#skirts the truth like a crooked love in a straight line down

[coffeeatmidnight1200]

Friendly reminder that we have never heard the truth from her red lips 😤

[kentopedia]

it's been decades since you've last seen dazai; your lover & your maker. now that you're finally happy, he's haunting you again with a thousand buried memories.

overall contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, exes to lover, gothic romance, blood drinking, vampire!reader, vampire!dazai, smut, cheating reader, complicated relationships, blood, gore, jealousy, manipulation, religious symbolism, betrayal, reunions — 5.3k words

PART V ♰ MASTERLIST

Human blood, when it came straight from the source, a punctured vein made up of a scarlet river, held a divine power. There was a warmth that you could only receive from drinking it, not from the animals you captured in the woods, or those that you bled dry into a goblet. 

Only then, would your icy skin be transformed into something akin to heated marble, so smooth, made up of something that had outlasted any other creature roaming the earth. 

That sort of euphoria was a feeling that fifty years had served you well in forgetting. You’d learned not to miss it. 

Until you got it back. The taste of human blood, once it had stained your lips after decades, had become the only thing on your mind. 

For two days, the blood of the woman, whom Dazai had lured to his hotel room for you, kept your hunger down. Your body had grown warm once more, skin as normal as any mortal’s. It made you feel as if you had regained life itself, the ecstasy seeping back into you like the sunbeams you’d never reach again. 

You’d pranced around your home joyfully, dancing through the halls the night before. Although it was dangerous, it was freeing, to lose yourself to the bloodlust like that. Just a taste of what your life had been, was enough to twist your mind, have you reminiscing on the vampire you’d once been. 

“You seem different,” Atsushi had said, the previous day. There had been such pleasure in his irises and the lines creasing his face, at seeing you so cheerful. Those signs of happiness in him were ones that you’d vowed never to take away, for doing so would deem you the vilest creature of them all. “Has something happened that I’m not aware of?” 

You’d laughed, let him rest in the crook of your elbow as you leaned him over your forearm, dipping him gracefully with your otherworldly strength. “I’m just glad you’re home, Atsushi,” you’d said, before twirling him around, guiding him in a dance around the room. 

It was all you could say, really. You couldn’t admit that your true gaiety came from the blood of a young woman, and your health had been restored by drinking the sweet nectar from her heart. 

Something you should’ve been doing all along. 

Then, when those two days passed, and the desperation that came with hunger returned, your mood soured. Atsushi pretended he hadn’t noticed, skirting around you with sideways glances and softened smiles. Encouragement — even if he wasn’t sure what had turned your radiance into a shade of blue. 

Life settled back into a sense of normalcy. For your fiancee, at least, who had never had a clue that anything was amiss. You, on the other hand, grappled with the immense guilt, the truth of what you’d done slamming against you, every moment your thoughts strayed. 

Dazai. 

Dazai. 

Dazai. 

The only name on your mind. Ever. Dreadfully lurking at the lines of your subconscious, even as you smiled at the one who loved you purely. Dazai’s charming grin snuck behind your eyelids as you kissed the man you were to be wed to, his name souring your tongue when you tasted Atsushi’s own. 

His voice, a melody bestowed upon you by nothing else but the devil, for a merciful god could never have created something so tempting, so horribly unholy. Those dark eyes, darker still when you punctured his throat, letting the crimson liquid flow into your mouth, staining your lips. 

And his blood… 

You growled, digging your nails into the piano that you’d failed to play at all. A screeching sound erupted as your fingers slid down the cover, deep scratches marring the wood. 

This was all his fault. If he’d never come back, then things could’ve carried on as they always had. You wouldn’t crave the taste of human blood once again, of Dazai’s blood, of his mouth, of him. 

“Get out,” you shouted, throwing the piano bench away from the instrument, the wood splintering under your strength. “Get out.” The antique vase shattered against the wall, the priceless item suddenly a million, tiny pieces. “Get out of my head.” 

Frustrated crept its way up your chest, a less than welcome old friend. 

Yet, that blend of rage and anguish was not an antidote to the way that Dazai Osamu had poisoned your mind, and you fell to your knees, sobbing hot streaks of blood into your hands. 

He’d made a cheater out of you, once again. A cheater, a killer, and a monster. And even after all that, you yearned for him. Your chest ached for the trace of his fingertips along your jawline, for those eyes to soften, only upon you. For the smile that he’d always given you, even in your darkest moments, as you laid upon him, coated in the gore of another.

Dazai was a cruel man, but he’d loved you through it all. 

And if what he said was true, he’d never meant to leave you. 

You swallowed, willing your tears away as you stared at the ceiling, dragging those regrettable emotions deep, burying them under the years of turmoil he’d put you through. All the times he’d snuck away, never telling you where he’d gone, promising he’d change and still playing the same games. 

Even then, the taste of his blood was too fresh on your mind, the tenderness of his hands still burned into your skin. 

Dazai, for all his cruelty, was right. Atsushi would never understand you the way he did. He’d never love you like that either. 

It had been a blessing, at first, that Atsushi was so vastly different from your immortal companion. Now, it had become the thorn lodged deep in your side, puncturing you through the middle. 

When the day came that you turned Atsushi, with a ring upon your finger and the promise of an immortal life, would you still long for Dazai? 

It seemed unfair to judge your vampire lover now, for all his misgivings, all the evil deeds he had committed, all the adultery, all the silence. The murder. You were the same, you and Dazai. Burned straight from the same pit, crafted by the hands of a demon, placed upon this earth for no reason but evil. 

How foolish you had been, to ever think you could be anything good. 

Three days later, when the rats were not enough, and the threat of biting Atsushi became too much to resist, you sought Dazai out. 

The realization of your buried feelings, towards him and yourself, would remain just that—hidden. You’d told Dazai you needed time, and you still did. Time to decide if you’d rather live with Atsushi, or step out into the sunlight, letting your body fall into flames before ashes. Both seemed more pleasurable than admitting that your once lover had seen straight through you. 

Truly anything was better than admitting that what you felt for Dazai was something, still, close to love. 

You’d spent the evening steeling yourself, staring awake in the darkened room as you rehearsed what you’d say to Dazai, after the last conversation you’d had. It had begun to occur to you, perhaps, that your problematic dalliance could be traced back to the mixed signals that you continued to send his way.

Yet, when you finally mustered up the courage to visit him, Dazai was not at the hotel. The room service had already cleared out the lodgings, stripped the room bare and sterilized it after his departure. 

Dazai was gone. He’d left just like you’d wanted him to, for weeks. 

So, why did your heart drop like a weight from your chest to your stomach, the agonizing twist of abandonment tearing through your immortal soul?

Briefly, you stared at the empty room, blinking at the laundress who spread fresh linens across the mattress. She seemed to be startled by the fury and misery in your darkened irises, lips parting with words she wouldn’t speak. 

“The man,” you said, hating the sound of your choked voice, raspy as it made its way out of your chalky throat. “The man that was staying in this room. He left?” 

She stared at you for a moment longer, before nodding slowly. “He did.” 

“Do you know when?” 

When? Where? Why did you let him leave? How could he just walk away without even so much as a goodbye?

The woman shook her head once more, smoothing a wrinkle across the sheets before stepping away from the four-poster bed. The same one that you had tumbled onto with Dazai, twice in the past few days, your icy hands roaming across each other’s bodies.

“That is not my business,” she offered, as kindly as she could, frightened by the sharp coils of your features, as nasty as the glare that shone in your burning eyes. “I apologize that I cannot be of more help, miss.” 

You considered carrying on, objecting, perhaps tearing apart the room in a fit of anger. It could be upended by your monstrous speed before the skittish laundress even had time to protest. 

For less than a moment, you bared your fangs, the sheer white of your teeth glinting in the moonlight. A flash of fear sheared its way through the woman’s eyes, as she caught the menacing curl of your lip, before you recovered smoothly. Quickly enough for her to believe that it had been a trick of the light, a play of her imagination.

“No. I apologize,” you said, dropping your hands to your sides, ignoring the dissonance of your humanity and your eternal curse. So quickly, with the burst of anger thrumming under your skin, you’d resorted to thoughts of violence. Ugly ideas swarmed your mind, a vision of blood, beautifully ruby red, splattering across the creamy linens. 

Perhaps it was best that Dazai left. Hopefully, it was permanent.

Without another word, you left the laundress to her work, heading back to the front desk to see if you could weasel any answers out of the manager. He had been quite adamant in keeping it private, the whereabouts of guests, both past and present, under lock and key.

“I am merely curious when he left,” you said, growing frustrated after a minute of pursuing answers. Your sharp nails, stronger than that of a normal human’s, dug into the counter, small crescents indented in the dark wood. “Can you not supply me with that simple fact?” 

The man pushed his glasses up, shook his head once, before you huffed, nearly hissing under your breath. You would resolve to more drastic measures, if you needed to. 

“Tell me when he left.” You laid your sharp gaze into him, digging past the soil of his golden brown irises, until you had reached his mind, curling your own influence around it. “Dazai Osamu, he was staying in room 29.” 

The man straightened, looked at you with parted lips, like you were the only person, the only being, in the entire world. So captivated he was, both by your beauty and your confidence, the smile on your lips softened, yet not without its cruelty. But the touch you’d laid on his mind was one of comfort, a warm caress. A feeling of laying on your chest, your fingers curling through the few, thin strands left on his balding head. 

“Earlier this week,” he replied, nodding, recollecting the evening. “Yes, I remember him. Quite an outlandish fellow—very self assured. He’d checked out earlier than expected, but seemed in no hurry.” The fog lifted from the man’s irises for just a moment, as confusion hammered against you, and you lost your focus. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

You were quite out of practice, and dug deeper, controlling his consciousness. “Did he say where he was going? Or anything at all?” 

He shrugged, eyebrows knitting together in pain as your gentle touch laid way to a cold slap against his mortal intuition. “I can only assume he would be going home.” 

You scowled, face marring into an ugly expression, as your hands shook against the countertop. Then, you turned, scoffing, and released the man from your grasp. “Fine. Forget we had this conversation.” 

The clerk said nothing to you as you stalked away, leaving a trail burned into the carpet from your steps. You were nothing more than a stranger. 

Outside, you seemed to come to your senses, the moon, your oldest friend, your eternal companion, greeting you with a kiss. You stared up at it with distant longing, wishing, perhaps, that that silvery light could shroud you, wrap you up and take you away, just as the sunlight could. 

Three steps around the corner, out of the sight of any lingering travelers, you dropped to the ground, leaning against the brick exterior of the old hotel. It was a building on the brim of decay, the colors so much different than when it’d opened, wood paneling rotting away. 

Rotting just like anyone that had ever loved you had done. 

The hotel had been born after your family, after the friends you’d had when you were human, but the state of it was more grisly than any you’d ever been in. It would age, die, collapse into the earth, and you would walk in the rubble, still as divine as you were now. 

The realization of that alone had you doubling over, laughing into your hands, a sharp, terrible sound that echoed into the emptiness of night. 

So hard, you laughed, that it threatened to tumble into tears, ones that you kept at bay, even as you stared at the decaying hotel and the stars in the night that you’d probably outlive too. 

With Dazai gone, you felt closer to the brink of insanity than you ever had, in both your lives as a human and a vampire. It felt that some cord deep within you had snapped, and suddenly, you could not see a reason for your meaningless existence. 

Day in and day out you’d suffered, looking for a reason to continue on the path of moral righteousness, to ignore all the memories that continued to resurface, floating up out of the deep, black abyss. 

You had been unhappy as a human, unsatisfied with your existence, and you had been a loose cannon in your early years as a vampire; a risk to yourself and anything that dared to step in your path. And though you’d once believed yourself to court misery, you had only shared a gentle kiss with it, never taken it to bed and let it shroud you with itself. 

Misery, now, was the only word that could encompass the deep sense of hollowness that had been carved inside of you. Even Atsushi, with his kind eyes and a smile you loved so dearly, had not been able to ease you out of bed. 

Leave me for a few days, Atsushi, you’d told him, not sure if you were being selfish, or quite the opposite. I don’t want to hurt you. 

You didn’t. You didn’t want to hurt him. But there was, and perhaps there would always be, the version of you that longed for the violence. For when had you last been happy, free, without the restraints and the threat of murdering the one you loved most, if not when you were with Dazai?

When the third day passed without a drop of blood, and the hunger had gripped you so tightly that you were on the brink of delirium, you pulled yourself out of bed, and left the apartment. 

It was warmer, humid, the air stifling and pressing down on you as you roamed the streets, looking for something, anything. While the weather had very little effect on the dead, it was your hunger that dizzied you, a sensation that was so close to the suppressive heat felt as a human that you smiled, traipsed around as if you were in a dream.

Atsushi you’d spoken to only in brief increments, your fangs bared in a threat, warning him not to come any closer. And all he’d done was smile, tightly, and grabbed a fresh set of clothes, leaving for the rest of the week to retire elsewhere. 

Despite your treatment of him, you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel apologetic. If that was what it took for you to save his life, to keep him from seeing the ugliest parts of you, then so be it. 

Still, it only made you think of Dazai, who had seen all those sides of you. He had seen you, the very worst parts of you. He had seen you as a human, smiling softly at men on the streets as you slipped a hand into their pockets, stealing for the bread you couldn’t afford. He had seen you relish at the sight of fear, as the very same men began to see you as a threat, not a prize that could so easily be won. He had seen you happily drown yourself in murder, and he had loved you anyway. 

For as little as he’d shared about his own life, you’d understood him. It had been the reason he’d given you the gift of immortality, one you could never return.

Thinking of that — thinking of Dazai at all — felt like a betrayal. 

“Excuse me,” you heard a voice say beside you. A tall man approached, at least a foot above you, his eyes roaming across you with a lust you were all too familiar with. For a moment, you considered ignoring him, stepping away without turning to face him at all. 

He persisted, calling out for you again, when you finally gazed back at him with hard suspicion. 

“May I help you?” you replied, eyes narrowed.

He startled, taking a step back at your intensity. “Ah. I’m just passing through, and I’ve lost my way. I was wondering if you would direct me back to Crescent Street. I’m staying at the hotel there,” he said.

“Perhaps I am a traveler as well.” You glanced back at the river, the shimmering water winking at you with the reflection of the stars. “What makes you so certain I am familiar with the area?”

If you threw yourself into the water, tried to drown under the darkened depths, would you? Would the water flow through your lungs, killing you over and over until the sun rose, or would you simply breath it in and out as freshly as air, coughing it up when you emerged? 

Dazai had never told you these kinds of things. You’d never been bored enough to try and find out yourself. 

“Oh,” the man said. “Forgive me. I just assumed, based on how confidently you stroll the night. With all the murders that have been happening, I thought you must have either been comfortable, or just very stupid.” 

You smiled lazily at him, as the annoyance surged up in you, so fast and without warning. “I am certainly not stupid.” 

“Certainly not.” Then, the man, with his blonde locks and eyes the colors of sapphires, stuck a gloved hand out, leaning forward. “My name is Peter,” he said, curling his hand around your own, pointedly ignoring the ring on your finger. There was hunger in his expression, though it was different from your own, as he dipped his gaze towards the red corset that hugged your curves, revealing a hint of cold skin at your chest. 

You bowed your head gracefully, giving your name in response, before looking at him from under your eyelashes. From that action alone, the sultry burn you had spilled into your irises, his demeanor changed, lips falling open from your otherworldly beauty. 

Although your gift of slipping into the minds of humans, compelling their actions and twisting their memory had come in handy many times in the past, you’d never had to use it to lure a man to his dark fate. They came so easily, once they understood your intentions, saw even a hint of desire contrasting the gentle innocence you held onto. 

“I must be quite lucky, then, to have stumbled across you,” he said, leaning into you. You could smell the tobacco that stuck to his clothes, fine cigars that he smoked quite freely. There was a hint of another scent there too, sweeter, more feminine. It soaked deeply into his clothes, lining every thread as if it had been coated there. 

“Are you traveling alone?” you asked suspiciously, stepping away from him, to find a shaded area along the bank. There were enough trees to hide any hints of murder, and any lingering eyes had fled to the other side of the city, the busier side, where the port was. 

The storm in Peter’s oceanic eyes dissipated to serene waters. 

A lie came after, and so easily it slipped off his tongue, without an ounce of guilt, of the torment you had long since succumbed to. 

“Yes,” he confirmed. Even though his eyes said no, and the scent of the woman’s perfume agreed. 

“No wife?” you returned, smiling softly, as you reached the edge of the water, the waves curling up along the muddied rocks. “Kids?” 

He laughed. “I’m afraid I am still a lonely bachelor.” 

“Well,” you said, turning back around to trace his arm gently, your diamond clad finger on full display. “I’m not.” 

Although he said nothing, you could see the anger rise up in him, the frustration at being toyed with — and how quickly it rose. His fingers tightened at his side, jaw clenching, a cruel word launching to the tip of his tongue. 

“But,” you said, quelling your own rage. The threat of a violent man may have been nothing to you, but it would be enough to the other women that happened to be passing the streets. “Perhaps, we can ignore that small detail, for the time being.” 

You slipped the ring off your finger and dropped it onto the ground, letting it fall into the earth, soiled and dirtied by the splashes of water that rose up — where you belonged. Underground, buried without a ring that never should’ve been on your finger in the first place. 

You felt crazed, your spirit slipping from the shell of morality it had resided in, as it remembered what it truly meant to be free. And you were free, weren’t you? Your nature was never meant to succumb to laws set by mortals, for you were older than them, older than the society that claimed to be civilized, but was just as monstrous as your own. 

Peter parted his lips, formulating a response you cared little for, as you shoved him up against the nearest tree, his back hitting it with a grave thump.

Even though you expected his face to morph into one of pain, he stared back at you with intrigue, eyes alight with want. That alone made you sick, with him and yourself, for doing the same thing to your fiance that you would take his life for. 

You turned his jaw, caressing him softly as you exposed the vein, and dipped your head. 

It was unfortunate that it didn’t cause him any pain, an almost erotic feeling to humans when you sunk your teeth in, tongue lapping at the puncture. But you were far too hungry to care, and ignored the warning bells in your head as you drank and drank, until the blood and breath began to fizzle out, and he was but a corpse left in your arms. 

The taste grew rancid, sour in your mouth with death, and you released him, tearing the skin with a gruesome sound as you emerged from the vein. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in his expression, despite being gruesomely torn apart, and you threw him towards the river in disgust. 

“I would apologize to your wife,” you said, smiling, rejuvenated by fresh human blood. Although he had been an easy catch, the hunt was elating, nonetheless. “But she’s better off without you.” 

You leaned down, ripping a handkerchief from his pocket, before dabbing at your mouth, a few droplets of blood staining the tan cloth. 

A sigh escaped you, and you glanced back up at the moon, the stars, the endless universe that you hardly understood at all. If there was a god out there, or the devil as you’d once feared, would they grant this as a sin, or would you be a vengeful angel, cleaning the world of the scum that committed adulterous acts?

You placed the cloth across his neck before slashing your nails across it, tearing at the skin like you were an animal, just enough to cover your tracks. Then, you dumped him into the water, watched him turn over, onto his face, before sinking just under. 

For a moment, you stared, as the once living, breathing thing turned into something pale and ugly, floating along the current as if nothing more than a piece of litter, carelessly tossed aside. The mop of hair across the top of the waves, golden and shiny in the light, was the only evidence that he had ever been alive at all. 

Then, as quickly as his life had left him, he disappeared into the night, beyond your vision. 

You paused, feeling an eerie sense of nothingness creep up on you, as you realized what you had done. It had been so long since you’d held someone’s life in your hand like that, killed without a second thought, that the feelings of deliverance and regret battled so fiercely, they turned into impassivity. 

Licking your lips, you turned around, basking in the warm glow of the night, the short hours you had left until the sun rose once again. The days would grow longer again, as would your sleep, as the dreadful months of summer sequestered you inside. 

Picking up your ring, you left the bank, elevated. The ground seemed to fall below you as you meandered home, and the sound of the humans, those still awake at such an hour, though loud, was muddled. Nothing but a cacophony of nonsense as your own thoughts rattled even louder in your head. 

The closer you got to home, to Atsushi, the more you grew to question yourself, to feel sick with your own actions. It was weakness that had drawn you to such an act. You were nothing but a slave to your hunger, to the bloodlust, and the anger that rose up in you. 

Dazai had always been so controlled, so careful and cautious. You, on the other hand, had never been a master of your emotions — you went on killing without worry. A glutton when it came to the bodies you drained. 

“Everything alright?” your neighbor asked, smoking on the balcony as her husband slept inside, perhaps the only reprieve she ever got from the miserable man. 

You approached, waved her off, hoping that she was drunk enough to forgot she ever saw you. Maybe she wouldn’t even care that the woman living next door was a killer. 

That was a laughable idea. 

“Everything’s fine.” you spat out, sharply, not even bothering to look in her direction before you returned to your townhome, slamming the door behind you. It rattled on the hinges, the wood cracking, the frame beside the door shaking, before landing crooked.

A few angry tears emerged in your eyes, and you rubbed them away, your hand coated in watery, red blood, smearing into your skin. “Fuck,” you muttered, shaking your head as you looked to the bedroom, where you knew Atsushi wasn’t… Even though he should’ve been. 

You screamed, bending over to catch yourself, before you kicked at the wall, a large hole breaking the plaster from the strength you’d forgotten you had. Then you screamed again. And again. Your nails tore into your arms in a ghastly, inhuman way, the skin merely stitching itself back up almost as immediately as you ripped it. 

You could lay there, you thought, glancing over at the windows on the opposite side of the room, the beautiful, golden rock in the sky winking at you as she began to fade into the evening. How easy it would be, to open the glass panels, stand before them and let yourself burn into ashes. You could finally face the sun, let the last century and a half become a mere fraction of what your life could’ve been.

But you didn’t. 

You had some strength in you yet. 

Turning away from the window, you crept into one of the spare bedrooms, where the old coffin you’d slept in before rested on the ground. You’d gotten so used to sleeping in that bed, with Atsushi, that you’d almost forgotten you still had that sense of comfort. 

It was a safety net, one that you happily shrouded yourself in as you dusted off the black cover, settling into the silk red sheets you’d chosen yourself. The feeling of sleep there was so reminiscent of your old life, you half expected to open your eyes and see Dazai there, who had laid beside you, many years after death. 

For the first time in decades, you felt more like a vampire than a pathetic attempt of remaining human. You weren’t sure what to make of that.

Atsushi had crept in and out that morning without making a peep, leaving for the office before the crack of dawn, and returning just as you were emerging from your coffin. 

It was, you knew, something that he had never been able to reconcile with your lifestyle — sleeping in such a way, like the old monsters did, the stories that had always been told. That had partially been the reason he’d offered to take on the daunting task of sun-proofing your home. 

“Are you okay, honey?” Atsushi had asked in his soft voice, eyes narrowed in concern as you emerged from the coffin. “I was worried when I didn’t see you in the room.” 

You smiled, tersely, suddenly remembering yourself, the entirety of last night being chalked up to a poor mistake. It was regrettable, even if Peter was a lousy husband, that his wife would wake up, not knowing where he was. And if he had children, what would they think of their father’s disappearance?

“I’m fine,” you said, shaking off those thoughts. Atsushi certainly didn’t need to be worrying about you, and the murder of a cheating man hardly seemed a sin compared to your hypocrisy. “It just feels strange sleeping in our bed, knowing you won’t be coming home.” 

Atsushi’s eyes softened. His romantic ideals had always been something you could speak to. “I know we’ve had a bit of a rough go of things, but…” he shrugged, reaching out to you, before retracting his hand. “I don’t like staying with Ranpo. I would rather be here, you know.” 

You knew. Of course you knew. It hadn’t been Atsushi that had insisted upon his removal from the apartment. 

“I’m sorry,” you sighed.

“It’s okay.” For a moment, he looked away, then rubbed his face. “I know we said we would wait — that I would wait until we were married, but,” a brief pause, as he swallowed. “Maybe, you should turn me now. If I’m still a risk to you.” 

There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, even if his eyes were steadfast. Atsushi still had faith in his humanity, still held onto it tightly, though every moment spent with you left it quickly slipping through the cracks of his fingers. 

But it was never an issue of marriage that had kept you from turning Atsushi. It was the fact that he was so good, so unlike you and Dazai, that you wanted to put it off for as long as possible. 

You smiled, though it was pained, and shook your head. Imagining Atsushi as a vampire was beginning to make you ill, the vision so against the will of the universe that you weren’t sure it could ever come to pass. 

“I’m okay now, I think. I’ve taken care of it.” 

He didn’t ask what that meant. 

You didn’t bother to tell him, either. 

PART VI

sorry this one is kind of a filler >< i promise there will be more exciting stuff soon !!

tag list: @cerberels @thateldribitch @osameowdazai @osaemu @cha0thicpisces @kissesmellow21 @hinata7346 @scinclaitnoir @mimimimiminanana @yolkyuyi @xxoolii @zephoncocaine @angelsdemonsandhumans @kouyoumarryme @avocate-assia-dazai dazai @iluv-ace @pe4rl-diver @wilbur-the-hottie @zbriia @yasu-masashige @umarureid @seikouryuu @dazaiswife1 @kxmilia @lacunaanonymousd @angelof-darkness @acacia-koi @foxydaydreamer @astrial @adoreddior @jayborderline @fandomhoestuff @destinyisastar @kierabear-1 @rosepig @aikatoru @tetsuskei @erebus-et-eigengrau @moemoekunn @amanoava @blank03sthings @himikoslove @aenishas @mncxbe @acacia-koi @stromy-weather @sugaredpersimmon @waiting-for-cas-to-save-me @iheartpieck @little-miss-chaoss

[michaelbogild]

The 50 best lines from Taylor Swift

It was the best of times, the worst of crimes, I struck a match and blew your mind.

They say home is where the heart is, but that's not where mine live.

Take me to the lakes, where all the poets went to die.

Luck of the draw only draws the unlucky.

You got that long hair, slicked back, white t-shirt and I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt.

I could've spent forever with your hands in my pockets. Picture of your face in an invisible locket.

Paper cut stings from our paper-thin plans,

Chemistry 'til it blows up, 'til there's no us.

Could end in burning flames or paradise.

Saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts.

Who coaxed you into paradise and left you there?

Gave up on me like I was a bad drug, now I'm searching for signs in a haunted club.

And seeing the shape of your name still spells out pain

We're a crooked love in a straight line down.

You said it was a great love, one for the ages, but if the story's over, why am I still writing pages?

I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings.

You've ruined my life, by not being mine.

You got that James Dean daydream look in your eyes.

Long night, with your hands up in my hair, echoes of your footsteps on the stairs, stay here, honey, I don't wanna share.

There were sirens in the beat of your heart.

Candle wax and Polaroids on the hardwood floor, you and me from the night before.

I wounded the good and I trusted the wicked.

All the drama queens taking swings, all the jokers dressing up as kings.

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky. Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life.

Voted most likely to run away with you.

Gave you so much, but it wasn't enough, but I'll be all right, it's just a thousand cuts.

And we rule the kingdom inside my room.

No cameras catch my pageant smile.

You've been calling my bluff on all my usual tricks, so here's the truth from my red lips.

Lyrical smile, indigo eyes, hand on my thigh.

My love was as cruel as the cities I lived in.

Starry eyes sparking up my darkest night.

My baby's fit like a daydream.

He got my heartbeat Skipping down 16th Avenue.

And just like a folk song Our love will be passed on.

We were jet set Bonnie and Clyde, until I switched to the other side.

And I can't let you go, your hand prints on my soul.

What doesn't kill me makes me want you more.

Maybe you ran with the wolves and refused to settle down, maybe I've stormed out of every single room in this town.

There's an ache in you put there by the ache in me.

Now he sits on his throne in his palace of bones.

Devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes.

I've been sleeping so long in a twenty year dark night.

And it's all good if you're bad.

All's well that ends well to end up with you.

Have I known you twenty seconds or twenty years?

Band-aids don't fix bullet holes.

And if I'm dead to you why are you at the wake?

Tryna find a part of me that you didn't touch.

And when we go crashing down, we come back every time, 'Cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style.

[stickyhoney]

Running Water

Summary: You and Sherlock met months ago at the very same park you sat at now. When Sherlock comes to see you once again, do you let the teasing take a turn?

Word Count: 1.6k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (Henry Cavill) x Reader

Warnings: Explicit Language, 18+, smut, public sex, mature themes

“Hello Sherlock.” You sneered. You loved this little game the two of you had going. It was thrilling. You knew you had him on the ropes, probably the only one on this planet that does. 

“Hello [y/n]. Looking beautiful as ever.” He pulled his lips into a smirk. Giving your body a slow look over, stopping in all the usual places. 

This was the spot you had met some months ago, in a small isolated park. You had been reading next to a small creek, while he had been smoking his pipe under an old oak tree. Every Sunday morning, the two of you followed the same routine. The two of you would sit ten yards away from each other, but never speak. It took a month for him to come speak to you, blabbering on about how bad your taste in books were. 

“Would you like to sit beside me, Holmes? The water feels fabulous.” Your feet were bare, drawing figure eights in the running water. Spring had finally come, melting away the ice, leaving the water brisk. 

“Do I look like the sort of fellow to put my feet in a creek? Homeless men probably bathe in that water up stream.” The bright sun outlined his silhouette as you peered up at him, creating a foreboding figure. 

“Are you always so serious?” Teasing had become somewhat of a sport for you since you had met Sherlock. A sport that was more fun if you had a partner.  You ran your left hand through the blades of grass to your side, marking his seat. The other combing through your loose hair.

“Yes. Yes I am.” His fingers began unlooping the laces on his shoes, pulling them off in one go. His socks shortly after. Sitting down beside you, his hands fold out behind him in support. His large feet sank into the cool water, slowly moving in tiny circles. 

“Sherlock, I have a question for you.” You rested your chin on your shoulder, gazing at him. “My intuition tells me you will ask me whether I want to hear it or not.” He stares straight ahead into the tall oak trees, seeming unaware of where you were about to take this. 

You scoot over quietly, and rest your head on his broad shoulder. The contact making him finally look down on you. His breath hitches, unable to regain composure. You move your hand behind you, slowly moving and caressing his in the grass. His veins are prominent, his fingers somewhat calloused.

“Do you ever think of me?” He desperately tries to keep his cool facade intact. “It is difficult to have a conversation with someone if I don’t think of them.” That is not the answer you wanted to hear. Slowly you wade your feet over to his in the water, creating more friction between you. “Do you ever think of me outside this park?” Between every question grazing up his calf further. “Maybe when you are at home?” His breathing had now come erratic, unlike his usual demeanor.  “Maybe when you are lying in bed? All alone with no one there to please you.” 

Sherlock always welcomed your teasing, but now it had gone too far. You had gone too far. There was no turning back for the two of you now. “You would like that wouldn’t you? Imagining your lips around me while I chase my own pleasure?” Sherlock had never truly figured you out, only what you had let him see. If he knew one thing though, your teasing hid your true desire. To be dominated, controlled, manhandled. Your eyes were practically begging for him to take you right there.

“Oh I have no idea what you are talking about.” The two of you holding eye contact, while you batted your eyelashes like a naive little schoolgirl. The truth was that hearing Sherlock say that made your body react, in many many ways. Your clit was now sensitive enough to feel the friction of your underwear, your folds had slickened, your body was welcoming him in like a long lost friend. Your thighs pressed together to feed into your hunger for more friction, and Sherlock after all notices everything.

He bends down to your ear, his breath hot. “That isn’t what your body is telling me [y/n].” His body moves back from the creek, his arms pulling you onto his lap. His grip on your arms is so firm, you knew you would have to explain away bruises the next day. Your yelp only excites him more, giggling at the growl he makes when he goes in for your lips.

Your lips pressed firmly against his. His curls were being combed by your fingers, slightly tugged and his scalp kneaded. Sherlock’s massive hands now covered your back, pulling you closer onto him. This action perfectly places your already sensitive center on his hardened cock, causing the both of you to swallow the others moans. 

He was becoming hungrier with his kisses and hands, desperately wanting more. Mindfully spreading your skirt, you begin grinding against his erection confined by his trousers. 

“I am going to take you right here in this park. I don’t care if we are seen.” His voice gravelly and deep, the vibrations went straight to your core. All you could do to respond was nod. 

“Unbuckle my trousers.” Your hands complied, his stern tone stoking your fire. His fly comes open and you palm his erection through his underwear, causing his head to fly back until he fights to regain his composure. “Are you gonna be a good girl, and take me in your mouth?” Again, you nodded. Your hands guided his underwear down, and grasped his length. 

Twisting, squeezing, and pulling, your hands prepared him for your mouth. His size matched his frame, very large. Beginning at the base, your tongue slowly drew a line up to his time. Sherlock shuddered at the feather light touch of your tongue, his hands landing in your hair. Licking up his precum, you wrap your lips around him. Your mouth sinks down onto him as far as you can go without it hitting the back of your throat, and use your hands for the rest. You gaze up at Sherlock through your lashes, your eyes capturing the most erotic thing you could imagine. His face was so relaxed. His mouth was agape, his eyes peering down at you, they were dark with desire.

“Fuck, you are doing so good. Such a good girl, even with such a sassy mouth.” The hands behind your head lift you off of him and up to his lips. His fingers yank your underwear down sharply by the hips, so sharply you hear them tear. You lift off the ground, pressing up on your knees allowing Sherlock to press into you. His thick cock stretching your walls, your body adjusting to his girth. You both suck in a long breath as you sink lower and lower onto him. 

“So tight for me. I am going to make you scream. Let them hear how good I make you feel.” He dips his face into the crook of your shoulder when you start moving up and down his cock, his breath tickling your collarbone. Your skin felt like you had stayed out in the sun for too long, all your lungs could manage was shallow breaths. 

“You make me feel so good baby. Just give it all to me, I can handle it.” You had started grinding down on him, letting him bottom out inside you. He was hitting a place, you had previously thought was unreachable. “Are you sure?” “Yes baby.”

Flipping you onto your back, he never exited you. The grass tickled the back of your neck and thighs. With rough motions, he pulled your skirt up to your shirt allowing him a view of your carnal actions. “So pretty for me.” He placed your legs being on top of his shoulders, and thrusted hard. So hard his balls slapped against you, creating a lewd smack. Your eyes screwed shut, and your mouth hung open. You were no longer a person, just a vessel of pleasure for him to fill. He exited slowly, and thrusted again. He did this over and over, gradually becoming faster and even harder.

His hands traveled to your swollen clit, rubbing in harsh circles. Your lungs felt as though they had been filled, making it impossible for you to even let out a squeak. Your legs were tensing. You knew your end was coming, and so was his. 

“I-I-”

“Come for me [y/n]. Come on, be a good girl.”

Your entire body tensed, unable to do anything on your own. Waves of heat ripped through your body from your center, even reaching your toes. You felt your walls gripping onto him, like your body never wanted him to leave. Sherlock’s eyes stayed locked on your face as you had come undone beneath him. He let himself go, shooting warm spurts into you. His jaw hung open, the only thing being released was his silent gasps.

Sherlock fell beside you down in the grass. You both lay there shocked at how amazing that felt. He pulled you in close to him, his chest still trying to calm his breathing. Your head laid on his chest, your hands feeling his hard stomach. 

“So… you do think of me outside of this park?” Your teasing would never cease, no matter what happened between the both of you. Sherlock released a deep guttural laugh that made your heart smile.

[littlefreya]

Bad Reputation

Synopsis: Henry and his girl can’t get enough from one another. They keep finding themselves in rather sticky and lusty situations while other actors are present around them. 🤭

Pairing: Henry Cavill x OFC

Word count: 2.3K

Warnings: Smut, thigh riding, exhibition kink, public display of affection, dirty language, slight fingering, daddy kink.

A/N: This is by request made for thigh riding! I see this as a slight sequel to  Putting up a Show and Good Girl just because in my mind they are the same couple. Many thanks again to the marvellous @agniavateira​ for doing the beta! Masterlist is here.

Let me know if you want to be added/removed! Thank you for reading as always :)

PR fucking nightmare - that’s what our managers call us. 

They thought it would go away after our first year of dating. But the sad truth is, Henry just loves to touch, and I’m a hot-blooded woman who loves to fuck shit up. Three years in being married and the line is so goddamn blurry by now; I am never quite certain which one of us initiates it, nor do I even care. 

I see my bear sitting sprawled across the red leather sofas, legs spread open as he can never keep them shut. I know I’m terribly biased but that black tuxedo suit sure as hell looks great on his strong figure, especially with the crooked bowtie and the beard he’s been growing for his new movie role. 

And as if the bad boy vibes and big dick energy he sends everywhere wasn’t enough, the half-empty Grey Goose bottle on the round golden table next to him and the slight sweat that covers his forehead is a red flag that we are definitely getting into trouble tonight. 

Bring it on. 

Armie is sitting right next to him, telling him about some scheme by the gesture he is making with his hands. But I can tell Henry has other things on his mind. I can feel his eyes looking at me even when I am standing far away. Our gazes meet, he offers me a mischievous smile, showing off the large dimples of his cheeks. This is what I call a wet, slippery invention. 

I blush and look away. I mean, I have Rebecca Ferguson holding my forearms. That woman makes me want to invite her into our bedroom, but Henry doesn’t like sharing, not even with women. It doesn’t matter how much I’d pout and beg, he likes me all to himself, and he loves it when others can see that I am his. 

It’s always his hand between my thighs, riding up higher, thumb tickling at my clit teasingly. We sat through an entire acceptance speech with him working me hard. If anyone looks closely at that video on Youtube, you can see the exact moment when he hits the spot.

Sorry, Leo, I wasn’t smiling because you won. 

This is us being subtle. Hotels and parties, however, are a different story. We already had a manager quit on us because we made sure the entire floor hears what we are doing through the night. 

Rebecca kisses me on the cheek, the gorgeous Swedish redhead is already tipsy, and I’ve had my second glass of wine. She’s in a red satin dress, her impressive breasts showing through her cleavage. I also spot a few freckles on her chest. It makes me pout and look at Henry, who shakes his head in refusal. 

“Where is your hubby anyway?” she asks playfully, and I point in the direction of where he is sitting. Armie is just getting up, leaving Henry alone. He pours himself some more vodka, fills the glass with ice and then takes a sip with a lustful gaze. That’s probably my cue to keep him company and take that glass away.  

That video when he told everyone to get naked will forever be online. He also has a tendency to start making impressions of others when he is flustered, and I can’t contain my laughter when that happens.

“He’s too drunk to get up.” I sigh, shaking my head while he makes playful, sad faces at me. I shrug and take my phone out my purse, seeing two text messages from him.

Henry: “Where are you, babygirl?” Henry: “I want to squeeze that ass.” 

I text him back “Armie’s? Go for it. Can we have Rebecca, pleaaaaase?” 

He reads my reply, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in complete refusal. 

“Not. sharing. you. Do you want me to spank you in front of all these people?” 

Rebecca is oddly enough very touchy-feely, her hand sliding down my forearms while she speaks about how wonderful Henry is, and how fun it was to work with him on MI6.

“He’s not like all the other ones, he is an actual friend,” she explains to me, her beautiful green eyes lighting up. 

“I know, that’s how he got me, pretended to be my friend for years.” I chuckle, remembering the times we were still just friends. If you look at videos of us from interviews and photos from events from the time we worked together, you’d think we’ve been dating already. He always touched me subtly, his eyes staring at me intently when I speak. And of course, no one cracks him up the way I do.

But Henry waited 5 years for both of us to be single at the same time to “kidnap” me during a walk with our dogs at the forest, where I’d literally be unable to run away. He did that so he can tell me he’s been in love and growing in love with me ever since we met.

I smile at the sweet memory. I held my tears when that word left his lips.

“I’ll come to say hello later, I’m starving,” she says and rubs her belly gently. I nod and lean forward to kiss her, deliberately kissing her soft, red-painted lips for Henry to see. Us girls, we really don’t mind.

As I turn to face him, he is already frowning. He’s not amused by my vexing behaviour. I give him my best angelic posture, batting my lashes and holding my hands together while my head is tilted to the side. In that pale blue and silver dress, I might look like some saint right now, but my darling knows I’ve come from south to heaven.

I make my way to him, walking slowly, a smile both in my eyes and between my cheeks. I can feel the fire burning in my chest, the sight of him is dashing, those thick thighs ever so inviting. He spreads his legs even wider, the bulge in his groin made only for me. He has his pinky finger pressed between his teeth while checking me out.

My body heeds his calling, I’m tingling wet. 

I stand in front of him, my cheeks warm as if this is a first hook up of some sort. Henry rises his beautiful blues to stare straight into my eyes. The beaming lights in the hall make his sweaty skin glow in neon pink and gold, his eyes flashing bright as the different colours dance across his face.

“How many of those have you had?” I ask, gesturing at the glass, noticing the half-empty bottle. I hope not too much, I expect to be rammed tonight when we return to the hotel. 

He shrugs, putting the glass away without bothering to finish it. He is British, and boy, he can drink a lot. He is not as half as flustered as a different guy would be, but yes, he is certainly quite drunk. Enough to give me that look of his-one eyebrow rising up-while his eyes drink in my dress, cleavage, ass, and that slit that runs from my legs to my thighs.

My friends asked me if Henry is an ass or tits man, to which my answer was “he is ‘all of me’ man.” 

“Gotta love women's liberation.” He speaks in a deep, low voice, gesturing at my provocative dress. 

“Come to daddy.” He demands, holding out his hand for me to come and sit on his thigh. To which I am more than happy to comply.

I spread my legs, moving to straddle his muscular thigh. There is a burning sensation at my core as my pelvis meets his taut muscle. My body always reacts to his touch. Henry’s hands immediately take my face, thumbs stroking at my cheeks.

“Why do you tease me, beautiful?” he murmurs, his fierce gaze tracing my face, always taken by me, memorizing every freckle and flaw as if it’s the first time we ever sit so close. God, he makes me feel so beautiful even in my ugliest of ugly days.

I lean forward to get even closer, my ass riding up his leg and my hands reach out to tug at his white buttoned shirt. “Oh, Henry-Bear, it’s. So. much. fun.”

Someone sits right next to us on the big red sofa, saying a friendly hello. We answer at the same time, without breaking eye contact. We never bother looking who is the actor, producer, or whatever who moved to bug us. Too lost in our own little mist of admiration. Henry’s fingers descend from my face to my neck, fingers skirting down my neck sensually. 

“You know what I love about these ceremonies and parties?” he asks as he leans closer to whisper in my ear and then places a wet, lingering kiss on my shoulder. His chin pushes the straps of my dress away, letting it fall on my forearm as if by accident. I let it glide, shivering as the coarse hair of his beard marks my flesh.

“I get to show you off while you’re wearing these outrageous dresses and everyone knows I am taking you home to fuck you until sunrise.”

I chuckle lustfully, my tongue pressed between my teeth. “Last time we didn’t even make it home remember?” I hum gently, feeling his rough touch on my breasts. The tip of his thumbs circles my nipples, teasing them to harden through the thin fabric of my dress. I wouldn’t give a fuck if Henry had me topless right now and sink his fangs in my tits for everyone to see. But he is far too selfish, I was made for his eyes and his eyes only.

He settles for a “chaste” show, laying a kiss beneath my chin and then pressing his face at my cleavage, inhaling the scent of my body lotion before nibbling at my breast through my dress. His breath smells like vodka-sweet and spicy at once.

“I remember, Cumberbatch saw the whole thing,” he answers, his hands holding my ribs, slightly guiding me to move my body on top of his thigh in ghostlike movements. I am searing hot, my mound feels as if it’s seconds from catching fire. I am certain he can feel it, his blue eyes now hazy and dreamlike as they watch the pink tint that runs through my neck to my cheeks. 

“Fuck me, daddy, I am so horny!”

My whisper comes out as half a cry, weak and desperate. My body is a void, it suffers without his touch, it aches when we’re disjointed. I hope we’ll never stop feeling this way toward one another. 

“Ride me, babygirl.” he urges me, raising his thigh up higher, so I’ll slide down closer. The friction makes me lose sight for a moment. My vision blurs as I throb wet and hot onto him. Good thing his trousers are black, otherwise, everyone would be able to detect the wetness I am leaving on his pants. 

I can’t reject his decree, my body needs him. 

“You like it when they watch, don’t you?” he asks me with a slightly slurred voice. His hands glide down to squeeze my ass, assisting me in dancing on the rock-hard muscle of his leg. I am grinding slow and rough, shifting my weight forward, my right hand reaching his other thigh, clawing at him with growing pleasure.

Everyone is looking at us, I am sure, some embarrassed and perhaps even appalled. How puritan of you Hollywood. These people formed their own religion and hidden sex clubs. But I am convinced many enjoy this facade and discreetly salute us, some probably holding out their cameras.  

I roll my hips up and clench my inner thighs, whimpering as my body begins to tremble.  

It doesn’t matter who is staring while I ride him so passionately, seeking my pleasure with urgency while Henry’s hands support me, saddling my hips and pulling me toward him. We don’t see anyone else. We’re locked into one another, the way we always did, just like when Henry had a girlfriend, when we were “just friends” when I dated that asshole. We’d walk into a room, and it was just me and him, hearts and chest bursting with love.

Every moment we couldn’t have one another was stolen from us, we now fight to own it back.  

“I’d sit you on my face in front of everyone, but I think Gretchen would kill us.” Henry half whispers against my throat and then licks up my neck as I lift my chin to the ceiling with gaping lips. He has his hand between my legs, drawing at my centre and sneaking between the slit of my dress to finish the job. 

“Fuck!” he teases my clit, his middle finger travelling at my seams. My entire existence shudders. The bass of the music blasts through my chest, my eardrums throb, and my eyes see all the colours of the neon at once as my cunt implodes with orgasmic bliss. Henry steals my gasp into his mouth, his hand pressing my cheeks, crushing my mouth with hunger. 

Who could ever hate us for our expression of true love?

I gasp feverishly, holding onto him as if I’m about to fall. Henry’s lips are on my temple and then my cheek. Pressing against me and not moving away. He envelops me in his big arms, a clear statement to all our viewers that I am his and he is mine.  We both move our heads to see who's been sitting next to us this entire time.

Alec Baldwin and Jake Gyllenhaal. They pretend not to stare, at least Alec does. Jake gives us a wide, knowing smile. Everyone else has also been staring as I hear the whispers and gasps. 

“Really? They did that again!?”

We bump our foreheads together and snicker with delight. Like we ever gave a fuck about being caught. It’s not the first time, won’t be the last. We just can’t get our hands off of each other. 

“Better call Gretchen now.” I tell Henry, hanging my arm around his thick neck. 

“Before or after I fuck you in one of the back rooms here?”

[novelconcepts]

Your ficlet about Dani leaving was so goood! It broke me, really. I know it's such a depressing concept but if you're still in the mood for angst, can you write something like the film "a ghost story"? It's from the pov of a ghost, he watches his wife dealing with his death and then just watching more life happening while he is dead.

Time is unstable now. It’s almost the same as those last few months, really--the instability had become the only thing, the only certainty to a day. Hours had blinked back to moments; moments rushing forward to days. She’d closed her eyes on a Tuesday, woken on a Saturday, had been dimly aware of moving and speaking and managing all that time without ever feeling its fingers on her skin. 

Time is unstable now. It’s almost what she’s used to, almost the same--except it goes backwards, sometimes. Goes all the way backwards, sometimes. She opens her eyes, and she’s watching herself move in slow motion across these very grounds, her eyes blue, her skirt long, stumbling across a girl and a song at this very lake. 

No idea. She’d had no idea. 

Time is unstable now. It twists and it bends, and she thinks she could learn to control it, as the hours turn to days turn to years. How long has it been already? There’s no telling. There’s nothing to hang onto, no handhold, no markers along the miles. She moves, and it’s like being awake, sometimes--there is sun, and there is shadow, and there is moonlight. There is a life once lived--well lived--well loved--beneath her skin. She knows it, somehow. Knows it, the way you know a dream even as it dissolves in the shower as you prepare for--

School.

Work.

Life. 

Time is unstable now. It builds and it skews and it stumbles sideways into itself, and she’s seeing it all. A boy with curly hair stepping out of a car into the path of a casket. A girl in a sundress with a father, a mother, a home chipped and broken and pieced back together with desperation. A man who thought he loved her; a woman who couldn’t love him back. A plane. A backpack. Hands belonging to strangers, smiles crooked on her own lips, a resume offered in a neat office. A job lost. A job won. A pair of glasses in the mirror. 

Time is unstable now. It spins and it wheels, and she remembers it all--remembers walking into this lake, remembers walking beside this lake, remembers a child being carried to doom in this lake, remembers arms around her waist in this lake, breath on her lips, shh, shh, it’s okay, Dani, it’s okay--

Time is unstable now. It shuffles and it dances and she’s trying to center herself. Trying to remember how long it’s been since she stopped being entirely her--years, she thinks. Decades, she thinks. A night a million miles away, a choice made, words spoken. She said the thing, and she became something new. Something half Dani Clayton-half Viola Lloyd. Something half woman, half ghost. Someone who hadn’t known, even then, what she was giving up--or what she’d fight so hard to keep for as long as she could. 

Time is unstable now. It cavorts and it cartwheels, and how long since she stopped breathing? Since she stopped being that half-and-half, that slow-fade, that peace-becomes-fear, and became instead: this. This version of herself who holds no weight, who leaves no mark behind, who does not possess skin or mass or footprint, and who is, still, somehow...here. Here. More here than she ever thought she’d be again. 

Why is she still here?

You are, the voice says in her ears, hopeful, hopeless, you are still here. 

Her hand, she thinks, and she’s gripping the ring. The ring. The ring. The--

Time is unstable now. It jolts and it jounces, and she is in a kitchen making a proposal, and she is in a kitchen watching a woman wash her hands, and she is in a kitchen shattering a plate while Jamie holds her, holds her, repeats, “We could have so many more years. Dani. Dani. We could have so many--”

Time is unstable now. It ricochets and it roils, and she is standing here. Standing here. Waiting for something she knows is coming. Waiting for something she knows still needs her, still pulls at her, still forms its own insistent gravity--

Time is unstable now. 

Jamie, as she has always been, is not. 

Jamie, out of that cab in the same shirt she’d slept in. In Dani’s jeans, and sneakers that had really belonged to them both. Jamie, shoulders rounded and back straight, dragging breaths. 

Don’t, she thinks. Don’t, you don’t want to see it. Knowing it won’t be real until Jamie does. Knowing it won't be real for Jamie--and maybe not for her, either. Time is so unstable. Time is so unbound around her, casting her into a grove of moonflowers--once in a blue goddamn moon, I guess--and into a hallway--there will be other nights--and into a bedroom--are you sure, Dani, I only want to if you’re sure--and into--

The lake. Jamie is in the lake. Up to her waist, up to her chest, drawing a deep breath and diving. 

It becomes real only when Jamie looks it in the eye. When Jamie sees her--what was her--what can’t be her any longer, because it belonged too much to the Lady, Jamie. It belonged too much to the spell. It couldn’t last, because nothing does, because there is no forever for flesh and blood, Jamie. You taught me that. You told me that, that it’s so beautiful that we can’t last, that it’s so gorgeous that we can’t hang on forever. You said it. You meant it, then. 

Jamie has been under too long. Jamie has been under too long, and time is unstable, time is unreliable, time is a twisting net tossed over her--but Jamie has looked, now. Jamie has seen, now. And if it’s enough to solidify the thing for Jamie, if it’s enough to let her fall over the cliff, it’s enough for this, too. For her to follow Jamie into the water. It’s easier this time; she doesn’t have to worry about the burn in her lungs, the ache in her head, the terror and the peace trading hands like a kid passing baseball cards. She follows Jamie down, and Jamie is reaching, Jamie is screaming, Jamie is saying those words, those hated, magical words--

She wraps both arms around Jamie. Pulls her toward the surface. Feels Jamie go limp, letting herself rise as the horror and the shock set in for real. Time is unstable now, but Jamie isn’t--Jamie is a real, living, breathing human being who must still abide by certain rules. Who must still kick her way to the surface and break, gasping, as Dani hugs her close. 

She doesn’t see, it’s clear. Can’t feel Dani, it’s clear. Can’t know, as she collapses on the bank, her hair sopping, her face streaked with tears, that Dani is behind her with arms around her shoulders. That Dani is bowed over her, breathing with her, urging her back to reality with every slow inhalation. 

Dani, holding her, does not sink in. Does not vanish beneath Jamie’s skin. Does not close her eyes here and open there, seeing what Jamie sees. Jamie is still muttering--you, me, us, goddammit, Dani, please--and still, she does not allow herself that cruelty. Not for an instant. 

You are not mine, she thinks with everything she has, and knows Jamie doesn’t understand. Can’t possibly, not yet. Knows Jamie has no sense of the gravity she maintains, that Dani couldn’t deny the pull of that gravity even if she wanted to. 

Her body remains behind, as all bodies must--and it will break, over time. She understands there will be the natural passage, the natural flow of time and water and organic degradation. It doesn’t matter. Her body remains behind. 

She is with Jamie in the cab. 

She is with Jamie on the plane. 

She is with Jame in their apartment. 

She is with Jamie every step of the way. 

You are not mine, she thinks every night, as Jamie begs the mirror, as Jamie pleads with the bath, as Jamie slams a fist down on the countertop and closes her eyes and sinks into grief. You are not mine, Jamie, you have to understand. 

She doesn’t. She can’t. Maybe someday, Dani thinks. Maybe someday, she will allow the truth to take root in her bones: that no person can ever own another, not with all the love and well-meaning the world can muster. That to love someone is to let them go, no matter what they might demand in return. 

Time is unstable now. It burns and it bleeds, and Jamie walks through it in horrible, painstaking chronology. Monday becomes Tuesday. April becomes May. Each year falls in line, and Dani wishes she could show her. Wishes she could explain that she is here--she is ten, and she is thirty, and she is forty-two, and she is in love with Jamie in all the ways that extend beyond clock and calendar. That she is in love with Jamie before she even knows her, and she is in love with Jamie long after time has forgotten them both. That she is here, and she is here, and she is still here. 

Time is unstable now. She can see how it all will unfold, a tablecloth shaken out: Jamie swearing over tattered roses, and Dani kissing her in a greenhouse, and Dani offering a ring, and Jamie saying, I’m actually pretty in love with you, it turns out. 

Jamie, telling a story at a wedding. 

Dani, taking in a story in a moonlit grove. 

Jamie, falling asleep with her head on Dani’s chest. 

Dani, waking slowly with Jamie in her arms. 

It’s all the same, she wants to say. It’s all falling around us, moments, memories, in an endless sweep like rain. It’s all the same, she wants to say. You are here. I am here. We are here. 

Time is unstable now. Jamie is sleeping in a chair, Dani’s hand on her shoulder. Jamie is sleeping in a bed, Dani inspecting her scar for the first time. Jamie is sleeping in a greenhouse, decades of life behind her, never to wake again. Opening her eyes at Dani’s knock on the door. To Dani, who has been waiting a second, a year, an eternity to welcome her home again.

Time is unstable. 

Dani settles in for the ride. 

[tinalbion]

Can you do the secret pregnancy thing but with Brahms, Buckman and Jason instead? 👀

Ooh yes, honey! I enjoyed making the first part of this, so I’m excited!!! Let’s get this angst fest started, shall we? Maybe it’s finished with the fluffiest sweetness you ever did feel~

Brahms

Brahms liked his privacy since he was so used to remaining hidden most of his life, so if he needed some space or just some quiet time to himself, he would weave about the hidden maze in the mansion. These past few months, you were grateful he was dedicated to you yet thought that privacy was also a necessity. 

You found out a week ago and had no idea how to even begin thinking of ways to tell Brahms. You were pregnant with his child, this was a huge deal for you and definitely for him. But you were scared as hell to how he would react. Them man was just learning how to live a somewhat normal life and getting used to his days out of hiding, he did not need this huge bombshell dropping down just yet. 

The man took notice in your absence lately, your poorly strung together excuses to leave the room or to head out into town. He wasn’t too happy with the way you had been acting and he had every chance to tell you, but one day you just didn’t come back right away after your errands. It was already nightfall when you tried your best to sneak in and grab your clothing, trying your best to be as quick and quiet as possible, but Brahms had remained awake and waited for you to return.

Leaving him hurt you more than you could have ever imagined, it was even worse for him to see you packing your bag and refusing to look at him. He would go through every emotion as he tried to get you to at least look at him, but you did your best to hide the growing bump. He wouldn’t let you leave, his voice was now loud and firm, demanding you that you could not leave. The thing is you had no real option of leaving, so with a defeated sigh, you placed the bag over your shoulder and looked at him. 

“I’m not actually leaving, I’m going to stay in the guest house for a bit. I’ll come here and check on you, but I need to be alone for a bit.” With that, you were off and left him alone while he called out your name, the facade of the scared child disappearing and out came the terrified man, who fell to his knees and slumped forward. You weren’t leaving the grounds but you left his home, your home. 

It wasn’t until a week had passed that he heard the door open, which he bolted toward the sound and slid through the walkways within the walls, but he was hesitant to step out and greet you, so he remained hidden and watched you as you just stood in the front hall. You looked as if you hadn’t slept that entire week you were gone, but something was different about you; you looked radiant despite the obvious lack of sleep and wild hair. 

You were crying. You had felt awful leaving Brahms there alone as you dreamt of running away from the situation, but that’s not what either of you needed right now. He deserved to know and you had the responsibility to tell him. “Brahms, when you’re ready to come out, I need to talk to you.” Your voice carried such sadness, but the truth was you were excited about such a huge step, you just weren’t entirely sure how he would react. Your hand was placed over your stomach as Brahms stepped out from the walls, his mask gone so he could look you in the face and demand to know why you left. He couldn’t bear to yell once he saw your face, and just like that, he dropped his anger and ran to you, engulfing you in his embrace. 

You tried to even out your breathing as you clung to him, your face buried within the folds of his cardigan as you hid your eyes from his. “Brahms, I wish I had told you -I couldn’t, I was so scared.” You blubbered for so long as you tried to gain control, but once you pulled away from him, you shyly looked up and glanced into those eyes you came to love. “I’m pregnant… I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I was so scared, and I thought you’d hate me for it-”

You didn’t have time to recognize the look of astonishment that appeared on his face, and then he had dropped to his knees before you, his hands around your stomach as he looked at it in awe. “I’m-” he stuttered, but he couldn’t finish. His head leaned against your tummy gently as his hand cupped it as if it were the most precious thing in the room -besides you, of course. “Y/N, I’m not mad.” He glanced up at your face, his eyes now swelling with tears.   

You couldn’t help but release the breath you’d been holding, relief flooding your body as you smiled down at him, your hand was placed over his and you gave him a reassuring squeeze. “We’re gonna be okay, I think,” you mused with a crooked grin. He nodded and stood tall before you, his arms pulling you into one of the most wonderful hugs you ever experienced. Your smile only widened as you hugged him tighter, never wanting to let go.

Buckman

It was already scandalous enough that you had somehow won the mayor’s affection what with him being dead and you being, well, not so dead. But the fact that the town had warmed up so quickly to you, even Granny, was a miracle in itself. You had a long talk with the woman and she understood the look of love you felt for Buckman, and she had no way to separate you both without heading to the extreme. She just wanted Buckman to be happy, even if it meant breaking her own heart. You still saw her as a woman to look up to and grew quite close to her, but nothing prepared either of you for the events that would take place just several months down the line. 

Things had been somewhat peaceful until the summer rolled around, and around the same time as a jubilee were to take place was around the time you started feeling out of sorts. You just told yourself it was the heat, you weren’t so used to the humidity, that was all. Later in the month, you began to panic. Your period was late, which it never was before, but there was NO way. He was dead, how the hell would you be able to get pregnant? You HAD to be sure, so you told them you had to run into town for some ‘personal supplies’, which was a normal trip for you to take.

While you were out, you stopped by a diner just miles up the road after your pitstop at the gas station, where you picked up some things as you said you would, along with a pregnancy test. Once you found out in the diner bathroom that it turned out to be positive, you panicked. How in the hell did it end up being positive? Could ghosts do that?! You were terrified considering this was something that was way out of your field of knowledge. What if you just… never went back? Maybe it was some weird part of being on the lands for so long, you were cursed. But if you never went back, you’d never see him again. You had to go back, but you lingered on the edge of Pleasant Valley, where you had hoped to talk to Granny alone. She had somehow known you’d wanted to see her, keeping your meeting hushed from Buckman. When you told her about it, she looked at you in shock; this subject was obviously above her knowledge as well. When the town was cursed by Crowe, his children were already born and grown, but this was a whole other situation. 

“Honey, I don’t know what to tell ya, just… be honest with him? Tell him. Or leave and never come back, but will you stay gone? You both...love each other. I’m sorry, best I can do.” Granny shrugged and smoothed out her skirt, feeling just a little awkward about the whole thing, but she loved you deep down. She wanted you to be happy and do what was best for you. 

You swallowed your fear and lingered behind the newly arrived batch of idiot kids who hung around their car, ogling the scantily clad townswomen eagerly while their female counterparts pouted. Buckman was having a ball talkin’ and showing ‘em around, being the showman that he was as he secured their stay for the jubilee. Once he had let the group get to their rooms, he saw you and threw his arms up with a grin. “Hey, there darlin’! You just missed our honored guests come in,” he greeted and pecked your cheek. You couldn’t even look up at him and he noticed it straight away. “What is it?”

You couldn’t tell him, your head swarmed with stupid lies and excuses, so you said the first thing that came to your mouth. “My mom died, I have to go back home.” You felt sick to your stomach that you just lied to him, your gut aching with guilt and fear. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I gotta go.” You barely gave him the chance to respond when you pulled away and ran to your car. He stood in the center of town confused, and Granny had watched his whole thing play out, her head shaking with sadness. 

He watched as your car drove off, his pleas and cries for you to wait and stay, to rethink it and talk to him, they were drowned out by the acceleration of the car, and the last thing he saw was you driving away from him. That was the last time he saw you in several months. He gave up on hearing from you, seeing you. He was broken as he had no way to contact you. He remained away in his grave in peace. Granny did her best to be there for him, but this hurt as much as it had when his daughter was taken from him. 

You came back, your belly large beneath the sundress you wore especially for Buckman, and you prayed that he would come back to you as you drove through the wooded area into the Valley. The grounds changed back to the old town, and you cried as you thanked them for allowing it to appear for you once again. Once you stepped out from the car and took a deep breath, that’s when you felt it was like the town knew it had been you, so you waited on the hood for him. 

“Bucky, please, I’m sorry I left,” you called out to the air, “I have a confession to make.” Your hands were placed on your swollen belly as you waited, but you felt eyes on you and you knew someone was there, and you prayed it was him. When you saw him step out from the trees with a look of disbelief, you sobbed harder. Your emotions had been so out of whack, but seeing him made your love for him ache within you, “Bucky…”

He looked at you and then his eyes fell to your stomach and the thought of you being with someone else only made him withdraw, but before he could step away from you any further, you reached out and grabbed his hand, placing it on your stomach with a smile. “Baby, she’s yours… Ask Granny, I swear to it, she’s yours. I was so scared and I ran, like a coward. I don’t know how it happened or why, but-” 

After hearing that it was his, something told him you were telling the truth, so he placed his hands on either side of your face and kissed you as passionately as he could muster at the moment. When he pulled away, he chuckled nervously. “You look as beautiful as the day I laid eyes on you, darlin’, I missed you so damn much. Damn, why didn’t you tell me, you fool,” he teared up as he kissed you all over your face, his joy obviously showing. That’s when he looked down and held your stomach with a knowing smile. “She’s gonna be just like her momma; a firecracker.” He laughed and kissed your stomach sweetly.  

      Jason

It was a wonder that you had managed to make the camp your own, it was a miracle it didn’t cost more than what you paid to redo every last bit of it, but it was a place you could now call home. Your cabin home was a few hundred yards from ‘Camp Blood’ so you didn’t interfere with Jason and his work. During the nights, you had opened the door to be greeted with the large masked man, a smile always plastered on your face as you pulled him in and lived your ‘domestic life’ with him, even if it was just pretending. Jason seemed to enjoy the bit of normalcy you gave him. 

As the winter neared its end, you had been feeling rather under the weather and had been too out of it to do much of anything. Jason took notice and would nudge you if you began to fall asleep while standing at the counter, sometimes he would have to rub your stomach if it was feeling upset. You just wrote it off as eating something bad r undercooked, it happens. 

What you didn’t expect to happen was the feeling to continue and even intensify throughout the month. Maybe your period was just messing with you, so you awaited the usual week it took place and then nothing. Maybe it was running late, it happened. The more time had passed, the more excuses you made for how you felt. It was fine, everything was okay. 

Out of curiosity, you had browsed the shop and last minute you grabbed a pregnancy test then slipped it in with your other goods. Jason was out and about as he normally was around this time, keeping watch over the grounds and visiting his mother for a bit, so you took the opportunity to take the test and laugh about it once it came out negative. When you didn’t expect was it to come out positive. You sat on the toilet for what felt like hours, your legs numb as you continued to think. There was no way it could have happened since Jason was, well, kind of undead? You shook your head and claimed to yourself that maybe you were dreaming, but deep within your gut, you knew it to be a reality. 

Jason couldn’t find out, you had to keep this from him, you couldn’t ruin his life like that. He was living a simple life and killing those who trespassed on his grounds, the last thing you wanted to do was complicate that and take it away from him. You could maybe live with your friend a few states over, raise the baby on your own, possibly with your parents’ help. Play it off like the dad died or something, anything, so long as the masked slasher didn’t know. Regretfully, you left a half-assed note and took some of your things while he was away, and you left. He didn’t find out until hours later when you didn’t open up your door, so he walked in to see the brief letter. He was devastated at your sudden absence, unsure of what caused you to run away from him without even doing it face to face. 

Jason acted out after this, punching trees and swinging his machete at anything that moved, not even caring who or what he hit. You left and you left him there, alone. The thought that you could bring a bit of happiness to his life, how ridiculous did that sound now? You left and he figured you had wanted to all along. He was better off not growing close to anyone, he only needed himself and his mother, the one woman who cared enough to stay, even in death.

The seasons changed from spring to summer, Jason had been relentless during camping season, that extra edge pushing him to be even more ruthless with his swings. It pained him to see anyone with your hair color or similar facial features, he just hacked them down where they stood and pushed you in the back of his mind. But what he didn’t know was that you had returned to your cabin with a suitcase full of things, returning permanently to your old stomping grounds in hopes of repairing what broken relationship you had with Jason, if he would take you back. 

What you didn’t expect was a group of kids to invade your space in the middle of the fall season at the camp and decide to hang out for a week, or so they thought was gonna happen. Jason made sure to get started right away, picking them off one by one as he watched them scurry and try to fight him off. You remained far from the violence as possible in your state as you instinctively held your large belly and tried to go into the small area where Jason normally was. You heard the sound of crunching leaves behind you and you barely had time to dodge the swing, you fell to the ground and screamed out his name with your hand raised high in surrender. “Jason, it’s me!” 

He stopped, the machete poised in the air to strike, but as soon as he saw your face, he lowered the weapon and tilted his head in confusion. Was he the one dreaming? You stood up slowly and held your hand out to him, hoping he wouldn’t be too pissed off. “Please honey, I’m so sorry I left, but let me explain before you kill me…” He wouldn’t dream of killing you, you sounded crazy, but he placed the weapon down beside him as he lowered himself to the ground, reaching your eye level. He hadn’t changed in the months you were gone, but it took him a moment to notice just how much you changed. 

You grabbed his hand and kissed each finger, smiling through the tears as you held onto him. “Jason, I couldn’t tell you because...well, I didn’t want to ruin your life. I’m pregnant, he’s yours. He’s a healthy baby boy,” you chuckled. His hand retracted from yours and he placed it ever so carefully onto your stomach, his eyes focusing on the hidden life that grew within you. He knew nothing about being a parent or being near kids all that much, to begin with, but the thought of you having his child was something that just felt right to him. The approving voice of his mother echoed within his head and he nodded. He stood and quickly whisked you away to your cabin in hopes of keeping you from the violence that was still taking place. He would be back later to celebrate.  

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings said: five times of comparing matthias to the ice and one time he wasn't. ( five times | accepting )

one.

They stand with their backs to the door, Astoria’s shirt cast aside, her hair gathered over her left shoulder. Tidemaker and Heartrender stand together, and Nina’s hands glide across her companion’s tattooed skin — red lilies in bloom, beginning at her right shoulder and cascading over her back, the petals of the bottommost lily dipping just below the waistband of her skirt. It’s the sole burst of color on her skin — the other tattoos entirely black ink — and Nina marvels audibly.

     “Must have hurt,” she hums, and Astoria laughs. 

     “Especially over my spine.”

     “Why’d you get it?”

     “To own my own body again. Nineteen years in Fjerda made it everything besides a body — weapon of war, tool of destruction, vessel of sin. Now, it’s a work of art.” Astoria looks fondly at the ink that curls tenderly over her shoulder, but there’s some sorrow in her eyes. “I hate to cover it, but the more attention we can avoid in the Ice Court, the better. And I figured, better to start sooner than later with this. Your hands will be full with all my hair.”

     Nina laughs, that beautiful belly-laugh that warms Astoria to her core despite the chill in the air. “Thank you for that. Could we cut it, maybe?”

     Astoria looks at the hair in question, deep red curls that fall to her elbows; she certainly has enough to send Matthias back with a belt made from her braided hair, and unbidden comes the image of Matthias binding her hands with her own cut hair. She clears her throat, lets out a little laugh that sounds rattling and dry in her throat, and she says, tentatively, “You’ll be tailoring Matthias too?”

     “Mm. Black hair, I think. Brown eyes. He’s so tall, and he’ll draw attention whether or not we want him to, but those eyes have to go. They’re too — ”

     Remarkable, Astoria thinks despite herself, and she nods at whatever Nina says. Poor Nina is exhausted — between caring for Inej and the discomfort of being on a ship again, it’s been a great deal to carry, and she chatters comfortably as she starts at Astoria’s shoulder and begins the work. Her eyes are trained on Astoria’s tattoos as she talks, filling Astoria in on gossip from the White Rose, while Astoria listens, a small smile on her face, her eyes flickering across the reflection of her face. 

     They’ll have to change her, too. Her hair will become brown, not unlike Nina’s, and her eyes will darken to a deep blue. She sees the movement in the mirror before she hears it, and poor Nina, tired and distracted, doesn’t hear the arrival of a new heartbeat — but Astoria stops to listen for the sound of water, and she hears it as it picks up and beats an erratic rhythm. 

     She sees him in the mirror, too, his eyes widening at the sight of her half-undressed, the pale skin of her back against the deep deep red of the lilies, and she feels something shift in her.

     Astoria knows what she looks like, for all her jokes about her hair as the great draw. She knows that she has a graceful neck that begs to be marked, that the curve of her neck into her shoulders is like poetry. Elzinger used to tease that he could compose sonnets about the line of her spine along her bare back, which is now marked, beyond the tattoos, only by a puckered pink scar from the very same man’s knife. She can’t quite see where Matthias’ eyes are, only that they’re moving over her bare skin as if he’s in a daze. 

     For all her respect for his vow, she finds she wants to be watched. Astoria likes the thought of him looking at her, and so she keeps her eyes fixed on his reflection and she hooks the thumb of her left hand under the waistband of her skirt. Still watching him, she pulls it down enough to expose the last of the lilies, and at her left side, she pulls it down farther, exposing the second tattoo in its entirety. 

     She listens for the sound of his breath catching, but either Nina is speaking too loudly, or Matthias is all Fjerdan ice. His eyes move to the newly exposed skin before dragging up to her shoulder, along her hair, her eyes on his in the mirror. 

     Astoria smiles, then, and she rolls her lower lip between her teeth and bites down before releasing it again.

     For his part, Matthias, his expression inscrutible, simply takes a step back and out of the room, closing the door silently behind him. Ice, she decides, a little disappointed, but what had she been hoping for? For him to leap across the room and crawl under her skirt? 

     Nina continues speaking beside her, unaware of their visit, and Astoria says nothing until she’s finished. When she dresses again and goes to leave, she finds Matthias on the other side of the door — had he stayed? Had he left and returned? — and when he sees her, he simply nods before stepping into the room. He won’t meet her eyes. 

two.

She is ashamed to admit to any weakness, but especially now, and especially with him. The house beside them is unremarkable, painted a deep emerald green that looks almost blue when the sky is overcast; about a foot from the street, on the front wall, there is a smudge that came from a little hand and a great deal of mud that baked against the wall under the summer sun.

     Veronika had laughed when she’d seen it, and had pressed a kiss to the top of Astoria’s hair and told her that now the house was theirs forever, and that this would always be home. She catches sight of that smudge and she feels the wind knocked out of her. 

     And the worst of it is that there’s no one else to turn to but him, a drüskelle desperate to don his cloak once more. Nina and Inej and Jesper and Wylan know next to nothing about her childhood, certainly not the street where she grew up, or the little gap between the stones in the street where her foot got caught every spring between the ages of six and fourteen. Her left ankle is still perpetually a little tender as a result of the annual twists. They don’t know that this is where her first love begged her to marry him and where she’d turned him down, because she couldn’t tell him the truth and she wouldn’t have that hanging over them. They don’t know that this is where she told her closest friend, the boy across the street, that she could make the water dance at her fingertips, or that this is where she saw the white of her own bone piercing through her skin and the deep red of her mother’s blood spattered across the floor before her vision went black, black, black. 

     Kaz knows most of this. And were Kaz anyone else she would turn to him for comfort, but Kaz is himself, is Dirtyhands, is the Bastard of the Barrel. Kaz won’t hold her hand and stroke her hair and comfort her weariness, nor will he look kindly on the way she’s struggling to breathe if she calls his name. The others are huddled together, speaking in hushed tones, and only Matthias walks near her. 

     She doesn’t think — she reaches for him, clutching the sleeve of his shirt almost desperately. He looks down at her, his eyes the wrong color but still a strange comfort all the same, and then his eyes follow hers to the house, and she sees the recognition in his face. 

     Matthias doesn’t say a word; instead, he shakes her free from his sleeve and winds his arm around her shoulders, knowing that if she is left to her own devices the urge to walk through that front door and look for any trace of herself, of her mother, of the life that they lived there, will be too strong to resist. His grip is strong and sustained, his hand curled around her upper arm just tightly enough to steer her. There is something so comforting about him like this, when he embodies home — solid as the ice, reliable as the snow in the winter. 

     In these moments she thinks she can understand how Nina fell in love with him a year before, and Astoria wonders, not for the first time, if she is in entirely over her head. 

     When they pass the house he releases her; she puts a step of distance between them, but not before murmuring a quiet thank you. She fixes her eyes on Jesper’s back, a few feet in front of them, and she doesn’t see the way he flexes his hand, gaze flickering to his fingers, then, all too quickly, to her face. 

     When she turns to look at him again, he’s staring straight ahead, and she tells herself that she doesn’t feel the disappointment settling in her stomach like a stone in the water. 

three.

If she could apologize to him now, she would, but they must play their parts if they are to survive. Beside her, Kaz has her blood on his cane, and for the first time since they boarded the Ferolind she trusts him to do what’s right, not just for the Crows but for her. 

     ( It means that he’ll leave her there. It means that he’ll do as she asked and do his best to prevent Matthias from following. This is her share of the take: keep him safe, do not let him throw himself headfirst into danger for her sake, do not compromise his well-being for her own. She casts a look over her shoulder at Kaz, who doesn’t say a word, but he offers the barest hint of a nod. The deal is the deal. He will trade her life for theirs, and he won’t look back, and if they’re lucky and Matthias is the man she feared, the man she hopes, he’ll leave her there, too. ) 

     Astoria wears an expression of rage and defiance, blood drying around her mouth and under her nose, three of her fingers crooked and swelling, her hands bound behind her. Matthias’ hand is curled around her elbow and he guides her forward more gently than is necessary, and she wants to tell him to push her, to make her stumble, to insult her and shove her and make it look real. 

     More than that she wants to press close to him and let him taste her blood in her mouth and tell him that if they had more time, if they just had more time, she would have spent it with him. She will be the next in a line of women to leave him, and if she’s very lucky, he’ll forget her in a short while; she can be a memory for him to share with his good Fjerdan wife and his good Fjerdan children, the drüsje who heard songs in the water and thought the melody of his blood was the sweetest she’d heard, the witch audacious enough to spend her last thoughts on the shape of his mouth and the gentleness of his eyes and the power of his hands. 

     Instead, she says nothing, and she won’t turn to look at him, because if she turns to look at him she will weep, and she will beg, and she would rather he remember her like this. When the doors come into their field of vision, she clears her throat, and she feels Matthias’ hand tighten around her elbow. 

     “I’m sorry,” she says after a beat. “This is going to be unpleasant. But I’ll be fine.” 

     She is, it will, she won’t. She wants to wrap herself in his arms and close her eyes to the world and forget that this was ever a thought that crossed her mind, but if she doesn’t do this, they may not have the time to finish this, and get out. And she thinks of the others — Jesper’s debts paid and Inej free of her indenture and Wylan’s anger sated and Nina’s penance fulfilled and Kaz’s power grown and Matthias finally, finally coming home.

     The doors open. She misses the details of the conversation, and she flinches away from him when he turns his eyes to her. Behind her, Matthias grips her arm even tighter, as if he means to pull her away from there himself — but then the drüskelle speaking to them grabs her and calls for another to help him escort her to a cell, and she screams. 

     It’s an awful scream, filled with a fear she couldn’t feign if she tried — desperate and primal in its terror, and she is nineteen years old she is eleven years old she is four years old she is crying now, thrashing against their hold, and when she looks back over her shoulder for one last glance at them, Kaz’s shoulders are hunched, just barely, and Matthias is cold, unmoving. Unforgiving as the Fjerdan ice. For a moment she feels real doubt — had he wanted this from the start? Had he craved the sight of her bloodied and thrown to his brothers for whatever bloody retribution they intended to exact?

     When they hang her bound hands from a hook in her cell, she closes her eyes and she thinks of her mother, whom she loved, and her father, whom she never knew, and the first boy who said he loved her and asked her to be his wife, and the sight of Matthias’ smile that first night on the Ferolind, laughing at some shared and private joke, looking at her for a moment as though she might not be a monster but a miracle.

four.

The tailoring has been removed now and he looks like Matthias, like her Matthias, just as she looks like his Astoria, with her curls a shade or two darker than the lilies restored to her back. Matthias pays inordinate attention to her hair at times, watching it in wonder as he fists his hand in her curls and marveling at the strands that get caught in his fingers. She’s been doing the same with the color of his eyes, the impossibly distracting shade of ice whenever he looks at her. Even now, she’s distracted by it, as Matthias moves beneath her, one hand grasping desperately at the headboard, the other tight around her side. 

     Each step has been slow, taken only at Matthias’ guidance; she’d made it clear early on that it was up to him how quickly they moved, that she would respect whatever timetable he set for abandoning the vows of celibacy and abstinence, and he has surprised her less with his timeframe than with his intensity. Every time he touches her he does so with reverence; every inch of her is holy to him, and he makes it clear to her whenever given the opportunity. 

     The grip of his hands sometimes leaves bruises; he’d been apologetic at first before realizing that she preferred to have a few marks from him, that the purple imprint of her fingers on her sides was intoxicating. His hand falls from the headboard and settles on her hip, guiding her, and after a moment he sits upright and he winds his arms around her and he pulls her close as she rocks against him. 

     It occurs to her then that she has never been so close to another living soul. There’s something almost euphoric to it  — to being seen, held, known. Astoria winds an arm around his back, grips his shoulder with surprising ferocity, as if she means to keep her hold on him indefinitely. ( She does. ) Her other hand slips into his hair, but here her grip is gentle. He has been an apt student, responsive to her suggestions, watching her every move with the dedication of a lifelong scholar, and she wonders if he takes to all new things with such enthusiasm, or if it’s the sort of enthusiasm that only comes with love for the subject.

     He kisses her just before she comes and he smiles against her lips when she cries out, and he follows her soon after, his hands tightening at her sides. For a long moment, neither of them move, and Astoria watches him in silence. The blue of his eyes is distracting. Wonderful. Intoxicating. She could stay like this for hours, simply watching him, and be content. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his brow, over his shoulders and chest, and his hair is a mess of tangles from her ministrations. 

     “You are beautiful like this,” Astoria rasps when she can speak again, her voice hoarse but genuine. Her hands fall and instead she rests them lightly against his neck, and she kisses him slowly, carefully, as though she is afraid to break the spell between them.

     Spent, Matthias gingerly lowers himself back to the bed, drawing her down with him. He is everything of home worth preserving — the ice in his eyes and the strength of his hands and the way he sounds like he’s praying when he comes undone. He is beautiful, he is holy, he is pure magic — if there is enchantment to be discovered between them it’s in the way he says her name. Astoria, always, drüsje, when he teases, and mine, mine, mine. Astoria carefully climbs off of him only to curl up against his chest, one of his waiting arms winding around her shoulders the moment she’s settled in. She rests her head over his heart and she listens for the movement of his blood beneath his skin and she hears the song in him the same way she heard it in the water below the ash tree, or in the open sea, or in the snow and ice of their homeland. 

     “I hear Djel in you,” she says quietly. He is an honorable man and breaking any oath, no matter how little it serves him, is not something done lightly. She knows what it is to leave their old lives behind for something different, something so antithetical to everything they were taught in their youth, and she knows that it troubles him sometimes that there is nowhere to worship here, that the only god anyone prays to besides Ghezen is their own kruge. She feels it, too, though she has become skilled in pretending otherwise. She looks up at him and she says it again. “When I listen to your heartbeat, I can hear Djel singing. You are so beautiful.” 

     Matthias looks at her for a moment before he rolls her onto her back and hovers over her, propped up on his elbows. “What does it sound like?” he asks quietly. 

     He’s too far, even just inches away, and Astoria lifts herself up just enough to meet him, to press her mouth tenderly to his. “It sounds like home.” 

five.

The shares in the Crow Club come with Kaz’s warning that if she shirks her duties there or with the Dregs, she will regret it, and the caveat that as a shareholder, she will need to work in the club as well. And so she learns to deal, and she spends weeks at it before Kaz lets her take over one of the card tables, until she’s able to trick Jesper and Nina both while Kaz watches her shuffle. 

     Her costume changes as well — the higher necks she tends to prefer when leaving her room are traded in for something a bit more dramatic and plunging, but only on the nights when she deals. If her slender hands and sweet smile don’t attract attention, then her décolletage certainly will. Matthias laces her into the corsets, littering kisses along her bare neck and shoulder as he does, and he spends the first night she deals sitting at the bar to keep an eye on things. When a patron gets loud and indignant at a loss, he walks behind her and rests a hand on her shoulder, waiting for the patron to settle down, and later, when that same patron tries to corner her to apologize, Matthias watches, eyes narrowed, as she laughs. 

     “Careful now,” she says, the warning tone clear in her voice. “My husband is a possessive man.” 

     The patron lets out a drunken laugh and curls a hand around her arm, and then the offending hand is being held in Matthias’, the sound of cracking fingers loud enough to stop conversation at another table as everyone swivels around to watch. 

     “She was not exaggerating,” he says, releasing the patron, who cradles his injured hand against his chest and scurries toward the door. From across the room, she sees Kaz rolling his eyes at the intervention, though she knows Kaz is less annoyed by losing a handsy customer than he is by the way Astoria presses a kiss to Matthias’ cheek afterward.

     ( “You’re the one who encouraged me to flirt with him,” Astoria pointed out once, and Kaz had sighed so heavily she thought for a moment he was unwell.

     “I regret it everyday. I never would have if I’d guessed you two would be so disgusting in public.” )

     It’s the first and last time a patron tries anything similar, but Matthias spends time in the club with her when he can spare it, his fingers brushing along the back of her neck when he walks past. It keeps the patrons thinking she’s honest — too easily distracted to cheat, or catch them cheating — and it makes her smile every time he does it. It’s only once or twice a week, on a trial basis while they keep track of how much she brings in, but there’s a chance it will continue. 

     The rain that night is cold and heavy, and Astoria shivers a bit as she settles in at the table. Matthias isn’t with her tonight; he’s with Jesper, delivering a message. ( She had kissed Matthias goodbye warmly, and when she’d pulled away, Jesper offered his cheek expectantly and asked, “Where’s mine?” as she laughed. ) They hadn’t told her what they were looking for, and Astoria knew better than to press. Wylan is sitting at the bar, keeping her company, fidgeting with something she can’t identify, and Kaz is in his office.

     There are no clocks, no windows, and so she keeps track of time by the drinks served and the men working behind the bar. She nurses her own gin for well over an hour, and it takes some time for her to worry. It’s only a job; they’ve done this a dozen times by now, and rarely, if ever, with incident. ( But there are still things that concern her. The Dregs’ victory does not mean that they are beyond anyone’s reach. ) 

     She worries when Wylan, yawning, takes his leave of her. She worries when Jesper returns and Matthias does not, and when Jesper makes a point to avoid her as he moves through the club. Still, she focuses her attention on the cards, on the players and their clumsy hands and their eager faces. She smiles, and she shuffles, and she deals, and she doesn’t lose her composure even when she sees Kaz standing in a doorway, watching, unmoving. 

     When her shift ends she approaches him, and the only thing he says is, “There was trouble, and they were split up. We’re not sure where Matthias is.” 

     She doesn’t bother to change; she only grabs the long leather coat she wears in the rain from where she’d left it in behind the bar and she slips out of the Crow Club without another word, the low heel of her boots clicking, her hands shoved into her pockets and shoulders hunched and her hair dripping wet after only a few moments outside. 

     She knows every street of the Fifth Harbor inside out and backwards, just like she knows that it’s foolish for her to walk those streets alone, but she carries herself with a confidence she doesn’t quite feel and she cuts through the night as quickly as she can, ignoring the whistles and catcalls from drunken tourists. One falls into step beside her — a university student, she thinks, given his bearing and his obvious wealth — and he grins. 

     “This is a bad part of town for a pretty face,” he tells her, and the look she gives him is enough for him to stumble back as if pushed. 

     She’s out less than an hour, but long enough that she’s starting to feel hopeless, when she feels an icy hand brush along the back of her neck. Astoria whirls around, hands raised, only to let out a sigh of relief when she sees him — Matthias, shivering and soaked through, his face white from pain but wearing a smile nonetheless. 

     “What happened? Where have you been?”

     “We were separated. I was injured. Nothing terrible,” he rushes to assure her, seeing her eyes widen, “but with this rain, I need to go slowly.”

     She notices now that he’s favoring a leg, and she crouches down for a better look, her skirts soaking as she does. It looks like a break, his ankle bruised and swollen; there are a few scrapes on his hands and his knuckles are split and he’s sporting a nasty bruise on his cheek but otherwise, he looks whole. 

     She wants to ask who it was to touch him, whether or not any of them are nearby, if he’d mind terribly if she split their skulls open, but she’s too relieved to have him in front of her again to manage any of that. Instead, Astoria stands on her toes; his lips are cold, too, when she reaches them. When she settles back on her heels she takes his icy hands in hers and she warms them, and she moves around to wrap her arm around his waist, pulling his over her shoulders, on his injured side. 

     “Lean on me,” she says. “Try not to put weight on it. We’ll get you a medik, but first, let’s get you home.” 

     He shivers against her and she only pulls him closer. They begin their slow walk back to the Slat, the both of them soaked through and freezing when they arrive.

     He falls asleep with his nose buried in her hair and his arm around her and his cold hands held lovingly in hers. 

...and one.

They’d had no luck in Elling. Perhaps Veronika had gotten wind of Kaz’s agents looking for information, or perhaps she’d simply grown tired of the city, but by the time they reach it, she’s nowhere to be found, and neighbors report that a woman fitting her description vanished without warning one night weeks before. 

     There is some finality to it. She is alone in the world, now, except for the Dregs; the only family she knows is gone, determined not to be found, and Astoria doubts that she’ll be able to manage it. Matthias had wound his arms around her and pressed a kiss to her temple after she heard the news, but she had been less troubled than she might have imagined. She still has family. 

     That family is asleep now; they’ve taken shelter in a cave and huddled together, shivering, while they waited for a freak storm to pass. With them is the proof that their endeavor had been a success in part if not in whole: Matthias is curled up around a wolf he’d introduced as Trassel, who bared his teeth at Astoria at first before licking Matthias’ face and trying to climb into his lap. The laughter that echoed off the ice had been so bright, so warm, that her heart ached to hear it, and despite her discomfort Astoria has already begun to think of the isenulf as an extension of Matthias and, thus, as something she loves. 

     He looks younger in sleep, she realizes fondly. If he hadn’t fallen asleep beside a massive killing machine against which she had no defense, she would stroke his hair back, or curl up beside him; she can’t sleep, too uneasy with their company, and sits watch instead. She wonders if this will be the first night of many that she’s displaced by a wolf, but she supposes she can learn to live with it. 

     They should get a bigger bed, she thinks. Or, perhaps, find a place of their own, if there’s nothing bigger available at the Slat. There’s something almost comical about it, imagining playing house with Matthias while she’s huddling in a cave not unlike where she took refuge when she fled Fjerda in the first place. They’ll get a massive bed with room enough for the cats and Trassel both, and Matthias can sleep in the dead center, flanked by the great loves of his life. She’ll paint the front door emerald green and they’ll hang an ash bough over the hearth. 

     He wakes slowly, comfortably, and he stretches, reaching for her. He’s careful not to disturb the wolf beside him, who yawns and rolls onto his back, much more a needy pup than an insenulf in the moment. When he looks at Astoria he smiles, the dying fire reflecting in his eyes.

     “You can continue to rest,” Astoria says gently. “The storm won’t stop anytime soon.”

     “He won’t harm you.” Matthias’ voice is soft, and terribly sweet. “You can sleep too.”

     “Who will tend the fire if I do that?”

     “We are plenty warm here. You look exhausted.”

     “You’re supposed to tell me I look radiant.”

     “You are beautiful,” he promises, “but you look tired. Come.” He rolls onto his other side, Trassel settling against his back, and he gestures for Astoria to join him. 

     He is warm when she stretches out obediently beside him, her head tucked under his chin and her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, their cloaks through together over the both of them. 

     “I am sorry we could not find her,” he says finally, and Astoria shakes her head.

     “Don’t be. She knows what she is doing. I’m glad we found him.” Beside Matthias, the wolf lets out a noise that sounds a bit like a snore. “You seem brighter than I’ve ever seen you before.”

     And there’s that smile again, so beautiful it almost hurts to see.

     “We may need more room than what we have at the Slat,” he murmurs, and Astoria laughs, nestling closer. 

    “We may,” she agrees, and her eyes feel heavy, and when he drops a kiss to the top of her head moments later, she’s already asleep. 

     She wakes hours later, warm in his grasp, a weight across their bodies. Trassel is asleep across the both of them, his massive head resting on Astoria’s hip, and she doesn’t move except to reach down and scratch gently behind his ears. 

[mimiwrites2000]

Legends

Chapter Six ~

AO3 ~~

Pairings: Armin x Annie/ Eren x Mikasa (other pairings will be added as the story goes on)

this chapter contains some Armin x Mikasa platonic fluff 

Words count: 3123

* spoilers for chapter 127 and up

Summary:

an injury

a miracle

an understanding

and maybe 'everything happens for a reason' holds some truth in it, and all of it leads to that tingle of emotions with unsolvable maze that hypnotize its victims

~a story of broken hearts who are searching for a cure while mending each other’s wounds

They got to the island, and as sneaky as possible, they found a cottage somewhere in a remote area in the mountains. They decided that they would remain there until Eren wakes up and explains everything to them.

It wasn’t a big cottage, nor was it claustrophobic-small, it had two bedrooms, one of them was basically the attic -with a squeaky, barely-holding-itself staircase leading up to it- one living room, and a kitchen. They all had to share one cramped bathroom.

The construction wasn’t pathetically old, but it had been abandoned for some time, the lonely couch in the living room would dip deeper than a normal one when someone sat on it, the kitchen’s rusty cabinets doors were better detached, their squeaking would wake up the whole forest in an instant.

Mikasa would sit by the bed where Eren was resting, still unconscious, while everyone was somewhere in the cottage, trying to make the place as hospitable as they could with minimal supplies and zero mental power.

Well, since captain Levi was staying with them; everyone had to work hard to get this place to his cleaning standards.

However, Armin would forget all his troubles when he saw Annie around her father, well, she was always around him, but when he’d kiss her forehead or when she’d hug him, Armin would feel lighter, and a smile would pull at his lips.

Armin never saw Annie this carefree ever before, in fact, nor did anyone else, not even Reiner, for he himself wouldn’t bother to hide his astonished face when he’d catch Annie’s affection towards her father.

It was a tiny liberal vent to have at least someone genuinely happy and relieved, it absorbed some of the negativity in the air that was straining their minds into a choppy, dry sponge.

It was their third day at the cottage, while they were having dinner, that Annie addressed them for the first time in a while when she said: “I just realized that I’ve never introduced any of you to my father properly.”

The clattering of the utensils stopped, and no one said anything, and it’s not like they had any idea how to begin.

Hanji let out a light laugh, put down the crooked spoon they had in their hands, and said: “Well, my name is Hanji Zoe and I’m the 14th commander of the scouts, I mean, if the system is still running that is,” they cleared their throat, “nice to meet you, Mr. Leonhart.”

Mr. Leonhart nodded his head, and a small smile grazed his lips.

“We’re not very much fun to be around, so I hope we could get you as comfortable as we could, so, uh, welcome to the island.” Hanji continued, before holding their spoon again and resuming eating their meal.

Hanji’s introduction encouraged everyone to start talking, each of them introducing themselves, and the atmosphere morphed into one of a friendly dinner, it was the first time they spoke like they used to since they got to the island.

Scanning the room with her eyes, Annie realized that Armin was nowhere to be seen, she wondered where he was, and why would he miss dinner, well, it’s not like it was a fancy meal, but Hanji’s stew with some bread is extravagant juxtaposed to an empty stomach.

“Where’s Armin?” Annie asked Gabi, who was sitting beside her.

“I think he went outside, saying he needed fresh air.” She answered, her voice overthrown by the heated yet friendly discussion that erupted between Hanji and Pieck, before munching on a piece of bread.

“Is that so…” Annie fiddled with her fingers before she got up, wrapped some bread with a cloth, her father looked at her questionably, so she whispered in his ear: “I’ll be right back.” He nodded, and she left.

Annie searched around the cottage for Armin, but he was nowhere to be seen, so, she sat off through the forest, looking for him.

Annie didn’t take long to spot him; they had found a stream nearby, so she decided to search there first, also, the screams Armin was shouting didn’t make him quite hard to find.

Annie lurked around the trees, peaking through branches and taking wavering and inaudible steps, then she hid behind a bush, observing and not moving a muscle, she couldn’t see Armin’s face; his back was to her.

Armin screamed on and on, stretching his arms upwards, his lungs felt like they ignited and were on fire, but he still screamed, his vocal cords could tear, but he didn’t care about it. His cries the only other voice beside the stream and the crickets of night insects.

Armin needed to let out some of the stress that was weighing him down, and it’s not like he’s composed like others and could handle everything with a stoic face, he had to let it out somehow.

His mind railed over the people he left dinning in that cottage, he could no longer look at Mikasa and smile knowing that their childhood friend had almost destroyed the world and now was shut-eye in a bedroom unconscious for the past three days.

Armin could no longer look at any of them, nevertheless, think with a straight mind, he was clueless as to what happened and to what was to come.

He had to let it out.

When his voice faded, and it was painful to swallow, he collapsed on the dirt, dipping his toes in the cold, running water, closed his eyes, took deep breaths, and waited for his cords to heal to go for another round.

“Are you done yet?” A voice he knew too well said from behind.

The corners of Armin’s lips twitched, he splashed water; shivering from the cold: “I was planning on screaming some more, wanna join me, Mikasa?” his voice hoarse, cracking as steam erupted from his mouth.

“My throat would bleed, and I can’t heal it as fast as you could.”

Mikasa walked to Armin, and squatted next to him, they sat in silence, none of them speaking for a while.

Then Mikasa wrapped her arm around Armin’s shoulder, and he leaned into her embrace, Mikasa rubbed circles on his back and sighed, they both were lost, and nothing could ever fix what they’ve been through…

“This brings back memories,” Armin said, his eyes following a tiny golden fish swimming against the flow, he felt Mikasa nodding next to him.

“Maybe we could get those old days back.” Mikasa pondered.

“Yeah,” Armin absent mindedly agreed with her, then he flipped what she said in his head, over and over, and then blurted out: “yeah, yeah,” his voice gained confidence with every passing second, “Mikasa, why not?” He pulled away to look into her eyes; they held bewilderment, and that made the tip of Armin’s lips lift upwards.

“Why not?” Armin continued, “we can do whatever we want when all of this is over, we sure as hell deserve it, don’t we?”

“Y-yeah.” Mikasa stuttered, not sure from where this sudden enthusiasm came from.

Armin shifted his position, and was on his knees in front of Mikasa, he clamped her hands in his. Without breaking eye contact, he went on: “There are many places, that we could explore, or we could stay warm in some cozy, lovely house,” Armin shifted closer to her, “we deserve our own happy ending, don’t we?”

Mikasa’s lips parted in astonishment, she couldn’t pinpoint the line between desperation and resolve in Armin’s voice; however, she squeezed his hands and pulled on half a smile, a smile that meant this happy ending would only happen in another life, but certainly not this.

Armin’s eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pouted, he was resolute to make Mikasa feel better. So, he stood up, held out his hand to her, Mikasa took it, and without any introductions, Armin put his right hand on her waist, while the other hand held hers up toward the skies.

Mikasa promptly landed a hand on his shoulder, while the other gently laid upon his, “Armin, what exactly are you doing?” she asked him.

Armin didn’t answer; instead, he hummed some tune under his breath and started moving his hips.

Mikasa, having no idea what was going on, followed Armin with hesitant movements, then, his crooning turned into a silly jazzy combination of ‘dun dun’ and ‘tara tara,’ his voice getting louder and louder and his movements more imbecile and funnier.

Mikasa held in her laughter, biting her lower lip; Armin being silly isn’t a sight anyone would see occasionally, and when he did an exaggeratedly dramatic twirl, she couldn’t hold it in any longer; she let out a loud, chirping laugh.

Armin chuckled in return, and he felt a weight left off his chest, I didn’t get a chance to apologize to her after all, and he twirled Mikasa around, her skirt flowing around her, and uh God she’s so beautiful, she didn’t deserve any of the horrific stuff that she went through.

Mikasa twirled once again, and when she faced Armin, she noticed that his smile wasn’t as wide as it was a moment before, she looked at him in confusion before he stepped closer to her and wrapped his arms around her.

Mikasa didn’t expect that, but she hugged him back, resting her head on his shoulder. Armin swayed with Mikasa, resuming his humming, though the tune is supposed to be cheerful, his voice cracked, and the song sounded ominous and dreary.

Armin tangled his fingers in Mikasa’s short hair, ruffling it a bit, and he sensed Mikasa wrapping her arms tighter around him.

Mikasa heard Armin humming actual words, they were incoherent, and she had to focus on decoding them, but once she did, she couldn’t overlook them: “I’m sorry, oh I’m so sorry…”

Armin’s apologies stabbed into Mikasa’s heart, swift and unnoticeable, leaving her with tight lungs and trembling limbs. Her breath hitched in her throat, and soon, tears were spilling uncontrollably from her eyes, Armin shuddered, and she heard his own labored breathing.

Soon, the tunes drifted with the wind, and the pair fell to the ground, their grip only tighter around each other, as they cried their grief out, their own sobs cutting through the air, and the ambient nature only seemed to quiet down and listen to their mourning.

Annie watched from behind the bush, not making a sound, and when she saw both of them crumble to the ground, she decided it was her cue to get back to the cottage.

However, Annie couldn’t step inside; instead, she walked to a mountain of log beside the cottage and leaned against it, looking at her feet, moving the dirt beneath her shoes, then she looked up to the sky, the full moon peaked at her between the clouds…

The blue light immersed Annie’s surroundings, how the stars shone so bright but yet dull with the moon taking the spotlight, no one would look for the stars when the moon is out, she thought, right?

Annie heard footsteps approaching her, she tilted her head down and saw Armin, hand in hand with Mikasa, were approaching the cottage.

How long have I been out here?

Annie wanted to run into the cottage, but something screwed her legs in her spot, and she couldn’t move a muscle; instead, she waited until they noticed her presence.

Armin and Mikasa stood in front of Annie, Mikasa nodded, acknowledging Annie’s presence, and Annie nodded in return. At the same time, Armin was more verbal and said: “Oh, hey Annie, what are you doing outside?”

“Could ask you the same question,” Annie answered, crossing her arms.

Armin smiled, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Mikasa glanced between the two, then she let go of Armin’s hand and told them that she’s heading inside.

Armin and Annie stood there, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not knowing what to say, then he noticed a cloth tied in a knot by Annie’s foot, something wrapped in it, he asked: “Were you planning to go somewhere?”

“No,” Annie answered, not realizing that Armin was referring to the bread she packed for him.

“Well then, may I ask what you have in that?” Armin inquired, pointing to the sack.

Annie looked down to it, and she immediately said: “There is some bread in there, thought I’d eat some out here, but I’m not hungry anymore,” she kneeled down and picked it up, producing a piece of freshly baked bread, though it turned cold, “you wanna have some?” Annie offered it to Armin.

Armin couldn’t hide his hunger, as his stomach growled. He took the bread gladly from Annie’s hand, taking a bite; it wasn’t the best bread he ever had, but considering that they were in a remote cottage in the mountains, this was the best they could ask for.

At least the airplane was packed with portions, and they were glad for that.

Annie made space for Armin to lean against the log beside her, she admired her surroundings while he munched on the bread.

“Armin, I think you deserve happiness,” Annie said out of the blue, her eyes scanning the sky.

Armin stopped chewing and turned his head towards Annie, not sure if he heard her or was just imagining it, but there was no one outside but them…

Armin swallowed, then said: “Uh, well thanks,” he looked up to where Annie was looking, “I think you deserve happiness too.”

Annie blinked; she didn’t say anything.

“You’re finally reunited with your father, now you can live the rest of your life by his side, right? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, Annie?” Armin said, imitating Annie and crossing his arms.

“I guess you’re right…” Annie agreed with him, eyes still aimed at the sky. She caressed the ring around her finger, turning it…

Silence draped over them, both watching the dark blanket upon them with jewelry scattered on it, but that one big diamond stealing all the glory to itself.

A ting of guilt nagged at her, she was so lost in the happiness bubble that she forgot about the bigger picture, where everyone was conflicted, barely slept, and had a ticking bomb in their hands with nothing they could do about it.

She glanced at Armin, he was watching the sky, just like her, and she wondered what kind of matters were swarming inside his head, an urge itched at her hand to reach out into his skull and pull out all the tangled thoughts fizzing inside it, and blow them away into the night, to get them lost forever.

Annie looked down at her hand, she unconsciously took off her ring, its shining rim between her thumb and finger, glistening, hiding the catastrophes it’s capable of.

Armin felt a hand close around his own, he looked down, and saw Annie securing his fingers around something small and warm, before she retreated and looked into his eyes. He shot her a confused look, he brought his fist closer to his face, and when he opened it, his lips parted in shock.

A circle of metal rested on his palm, still warm from Annie’s fingers.

“Isn’t this… your ring?” He asked her the obvious as he inspected it.

“It is, and…” Annie swallowed, “it got me to where I am, I guess, you… might need it,” no he wouldn’t, he got his own ring, you dumbass-

Annie imagined her jaw dropping to the ground when Armin silently slid her ring on his finger, he stretched his hand and observed it for a second, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out something.

He stretched his hand towards her right hand, his eyes locking with her, and when she didn’t’ back away, he held her hand, and slid something cold around her finger.

Annie looked down and-

A ring, almost identical to hers, wrapped around her finger, where her ring used to be.

“Then, I want you to take mine,” Armin said, his voice low.

a cold waft ruffled Annie’s hair, golden leaves swirling around them, and Annie heard her heart’s beats in her ears.

She wanted to reject the ring, it wasn’t about him, he shouldn’t give her something in return, something to keep her hanging on false hope and fantasies that only happened in fairy tales-

“Ahem.” Someone cleared their throat.

Armin and Annie startled and whipped their heads toward the source.

It was Mr. Leonhart.

Armin immediately stood erect, his fingers crushing the bread in his hold, his thoughts rampaged into his skull, and sudden nervousness rushed down his spine. For a moment, he thought he should probably salute him or something, luckily, Annie broke his perplexing thoughts:

“Oh, father, are you done eating?” Annie asked, not budging.

“Oh, yes, Hanji’s cooking is… unique, indeed.” Mr. Leonhart answered, then his eyes landed on Armin, “oh, Annie, you never introduced me to this young man, am I wrong?” Mr. Leonhart inquired, stepping closer to the pair.

“You’re not, his name is Armin Arlert, the Brainiac.” Annie casually acknowledged Armin.

“U-uh, yes! That’s my name! I mean my name is Arlert, Armin Arlert,” Armin stuttered, suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with his arms, so he stretched one out and said, his words overlapping: “it’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Leonhart!”

Mr. Leonhart took Armin’s hand in his, shook it twice, then, instead of letting it go, he placed his other hand over it, clasping Armin’s fingers in a warm, calloused grip, “oh, I must’ve heard about you from Reiner, the guy with wits no one compared to.” He probably was informed about how the survey corps exposed the Female Titan, but he didn’t elaborate on the topic.

Armin’s cheeks heated up, but Mr. Leonhart clamping hands grounded him, and he looked into the man’s eyes, and, even though he’s not Annie’s biological father, Armin still got the same aura from them.

“Well, Arlert, it’s a pleasure meeting you,” Mr. Leonhart let go of Armin’s hand, “I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your surname, but your first name sounds like a name your grandfather would choose.”

Armin chuckled, a smile remained on his face, “You’re exactly right.” Armin looked at Annie, his eyebrows rose a little when he saw her tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to hide a blush dusting her cheeks.

The door of the cottage slammed open, and a disturbed figure came rushing out, looking towards the darkness of the forest.

“Armin! Are you here?!” Shrieked a panicked Connie, making all of them jump.

“Connie!” Armin shouted, waving his arm to get Connie’s attention, “what happen-”

“Eren’s awake.”

~~~

I either have a very short chapter or a very long ass one, no in-between I hope you're enjoying this story!! Armin and Mikasa's scene made me cry while writing it... yeah I get emotional over my babies...

I want to thank @madninive​ for being soooo supportive and just an amazing human being, she helped me out so much with this chapter, so thank you for existing and putting up with me

[illfoandillfie]

Curtains - Part 3

SERIES MASTERLIST

Pairing: Roger x Reader

Summery: You go to see Roger play

Warnings: Smut (18+), Exhibitionism/public sex, unprotected sex, dom!Roger, oral sex (mostly f receiving but also a little m receiving), 

Words: 3662

A/N: Part 3 is finally here! I also have parts 4 and 5 planned out so hopefully I should be able to get them up soonish too.

Taglist: @laedymoon  @dtfrogertaylor   @ezmina98  @vee-ndetta @atomic-watermelon @kellypenac @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor  @hannafuckingsucks​ 

@bohemiansweede​ @rogershoe​  @lnnuend0​  @funitrog​

The pub wasn’t actually named the pub. It did have a proper name. Something about a boar’s head or a king’s arms, so you’d heard. But no one ever used its name, they just called it the pub. It was the only one in the area students regularly went to because it was cheap and usually had alright bands playing. The beer might have been piss weak and the glasses a little on the dirty side but that was a small price to pay for a small price and a good guitar. You got there an hour before Queen were due to go on, heading straight to the bar as you tried to find Roger in the crowd. You’d seen his van as you cut through the carpark so you knew he was there somewhere but the clusters of people standing around talking and drinking made it hard to spot him. You thanked the barman as he handed over your drink, taking a sip as you scanned the faces nearest you.  “You made it,”  You turned at the sound of Roger’s voice, find him leaning against the bar like he had been the first time you spoke, a cigarette held delicately between his fingers, “looks like,”  “Early too,”  “Am I?” you took a sip of your drink, trying to calm the butterflies that had appeared when he did.  “Don’t play coy with me, love, both know why your here,”  “And why would that be?”  He pushed himself off the bar, exhaling another plume of smoke into the already smoky room, and took a step closer, crooking his finger until you leaned in. A shiver ran through you when you felt his fingertips on your jaw and then his breath on your ear.  “Think I wanna hear you ask for it,”  You almost whimpered as he took the drink from your hand, sipping it as he resumed his position against the bar again. His eyebrow quirked up as he looked at you, waiting, the cigarette back between his lips.  You took a breath but your voice stuck in your throat when you noticed the barman coming back towards where you were standing.  “Eyes on me, love, and tell me why you got here early,”  “Because I want you to fuck me,” you almost whispered, “been thinking about it since last time.”  “Mmhmm, and why would that be?”  Your eyes darted around the room again, eventually settling back on Roger, pleading with him not to make you say it out loud.  “C’mon, don’t have all night.”  You whined, trying to stall as long as possible but Roger just took another sip and waited.  “BecauseI’maslut,” it all came out in a mumbled rush, your apprehension getting in the way.  “Again, so I can hear you,”  You took a breath and focused on Roger, trying to block out the din around you, “Because I’m a slut,”  Roger chuckled, “I am never going to get tired of making you squirm like this,”  “You’re so mean,”  “Maybe, but you like it,” another drag, another puff of smoke swirling into the air, “Gets you wet,”  You couldn’t deny the truth of his statement, opting instead to silently watch him as he finished your drink and stubbed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray.  “I’d offer to finger you right here, since I know how much you enjoy that, but you’re not wearing a skirt and that makes it much harder to be inconspicuous. So let’s find somewhere a little more private, yeah?” 

Roger took you by the hand and led you towards the men’s room. It wasn’t as dirty as you’d imagined it would be, though not as clean as you’d have liked. The door hadn’t even swung shut behind you and his deft fingers were already unbuttoning your shorts. You gasped softly as pushed his hand into your underwear.  “Good thing you’re such a slut because we’re on the clock,” Roger slipped his hand free and backed you towards the sink, “go on, up you get.”  You pushed your shorts and underpants down and pulled yourself up, legs swinging over the edge of the counter, expecting Roger to undo his fly as you got comfortable. Instead he moved closer, pulling your pants down fully, leaving them dangling from one foot as he tapped on your thigh.  “Wider, c’mon, can’t expect me to eat you out with your legs shut.”  You adjusted your position with some direction from Roger, letting him put one of your legs over his shoulder.  “Thought you said this was go-oh!” your train of thought was interrupted as Roger’s tongue met your pussy.  “Going to be quick? It will be,”  You could feel him smirking as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh and then he was back to business, dragging his tongue over you, collecting your slick. You moaned as he met your clit, earning a good girl from Roger followed by two of his fingers plunging into you. His other hand was on your thigh, holding you in place as wrote his name out with his tongue. You were a quivering mess by the time he reached the last ‘r’, fingers tangled in his hair. The myriad noises that he’d pulled from you fell into a whine as he drew away, his fingers still pumping into you.   “God you’re pathetic.”  “Rog,” you whined, tugging on his hair as you tried to get him to continue.  “Don’t worry, not gonna leave you like this. This time anyway.”  He didn’t wait for a reply, leaning back in and wrapping his lips around your clit. You cries echoed around the bathroom, only getting louder and more needy as you got closer to your orgasm. You were vaguely aware of the bathroom door opening and then quickly closing again but you couldn’t find it in you to care that someone had seen. You dropped your head back, leaning against the mirror as you finally fell over the edge. Roger’s mouth didn’t leave your cunt, lapping up the mess he’d caused until you pushed him away.   “Jesus, Rog,”  “Told you it’d be quick,” he laughed, wiping his mouth on his arm, “but I’m not done with you yet. Couldn’t possibly go on stage in this state,” he motioned to where his cock was straining against his tight pants.  “You sure? Hidden behind your drums anyway,”  “Cheeky, after what I just did for you. Should make you suck me off.”  “I could if you wanted,” you pulled your shorts off your foot, dropping them on the counter next to you, and hopped off the sink, “floors a bit gross though.”  “Mmm as tempting as the idea of making you kneel on the men’s room floor and beg to blow me is,” he said as he pushed his pants down to his knees, “I’d rather use your cunt. Bend over.”  You reacted too slow for Roger’s liking. He grabbed you by the hips and spun you around, pushing you down over the bench roughly. You managed to get your hands under you before your nose hit the sink, but Roger didn’t seem to care, ramming his dick into you before you were fully settled.  “Jesus, Rog,” you gasped as he held himself flush against you, rubbing your hips with his thumbs.  “Thought you’d be used to how big I am by now,”  “God you’re full of yourself. Actually meant that I wasn’t quite ready, could’ve used another second or two.”  “Clock’s ticking,”  “Alright alright, you gonna fuck me then or just stand around talking about it,”  “Still a desperate slut,”  “Only when you’re around.”  Roger laughed, leaning down to press his lips to your neck as he began thrusting into you, “Good. Now let’s make sure every else knows you’re my slut.” 

When you left the bathroom, hair and clothes hastily smoothed back into place, you caught a few people looking at you. Roger left you as soon as you were out the door, pinching your bum (in the same spot he’d just cleaned his cum from) as he told you he’d meet you after the gig. Which left you to face the smirks and stares on your own. You bought yourself another drink, doing your best to ignore the murmuring that you were almost positive was about you and the sleezy pickup lines thrown your way. As soon as your drink was in hand you retreated to the other end of the room, as far from the bathrooms as possible. It still felt like everyone was looking at you but deeper in the crowd there were fewer cocky men who saw you as easy prey then there were towards the bar. But once the music started it was easy to forget just how many people had potentially heard you moan Roger’s name. Ironically, because you were so focused on the man himself. The longer you watched the band play, the more fixated on Roger you became. Perhaps it was because he’d finished before you could cum a second time and then flat out refused to do anything else to get you off, claiming it was incentive for you to stay, but watching him was making you increasingly horny. It was the way he moved. The speed, the intensity. You didn’t know a single fucking thing about playing the drums, but you knew he was good. His fingers alone were mesmerizing, twirling his drumsticks between songs and between notes. You found yourself zoning out once or twice, thinking about what you wished those fingers were doing to you, dwelling on the way he was sitting with his legs spread a little, almost inviting you to kneel between them. You barely registered the rest of the band, noting them enough to realise you liked their sound and that you’d seen each of them around Roger’s place at one time or other, but unable to pull your attention away from Roger long enough to do take in much more. By the time their set was over you were already pushing your way through the crowd towards where they’d exit the stage.  

You hung back a little as the first three members filed off the stage, smiles plastered on all their faces as they met up with a few friends, excitedly talking about how well the set had gone. Roger spotted you straight away and instantly headed in your direction.  “You like the show?” he asked, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. There was sweat clinging to his chest where his shirt buttons were undone. You resisted the urge to wipe it away.  “Loved it! You can really play,”  “Yeah, no shit,” he laughed, “did you have a favourite part?”  “Hmmm, think it was the way you kept twirling those sticks,”  “And here I was thinking you’d come for the music,”  “The music was good too,”  Roger casually twirled a drumstick, the motion instantly catching your attention, “Mmhmm, sure. Think you might’ve been a bit distracted to notice.”  “It’s not my fault you’re so distracting. Besides, you’re the one who left me feeling so… worked up,” you pouted, hoping Roger would take the hint.  He laughed, glancing over his shoulder at the others, “How about we remedy that, then?”  “Not too tired after playing?”  “Nah, too much adrenaline to be tired. C’mon,” he grabbed your hand and pulled you off to the side where a corridor ran down to a back door. You expected him to lead you through it but instead he turned and slipped into a small room not much larger than your average closet. A single lightbulb swung from the ceiling your, illuminating a lonely jacket hanging from a hook on the wall, and a small stash of extra toilet paper and urinal cakes.  “I’d have taken you out to the van but the others’ll head out to it soon and I don’t really want to be interrupted by them.”  “So you went for a storage cupboard instead? The other day you said this place had a backstage room,”  “Yeah, this is it.”  “Roger!”  “What? It’s a pub, Y/N, and a pretty shitty one at that. Frankly we’re lucky to get this space. Enough room to put our jackets while we’re playing. And for a post-show quickie.”  “You’re lucky you’re a good lay,” you said with a shake of your head as you began unbuttoning your pants again. Next time you’d remember to wear a skirt. 

Roger pulled his own pants off as you kicked yours towards the corner of the room. You backed yourself up against the door, pulling Roger closer by his shirt. Feeling suddenly much bolder than you’d ever felt before, you couldn’t resist leaning forward to lick a line up his exposed chest, tasting his sweat as you pulled away.  “Jesus Y/N,”  “Think you might be a bad influence, Rog. Can I suck you off?”  “Good lord,” he mumbled and then, a little louder, “You used to be shy,”  “Still shy. Should have seen how embarrassed I got when a guy at the bar suggested he fuck me to see if those noises I’d been making were real or not.”  “Prick,”  “Don’t get jealous. I’m not his slut. Now can I please blow you? Been thinking about it since you mentioned it before.”  “Dirty girl, but no, not yet. We came in here to finish something and I intend to stick to that.” His hands fell to your arse, lifting you so you could wrap your legs around him. You were still giggling as he sunk into you again though it soon turned into a gasp as your back slammed against the door with the force of his thrust.  “You good?”  “Incredible. Do it again?”  Roger repeated the movement, a short sharp cry rising into the air around you as he hit the perfect spot. You were already worked up from your earlier tryst and having watched him play, so it took almost no time at all for Roger to have you close to the edge, pornographic noises filling the small room in time with the rattle of the door.   “D-don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you whined, lifting one hand from where it was clutching Roger’s shoulder. He watched closely, as you sucked a couple of your fingers into your mouth before dropping them to rub your clit, giving yourself the final push you needed. You dropped your head back against the door as you came, the hand still on Roger’s shoulder squeezing tight.   “Good girl,” he panted as he fucked you through your high, “but I think you’ve got another one for me.”  You just nodded, not sure if you could but also not ready to lose the feeling of him filling you yet.  He didn’t change his pace, though his breath was coming harder, hot bursts of air hitting your neck as you moaned his name. You felt almost dizzy as your orgasm drew closer, unrestrained pleas for him to make you cum leaving you in a rush as you desperately rubbed your clit. He only stilled when he felt you pulse around him, pressing you hard against the door, eyebrows furrowed as he held back his own release. As soon as he felt you relax he pulled out, lowering you to the ground and then pressing on your shoulder until you sank to your knees. You were glad to be on the floor, legs feeling just a little too wobbly to hold you steady.  “Go on,” he rasped, “be a good slut and swallow for me.”  He was already so close you didn’t have to do more than suck on his tip to have him swearing and releasing his load. You dutifully swallowed, licking a few spilt drops from your lips before showing him your clean tongue. Grinning, Roger held out a hand to pull you to your feet but before either of you could say anything there was a loud banging on the door. 

“Are you two quite done in there? I need to get my jacket.”  “Two seconds,” Roger called back, trying not to laugh at how mortified you looked, “Why’d you even bring a jacket? ’s not like it’s that cold.”  The only response was another series of thumps against the door.   Roger rolled his eyes as you both pulled your pants back on before leading the way back out into the pub.   “Here you go, Bri,” Roger said pushing the jacket into the hands of the lanky guitarist you’d briefly noticed on stage.  “What’ve you done to it? Better not have stained it,”  “Jesus I’m not an animal. It was hanging up the whole time.”  “Finally finished have they?” The man you recognized as the lead singer said, appearing just in time to stop Roger and Brian from bickering.  “Y/N, this is Freddie, the tall git is Brian and the one coming up now is John, he’s new” Roger pointed at each of them in turn.  “Pleasure to meet you, darling. Y’know we’ve played a grand total of three shows together and our drummer here already thinks he’s a rockstar,” Freddie said to you before turning to Roger, “Where’d you manage to find yourself a groupie?”  “Yeah and where’s ours?” John said, handing Roger a beer.  “Fuck off,” Roger said, taking a swig and then offering the bottle to you. You took it gratefully, needing something to rinse your mouth out and a little liquid courage.   “Wait,” Brian chimed in, having finished checking the coat for any possible marks of misuse, “is this your neigbour? The loud one?”  “Based on what we just heard I’d say so.”  “Unless Rog has found himself two birds who make those noises. Nice to meet you by the way.” John said with a small wave.  You waved back, every fiber of your being telling you to run and hide. The only thing that kept you in place was Roger’s arm, looped protectively around your waist.  “Alright, would you lot lay off already. This is Y/N. Yes, she lives next door. Yes, you’re going to drop the subject immediately.”  “Calm down, Rog, just a bit of teasing,”  “Yeah, you’re gonna fuck in public, you’re gonna cop some shit.”  Roger sighed and squeezed your side reassuringly.  “C’mon, we’re gonna go out to the van, you two joining us?”  “Yeah, be out in a sec,”  “Like fucking rabbits,”  “That’s not why we need a sec,”  You could hear the three of them laughing as they walked towards the back door you’d seen earlier.   “Sorry about them,”  “It’s okay, Rog, really. Could have been worse.”  He smiled at you, the boyish grin illuminating his whole face, “Yeah, s’pose John’s right. Did kind of bring it on ourselves.” He took your hand as you talked, pulling you along as he weaved his way back to the bathrooms.  “Geeze, Rog, I don’t think I’ve got it in me to go again.”  “You’re as bad as the rest of them. I have to piss and figured you would as well.”  “Oh! Yeah okay,” you laughed. 

You met back up with Roger a few minutes later, stopping to get new drinks before you headed out the back to join the others. Almost as soon as you were inside the van you were bombarded with questions. They wanted to know everything about you – where you were from, what you were studying, what music you were into, what you’d thought of the show. They seemed to have gotten their jokes at your expense out of the way, although a few more aimed at Roger slipped through. It was a nice way to pass the evening, chatting and drinking as they waited for some of the crowd to dissipate before they moved their instruments. You watched them do that too, after they’d got sick of waiting around, offering to help but constantly being told not to worry. They played it off as being nice to the new girl, chivalrous not to make you carry anything heavy or awkward, but you thought it was much more likely they didn’t want anyone else touching their precious instruments. Finally, with the van loaded they were ready to call it a night. Roger opened the back door for you, smiling though he looked a little weary. It wasn’t a long drive, the radio barely making it through a full song before Roger was pulling into his driveway. Everyone shuffled out of the van, Freddie catching you in a hug as you bid everyone goodnight. Roger followed you down the footpath towards your front door.  “You have a good night?”  “Mmhmm, gonna sleep well for sure,”  Roger laughed, taking a small step closer, “Good, was hoping you’d have fun,”  “Let me know next time you guys play,”  “You’re just saying that to get me in the bathroom again,”  “You caught me, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” you said snidely.  “Can’t fool me. I know my slut,”  “Think I owe you a proper blowjob, since th-” you were cut off as Roger captured your lips in a firm kiss. It was a surprise at first, your body tensing with the shock, but you quickly relaxed into him, looping your arms around his neck as you kissed him back. You felt a little dazed when he pulled away.  “Can I take you out? On a proper date? No public bathroom sex. Well, s’pose there could be public bathroom sex, but that’s not like, on the invitation, just an option.”  “Rog you’re babbling,”  “Yeah, sorry,”  “I’d love to go out with you, properly.”  “Cool, umm, how about Saturday? I’ll pick you up round six?”  “Sounds great,” you said with a shy smile, “I’ll see you then, if not before.”  “Yeah, see you then. Night,”  “Night,” you watched him head back up the street towards his place, a slight bounce in his step. You were smiling right up until you got inside, but once you were alone you weren’t so sure a date was a good idea.  

[mrsbenedictbridgerton]

The Shark

My first writing of any kind in like - years. 2K words of me playing with the toys I put away so long ago and missed.

Card shark Killian Jones has taken Mills Casino for a sweet half a million. So they send in the best woman for the job of bringing him down. But when sparks fly, can either of them keep a cool head?

Ao3

White teeth bit down upon blood red lips. Jade green eyes were framed by brows drawn into a straight line. The fingers of her free hand, the one not holding a fan of cards, drummed lightly against the emerald green baize of the card table. 

Killian Jones resisted the urge to smile. Such tells were clearly those of a novice, one not used to the high stakes of Mills Casino and certainly not the cordoned-off area in which they now played, one step before the high stakes section which sat behind a glossy back door behind her. He eyed the stack of golden chips that lay beside the tiny purse she had placed down when she sat, her long legs swivelling around the short stool, revealing the short hem of her red dress. Not short of coin, at least. He hid a smirk, this time by peeling off the black leather jacket he wore. 

The lass with the golden hair nodded, taking another card into her hand. He watched her brow wrinkle for a second. Bust. Then her eyes raised, meeting his cool blue ones, a flash of electricity racing through his veins. He took a deep breath. Aye, she was gorgeous, but so was he. Clearly he had been too long without company in his bed if only a glance from an attractive woman sent waves of heat through his body, his groin tightening and then thickening in response. Fuck. He frowned and concentrated on his cards.

This was child’s play, she thought, as she watched the dealer take her cards and her chips. Pretending to be bad at Blackjack, looking like a beginner, losing a few- hundred - dollars (expensed, naturally): piece of cake. If she were to be truly honest, the accent threw her. She knew he was British and had been prepared for the queen’s English. But the honey smooth timbre of his foreign tones had threaded straight through her the first time he’d spoken.

She schooled her features in the innocent mask she had practised that afternoon. But ignoring him, well, that had been a little harder. She’d seen a picture, of course. Mills Casino had tabs on all its high rollers, especially when they took the house for a cool half million only a week ago. Actually, Emma had anticipated having to work a little harder to track him down. Surely, he wouldn’t return to the scene of his crime so soon. But the card counting crook had. Maybe he was arrogant. He certainly looked arrogant. All dressed in black, fingers covered in silver rings, shirt unbuttoned to show an almost unseemly amount of chest hair. But that wasn’t just it. There was something there. It was magnetism. Something that didn’t come across in a security image or a copy of his ID. He radiated confidence and… heat. Even from across the table she’d had to thank her great foundation for the hiding the blush she felt when their eyes met and she saw their deep blue.

And blushing was not her. Not Emma Swan, hard ass, ex con, best damn bail bonds person on the east coast.

She signalled to the waitress and ordered a Manhattan. She didn’t often drink on the job, but this was medicinal. She needed to think straight. To relax.

Her lips caressed the rim of the glass. Images of more enjoyable uses for that mouth taunted him every time he looked in her direction. He should stop looking. He was here to work. Almost a week’s break - in honour of the nice payday he had won last week - had been unheard of time for him until now. Routine was important. Focus was essential. Mistakes - fatal. 

Tonight was for taking it easy. Perhaps it was brazen to show his face again, at least so soon. But he was almost certain his activities had gone undetected. That said he had done nothing illegal… more frowned upon. Frowned upon with fists. By casino security. He flinched briefly as he remembered his first foray into the depths that department. He’d had a swollen lip and black eye for a week. And he’d learned a valuable lesson.

She ran her finger tips along her clavicle. Her long wavy hair had fallen over her shoulder, sweeping along the low neckline of her dress, the shade of her cleavage drawing his eyes. 

Bloody hell. What was it about her? He felt… drunk. Even though his two fingers of rum had remained untouched since he sat down. The cards were turned and he lost. Again. Three hands in a row, his count had been obliterated by blonde hair and long legs. 

Enough.

He picked up his glass and downed the contents in one go. He nodded to the dealer and tossed him a couple of chips before picking up his jacket and heading for the exit.

What the fuck?

She racked her mind for the file she had built up on him.

Killian Jones never, never, left a table before he had at least doubled up. And he never left the casino floor before 3am. She glanced at her watch. It was just after midnight.

She had to get him tonight. Tomorrow, he could be gone. This was the first sign of him in days. She could just call out regular security to stop him, but Regina Mills valued discretion above all else. She did not want even a whiff of a scene. Which was why her services had been needed.

A second later, she was following him, making rapid little steps in her too-high heels as she headed for the VIP exit that meant high rollers didn’t have to walk the whole casino floor to get to their hotel room - or back onto the street.

She nodded at Tiny, the tall, bearded security officer who held open the door for her, as she made her pursuit. But she had only made a few paces along the dimly lit corridor before she felt a hand upon her wrist. A warm, strong hand. It was him, he’d been waiting where corridor intersected with another, stepping out to block her way as she halted in shock.

She thought he had blue eyes? No, they were sapphire. Dazzling sapphire. Hot, glittering sapphire.

This was the moment when she should have protested, men did not grab her without hearing a piece of her mind. Instead, she shook her arm free and stepped back.

Killian enjoyed watching her expression change - from shock to curiosity to idignance. If he said he wasn’t used to the way women reacted to him, well, he’d be a liar. And a liar he was not. Bending the truth however... 

“Can I help?” he asked, rubbing his fingertips across his lips.

She looked momentarily stunned as if she did not know what to say. But she had followed him. He’d watched out the corner of his eye as she had seen him leave. Things were getting interesting. He liked interesting.

“Are you lost, love?” he asked, caressing the endearment with his tongue, taking a step closer and enjoying her flush.

Her shoulders straightened and she smiled. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Interesting. Well then…

He reached out and cupped her cheek. “You blush when you’re winning.”

“I do not-” she protested.

His land moved lower and skimmed across the exposed skin of her chest. “Here,” he added.

He could feel the racing of her heart as his fingers moved. His own pulse answered with a similar beat. By God, she was magnificent.

This was not going according to plan, she thought, as her skin burned from his touch. The cuffs should be on already. He should have been dragged down to the security room by now. Instead she was staring, her mouth a little open, her gaze fixed upon his stubble coated cheek which his knuckles has just passed over. Would those little hairs be hard and rough, or soft? She held out her hand and touched it. Soft, she thought, kissable.

Clearly there was some mutuality in that thought. His gaze dropped to her lips. His free hand found her waist and drew her closer. Then, his mouth was upon hers.

Soft and warm and strong. He tasted like spiced rum. His musky cologne mixed with the smell of the expensive leather jacket he wore. She sank into his kiss, letting her mind block out all the (very good) reasons that this was a very, very bad idea. Convincing herself it was just a kiss as her fingers slotted into his hair and he turned her, pressing her back against the flocked wallpaper of the corridor wall, sliding his thigh between hers. His heavy arousal pressed against her hip and she ground against it. Revelling in the feeling of power it gave - well, the illusion at least.

If the urge to pull up her skirts and take her right there had been even a little stronger, he would not have been able to resist. But Killian Jones was nothing if not a gentleman and even for him, taking a lass up against the wall in a public corridor would be a faux pax. He didn’t even know her name, and such information was a bare minimum requirement for his bed partners, or not bed in this case. He let his hands caress her waist and the delicious curve of her hips, drawing under her buttocks and pulling her tighter against him, torturing himself with the sensation of bodies entwined save for a few layers of infernal clothing. He wanted her. God, he needed her. The ache in his blood since she’d first appeared was reaching fever pitch.

He moved his lips to her neck, nibbling down the soft skin, allowing his lust to cool a moment.

“Do you have a name, love?”

Name. Yes, she had a name.

The question had cracked the spell she was under. Not broken it, she still felt heady with desire and something a little stronger than lust. But her name... It was at stake. This rogue, this scoundrel, with the silken tongue and gorgeous accent was her mark. She laid her head back against the wall, took a deep breath and tried to clear her head and ignore the sensation his lips were making upon her neck.

“Yeah, I do. Swan. Emma Swan,” and with one hand she reached into her purse and pulled out the cuffs she had brought. “Mill’s Security.”

He froze, his lips pulling away from her skin as the words sunk in.

“Ah,” he sighed. He jerked, ready to make a move. But, she was quicker. In a few quick moves, she had his face pressed where she had been, his hands behind him and she was fastening the cuffs. He didn’t struggle, which at first gave her pause, until she swung him around and saw the arrogant smile on his lips.

“Well lass, if that’s what you’re into, you just had to ask.”

She rolled her eyes, “Watch it, buddy.”

“Indeed I shall,” he replied, his eyes travelling down her skimpy red dress.

She pushed him ahead of her along the corridor.

Well, this was a turn for the books. Never had he been bested in such a manner. It felt oddly amusing. Perhaps more so if he wasn’t still feeling somewhat amourous, his body protesting against the abbreviation of the enjoyable activities. He liked this woman, this Swan. The name suited her. Graceful, elegant, strong. No one messed with a swan; powerful buggers they were if you got too close. 

Well then.

He let her steer him along the corridor, taking a left before the exit, stopping at a large unmarked door. She punched a code into the security pad beside it and pushed the door open. Inside, there was a table with a chair on each side and little else to speak of. 

She nudged him to sit.

“So, Swan, not you have me all to yourself, what now?”

She might have rolled her eyes at his question but she couldn't hide the blush. “Puh-lease, you are far too into yourself.”

“Merely an avid observer of womankind.”

She licked her lips. “You sit, I make a call, I get paid and you…” She let the words hang in the air before shrugging. “Well, that’s not my area.”

He chuckled, noting the interesting shiver of disappointment that rippled down his spine. “Tis a pity.”

“Yeah,” she  hummed, letting her eyes linger on him for a moment as she reached for the door handle. She squared her shoulders. “Sit tight, revenue protection have a few things they want to talk to you about.”

One last time, she met his eyes. He fancied he saw regret. 

Then the door closed.

She made the call from the courtesy phone along the hall, cell service being patchy at best in the depths of the casino. Now all she had to do was wait, make the handover and then head home for a hot bath and a large glass of pinot. Or two.

Her skin began to rapidly cool as the fever of those moments together faded into memory. God he could kiss. And his hands… and… She flushed as she revisited the sensations. She’s almost lost herself in the embrace. If it had gone on a moment or two more-

The back of her hand pressed against her mouth. He was a fraud, a conman, a manipulator. Making people feel things was what he did. It meant nothing. Even if it had been so long since she had felt anything beyond the basic mechanics attraction. It had just been to long. That was it. 

She tapped her foot impatiently. They should be here in a moment. She should check on him. 

Hurrying back to the room, she stilled her breathing before entering the code to open it. She would just check. Make sure he was… well, something. The door opened and she peered inside. The handcuffs were on the floor, a corner of the carpet pulled away to reveal a small trap door. More importantly, there was no Killian Jones.

Mother fucker!

Brushing himself off, Killian made his way out of the underground parking lot. The cuff key he always carried was tucked away in his vest pocket. He made a mental note to send Tiny a bonus, those details about the service shafts has come in very useful.

If he felt regret as he joined the busy mele outside the casino, he pushed it away. She was just another woman, this swan. Nothing to concern himself over.

And if he paused at the next sight of blonde hair and red fabric, well, that was another matter.

[georgesdarkhorse]

just wanna be bend over anything and get fucked from behind by john or george (or both) yknow

I just want you to know, as someone who would gladly get fucked by George Harrison at work any time of day, and who fantasizes about it often, this request was a dream to write lol hope you enjoy it!!

I set the phone back on the receiver and let my head fall to my hands. There was no way I would be able to schedule The Hollies this month, let alone in the next two weeks, my boss was out of his mind.

Most people think that working in a recording studio is a glamorous job. They assume everyday is filled with chatting up famous musicians and watching them record their next hit single. That couldn’t be further from the truth. As the booking assistant, my days are consumed by balancing schedules and picking up my bosses slack. The closest I get to celebrity is seeing their name on my calendar. In all honesty if it wasn’t for the pay and the fact that I have my own office, I wouldn’t even work here.

A soft knock came from the door and George stepped in. Despite being locked in my office all day, I did manage to capture the attention of one very famous Beatle. It all started with the need for a matchbook and subsequently a conversation over a cigarette.

“Ready to go?”

I blinked once, mind blank, before remembering that we had lunch plans. If he hadn’t been in the studio today I would have most certainly lost track of time and blew him off.

Threading my hands through my hair one last time, I pushed away from my desk. “Yeah, let me just grab my purse.”

“Stressed out?” He asked, eyebrows knitting together.

A weary sigh escaped as I slung my bag over my shoulder. “Just got a lot to do that’s all.”

George wrapped me in his arms, placing a kiss into my hair. I felt my body melt into his as I released tension I wasn’t aware I was holding. “Let’s get some food and take a break.”

As we stepped toward the door my phone started to ring. We shared a look. I knew better, but moved to answer it anyway.

“Don’t, it can wait,” George urged, impatience influencing his voice.

I ignored him and lifted the phone to my ear, “Abbey Road booking assistant.”

“Take that young band off of the schedule for Tuesday, they haven’t paid their deposit yet,” the sound of my bosses voice earned an immediate eye roll.

“Sure Mr. Wallace. Should I notify them of the cancellation or will you?”

He babbled on, rambling about the importance of setting precedents and how he knew these guys were flakes at the beginning. Patiently I waited, only half listening but offering the occasional “yes, definitely,” where appropriate.

Within seconds, George’s grew exponentially restless and he wrapped around my waist once more. “Lunch” he whispered in my ear, pressing his nose against the side of my head.

I attempted to wiggle out of his embrace but he clutched me tighter, pinning me against my desk.

Mr. Wallace continued his stream of consciousness on the other line. George, wanting to get his way, resorted to peppering kisses along the side of my face and down my neck. His hands began to wander, feeling the smooth fabric of my wrap dress and how it slid over my skin. As his lips started to work with purpose, desire begin to pulsate with in me.

Moving the phone away from my mouth, I turned to give George a stern look. “Stop.”

He answered me with a devilish smile before capturing my lips, earning a slight gasp. My face burned and I prayed that Mr. Wallace didn’t hear that on through the line.

George pulled back but his hands continued to caress me, now sneaking into the open neckline of my dress. He cupped my breasts, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“You wore this to tease me, didn’t you?” He asked, no longer caring to be quiet. As I exchanged a good bye with my boss, I met him astonished, quickly hanging up the phone.

“He could have heard that!”

George smirked, “So what? Let him hear.”

Once again I attempted to wiggle out of his grasp, “He’s my boss!”

George held tight and I gave in, sinking into his embrace. “He’s an asshole. I just want you to relax.”

“And I appreciate that but not when I’m on the phone in the middle of a business call.”

He pressed a kiss to my neck causing my legs to clench and my ass wiggle further into him. “Well you’re not on the phone now.” His fingers played at the front tie holding my dress together.

“True. Ready for lunch?”

The knot was freed causing the front of my dress to slightly open. He snaked his hand down the front panel, stopping to run his fingers along my damp underwear.

“It can wait.”

His low voice sent a chill up my spine. George pulled around to the back, taking my dress with him, and ran his hand down my ass and back to my heat. I leaned forward, flattening my palms on the desk and bracing myself for his touch. As he stroked my core, sliding the silky underwear over it. I fought to keep my legs open.

As he added more pressure I muffled a moan. We have never gotten intimate during the day like this. Most times we saved that for late night sessions, well after I had clocked out and most of the building was empty.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked, voice low.

“We’ve done it before, haven't we?”

“Yes, but there’s a lot of people around right now. Anyone could hear, or walk in.” Though I would never admit it, the idea thrilled me. Part of me wondered if perhaps someone was watching right now, still and quiet with their eyes trained on George and I.

“We’ll consider it a show.” He speed up his pace and I began to rock with his motion, generating more friction. “Who doesn’t want to see how good you take my cock? How naughty you actually are.”

If there was one thing I've come to learn about George it’s how much pride he takes in corrupting my “good girl” exterior. Making the proper girl turn nasty, dirty. Perverting me.

He slipped his fingers past my underwear and dipped them in between my damp folds. Straight away he pushed against my clit, causing my knees to buckle and the need to bite back a moan.

“Naughty you are indeed.” He whispered lowly in my ear. “Is this wet little cunt for me?”

I nodded, legs shaking as he started to work circles on my clit. “Yes sir.”

“Imagine if your boss could see you right now, being such a slut for me.”

I shook my head, feeling my desire surge at the hypothetical humiliation.

“No? You don’t want people to know how bad you are? How much you love getting fucked by me? How much you love drooling on my cock?”

Pleasure built within me. By this point I could barely stand, instead I braced myself on my forearms, knees pressed against the front of my desk.

“I want it,” I mumbled, mustering everything within me to keep from calling out.

“Want what?” I could hear the smirk in his voice.

“I want your cock, sir. I want you to fuck me.”

“That’s what I thought.” I heard his belt jingle and the sound of his zipper coming apart. Now, with his fingers gone a conflicting mix of relief along with need for release washed over me.

He placed his hand on my back, guiding me towards the desk as he lined up behind me. I felt his tip nudge past my folds and then the glorious stretch of his cock filling my pussy. A moan escaped from me and I slapped a hand over my mouth.

A hiss left George as he bottomed out. He was still for a moment, then began working himself into a steady pace. With each thrust my nipples tugged along the cool metal of my desk. Once again I visited the thought of someone else watching. Seeing the skirt of my dress pushed up, exposing my bare ass. The front pulled open, my bare chest pressed against the desk. Completely and utterly fucked.

As the initial pleasure from his cock started to subside, my hand found my clit. My pleasure surged once more as I made contact.

“Fuck, I’m such a bad girl,” I half whispered, half whined.

“You’re such a naughty slut. If only everyone knew what a naughty girl you were.”

I worked the fantasy in my head, changing out who could possibly be watching us. Everyone from John Lennon to my boss to my neighbor laid eyes on us fucking in my office. I felt so used and exposed and extremely close to cumming.

My legs began to shake. I continued working my clit at the same pace. I was teetering on the edge. Feeling moans dancing at the top of my lungs, I buried my head into the crook of my arm, pressing my lips against my flesh.

George must have sensed my impending orgasm. “Cum on my cock you naughty girl.” He ordered, just above a whisper.

Within a minute I had come undone. Eyes squeezed shut. Legs squirming wildly underneath me, my torso trying to burrow it’s way into the desk. It took everything within me not to call out, not to scream in pleasure.

As I floated back down, George followed suit, clenching my hips and slamming into me, chasing his own release. By the time he finished I had practically melted into the desk. I was reduced to nothing more than heavy breaths and heavy eyelids.

George leaned over me, pulling out. “Fuck.”

Though momentarily exhausted, a smirk came to my lips. “So, lunch?”

He chuckled, pushing away from me and pulling a tissue. “Depends on if you can still walk.”

For a moment I contemplated pushing up and straightening out my dress, proving him wrong, but the blanket of relaxation cast over me decided otherwise. “Give me five minutes, then we’ll see.”

“Feeling relaxed, love?”

“Oh, very much so.”

[carryonmywaywardwriters]

Love How You Hate Me - Sam x Reader

A/N: Part Eleven is finally up. Again, I deeply apologize for the wait. I had a good reason, I promise. For now, though? Here we go... As always, feedback is incredible. If you want tagged, please send an ask or message so I am sure to see it. Same goes if I missed your tag. And, I hope you all enjoy <3

PSA: I am NOT a minor friendly blog. If you are below 18, please come back when you’re older. I don’t want to lose my blog because you were too eager to grow up. If I discover you, I WILL block.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Mostly Smut. Rushed, bathroom/public sex. A little reference to the movie Focus. Some feelings. Not enough editing. That’s all, I believe.

Word Count: Roughly 3,100

“Dance with me?” You looked up to a little old man. Even though his dark skin was wrinkled and worn, his eyes vibrated with life.

Alice and Bane were having a get together at their place. Something normies got to indulge in. You had gone to help set up. A simple enough task. However, before you could dip out? The guests had begun to arrive, and Alice had insisted you stay. You hadn't even known she knew that many people not involved in the life.

“Sure,” You got up to your feet slowly. Completely out of your element.

“Anyone ever teach you how to salsa?”

“No,” You answered honestly. More than a little weary.“You willin' to teach me?”

“I'd be honored.” His face lit up, making him look ten years younger.

Sam watched as your hand landed on the elderly man's shoulder, and the other on the crook of his elbow as his hands settled on your body. What is she doing? A few minutes later, he couldn't help the smile on his face as he peeked back up.

You were stumbling a little, moving to the beat of the music with a large smile as you worked with the man. A simple, peach colored skirt swung around your legs as you stepped where instructed. The white tank top would have been immodest if you hadn't paired it with a cream colored cardigan. Showing almost more than it covered.

The guy had been sitting by himself for the longest time, until he'd sought you out. Nothing but darkness coating his wrinkled face. Now? He looked as if you'd given him the most precious thing in the world. Helping him find his youth in the small crowd.

Over the past week, a careful distance had been kept between you and Sam. You kept looking at him as if you wanted to try and repair the damage, but never found the courage to make the first move. His pride was still stinging. However, it didn't keep him from being aware of you. Only, this time, it was more than just your body.

He'd zeroed in on everything he'd missed before. The way you chewed your lip when you concentrated. How although you had a mix of modern and classic literature, the classics came off the shelf most often. You didn't have a favorite musical genre. Instead, you listened to whatever suited your mood. A glow spread across your face whenever you saw Ava smile a gummy little grin up at you. More often than not, if you were out? You'd gone down a path that led to a smaller pond to take in the nature. How restless you seemed to be since you'd gotten out on the road again. The way you turned away from your own gloom to entertain an elderly man you'd never met...

“You're still thinking about her.” Cas's voice made Sam jerk lightly as he turned to the angel. “Sorry,” His gruff apology wasn't quite enough to take away the frown on the hunter's face, “didn't mean to startle you. Or listen in.” The last bit was added in as an afterthought.

“You can't help it,” Sam grumbled, turning his head back to the scene in front of him. Then the words sunk in. “What do you mean by 'still'?”

“Almost every time I'm by you? I pick up something about her.” Castiel shrugged lightly. Simply speaking matter of factly. “It's fascinating, really... how many different thoughts there are regarding one person.” That made Sam pause, and turn back to watch you trip over your own feet. Laughing all the while. “I was human for a short time, Sam... It allowed me a bit of insight,” The angel smiled a bit at how foolish you were on the floor. Missing some of the roughness both boys carried. “But, I never got to experience something as...” He paused for the right word, “intense as what you're experiencing.” Sam's hands shoved into his pockets. Despising the truth in the words. “I'm almost jealous.”

“Feel free to take her off of my hands.” Sam suggested readily. Wishing he could escape the flood.

“You don't mean that.” He wasn't as sure as Cas seemed to be over that claim. “Is she leaving with you two?”

“Dean wants to bring her.” Sam shrugged out. Trying to act indifferent. “Hasn't asked her, though.”

“If it helps, Sam,” Cas turned back to his friend. Blue eyes boring into the hazel. Making sure the earnest words sank home. “You're not the only one struggling.” His lips pulled up lightly, “She's thinking about you, too...”

–

Hands came out from the bathroom, yanking you towards a looming figure. Your fist came out instinctively, connecting with the perpetrator before you had processed that you knew those hands. As it clicked, you meekly looked up.

Only to find Sam's wry, pained grin aimed at you,“You have a heck of a swing.”

“You had that coming.” You shrugged, turning to see if anyone had seen you get snatched. When you were sure it was clear, you pushed Sam further in and shut the door. Ensuring that you wouldn't be found with the enemy. “What are you doing?”

“Take a guess,” His eyes trailed over your body. The golden brown in them shined through that day. Full of heat. That look alone had you squeezing your thighs together. The necklace from before was hidden in the swells of your breasts, making his gaze linger there. His nostrils flared lightly as he took in the exposed skin. “I've been dying to know what you have on the end of that chain.” Your hands came up to play with it in response. Unintentionally rising to the bait.

“I figured you were still mad over the word vomiting incident.” You stated, moving over to  the counter to sit. Noting the way he turned with you. Leaving no room between your bodies. He wasn't even trying and you were almost ready to rip your clothes off. “You haven't pulled any sick tricks, lately. Just ignored me.” You sat looking at him patiently. Waiting for an explanation.

At one time, you might have been relieved by his behavior. But, not anymore. The dynamic had shifted enough that the distance bothered you.

“Well,” He moved over to you, letting his hands settle on your knees, “there's two options in a situation like this.”

“I wasn't aware this is something you had experience in.” The teasing in your tone couldn't be denied. You leaned back, supporting your upper body on your hands. Making it easier to look him in the eyes.

“Oh, I don't... The internet, though? It has answers to everything.” He replied seriously. As if he hadn't pulled the answer from thin air.

“The more you know.” Sam tried to keep his face straight, but he broke at your tone as you played along. A small laugh revealed his dimples. The sight enough to melt away the rest of your worries. There'd been guilt, before. For all his rough edges, you hadn't intended on injuring his ego. “So, what are the options? Since you're clearly educated on the subject.” Your lips had turned up at the sound of his chuckle.

“Well, there's the easy one.” His hand started drifting higher. Thumb grazing along the bottom of your inner thigh- just under the hem of your skirt. “We let that be the end, and go onto other partners. Pretend it never happened.”

“And the second?” Your breath hitched lightly as his fingers tightened on the soft skin he'd found.

“We don't stop.” His other hand reached around your back, pulling your body closer to him. Stretching you out more along the counter as he settled in between your legs. His lips dipped down dangerously close to yours. “Keep going til we figure out just what you think is missing...”

“What's your vote?” You asked, bringing your hand between your bodies. Toying with his shirt. Chewing on your lip as you waited for a response. You didn't even care in that moment that your uncertainty had become his challenge to conquer. His hands moved up to your face. Cradling you as he kissed you hungrily. Not bothering to use words. You pulled away from his lips just long enough for one, husky word: “Agreed.”  

His mouth was back on yours in record time. Then trailing down your neck to the tops of your breasts. Kissing. Licking. Sucking. The occasionally bite mixed in. All marks were gone almost as soon as they appeared. But, you were past the point of caring. It felt too right to consider the consequences.

Your hands pulled open his red and blue plaid shirt. Desperate to get down to skin. Rounded nails scratched against the firm flesh. He tugged off your cardigan as his tongue tangled with yours. Nearly ripping the material in his haste. The two of you moved as if it had been years instead of days without touching.

“Please tell me that you're ready.” The husky tilt paired with his lack of breath went straight to your crotch. You just sent him a seductive smile while yanking open his belt. “Thank God.”

The soft material of your skirt was hiked with ease. Sam didn't slow down. Didn't wait for you to lift your hips. Instead, his fingers tore at the fragile lines of your panties. Making quick work of them.

Your own fingers were busy. Yanking at his button. Ripping his zipper down. Before his pants hit the ground, common sense prevailed.

“Condom?” There was no way you were giving up any method of birth control. Sex god, or not.

“Check my wallet.” Nothing. “Damn it.” He growled out, taking it from you to check himself before tossing it to the side. Another heavy, sexually frustrated curse leaving his lips. “Give me a second.” He started searching the medicine cabinet and drawers like a man possessed.

“Oh, this is so wrong,” You huffed out. Leaving all morals aside to hunt down a form of birth control in your friend's home. No luck. “Shit.” You were aroused. More than a little annoyed. A deadly combination to be sure. “Wait!”

“You are not leaving me here like this.” Sam ground out, seeing the wheels turn in your head.

“I'll be back in two seconds.” You promised. Crossing your fingers over your heart symbolically before adjusting your clothing back into semi-decent shape.

“Y/N-” You stopped him by pulling his head down to yours. Kissing the protest right out of him.

“I have more clothing on.” You managed to get out against his mouth. “I get caught? Less of a big deal.”

“Fine.” He said after a second of frustrated silence. Knowing it was that, or a longer wait. “You leave me like this, and I swear...” He trailed off, letting all kinds of disastrous images line your mind.

“While that sounds fun,” Your inner minx couldn't be contained. Cupping his erection in your hand, you continued. “I have much more...pressing issues.” Your thumb stroked over the bulge, making him practically hiss. A quick peck against his lip, and you were gone.

Sam's hand rubbed over his face as he waited. Awkward, now that he was on his own. Wondering if you really would be mischievous enough to ditch him- he knew you could be. Or if you needed him just as badly as he seemed to need you.

It had built throughout the day. Castiel's words only encouraging him further. Goading him until he'd planned on doing something about you that night.

Then, you'd walked by. Innocent fun was the only plan when he'd pulled you into the bathroom. Then, hormones ruled the moment he had you alone. A little foreplay to warm you up. Something that would make the night that much sweeter. That idea lasted until he'd touched you. Fucking the entire plan up.

He sat leaning against the counter with his shirt open. His belt and pants still undone, and a hard on for the ages pressed out angrily. A pair of destroyed peach, lace panties rested by his feet. His wallet was over on the other side of the room. If anyone else stumbled across him, he'd have a hell of a time explaining it. Luckily, you spared the Winchester.

“Got it,” Locking the door was first priority. Something that hadn't been thought of before.

“Where the hell-”

“Your brother is an easy target.” You pulled the wallet out of your top. Knowing right where the protection was stored. “Now...shut up and make use of this.” Dean's wallet was tossed over by Sam's. No longer worth your attention.

It took two steps for him to reach your side, and slam you into the door. His lips sealing over yours again. As the kiss deepened, his hands gripped your thighs. Silently demanding you jump. He didn't hesitate, pulling you up to his waist when you gave him what he needed.

You held on as he carried you. Not breaking contact with his mouth as he moved you back to the counter. Knocking over several toiletries in the process when he tossed you back onto the counter.

It was impossible to keep your hands off Sam. Your fingers got in the way, trying to help him lose the pants. Rolling the condom into a place.

A small squeeze of his erection led to a growl from the man above you. An answering bite to your lip drew a breathy moan from your lips as he moved your hands away. Your skirt was pushed back up. Fingers just barely ghosted over the wet folds as he lined up.

Sam's mouth swallowed your cry when he filled you with a snap of his hips. Your hands tangled themselves into his shirt and onto the base of his neck. Ankles locked around his back, digging your heels into his ass to help set the pace. Hard and fast.

Pulling away your lips, you turned them to his throat. Tasting his skin as he had yours earlier to draw a groan from him. Letting that muffle the sounds he was forcing from your throat.

His teeth held his lip as he moved, rolling his body into yours. Keeping himself as silent as possible. Not wanting to be caught anymore than you did. Wanting the moment to last.

You had no idea how long you two were locked together. Grasping. Thrusting. Whimpering at the rush. Every push and pull sending you closer to oblivion.

As you got close, your head fell back away from the taste of his damp flesh. Your teeth dug into your lower lip harshly, but it wasn't enough. Skin slapped harshly together, echoing through the small room. Then you heard it: voices.

Sam paused. Bringing his hand to your mouth, he covered it gently. Gauging your reaction to his action, as the sounds of your bodies meeting didn't lessen. You didn't complain, letting him protect the both of you two. Instead, you nodded your consent.

Neither of you stopped the push and pull you'd started. Not even when the voices were right outside. Rocking into each other all the while. Eyes locked, you held each other through it. Whoever it was didn't stay long.

You ground yourself against him as soon as they were gone, wanting him to speed back up. To send you over the edge. Needing it.

Luckily, Sam understood. Wanting the same thing, himself. His head buried into your shoulder. Bracing his free hand on the counter, he slammed into you. The once covered whimpers turned to cries as you clung to him. Your body clenched tight as you came, encouraging him to follow you. Thighs trembling all the while.

With every thrust, his rhythm grew more sloppy. Fighting to refrain. But, it was all too much. Sam's teeth sunk into your shoulder to keep his own shout from being heard when he came.

Breathing heavy, you pulled apart as soon as you were able. Almost shyly cleaning up and getting your clothes situated as best as you could. You helped fix his hair while he wiped off the smudged liner under your eyes.

Not much was said. Especially regarding the 'missing piece' that seemed to be standing like a brick wall between you two. That is, until Sam picked up the wallets.

“How'd you get this, anyway?” Dean's leather was waved as he looked at you.

“He was grabbing a beer, and talking to Bane in the kitchen.” You shrugged, slipping on your cardigan. “I walked past, grabbed it out of his back pocket, shoved it in my bra, and got up here.”

“Without him noticing?” Sam didn't buy it. Dean was too good of a hunter to have missed that trick.

“There's a skill to it. You just touch directly while grabbing what you want.” It seemed too easy. “For example,” You touched his bicep while looking at your hand, and his eyes followed. “I touch you here.”

“Okay...” He trailed off in confusion.

“And, I pick this up.” You wagged the wallet that had been in his back pocket in his face. “Easy. Even if the other person hunts? Their attention is diverted.”

“You're nothing but trouble, aren't you?” He grinned, pulling the leather from your grasp. Shoving it into his pocket for the second time.

“All I had to do is tap his arm from behind. Say excuse me. Done.” You unlocked the door. “Take your time, will ya? I'm going to schmooze. Play innocent.” As you walked out, you stopped and looked back at the younger Winchester. Eyes still full of fire, “Oh, and Sam...My door won't be locked, tonight...” You winked when his nostrils flared in response before leaving him alone to over think.

When he finally walked out, he was sure you two had gotten away with it. Another item kicked off of his bucket list. As far as he was concerned, he could die happy.

“How long?” Dean's voice made Sam turn around quickly, towards the other end of the hallway. His brother leaned against the wall. Shadowed, still. Maybe I spoke to soon...

“What?” He tried playing innocent. Shouldn't have bothered. It only made the older Winchester's glower deepen.

“How long have you and Y/N been sneaking around?” Well, shit...

Part Twelve

Tag: @burningmusicmachine​ @missmarrinette​ @sherlockedtash88​ @rathersuspiciousbumblebee​ @sasbb23​ @nothinbuttrouble2​ @baby-bunker-pie​ @neii3n​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​ @malfoysqueen14 @calaofnoldor @hhiggs

Forever: @dean-winchesters-bacon​ @supernaturalginger​

[theofitzgeraldsing]

The Road  Chapter One Augusta, Georgia MAMA D Mama D called on all the ancestral spirits from before slavery time and way back before Africa was Africa, and the world had a name.  She called back using her strongest meileke, oils, and herbs, reaching into the dark recesses of her spirit, something she didn’t often do, turning her insides out, and offering them to the ancestors in return for their intervention. Grey clouds swarmed above Mama D’s cabin as she prepared her poultice of mustard seed and High John the Conqueror root.  Dogs howled and scratched at her door, possessed and curious all at once.  Something was going on, something that compelled all of Augusta to sniff, snort, and acquiesce to the powers of the ancestors.  Swallowing up towns, and gobbling down mountains, angry fog rolled over Georgia like a plague or wildfire.  This was serious.  It rolled on like thunder and made a sound like a rushing river crashing over rocks, knocking down trees to the stump and pulling the Earth.  This was no time to be lounging around.  Mama D's old alley cat Simon was slinking about scurrying at shadows, hoping to catch a mouse, or a mole, or a spider.  Mama D was always going behind, cleaning up messes, and righting wrongs.  When a husband abused his wife it was Mama who stared down centuries of pent up anger, rage, and male domination. Mama said, "somebody was always trying to get somebody else under the heel of they shoe," and that she was the "leveler of wrong doing."  Folks knew Mama was real in her walk and real in her talk, she didn’t mix business with pleasure, and she didn’t cotton to ignorance or suffer fools.  “Just be straight with me and we’ll be alright.”  That’s what Mama always says.  Everyone near Augusta, or far from it, knew Mama was the person to see and who could help when no one else could.  Mama could heal the sick, locate lost loved ones, or mend family feuds and quarrels.  "Sometimes folks don't know what's good for 'em, and have trouble getting out of their own way, so you have to lead 'em in the right direction like a horse to water.  Just like a horse they have to realize that they are thirsty for themselves." Now Mama D wasn’t really my mama.  She is my grandma and Miss Easy, Mama D’s sister, is my great auntie.  I've been with them since I was born.  Miss Easy and Mama D say I was a blessing sent on account of He knew He was gonna take my real mama away.  Don’t ask me about my daddy.  My mama wouldn’t tell who it was and Mama D says she has no idea who my daddy is.  Now I look in the face of every man I meet on the road, or in town, for some resemblance, but it seem like they all favor me and I get confused.  So, I just stopped looking.    Mama D said that was probably best cause if my daddy wanted to know where I was he would of found me by now, and ain't no sense running behind, looking for something that ain't looking for you.  Once I thought Reverend Prichart was my father but then I saw him pick his nose and eat a bugger, right then I decided even if he was my daddy I didn’t want to know about it.  Soon after that is when I quite looking altogether cause you don’t know if you gonna meet up with a fool or a saint.  I decided to just mind my own business and let well enough alone.  It’s better that way.   Mama's current mission was a secret to me.  Sometimes I could tell, by the ingredients she used in her potions, or the posture of her body as she mixed the concoctions.  If she was making a love potion or trying to bring back a lover that had strayed, undo what was thought to be a curse, a hex, or fix money problems.  This was something different.  Everything was laid out on a large bench in Mama's place but it was laid out in an organized manner and Mama kept going over it like she was taking inventory and she'd make a note in her book.  She carefully measured the roots and the liquids from the hundreds of bottles that lined the walls and stacks of crates in the corner.  Mama went to her shelf and took down her bible, the large one with the gold letters and the foreign language on the front that Mama said was Latin and Hebrew, looked like chicken scratch to me, but it must of been what she said it was cause she took care of it like it was a new born pup or an ailing kitten.  She placed it on the bench and thumbed through the pages adjusting her glasses on her nose to be sure she was reading the right verse and on the right page.  Then Mama D did something that in all my times spying, and peeping, and sneaking around I had never seen her do before.  She took an envelope off the shelf, took out a piece of paper, unfolded it and threw it on the ground.  Next, my mouth stood wide open, I couldn't believe what I was seeing, but Mama stood over the paper, lifted her skirt, squatted, and peed right there on top of it.  The stream of urine continued, so it seemed, until a minute or two passed.  A large puddle, with the paper in the middle, sat in the corner and Mama spit on it after she adjusted her skirt and then sprinkled it with what looked like sage, but could have been anything.  It was green and leafy. After that Mama dripped candle wax, blew out the candle, and headed for the door before I knew it.  I crouched behind an old barrel as Mama headed up the crooked, well worn path to the house, briefly pausing and cocking her head like she heard a whisper in the distance or a far off howl.  She headed into the kitchen to the washbasin and called my name at the same time.  "Lady!"  My feet stood still and a wave of fever flashed across my forehead.  What should I do?  Go in the front door?  Pretend I didn't hear?  "Lady!"  The front door seemed the only option.  Mama opened the door before I could.  "What are you doing sneaking around out here?"  "I'm not sneaking Mama.  I saw a doodle bug back by the privy and I was trying to catch it before it went deep in the woods."  Mama cocked her head looking into my face.  "Girl what did I tell you about running behind doodle bugs, and salamanders, and what not playing around by that Johnny house! You gonna find out what I'm talking about soon enough.  Keep on you hear."  I was hearing Mama but I wasn't listening.  It was as if I was having an out of body experience and could see the wheels turning in Mama's head and see what she could see in her eyes.  She was looking straight through me.  She knew the truth and knew I wasn't out chasing doodle bugs behind the Johnny house but peeping into her business, not minding my own.  The ringing in my ears met up with a cacophony of horns, drums, and bells like the complete opposite of a Chinese water torture, not subtle but bold and brazen until it felt like something reached down in my throat and just pulled the words out, "I'm sorry Mama I was outside spying through the window looking at you in your shack and watching what you did with the paper and squatted and did your business on top of it, that's what I was doing Mama!"  Mama starred at me unchanged, just like she could see again all that I was thinking and not saying.  "Well I hope you learned something," Mama said.  "It's a fool that don't smell his own self and thinks his tail don't point straight down to the ground just like everybody else's."  When Mama said that instead of slapping the taste out of my mouth, I knew God answers prayer, I had learned my lesson for the moment.  My curiosity was still high and my mind would not let me turn loose the thoughts, visions, or imagining that invaded my mind like termites invade the fallen branch of a tree.  What, or who, was Mama fixing?  I was feeling guilty for sneaking around and nosing about, but I still wanted to know. Why was she still closed mouthed and secretive?   Mama was born right here in Augusta, right here in what is now her place we call her shack.  Her mother and father were escaping the mud of Mississippi and all of the memories it held.  My great grandparents, Tom and Pearl, were slaves on the Percy plantation, had been born there, lived most of their lives there, until a war declared that they could come and go as they pleased and they pleased to get up and leave from there as soon as they could.  The old master looked hurt and surprised that they didn't want to stay, "After all I've done for you?  Fed and clothed you, took care of you when you was sick."  He failed to remember the part about, "I beat you when it suited me and worked you from cain't see in the morning to cain't see at night.  Raped your friends and neighbors, was father to many of your relatives and sold them for a profit when I felt like it and just because I forgot all about that part doesn't mean that you did, and never mind that it may not have been Christian, but justified in my mind because I said it was so and I had the bible to back me up."  He had a very selective memory.   He never stopped to consider all of the things he had received in return, or the countless number of times he had been nursed on his sick bed, cleaned, and bathed, and fed, and fawned over, his children nursed at the breast of a slave, suckled, while the slave's children cried from hunger and the absence of its own mother's touch.  No mention of his fields that were planted and harvested, his home cleaned, floor boards polished, silver shined or brass brushed and rubbed so they could gleam in the candlelight to impress the guest that came from as far away as Mobile and nearer than Natchez.  No mention of his wealth that came from cotton raised on the bended and broken backs of slaves.  Fertilized with their blood, sweat, tears, and marrow of their bones.  None of that was ever considered.  Only what he had done for them, and how they were ungrateful and with their thanks and gratitude.  Most of the slaves left quicker than the bat of an eyelash, or the strike of an overseer's lash.   Mama's parents packed their belongings, a ragged quilt, one spoon, one plate, one saucer, a cup, the things they shared between them, a milking stool, an iron pan, and a bible.  Their belongings were tied in small bundles, strapped to their backs or loaded in the creaky, rickety wagon that was pulled alternatively among them.  They walked and walked and occasionally hitched a ride from strangers passing by, going the same direction, splitting off and going their own way, or when they felt a need to part.  They walked nearly all the way from Mississippi to Georgia and found this spot that a recent immigrant, Erwin Palmer, from somewhere over in Europe had decided was better than where he came from and tried to tame the land, tilling it, and farming it.  Having never been a farmer or ever lived on a farm, milked a cow, or shoed a horse, this presented a challenge for him.   Luck, opportunity, and providence met when my great grandparents arrived.  Grandpa Tom showed the man how to sow in the spring and harvest in the fall.  He showed him how to shoe a horse and milk a cow.  Granny Pearl worked right along with them knowing a thing or two about using a hoe and a shovel to till the soil.  They shucked corn and snapped peas together during the harvest, working from sun up 'til sun down, eating together, sleeping together in the one room shack that was now Mama's work shack with the raggedy quilt they brought from Mississippi hung across a rope used to divide the space and provide a teeny weeny bit of privacy.  This went on for nearly two years until the man from Europe stepped on a nail that went through his foot and into his heel bone.  By the time the doctor came in from town to look at it, it was too late and the man had to have his leg cut off near up to the knee.  Grampa Tom and Granny Pearl nursed and cared for him until he started hobbling along on a wooden leg but his spirit was broken and he spent most of his days looking at the wall reminding Granny more of a lost bird or a wounded lamb.  "You know it's a sin to rebuke what the Lord has given you.  You're still of this life, you have to live in it.  Don't look and see what you lost, look at what you still got." Granny tried to lift his spirits.  "What have I got?  A tree stump for a leg, that's what I got!"  He started to drink distilled spirits, and cussed, and mostly felt sorry for himself until Gramps and Granny sent a telegram to somebody over in someplace called Germany or Austria or Prussia or somewhere, and told them that the man was in poor shape and needed some help.  After the telegram, a telegram arrived with some money saying a ticket had been purchased on a ship to England and to get him on it quickly.   Grampa Tom could only get Mr. Palmer to the depot to catch a train up north.  He wasn't too happy about going and he let Grampa Tom and Granny Pearl know it.  "What the hell did you think I came here for?  If I wanted to go back to Scotland I could have damn well stayed there!  I don't need a black son of a bitch like you getting in my business."  They knew it was only the man's anger and feeling sorry for himself that made him talk the way he did.  His insults were ignored as they did what they knew they had to, to keep their friend alive, to keep him from harming himself.  They said their goodbyes at the train station and when he handed Grampa Tom an envelope and told him to do what he wanted with the land, Grampa Tom was confused, unable to read Grampa Tom put the envelope in the bible for safe keeping.  Grampa Tom, Erwin Palmer, and Granny Pearl never saw each other again but every now and then a card or a letter would arrive addressed to Mister Tom and Miss Pearl.  Gramps and Granny, both being illiterate, had to ask the postal clerk to read it to 'em and tell 'em what it said.  The clerk read the letter but bristled at reading and addressing them as Mister and Miss, however being a show off he wanted to read as best he could and so he did.  It was about a year after the man left that the first letter came and it said, "Dear Mister Tom and Miss Pearl, I've arrived here in Scotland at my brother's poor excuse of a farm and it is even drearier and grayer than the place I tried to escape when I met you in America.  My brother and his wife, bless their souls, have tried to make a life as best they can by raising sheep on a patch of land that seems to be nothing but jagged rocks, desolate gravel, and dirt not fit to grow potatoes.  When I left Georgia I was heavy in heart, and I'm sorry for all of the mean and unkind things I said.  I am also sorry that I stole the rabbit foot that use to hang by the door of the cabin, but I had to take with me something to remind me that I had once been a man of independence and courage with hopes and dreams of independence and freedom.  Free from things, some of which I have forgotten and abandoned.  I've never stolen a thing in my life but I hope that you will forgive me.  The train ride to New York was difficult, being on my own without the kindness of friends or the family that I considered you two to be.  I experienced the cruelty of one human being to another and I never hope to see again.  I met a man traveling to New York to meet a banker to discuss the sale of some property.  On the passage across the Atlantic we were met with rough seas and by the time we docked in Liverpool I looked and smelled like the beggar and pauper that I was.  Standing was trouble enough and the seas knocked what semblance of balance I had out of me for nearly the first day until I got my sea legs.  My brother met me at the dock and although he didn't say it, I could see in his eyes the pity he had for a man that wasn't a whole man anymore in spirit, or in body, but a troubled soul lost, tortured, and broken.  I'm telling you this, but you already know it is true.  If it hadn't been for the kindness, love, and caring of the two of you I could not be writing this letter today.  For two years I lived in my own self pity and I will say that I have been twice blessed, and a lucky human being to have a loving brother with a kind wife and a gentle soul to love me when I didn't love myself.  When I first returned if I wasn't at the local pub drinking the fine Scotch whiskey this country is known for, wishing my sorrows away, or laying in the bed looking at the wall, I was feeling sorry for myself, hating the world and everyone in it.  Scotland, for all its dreariness and confined thinking, I was able to see some beauty in it.  My brother, an adventurous soul, I guess it runs in the family, decided to try his hand at breeding horses in a way that only a Scotsman can do, insisted that I help out in the barn and in the corrals.  "Get your arse out of the bed right this instant,” snarled only the way that a brother could snarl at a brother.  I felt no brotherly love of my own and much more pity for myself.  "Kiss my ass!  I'll do what I damn please and get out of the damn bed when I damn well feel like it."  My brother lived up to his promise as I underestimated the strength of a man that labored from sun up to sun down, whatever the weather or whatever his state of mind or physical condition healthy or no.  With one swoop I could feel the plank floorboards under my back as I felt the knuckles of his hands, hard as stone and cold as ice, connect with my flesh and bones.  After his encouragement and the exchange of words that any man should be ashamed to call his own brother, negating the legitimacy of his birth and my own, his children's birth, and the chastity of his wife that has shown me nothing but kindness and patience, I felt the shame of my actions and my own self pity.  A wave of shame also crosses my face when I think of the unkind way that I spoke to you Mister Tom and treated Miss Pearl before I left.  I hope that you will find it in your hearts to forgive a man that had forgotten his manners.  I can't thank you enough for showing me the kindness and affection I didn't show you.  My only hope is that the gift of the one hundred acres can express my gratitude and allow you to forgive me in your hearts.  I'll never forget the time I spent sweating in the Georgia sun and enjoying the kindness of two loving souls.  If I never see you again know you are forever in my prayers.  Your brother in life and forever, Erwin Palmer.

[megalony]

Magic touch

Another Ben x Reader x Roger imagine that is part of my Our girl series.

@rogertaylorsbitontheside

Our girl masterlist

Enjoy.

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Reaching out for the camera sitting idly on the cushioned chair to her left (Y/n) leaned to grab the item that she took almost everywhere with her for work or just general life moments like these. There was always a surge of adrenaline, no matter how big or small, that swelled in her chest at the thought of capturing a moment that seemed to make her smile without realising it. To know that moments like these didn't just have to be seared into her memory with the worry of forgetting about these simple moments that wouldn't hold value to anyone else but them. Moments could be taken down on paper or digitally so that there was no fear of losing them. Bringing the lens to her eye her finger pushed down on the button on the right-hand corner, feeling her heart flutter at the image that was perfectly clear on the screen once she pulled the camera from her eyes. Her smile widening as she stared at the image on the screen as time around her seemed to freeze. Seeing how both of them on the image had their backs to her, both sitting with crossed legs in front of the crib that was only half finished. Ben's lips pressing to the top of Lily's head which was resting against his arm as she held the instructions up in front of her which they hadn't really needed up until now. A smile pulled at the corners of Ben's lips when the sound of a camera flashing flooded his ears before the sound of footsteps signalling that (Y/n) had now indeed gone for more paint like she had started minutes earlier. Glancing his eyes down to the girl sitting next to him he couldn't help but laugh. The light blue sleeveless jumpsuit she was wearing had splotches of light cherry blossom red dotted all over, with flecks of paint covering her face and one or two little dots he could notice in her hair. Lily had wanted to help them decorate the room ready for the newest arrival to their family and had opted for helping her mother to paint the walls the only colour all of them could decide on. Ben thought pale blue would be nice but Lily and Roger straight up refused, Roger thought yellow but (Y/n) hated the colour and no one wanted pink, orange or green. They also couldn't paint the room purple because Lily's room was lilac and she didn't want to match. Light red had been the only colour they could all agree on and this one seemed to be the perfect shade up to now. Ben hated painting and had so opted out of that, and they couldn't trust Roger not to get paint on the skirting board or the carpet or on any of them either so he was banned from painting. The drummer wasn't very good at piecing together the crib and he couldn't be bothered to put his glasses on to read the instructions so that job was left to Ben who seemed to be doing it just fine. Roger retired to the kitchen to make lunch instead, something he was trusted to do. "When's she gonna arrive?" Lily questioned, looking up at one of her dads who put down the screwdriver in his hand to give her his full attention. "About three months princess, right in time for your birthday." He smiled at how she seemed a little put out that he couldn't give her a specific date for when she could prepare for her sister to arrive in their lives. Although she seemed happier at the mention of her birthday, knowing her sister would be there to celebrate with them. Her mind not comprehending that they couldn't simply choose a day for her to be born instead of having to play the waiting game like this. "Oh. Why can't she come now, she's already with mama." "Because... she's not ready yet, she'd be too small." There wasn't a way that Ben could think to explain the situation without confusing Lily because she was too young to understand how everything worked. At least he knew that she was happy to have her sister arriving soon instead of not wanting her like they had feared in the beginning. It had been Roger and Lily for over a year before they all got into a relationship and still Lily had all of her parents to herself. They worried that she would feel she was being left out or pushed away at the prospect of having a sibling around but she seemed to take to the idea quite well. "Was I in there?" Just as she asked another question that had been playing on her mind, both their heads turned in the direction of the door when footsteps could be heard. Watching (Y/n) and Roger walking inside with plates and a pot of paint in their hands. The two sitting down with Ben and Lily on the carpeted floor, handing out the plates of pasta and forks, glancing around the room that was nearly done with the second coat of paint. "Was you where?" Ben responded, a confused look coming onto his face as he started eating the pasta handed to him. "In mama's tummy." She responded, leaning over to gently rub (Y/n)'s stomach with an intrigued look on her face. Watching how Ben's eyes seemed to widen, almost choking on the pasta that he quickly forced down before turning to look at Roger, not knowing how he was meant to answer that question. (Y/n) also looked to the drummer who was trying to form an answer that Lily would be able to understand. Rather shocked at the topic they were talking about. Ben nor (Y/n) felt they had the right to answer that question because it was down to Roger what Lily knew about her birth and upbringing before they joined her life. Neither of them felt like they could make the choice because it was Roger who had gone through the toxic relationship that he had made the choice to walk out of. Roger had been the one to choose to look after Lily on his own and even when Lily had started referring to Ben and (Y/n) as her parents they had talked with Roger to make sure he felt okay with that. Neither of them wanted to overstep the mark no matter how many times Roger had told them that they were just as much Lily's parents as he was. They looked after her, they loved her as their own and they were bringing her up. But at the end of the day (Y/n) hadn't been the one to give birth to Lily so she couldn't start telling Lily she was if Roger someday wanted to tell her about her real mother and what had happened. Roger knew that he could never do that. He couldn't tell his daughter how bad the relationship had been or how he had only stayed with her because of Lily up until the point where it put her in danger. He couldn't break her heart by telling her that the woman she had grown up calling her mother wasn't actually her real mother or that she wasn't related to Ben because in her young mind she felt she was. She thought (Y/n) was her mother and that she had two dads and that was what Roger wanted for her. He loved both of them and the fact that Lily loved them too made his heart swell to the point he thought it was going to burst in his chest. He couldn't tell Lily the truth because he knew it would be worse when she knew that their baby girl on the way was actually (Y/n)'s and quite possibly Ben's too. "Of course you were, all babies come from mama's tummies darlin'." Roger responded before stuffing some pasta into his mouth, controlling his heart that was leaping out of his chest at the decision he had just made. Watching Lily nod in thought as she seemed to accept that answer before his eyes diverted to his partners sitting beside him. Both trying to hide their smiles at the decision he made. "Yea... but, how? Papa said that mama didn't eat her- or me, so how we get there?" Ben couldn't stop himself from laughing when (Y/n) first started showing and Lily asked if she had eaten her sister for her to be in her mother's stomach. He hadn't really explained how her sister got there, only calming her down when she looked panicked by assuring her that (Y/n) didn't eat her like Lily seemed to think. He couldn't blame her for thinking that, it must be rather confusing to be told you wouldn't understand why things were like that but that was simply how they were. "Me and your papa put you there." Reaching out (Y/n) clashed her fork against Roger's wrist, a warning look on her face at the comment he made and the cheeky smile lighting up his face. He could have said something else, now she knew Lily was going to ask how he did that and neither of the boys could get out of answering that or give an answer that wasn't rude or one that she would understand. "What, I'm right aren't I?" He mocked quietly, leaning forward so his face was inches in front of (Y/n)'s before he pressed a kiss to her lips. His hand tracing across her stomach as he rested his forehead against her own, eyes moving to watch Lily tug on Ben's sleeve to grab his attention when he simply rolled his eyes at Roger's remark. "How'd you do that?" She whispered in his ear when he leaned down to her level. "We have a magic touch." Roger leaned against (Y/n) to be out of the firing line of the pasta Ben launched at him, the actor's lips pressed together tightly giving Roger a certain look telling him to shut up. Though Roger simply smirked, satisfied with the answers he was giving even if they did confuse Lily. "We just love your mama a lot is all he means." Ben stated, leaning and pulling Lily so she was sitting on his lap, his arm tucked around her middle as she grabbed her plate from the floor. Seemingly satisfied with the answers to her questions for the time being as she began eating her dinner. A smile on her face as Ben leaned his cheek against her head, swaying the pair of them side to side as they both looked to (Y/n) and Roger. Seeing the drummer had his head resting comfortably in the crook of her neck, one of her arms slung around his shoulders as she continued to eat her dinner. Not needing the camera to capture this moment, knowing it was one of those special moments none of them would be forgetting in a hurry.

[gffa]

I’ve been doing a lot of blogging about Lone Wolf, but here’s why I actually don’t recommend this short story: There are a lot of descriptions of women in this story with a focus on how gross and super unattractive they are.  While there are one or two examples of men or undetermined genders get similar descriptions, the vast majority are focused on women and after awhile it started to add up.  Initially, I thought, well, it’s just the author’s style, it’s part of the STAR WAS IS TOTALLY GRITTY AND GRIMDARK, YOU GUYS thing that the story seemed to have going on. But eventually it was just a little too focused on women and how ew gross they were. The other thing that keeps me from recommending this is definitely part of that STAR WARS IS TOTALLY GRITTY AND GRIMDARK, YOU GUYS about the Sith that show up in the story.  Who are all Darkness and Chaos, very much with the capital letters to let you know the significance of it. There is a line in this book, as the two Sith are chasing Obi-Wan down, and the woman of the pair things about her relationship with the man and this is what she thinks:  “And now, Kenobi's death was about to become the perfect consummation of their annihilative love.” THEIR ANNIHILATION LOVE. There is one really, really great moment at the end and if you don’t mind spoilers, you should at least skip to the end to read the final bit.  IT’S MY FAVORITE.

-  He spotted a decrepit wretch of humanity sitting in a crumpled heap by the saloon entrance, like some tragic mascot for the establishment. The hag - practically hidden within her oversized moon-moth-eaten robe - seemed hard at work on some craft. Yet, sensing Obi-Wan's advance with a beggar's honed instincts, she extended a gnarled hand for alms. -  Obi-Wan's heart was racing at lightspeed; the fetid stench from a nearby waste shaft - or this molding crone, he couldn't tell which - assailed his nostrils. -  The alms taker licked her shriveled lips. She held up a crooked yellow-nailed finger and bent it twice toward herself. Cautiously, Obi-Wan leaned closer. -  Looking even greasier in her coveralls than the Kaleesh, and as archaic as Old Vima, the humanoid was favored with an elongated cranium, bulging yellow eyes, and a wine-colored face wrinkled like she had spent far, far too much time in a Hutt hot tub. She resembled a leather-skinned Weequay except with hypothyroidism and a monstrous brain tumor. -  The wrinkle-faced woman rubbed her filthy hands together with a fermenting degreaser, and blue residue dripped from her furrowed fingers. - "Master Flat-flesh," the prune-face retorted, enunciating the slur with saccharine tenderness. "If she was, you wouldn't be trying to pawn her off on some brainless bishwag on Nar Shaddaa, now would you?" So the humanoid wasn't as brain damaged as she looked. -  A look halfway between insult and incredulity contorted Zegundis' mummied face. -  His hand moved faster than her sickly eyes could follow, seizing her tumorous head and stabbing the Force into the sensitive repository of her mind. -  There they were: the trio of obese Gamorrean sows he'd seen earlier, their jaws dribbling spittle onto swollen breasts, mixed indiscriminately with the mucus seeping from their porcine snouts. Their axes slapped happily into meaty green mitts. -  What he saw there were the same three Kyuzo toughs that he'd also seen in the vicinity of the cantinas. Muttering in their metal-weave vernacular, they escorted a trio of grotesque frog-dogs. The humongous wart-covered beasts strained against yellow laser-leashes, gnashing their splinter teeth and wagging fat tadpole tails in hunger. Though supposedly sentient, this disease-bearing litter frothed pink from their mouths with Cyborrean rabies. -  He had encountered Kyuzos before: startlingly agile martial artists, a group such as this was a match for any two Jedi. But these particular wiry-muscled specimens were undoubtedly go-zeki. Though wearing the species' prototypical oxygen masks and skirts, the flesh of these bare-chested brutes was not olive but charred orange: the remnant of a sadistic initiation process that was a testament, along with their fiber-chained razorhats, of their nefarious allegiance.  -  Meanwhile, their two-legged amphibicanoids appeared only slightly less ravenous than the drooling Gamorrean ogresses in the alley to Obi-Wan's right. -  He cursed that old fossil Vima-Da-Boda, certain she had betrayed them after all. - The Gamorrean pig-women charged.Frightening bulks of jostling, caroming muscle and fat hurtled headlong toward Obi-Wan and Luke.And the Jedi Master fully obliged them.As the crazed sows bore down on him, vibro-axes raised, Obi-Wan reached out with the fingers of his uninjured hand.

- She and Fomadu had devoted their lives not just to each other, but the path of Chaos - that Ur-dream before and beyond all things in which the sum of realities interbreed. The Dark in which all originated and would return.

The Great Void, they understood, was the only truth. Their necromancing master had taught them that. It was the emptiness Mei knew when Kenobi took her father Sukarr's life. And it was that same unbeing, within her, that had led her to Fomadu's, conjoining them on Malo VI like two perfect black holes sucking at one another's abyss.

Fomadu had given her purpose, and their cyborg master had given them hope, forged in the sanctifying chrism of blood and vengeance.

It was Darkness, yes, but not death they worshipped. Revenge was her lifeblood now. Even so, all these facets - the Dark, Chaos, the Great Void and even elemental vengeance - were mere viewports, expressions as superficial as coordinates on a map. Sensual metaphors for the one true and unintelligible Ur-dream.

And each other.

The destruction of the Jedi Order by Imperial decree had been the first momentous sign of Chaos favoring Ur-dreamers commitment. And now, Kenobi's death was about to become the perfect consummation of their annihilative love. - Subsuming her consciousness to the Ur-dream, the truth of reality became imminent to Mei. Every moment, every wrinkle of time, was a distortion of the Eternal Present. Possibilities were an illusion, a falsehood perpetuated by belief in an unknowable future.A belief the Ur-dreamers did not concede. - "FIGHT ME! YOU LYING-"

Luke opened his eyes.

Brilliant blue radiance exploded from behind the cradleboard, lancing straight up beyond its length - goring the spot just behind Mei's chin and erupting from the apex of her skull.

Obi-Wan's eyes went wide.

And as swiftly as it had materialized, the shaft of light receded.

Mei stumble - stepped, catching herself.

"Even destiny lies," she gurgled.

The Dark Jedi canted forward, and Obi-Wan lunged for Luke.

Catching the cradleboard in a death grip, the Jedi Master hugged Luke to him, who was thrashing, crying. Very carefully, he removed the object he had affixed to its back with fibercord.

Anakin's lightsaber.

Obi-Wan's last-resort failsafe.

Except, he hadn't been the one to trip the telekinetic trigger.

He stared into Luke's piercing blue eyes.

But was it possible? Such power in a babe? (Old Vima shows up a moment later and it’s never really clear if she was the one who triggered the lightsaber to kill Mei, but this story leaves open the possibility that LUKE SKYWALKER AS AN INFANT KILLED A PERSON WITH A LIGHTSABER.  You guys, I whipped around the corner so fast on that, because THAT WAS HILARIOUS. A BABY LUKE SKYWALKER.  KILLED A GROWN ASS LADY.  WITH A LIGHTSABER.  YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE BADASS?  LUKE SKYWALKER KILLED A SITH WHEN HE WAS A WEEK OLD BABY, HOW’S THAT FOR YOU. LOL.)