,” you whispered, “no, no, no…”

He took his hand away suddenly and you felt empty. He lifted himself on his knees and rolled down his boxers. You didn’t look at him, you couldn’t, you only saw the silhouette of his nudity.

He pushed your thighs apart and spread himself over you, his elbow just beside you as he felt around between your bodies. His hot breath grazed your cheek and he kissed it firmly as he angled his tip between your folds. Your thighs clenched around him in a futile act of resistance as he found your entrance.

He pushed inside slowly and brought his other arm up beside you. He forced your head straight and you squeezed your eyes shut. He cradled your head between his hands and his lips brushed yours as he spoke, “open your eyes. Look at me.”

“Andy,” you murmured as he slowly got deeper, “please--”

“Look at me,” he demanded, “look at me!”

Your eyes snapped open and met his stormy blue ones. He bucked his hips and impaled you completely. You exclaimed and grasped his thick bicep in shock, your other hand balled above the cuff. Your legs bent around his thick thighs as you tried to stop him.

“God, you feel so good,” he purred as he began to rock, “don’t I feel good too?”

Your lashes fluttered away the rising tears and you sucked your lip in to keep from making a sound. You could look away as he held your head straight, his hand clamping around your jaw as he other arm bent beneath yours.

The room echoed with the noise of his flesh slapping yours as he sped up, his grunts and groans interlaced with the sickening symphony. You quivered as his pelvis rubbed against yours and stoked the heat in your core. You could not hold back the illicit response of your body as he ravaged it.

Your breath grew heavier and he gulped it down as he kissed you again, forcing his tongue between your lips as he devoured you. The whole bed moved in time with your body and the headboard knocked against the wall as his thrusts came closer and closer together and he buried himself as deep as he could with each tilt of his hips.

He drew his mouth away and pressed his cheek to yours as his muscles tensed and he puffed into the pillow, “this is it, honey. It all starts here.”

“Ah, please…” your voice fizzled and smothered your moan against his shoulder as your body spasmed. Your legs bent around him firmly as you orgasmed and your body arched beneath his desperately.

“That’s it,” he cooed, “that’s it. You take me so well. See… it was meant to… be.”

His breaths grew more rampant with his rhythm. His hand slipped down to cradle your cheek and his thumb stroked your flesh tenderly as he dipped into you over and over. His deep groans grew louder around you. He jerked into you sharply and his motion stuttered. He gripped your hip and held you down as he sheathed himself in your walls.

He quaked as his hips slowed and he flooded you. He exhaled and as his lungs emptied, the strength left him entirely and he lowered himself over you weakly. His body pressed yours into the mattress, your sweat and his turned sticky as the air settled over you.

He stayed like that for what felt like forever. He moved slowly to lift himself up and he sat back, watching his dick slide out of you. Your thighs shook as your legs splayed around him. You felt his cum leak from you and he dragged his fingers along your cunt and scooped it back into you, coating his fingers in as he pushed them past your entrance once more. He smiled at the wet sounds of your cunt.

“That felt like the one,” he said, “but we can try again...”

He pulled his fingers out of you and admired the slickness that glistened over them. He reached down and gripped his dick, half-soft and spent. He winced as he began to stroke himself and let out stifled moans between his teeth.

“Maybe this time,” he purred as he angled himself inside of you again and lifted your legs against his torso. He bit his lips as he trembled, his cock oversensitive and overworked, “as many times as it takes, honey.”

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #one shot #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #defending jacob

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