#daft rucks

[scrawnsenior]

N155 GTR. Malvern, July 2023

First ever truckfest with the unit this weekend. Plenty to see and do for the kiddies but most importantly I got to meet a few people who know how to source parts and keep the old units running. Will be doing the one in September in the South West too.

#trucks #trucking #truckfestuk #leylanddaf #daft rucks

[frogbearwhatever]

The Mad Grot

(This is a Warhammer flash fiction piece I wrote, it was meant to be for a Cold Open competition but didn’t quite fit the theme and not sure it’s good enough to win, but I’m quite happy with it. I love the Warhammer universes, and am nerding out big over them. I’m still fairly new to it all, so apologies for any mistakes/inaccuracies. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think.)

Tupzin threw an elbow into his neighbour's face and darted forward, scrapping a few more feet in the swirling scrum at the mob's centre.

He'd been pushed forward at first, but had no interest in being first to face the humie guns, but the rear held the threat of Brazgot's lashes and squig hounds. 

The best place to be was in the middle of the horde. Unfortunately, every other git knew this, and there was a mass of conniving cowardice at work.

It didn't help that countless squabbles and grudges were getting settled in the ruck too.

Tupzin, hissing angrily, shoved off a grot who tried climbing over him.

That's when he saw Loonza the Mad Grot.

                               *    *     *             

Loonza was angry, he'd wanted to get a place right at the front. 

They was fighting humies, and he wanted to get stuck in straight away.

He was sure if Gork or Mork saw him go down scrapping, they might let him come back as an ork or something, a proppa fighter!

He'd charged up his beloved laspistol, but when unplugging it from the frayed wires, he'd been zapped and woken up to find most of the other grots already scrapping.

Mad Grot. 

That's what they called him, Loonza knew. But they were just as mad as him. Fighting for a few more moments of life.

Not him, though. 

Nope, he knew he'd die eventually, but he was gonna go down swinging and blasting.

He'd had to fight his way through a bit, but most grots, seeing his determined expression, cleared out. 

The eagerness for a fight and determination marked him out as different right away.

There were his clothes too, which were more warlike than the usual grot rags. He's scrounged up plenty of blue, wanting the luck to kill some humies before they got ‘im.

And wedged on his head was a metal pot serving as a helmet. He had his laspistol in hand and a crude knife strapped across his back.

Loonza was ready for a fight.         

             *     *      *

Tupzin shrieked, running towards the human guns. 

He needed a place to hide! 

The ship had landed, or rather crashed, into the planet, and Brazgot had forced them into a charge.

Tupzin had been with hundreds of others but now ran with a small clutch of fellow grots. 

Hopefully, they'd catch any shots sent their way.

The gang ducked behind some rubble, jabbering nervously.

“I think Brazgot's dead! We can just stay here.”

“If 'e’s dead, his squigs loose! I ain't gonna sit and wait to get eaten!”

There was a demented whoop, and Loonza rushed over to them.

Figures. All that blue makes 'im lucky, Tupzin thought. Tho' real luck woulda been not being a grot to start with.

                *     *      *           

Loonza had his pistol slung over his shoulder and his bloody knife in hand. He'd found a humie hiding in a tower with some fancy gun with a tellyscope on it.

Typical humie nonsense! Aiming was cheating, and took the fun outta the fight. Better to just blast away and let Gork and Mork sort it out, innit?

“Wot you lot doing? Fights over there.” He grinned, nodding towards the enemy.

“Get lost you daft snot!” Tupzin snapped. “We is using cover for tacti-kal vantage, ain't we?”

“Youse is hiding!” Loonza cackled. “Well, not me, lads! Loonza's gonna fight!”

 He ran off hooting and hollering.

“That mad git is gonna get 'imself killed.” Tupzin sneered. “Shoulda stayed here, nice and sa-”

That's when the shell hit.

               *      *       *

Loonza had swiped a grenade from a dead humie and now held it like a prize as he ran along a rubble wall that ran through the human lines.

Three humies were crouched behind a big shoota on three legs, blasting away at the orks attacking.

Loonza watched for a moment, mesmerised by the awesome firepower.

'Cor, what I wouldn't give to have a shoota like that one day, Loonza thought, even though the gun was far bigger than him.

Well, if he couldn't have it, why should they?

He armed the grenade and lobbed it into their little nest.

One humie gave a little shriek, and then the gun and the three men vanished in a blast of flame, gore and smoke.

Loonza hopped down and ran along the humie line, occasionally finding a humie hunkered down in the mud.

They was all looking the other way, so he shot them in the back. Nuffin’ wrong with that.

Then he found a whole bunch of 'em all huddled together. Looking away and shooting at the charging greenskins off in the distance.

“Well, this'll do! Hope yer watching, Mork! You too, Gork!” Loonza said cheerfully.

Then with a manic whoop, he charged them.

Diving down into the foxhole he unleashed a volley of lasblasts, scorching the air and catching two of the humies in the head and neck.

The humans yelled, spinning around at this surprise attack and firing in panic.

One humie's shotgun cut down another, and the humie froze, staring at his dead mate, giving Loonza an easy target.

Then Loonza was thrown forward as a shot hit him in the back. He rolled over, dropping the humie who'd shot him, the last survivor in the place.

“Hope you enjoyed the show…” The grot muttered, before everything went black.

           *       *       *

Fixxbash looked at the towering metal form in front of him.

This was the mastapiece of kans, and he'd not wanted to waste it on another cowardly grot who'd still run even when inside his magnificent creation.

But Brazgot assured him this grot was different. They'd called him the Mad Grot, and the little git had killed a buncha humies before getting hisself shot.

“Plug him in.”

The grot he barked at hesitated a moment, saw Fixxbash's heavy wrench and then obeyed, jabbing a wire in through the top of the Killa Kan.

There was a flash, the smell of burnt grot and then the machine roared into life, belching thick fumes from the exhausts.

From inside came a manic cackle, and the arms moved, testing the giant pincers on the left and inspecting the heavy gun on the right.

“Oh, yeah! This is more like it!” A voice cried excitedly.

#grots #greenskins #warhammer40k #warhammer #orks #warhammer 40k #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #writing #Warhammer Wednesday #loonza the mad grot #killa kans #comments welcome

[bedeutunglieder]

Bedeutung von On Sight von Kanye West

„Yeezus“ (2013) beginnt mit „On Sight“, und oh Mann, es ist ein elektrischer Ruck, der direkt ins System geht! Produziert mit Daft Punk, ist es industriell, roh und kompromisslos dreist, genau wie der Rest des Albums. Die verzerrten Synthesizer und aggressiven Texte bereiten gewissermaßen die Bühne für das, worum es bei „Yeezus“ geht – eine Abkehr vom alten Kanye und ein Eintauchen in etwas…

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#Kanye West

[the-firebird69]

and we use this they are ooppressivley annoying here are dumb daft dont see the empire. no not teh quasi empire sh jesus yo blind idiots. they get it no.

see it no. 1.4 billion is not thirty buillion ok add in shield ships and htey say where and we say all over. and htey are daft. mean and say ow do you do it force and ok. they ove away and cover more area say we are suckers. and they get it ok.

then this we see it. no. are cloaked they do see b u t dont say it. we roll shortly to stop these from harming ours. and ohters. and we move fst ok. really fast. tons doe it. no we do.

the skillet can cause insanity. ad you are damaged already are proned. and no gear or outfits. nor vehicles that work in it at all. morlock ok.

and we see it ok try and you dont want to we do. and fast too and yes the kit cars we produce have emr shield and static discharge in them. tons of it due to fiberglass and yes it is somewhat immuned as the frame too has discharge.

onto tonight.

here is hell tons of suits and criminal court no ten cases. five started. and tommorrow five more. it is about fifty cases so ar on the docket each one has several cases combined. same house and such no. back to back. today bja and co. tommorrow the pseudo empire. and do it to each other. tons of them are at it now. they try for our son ok and to get him into court too. and dont do it for that but try to. there are huge numbers of cases being compiled for this coming week. and to stop it up no are infighting. some macs too and ridiculos the forgierns say this is gross soft porn. and no it is nasty evil stuff and keeps them out. they see it. ok.

but for real the morlock fall macs weaken. and it is working. need it even tommy f says it we fail this sucsk. and forg weaken a bit. too. duue to this court battle issue.

about ten thousand cases next week will be presented and this week one thousand. and by end of day tommorrow we think two hundeed in. the rest on hold are lessor crimes they file the murder charges immediatly. ton of them will be in prison for real. and they mean it. and it is versus about a thousand people he cases this week. half to prison this week. half monday. tons fo them say it, we need it adn try for him and nope. tons. and htey are generals and reeants mostly morlock. not many macs will go to prison. we think a few. tehy are culled too. dont matter toomuch and are not liked by mac proper.

they use it now and say it dont publish and such we stop them. they take ships and go after ships. need it adn heard it the stone is real. and move now fast.

and each case has about ten in it no twenty adn fifty cases each day and three days no four. started on tuesday, and then a few wednesday andd more today. i tis increasing in ferocity. tons on monday will be submitted. tons tried here. and the overflow might go to sarasota and or ft meyers. tons say it what teh hell are we wdoing. and it is on they say no justice for you or us then both. we go down togetehr. and they are at the first ring. and outer ring. they sent thirty. and ten are out no but it is a war and fight and they are surrounded, ten are. now too. and he knows a few of them. and in rucks big ones no hole from here too many hit. retreated and tons out. twenty ran. now this is on. ok. they say did not run had to yes devistated forces they did not flea fast enough. try to leave are trapped and book it back and forth. fly ing fast no driving. and it isterrifying for them. tons say it we are doomed. faster. cantwe wreck it. they dont care move it. and in a few probaly out.

tons say it we are doomed. are at 120 still. and not less or more well ok are at about 170 still confident. started at three hundred had a falling out and the rings were made dropped half yes. and in the fight to establish the rings. almost half. and are at it now. and for real 170. it was a large drop and he sys it matche society adn thiehr areas. mostly and does. they leave and lose ppl so we are still at about 250 and for real they see. not that much lost but the midwest are city and outskirts some beyond mostly no. and shrink daily now faster than all hell due to the gold in wires and conduit. tons go in now ok tons

Thor Freya

Olympus

the middle areas are one hundred houses. and will fall similtaneously no. are now. 250 the number. and garth has no clue bout macs. mostly his fall too. we expect a hundred by the en of next week no. they go to the isle or the west. shortly too.

Thor Freya

[kharti]

[ Still Life #19 ]

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“And then he laid me down on his bed, his lips never leaving mine as he worked the buttons of my dress open,” Mary said, her head tracking the sound of Evelyn’s slow footsteps, her eyes closed beneath the blindfold, her legs forced apart by a long metal bar.

      ( Continue reading on AO3 or... )

“And then he laid me down on his bed, his lips never leaving mine as he worked the buttons of my dress open,” Mary said, her head tracking the sound of Evelyn’s slow footsteps, her eyes closed beneath the blindfold, her legs forced apart by a long metal bar.

There was a long pause until Evelyn stopped at the foot of the bed and drew her fingernails along the curve of Mary’s calf. “Continue.”

Mary released a shuddering breath. Her toes curled and flexed as the touch grew more intense, Evelyn digging her nails in for more of a scratch than a caress.

“His lips moved from mine down my neck, my chest, between my breasts. He rucked my skirt up and slipped my underthings off, then…”

The footsteps interrupted her and she swallowed as she waited for Evelyn to touch her again, the very core of her hot and tight with anticipation.

Evelyn’s hand cupped her cheek and a thumb swiped along her lower lip. “Then?”

“I—freed him from his trousers,” Mary continued, her tongue darting out to flick against the digit. “And oh, Evie, he was so ready. Just the sight of his full prick, god—I wanted him inside me so desperately.”

The hand slid down to trace the line of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, the length of her collarbones.

“Finally, finally, he pushed inside.” She swallowed as the hand neared her breast, but moved past to instead continue lower. Her back arched into the touch, and the muscles along her sides twitched with anticipation. “He stretched me open slowly, so thick and warm and—”

Her breath caught in her throat when a fingernail traced a circle around her clit.

“—and, I—”

“You?” Evelyn’s smile was audible in her voice as she started to press directly on it, slowly but firmly.

“I—” She turned her head to the side, struggling to keep her thoughts in order, overwhelmed with need and desire and a bit of shame. “It was awful.”

Evelyn’s hand withdrew almost immediately, and Mary blinked in surprise when the blindfold was pulled down. She looked up into Evelyn’s face to see a mix of concern and confusion there.

“Awful? How?”

Mary groaned and fell back against the pillows. “It was—incredibly dull. In, out, in, out. On and on until he was done.”

“Oh,” Evelyn murmured with a tilt of her head. “That can’t be right.”

Mary sighed. “I’m worried he’s going to want to do it again, and I don’t know if I can fake an orgasm a second time.”

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Evelyn reached down to stroke Mary’s cheek with the back of her hand. “My dear, just tell him what you want.”

“What?” Mary’s eyes widened and she gave a soft, startled laugh. “I could never!”

“Why not? You have needs, and he’s too daft to deduce them on his own.” Evelyn rolled her eye. “He’s not your husband, Mary. You aren’t beholden to obey and respect him.”

Mary went quiet and still while she let the words roll around in her mind until they cemented their place and she started to grin. “You’re… right.”

“Often am. Now.” Evelyn leaned over her, lips ghosting their touch more as a warmth than physical contact as she whispered into her ear, “Would you like to be reminded of how wonderful sex can feel?”

With a stifled giggle in the back of her throat, Mary nodded, and closed her eyes as Evelyn returned the blindfold to its place.

She got ahead of herself, started to feel her mind racing forward to wonder—what was Evelyn going to do, how was she going to do it? Just the anticipation had her squirming with the need that made her leak a new rush of arousal onto the sheets.

After a moment of listening to Evelyn moving around and opening drawers, after every little sound put Mary further and further on the edge of anticipation, the bed shifted.

Evelyn was crawling between her legs, hovering over her, kissing the corner of her mouth and gently stroking her thighs.

“Oh, god,” Mary half-said, half-moaned as something blunt pressed to her cunt, rubbed through the folds before pressing to her center. “Evie—”

“Shh.” Evelyn brushed their lips together. “It’s just me. Another one of my little toys.”

Whatever it was, it was cool and smooth and hard… and, as it pushed inside her, slowly stretching her open and filling her completely—long.

“Bronze,” Evelyn said against her mouth, and Mary could feel her smirk. “My own custom cock.”

Mary desperately wanted to see, wanted to know what Evelyn looked like with a cock. But she settled for the physical vision of it, rocking her hips to map the curve and heft and girth.

“It’s beautiful,” Mary tried to say, but she wasn’t sure how well she could be understood when she couldn’t stop moaning long enough to get more than a syllable out. “Evie, it’s—”

“Shh, honey, no more words.” Evelyn slipped a hand between them to press two fingers to her clit and started to thrust, started to fuck her with coordinated movements of her hand and cock.

Teeth dragged along her neck before Evelyn bit down and started to suck a mark there, laved the skin with her tongue, hummed so Mary felt the vibration in her own throat.

Then she returned her lips to Mary’s ear and panted, her breath hot as it moved across her skin, “When you tell Doug what you want.”

She moved both hands to Mary’s hips and held her in place while she started to properly rut her with harder, deeper thrusts.

“Tell him—” Evelyn huffed and held on tighter, squeezed her, dug her nails in. “You want it just like this.”

And that flooded Mary’s mind with so much, too much. It was Evelyn on top of her, but suddenly, her mind felt Doug inside her, and she wasn’t sure whose hands were holding her anymore. The cool bronze of the cock had warmer up so much within her that it felt real, now.

“Hard. Rough.”

She was being taken by both of them, filled with the love and heat that forced tears to roll down her cheeks as her whole being tightened.

Mary felt almost helpless as she was held still despite the force of each thrust that tried to bounce her. She felt the impact of each one in her very bones, in her very soul.

Her head fell back and she cried out a high-pitched sound that was pushed out of her when all her senses were taken over by the tight, hot, explosive wave of pleasure so intense it almost hurt, wonderfully so.

The thrusting slowed to a gentle slide in and out of her, and she loved how effortlessly it moved despite the twitching and clenching of her overwhelmed cunt.

Evelyn kissed her softly, stilling her hips without pulling out, just letting Mary feel full and complete and whole as the orgasm continued to tingle its way through her.

      ( next )

📚 view a list of all my current stories!

#our flag means death #ofmd #mary bonnet #still life - mary bonnet ficlets

[lady-o-ren]

The Dig 

Part Two (Because I was bullied into this . . .)

//Which can be read (HERE) for easier reading// And Part One (HERE)

In a little rented room above auld Geordie’s pub, Claire Beauchamp stood in nothing but her silk undergarments as she flipped open her weathered suitcase (once belonging to her dear uncle Lamb) she had heaved atop her bed. She rummaged through the contents, blowing at her curls clouding around her face, before pulling out a single dress of pale blue.

It wasn't something she usually packed whenever she went off on a dig but the dress had caught her eye in a department store window in London just before coming to Suffolk. She reasoned one never knew when the occasion might call for her to dress in something other than dirt stained trousers.

And never had she been more relieved by an impulse buy.

Or thankful for a rainy day that halted her excavation.

It was a chance to be with the Scot who thought her more precious than the iron rivets they discovered a few days ago, proof that the burial site they were knee deep in was a ship to honor a fallen king. She would've kissed him on the spot if it weren't for Foster and Pound.

The kiss however did come later.

After her and the lads celebrated with too many pints, she and Fraser went back to Sutton Hoo, slightly swaying with every step beneath the twilight, until their arms found their way around one another. Soon they were laying side by side in the grass and dirt, the air cool on their whiskey flushed cheeks, and she wrapped in his coat. Big and warm and enveloping like himself.

"We may very well be unearthing a legend here ," said Beauchamp, leaning back on her elbows, eyes closed facing the moon.

Fraser grinned.

" Beowulf ?"

She laughed and turned her gaze to him. "Arthur, King of the Britons !"

He laughed along with her, a deep and hearty sound, then joking all aside said  -

"Anglo Saxon, ye think?"

She nodded and rolled to her side, nearly pressing herself against Fraser's chest, heaving from a sharp intake of breath.

"I told you before that something grand and marvelous was buried here . . ."

"Ye did."

Then shyly Fraser said -

"Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr. . . Remember that bit from my notebook?"

Her eyes softened and her features took on a pretty shade of pink remembering a great deal more of what that book contained.

How each page held a piece of his heart.

And laid a hand over his chest, against that fervent beat.

"Of course I do," she answered back, but frowned a little when Fraser bashfully kept his gaze to the small gap between them where a dandelion bloomed.

"Weel, I wrote it that night after we first met, from a dream I had. Sounds a great deal better in the gaelic though. . ."

Beauchamp raised her hand to cup his cheek, thumbing the fine cut bones beneath his skin, before pressing her soft warm mouth against his lips.

"Tell me," she insisted, when they managed to part and nudged her nose against his.

And so he did, voice low and more than a little breathless.

I dreamt about the mourning.

The deaths of great men. Terrible men. Old and young. Of Kings lost in battle buried beneath us.

They cried out to me and the Earth came to life and twisted her roots around me, dragging me inside her womb. Dark and cold, breathless like a cave.

But I wasn't frightened. I saw lights rushing around me, bright as the twilight sky. The souls that lie ahead. Surrounding us.

They brought me to you.

He shrugged sheepishly then.

Just before she kissed him again. Knowing she'd never want anyone more than she did right then and there amongst the swaying trees and spirits of auld.

This man whose soul spoke to her own.

Too bad a crack of lightning had to ruin the night.

But at least the rain blessed them with a day to themselves in apology.

Taking one last glance in the vanity mirror (that was about as big as her compact) and another quick check that her nails were clean of dirt, Beauchamp left her room and walked down the hallway to Fraser's, knocking softly against his door. When no one answered she pressed her ear curiously to the door hearing voices and knocked again, just a bit more louder, tapping the toe of her slingback  heels against the beaten wooden floor. With still no response (and patience never being a virtue she ever possessed) she flat out turned the knob finding it unlocked.

She poked her head in and found a room even smaller than her own and the source of the voices coming from a small red radio playing an adaption of a film from the windowsill.

- I might have known you were here. I had a feeling just as I hit the floor.

- That was your hat.

- Oh, Susan! Just look at it! Look!

Fraser himself was fast asleep and spread out atop the bed sheets dressed for a date to the cinema with his long arms crossed above his head and his big feet dangling off the edge of his too small bed.

Beauchamp stood watching him for a moment, filled with a sudden tenderness at his sleeping innocence . . . and a bone deep wickedness that gave her an idea. She closed the door quietly behind herself and flipped the lock, grinning as she did so. She then slipped out of her slingback heels and crossed the room in two short strides (the floorboards creaking with the pitch of a mouse beneath her), to carefully lay down beside him.

Fraser turned to her in sleep, a throaty murmur on his lips, and laid a heavy arm around her slim waist, gathering her heart to heart. She sighed happily and reached to caress a curl hanging low at his brow, admiring the color that reminded her of the scorching sunsets in Giza she basked in with her uncle so many years ago. Her fingers then threaded through his thick mane down to where they began to curl at his neck and was rewarded with an unexpected smile. Pure and sweet.

"You're too perfect for words, lad," she whispered against his wide mouth, but before she could seal their lips together his long blonde lashes fluttered open.

Fraser gazed at her sleepily, his smile only growing wider as the word Sorcha was adoringly breathed against her cheeks.

She wanted to ask him what that one meant. It might be her favorite bit of gaelic so far.

But then . . .

"Claire!" Fraser exclaimed, and nearly toppled them both out of the bed if not for Beauchamp clinging to his shoulders, steadying him above her.

"How di' ye - Why are ye -"

Beauchamp giggled loudly at his befuddled face and at his hair sticking up in all directions like a sunflower crown. She coasted her hands up the wide breadth of his shoulders to cup both his scarlet cheeks.

"You're door was unlocked, and you know how cold I easily get . . ." she playfully pouted, and tugged his face closer, enjoying how his skin felt like a glowing hot coal between her hands.

But Fraser pulled away.

"Claire. . ."

She sighed yet kept her amused grin.

"You're not a lad of sixteen, you know. You can have a girl in your room."

"I ken that," he answered back, with a defensive spike in his voice.

Beauchamp ignored his tone letting her hands wander to his chest, the muscles taut beneath his crisp white shirt straining to contain his racing heartbeat.

"We even spent a night under the stars together."

"That was altogether different."

Her eyes flashed with mischief as she toyed with the buttons of his shirt. "How so?"

"For one," Fraser breathed hoarsely, placing a hand over hers lest she get too carried away. "It wasn't all night, the thunder made sure of that, and we mostly were talking anyway."

"Mostly?"

"And two," he said firmly, ears pink. "There wasn't a bed either of us could fall out of."

"No, there wasn't," she agreed, deciding he'd had enough of her teasing (and only because she had never taken anyone seriously enough to go slow). "But you can still keep me warm, Fraser. Virtue intact. I promise."

He arched a ruddy brow, doubtful of the lass with cheeky hands and a red cheshire grin that could lure a man to break every sin. Yet he eased himself beside her anyway and in the only way that worked.

With their legs twined together, nearly flushed against one another.

And his big hand braced along her back, the fabric soft against his callused palm as he smoothed it up and down, feeling the gentle rise of her ribs as she breathed in absolute contentment.

“Better than sitting in the cinema don't you think?” said Beauchamp, as she nuzzled her face to the crook of his neck, warmed by his skin that smelled freshly clean. Yet she found herself missing the scent of a hard day's labor on him.

“Aye, much - wait!” Fraser shifted to his elbow. “We missed the film didn't we?"

Beauchamp, a little annoyed at being jostled, shook her head and tugged at his collar to settle her lad back down.

"No, there's still some time left. Cary Grant just lost his intercostal clavicle bone to a dog named George. . . Or was it a leopard named Baby?"

Fraser stared at her like she'd gone completely daft until he noticed the radio playing in the background and heard the inimitable voices of Grant alongside Katherine Hepburn.

- Now it isn't that I don't like you, Susan, because, after all, in moments of quiet, I'm strangely drawn toward you, but - well, there haven't been any quiet moments.

"Oh,” he chuckled lightly, dropping his head to the side. “I must've fallen asleep listening to Lux Theatre . What I meant was the actual cinema though.”

“I think Judy Garland is merrily singing down that yellow brick road as we speak. But don't be sorry," she said, with a kiss to the hard line of his jaw, before the words could fall from his mouth. "It would've been far too crowded anyway."

“But you got yourself all dressed up," he protested, as his eyes traveled down to where her dress had been rucked up tight over her breasts and waist (and where his hand involuntarily flexed over the winged flare of her hip) before hastily clearing his throat.

"Ye look lovely by the way, mo chridhe. More than lovely actually. . ."

That shy and tender smile of his was her undoing and made her feel light-headed and reckless.

"Either that clever mouth of yours keeps on with the compliments, Fraser, or . . ."

Her voice carried off as her knee glided up between his thighs and her arms clasped around his shoulders so that any thoughts Fraser had of being a gentleman were forgotten in a wanton blaze of heat.

Some time later, with Fraser's cheek pillowed against her breasts, breath hot and seeping through the thin blue fabric thoroughly wrinkled now, he groaned.

"I wish we weren't in a room above a pub that reeks of cigarettes and wee."

She hummed softly, her fingertips stroking the back of his head, twirling around his curls. Admiring their beauty.

"Where should we be then?"

Fraser lifted his gaze to hers, blue eyes glimmering with that undeniable emotion that should've scared her yet it only made her want to claim him forever.

"A woman like you. . ." He smiled. " In a tent somewhere outside the ruins of a temple or in a cave in the Himalayas."

Her chest bounced with sparkling laughter.

"How about when this is all over and our names are the talk of the town, you take me anywhere you please. Preferably with a bed we can both fit in."

It was a tantalizing thought yet Fraser couldn't help but think of Scotland. Of his home Lallybroch. With her hand in his passing through the centuries old stone archway as his lady of Broch Turach.

Someday, maybe. God willing.

"I can think of a place," he murmured, and tightened his hold around her lush frame and pressed a daring kiss of hope above her heart. Felt her shiver beneath his mouth.

- I've just discovered that was the best day I've ever had in my whole life!

- But I was there!

- That's what made it so good!

And together they drifted off listening to the rain and the silly, sappy music.

I can't give you anything but love, baby.

That's the only thing I've plenty of, baby.

Dream awhile, scheme awhile

We're sure to find happiness . . .

//

A/N: There’s a lot of notes so I’ll keep them to ao3. And there’s probably mistakes galore but I needed to post this before cringe settled in and I deleted it, Thank you for reading!

#jamie x claire #outlander fic #outlander fanfiction #gobbledygook writing

[thefalsescott]

Now i did actually paint! Its been awhile since ive painted a mini (20years) but i think i did pretty good The mini is ruck volo half orc druid Bless his daftness https://www.instagram.com/p/CXMmQGhDjWA/?utm_medium=tumblr

[maxrev]

I heard on the news a few days ago Canada had put up signs saying 'Don't let moose lick your car' because they're looking for the salt. Well, Niall Shepard didn't read the whole sign...

“Kaidan, did ya see the message on the sign? All I read was ‘Dinnae let a moose lick…’ but not the rest. ”

"What sign? Where?” 

Figures he hadn't seen it. They were in Canada, so what was it one wasn’t supposed to let a moose lick? Niall’s mind went to all sorts of ideas with the thought. Shaking his head, he  pushed those thoughts right away and settled down to watch the world fly by the window. The sign was gone along with the message and Kaidan hadn’t seen it anyway, so best to let it go. Canada...what a strange place to live where you didn’t let a moose lick...something. 

They were currently driving through the city of Vancouver towards the coast, headed out to take in some sights while on shore leave and Kaidan had insisted, along with the rest of the crew, Niall come along to take a break and relax, something he hadn’t done since boarding the Normandy on her maidan voyage. What a whirlwind life had been since then. All of the crew, from Garrus to Joker, and even Tali, suggested things for him to do -- get drunk, get laid, watch Fleet and Flotilla, or go ‘shoot shit.’ Grateful to them for thinking of his sanity and well-being, Niall nonetheless considered doing absolutely none of them. He’d simply smiled and thanked them for their thoughtfulness. By the look on Joker's face, Niall could tell he was disappointed. He'd probably hoped for a play by play if Niall did get laid. Foogin' bampot, he was.

Ah well, Niall'd been told, more than once, he was crabbit. Didnae matter to him. There wasn't time for idleness, playing tourist by going sightseeing or any of the other suggestions, interesting as a few sounded. He had too many things to do - paperwork to fill out, talking with the Council - or rather at them, as well as debriefing Anderson and Hackett on the Reapers. Oh, yeah, and Udina... 

Okay, maybe shore leave was better spent with some much needed away time. Far, far away from Udina. He hated the man and often wished it was he who'd punched him, the sleekit bastard, and not Anderson. Niall even daydreamed about the satisfaction of it sometimes. 

He also wasn’t happy about spending shore leave with a subordinate. Mixing work with play was a bad business, but Kaidan could be pretty persuasive - or insistent - when he wanted. Either way. It didn’t help the LT had the rest of their immediate Normandy circle on his side. He’d ended up barging, politely, into Niall’s personal cabin, threw whatever civvies he could find along with a few toiletries in his commander's ruck sack and herded him off the Normandy. Niall had overheard someone say the whole crew would be meeting up somewhere along the coast. 

For now, it was just the two of them. 

Glancing over at his LT, he noted how smooth and efficient he was at driving the skycar. No wild antics for him, just calm and steady. He'd probably even colored inside the lines as a kid. It was no wonder, then, why he hated when Niall drove the mako. Of course, all of them did. Especially Garrus when he was stuck fixing everything Niall destroyed. Too damn bad. He loved adventure and with the mako, adventure came in the form of flying off cliffs, barrelling down steep inclines or skidding to a stop inches away from a building. It never got old, the crews’ reactions to his driving.

He sighed, a mix of exasperation and impatience. Niall didn't like being a passenger.

"Everything okay, Commander?" 

"Yes, LT." A few seconds passed, "How much longer?"

Kaidan chuckled.

Another sign flashed overhead as they drove. ‘Don’t let the moose lick…’ 

"Now d'ya ken what the damn sign says?"

"Sorry, I didn't see it this time, either."

There Kaidan went again, apologizing. Said it was a Canadianism. Must be. No one else on the crew did it and he damn sure didn't. 

The sign bugged him. He hated unknowns and hadn’t caught the message this time or the last time either. He thought he’d seen ‘your c-’ at the end. The only thing his mind could come up with was...well, there were a few inappropriate words but he couldn't imagine the powers that be putting those on a sign for everyone to read. He laughed quietly. Maybe it was cat. Odd but when in Canada? Hell if he knew.

"Something funny?" Kaidan questioned from beside him.

"Nah, just a random thought." He wasn't about to elaborate on where his thoughts had gone and have his LT thinking he was some degenerate. 

What would a moose lick anyway? Some of his dad’s family had moved to Canada a million years ago, roughly, and so he’d paid a bit more attention in school when the subject came up. He knew what moose were, how large the animal was. 

But why for all that's holy would you have to worry about them licking something? Why was it an issue? And why a cat, if that's what it read. 

“Are moose abundant out here?” he asked in the silence. 

Kaidan glanced at him, expression unreadable. ”Yeah,” he answered, drawing the word out slowly, like he was wondering if Niall was having him on. 

“Okay. Then, why is it important for them not to lick...something specific?” This was ridiculous. It had to be a cat. Nothing else made sense. He looked over at Kaidan, the LT's eyes on the road. "Cat! Dinnae let them lick your cat!" 

Several seconds passed by and Kaidan didn't answer. So Niall rushed on as he faced forward,  trying to fill the silence and not look like an idiot for having asked this stupid question in the first place and for figuring out the answer. “I mean, moose are big, at least from the pictures I saw as a lad in school and what my da told us. And cats are wee bitty things comparatively. So, it makes sense, then. They’d either trample the wee kitty or if they were to swipe it with their large tongue, the ball of fur would go flyin through the air and land yards away or some shite.” 

He stopped to take a breath. Still, nothing but silence from the driver’s seat. He risked a glance at Kaidan, trying to gauge his reaction. His shoulders were shaking and Niall finally realized Kaidan was laughing. 

“Are you...” he squinted, “are you laughin' at me?” He couldn’t believe his LT had the balls to make fun of him. Well, actually he did, because in their time on the Normandy, they’d become solid friends. Living in close quarters and having each other’s backs - saving each other's lives countless times - said a lot for who you worked with day in and day out, cemented a bond often stronger than family ties. 

“N-n-no,” Kaidan denied, struggling to speak between snickers. 

“Aye, Mr. Canada, go ahead. Laugh at the Scotsman flounderin' in unknown waters.” Niall crossed his arms in a huff, turning to stare out the window. 

“I’m sorry. Really," he placated when his commander continued pouting. "Hey, look!" He spoke excitedly but Niall wasn't buying it, refusing to turn his head. "Is that the message on the signs you were asking about?"

Finally turning to look, Niall squinted, trying to read the words before they disappeared again. “Yeah. So?” 

“Um, maybe read the whole thing?” 

“Are ya daft? I ha' been. Clearly, it says ‘Don’t let a moose lick your c--”

“Car!” Kaidan finished for him. 

It took a few seconds for Niall to process the change in wording in his head, so sure he’d been able to fill in the blanks. 

Just in time to catch the message before they drove underneath it and away, Niall gazed up again. Sure enough, Mr. Canada was right. 

“Don’t let a moose lick your car," he repeated. 

Well, there were other things he'd thought of. Nowhere in the vicinity of cat, though. 

But those other ideas also led his mind down a few paths better left untraveled. For now.

#mshenko #mass effect #kaidan alenko #custom shepard #Niall Shepard #writing #maxwrites

[bibliocratic]

(Archive!Jon, h/c and fluff ~ nebulously post 160, no real spoilers)

It is a Friday night, and the sky dimmed to a light-polluted darkness hours earlier. Mist decks the low thickets of gorse bushes, the stolid feet of apple trees, the garden outside adorned so heavily in shadow as to be unseen. Their house an inlet of light amidst it all. Jon has had a glass and a half of wine, and his lips are staining red, his tongue purpling, and his eyes are growing too tired to cross-stitch. Martin complains at the taste when he finally confesses to the lateness of the hour and gets up to go to bed, kissing him goodnight.  He starts to gather up the unwashed plates and cutlery from dinner, as he tidies away the empty IPA bottles with their bright obnoxious labels, but Martin knocks him with his foot and tells him to leave them alone, do them in the morning, stop fussing and go to bed. It is soft and chiding, and Jon grouses sleepily but does as bid.

Jon heads up to bed first, intent on reading for a bit, and Martin promises to be up in a bit, saying something about wanting to get some writing done. But the night is bitter and wintry, and the cat manages to get under the covers and burrows into Jon's side and his eyes are drooping before he even has a chance to take the bookmark out.

Martin is climbing into bed after twenty minutes, disrupting the cat, smelling of toothpaste, his fingers faintly pruned from doing the washing up. Jon rouses briefly from his slumber before he turns over and into the new source of heat, mumbling a 'night before he settles back in.

It is the heat that does it. He wakes sluggish but all at once, slow-brained and mired in a dull confusion as to why he's not sleeping. Martin is still curved against his back, having stretched out at some point, pushing Jon over to the edge of the bed. Breathing slow, heavily, rumbling a little in his chest, the sound filling him up rhythmically like the bellows of some sturdy forge. Pressing against him like compacting earth. An arm is thrown over Jon, loosely bracketing him, and Jon brings a hand up to touch it; the skin is heat-sweaty, warm from the closeness.

His fingers brush dirt, come away filthy. He can't see it, not such a complete dark as the night affords them, but the texture is the damp soil of potting plants, and he can feel the smear it leaves behind when he brushes it off. The heat is a close and cloying thing, and Jon can feel the loamy tightness of it in his lungs.

Logically, he knows the only thing behind him is Martin. Snoring, his t-shirt rucked up sometime in the night, exposing his stomach to the air, one bedsock kicked off, who will be grumpy and trying not to show it in the morning if Jon wakes him. The grip that is holding him, loose, carefully kept nails, and the other that is making its presence known,  a wiry clenching circlet of bones, it's a recollection, that's all. A knowing, an experiencing, a door shaken loose in his meticulous library of horrors, the statement of Juan Carlos Santibañez brought into waking. Fingers worn to muscle, matted with filth, bloody from where they've been digging.

In the dark, under the covers, the sound is the shift of grave soil, of pressing earth, but it is also Martin, ensconced in warm empty dreams, Jon trying to breath through his nose and not wake him up, and it can be all of these things at once.

Martin's arm, and the hold of this grave-bound creature croaking with a desiccated throat at his neck – Juan Carlos, who had always been so frightened of closed spaces even before the cave-in, who saw the open casket funeral of his aunt when he was nine and never forgot how snug and restricting the space inside looked – pulls him closer.

Jon is rattling out a breath, moving away sharply, sitting up and letting the brunt of the cold air shock into him.

There is the creak of hinges being locked, the grunt of wood being lowered below.

There is the creak of weight shifting on the mattress, the grunt of being pulled unceremoniously into wakefulness.

“Jon? What is it?”

A warm hand – human, covered in skin and not dirt, which has never clawed at the earth like a trapped beast – touches his elbow. Jon gasps out a sound, and the statement of  Juan Carlos Santibañez, regarding an accident at work, given August 13th 1998, is on his tongue, behind his teeth – I was doing some construction work, he had started, haltingly, unsure as the compulsion to tell worked into him, and at the time, you know, there was nothing odd about the job, looked legit enough.

The hand moves away but only slightly. The world flattens close like pressed flowers. Jon reaches behind him, takes the hand he knows will be there.

“The Buried,” he says.

“Ok,” Martin says behind him – and Jon thinks, he will be so tired in the morning and so he says with soil still coating his teeth: “It-it's fine. Honesty. I'll be – go back to sleep.”

“Idiot,” Martin says kindly, and he squeezes Jon's hand before he lets go, and then he's getting up, grumbling at the cold, and the bedside light is flicked on, throwing shadows against the painted walls of the bedroom The heat is beginning to dissipate, goosebumps beginning to rise up the scarred skin of his arms.

A glass is being pressed into his hand.

“Here,” Martin says, and Jon takes it dutifully. It's cold, almost painful against his teeth, but it washes the silt and grit from his mouth, his throat.

“Thanks,” he says croakily.

“You want to talk about it?”

Jon puts the glass down on the bedside table. Turns and looks at Martin, pillow lines on one side of his face, hair corkscrewing wildly. Sleep-dark eyes finding Jon's, waiting patiently for the answer.

“Not really,” Jon says, and Martin nods and doesn't ask further.

Jon lies back down, in the impression his body had made that still clutches some lingering warmth. Martin draws the covers back over them.

“Light on?”

“I- I think it'll be alright.”

Martin leans out and clicks the bedside light off.  Jon can no longer see Martin except for a faint outline, but he knows he's still looking at him.

“Sorry for waking you up,” Jon says, and he feels rather than sees Martin shake his head.

“Don't be daft,” he replies, and there's a half-yawn in his voice. He'll drop back to sleep quickly, Jon knows. Will try and keep his eyes open, knowing it will take Jon longer to shift back to himself and only himself in his head.

Martin does not go to embrace Jon. They've done this enough times to know it will make Jon's skin itch, and his breathing quicken. But he puts out a hand over the space between them, and Jon takes it, grounding him slightly.

Martin is soon breathing heavily again. Jon lies awake, feeling the hand in his own, the sensations of dirt and earth and damp tightness replaced gradually by the thick heat of the bed, the sweat building at the back of his neck, the way Martin is gradually shifting over to Jon's side of the bed.

And eventually Jon will roll over to meet him, press his face against Martin's throat and coil their legs together. Alone in his head again, the unbidden knowing stored and locked away.  Falling asleep, too hot, comfortable and relaxing back into sleep. Thinking empty tired thoughts about nothing at all.

#jonmartin #tma #the magnus archives #fluff #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #cw for claustrophobia

[jack-andthestalk]

Our Son, Arc II, To Lose you, Chapter 11

I usually thank @balfeheughlywed​ at this point because she is my reading gal and puts me straight when I am gone off course. But this week I almost broke her! So I really want to thank her for all her tiredless, 'but why? and straight out this isn't right talk she gave me. She always hits the nail on the head and made me do a bit of soul searching (dramatic much?) The epic @notevenjokingfic​ took my jibberish plot planning and really cleaned it up and set me straight again, I am actually giddy with the what we decided on and for the first time in ages can't wait to write! I also want to thank @ladyviolethummingbird​ and @laythornmuse​ who support this little fic so much and regularly squeal or shout at me in DM about their writing or often just random bants which really helps when I can't write a sentence. A little NSFW below the cut. 

Crawling up the length of my body, she nipped and sucked each expanse of skin, ignoring the part that needed her mouth most, teasing.

Dark curls were falling around her shoulders, almost reaching her naked breasts.  Cheeks rosy red from desire and the heat of our bodies.

My hand sought a nipple, but she moved quickly to evade my grasp. Her head fell back in a naughty giggle. I attempted to reach for her hips, encouraging her nearer.

  “uh uh,” she waggled a delicate finger at me. “Patience Jamie”

“Sassenach” – I surprised myself with the begging groan that came from my mouth – “I canna wait I need to be inside ye.” My hands were flailing around me as I attempted to pull her mouth to mine.

“all in good time” she whispered against my lips, not quite touching as her hand crept down and cupped my balls.

I was rocking brazenly beneath her, willing her hips to lock with mine as they should be, two magnets moulded to fit each other.

“you’ve been a bold boy Mr Fraser, and I intend on punishing you for it”, she squeezed

lightly making my cock twitch on demand.

“Aye,” I replied, bobbing my head eagerly “I have”, her tongue slid down the length of me, drawing a hiss from my mouth as my hand cupped the back of her head. “Claire” I pleaded again, earning me a stern look as she bent to my groin. She gently ran her teeth along my shaft, hips bucking off the bed now, decency be damned I was aching for her.

 “That’s it” she crooned. “Do as I say.”

Her hand ghosted over my stomach and chest, clutching for mine, once she grasped it she pulled it down to her mouth using the flat of her tongue to glide over my palm. “Touch yourself for me, Jamie”. My balls felt they were near to bubbling and my head fell back against the pillow. “I canna Claire – I.”

Her voice sure and smooth rose up against my ear, “you can Jamie, it’s just us.” she guided my hand down to my cock, “show me how you like it?”

Her hair swept around her face, she bit deeply into her bottom lip, eyes locked on mine, “then you can do whatever you want to me” she offered.

“Oh fuck” I reached down taking myself in hand, shutting my eyes tight. “that’s it” she praised, taking my free hand and placing two fingers into her mouth, she sucked deeply. The sensation of her fingers in her mouth made my stomach coil, I frantically pumped myself while using my free hand to rub and tease her breasts. She purred encouraging words in my ear and ran her tongue over me.

Claire ran her hand in under my ass, cupping a cheek and urging me to lift, my hips raised and met my hand at her inclination, she set the rhythm.

 I pleaded to her in Gaelic, praised her, thanked her, told her I loved her. She was the only woman that made me lose English, the irony was not lost on me.

Her mouth continued to suck my fingers in and out, her hips moving in tandem with mine. I knew I was going to come and soon, vaguely thought ye need to stop man or ye willna be no use to her. But I couldn’t, I tried to turn on my side, my body coiling in on itself to reach an end. Claire’s palm firm on my chest pushing me into the bed. “shhh” she whispered

“fuck, ye are amazing, do ye ken that?”

Then her tone changed, “your alarm is going off Jamie”. I lifted my head from the pillow to clutch her to me, but she was gone.

6.00am flashing on the clock beside my bed. Fuck.

My head fell back down as I tried to remember the dream, needed to stay in it for a moment or two longer until my heart rate returned to normal, wanted to pretend she was here beside me flushed with pleasure.

I imagined Claire’s reaction if I told her she haunted my dreams since I arrived here, suddenly the idea of telling her anything hit me like a punch to the stomach, oh god I missed her.

Our calls had been reserved, without saying it, Claire seemed to know I had to be careful of what I said. She didn’t push, but there were things that I wanted to say, they threatened to come bubbling out of me if I didn’t keep myself in check. Knowing each word was noted and logged.

I glanced at my phone to see if she had tried to return any of my calls from the day before. She hadn’t which was odd, she and Willie always rang before bed.

Rising slowly, I showered and prepared for the day. Meeting Geneva at the site before 8am. I had little control over what I did since I arrived. Everything I asked, everything that was asked of me was planned, rehearsed. Rising Geneva out of her bed at stupid o clock, to stand in the pissing rain, was a small triumph in terms of what I could control.

I was bone weary, not so much from the late nights poking and prodding budgets and trying to find a trail, it was the falsity I had to portray when I was around her. Interested.

I glanced at the clock again quickly and tried Claire one more time, she would be waking soon to get Willie ready for school.

It went straight to voicemail. A sliver of anxiety gripped my wame I tried to dismiss it as foolishness, she was probably just asleep, maybe her battery was dead. There was nothing amiss.

____

An hour later, I stood on a cold construction site with Geneva Dunsany, who, apart from a hard construction hat had dressed completely inappropriately for the weather.

As I went through each building explaining what was happening, telling her we were running over, a hopeful look, can she draw down more, how soon can she get it, where could she pull it from. Then let them watch.

I had to work at this, make her trust me. Dinners, sharing of pasts, attentive, make-believe. Never anything I couldn’t come back from, never putting me beyond Claire.

Ignoring her hand on my arm as she asked another nonsensical question about the depth of the Equine Swimming Pool, I forged ahead telling her a larger more expensive design would improve the horse's muscle tone faster, easier trained, quicker sold.

As usual, she bought it, another checkbox ticked.

More dinners, more lies, another set of ears listening and learning. Digging my way out piece by piece.

 ______

 “Ian man, what is going on at home? I have been trying to get Claire on the phone this past two days.” I tried to hide the growing anxiety, Ian would think me daft, but I couldn’t stop it. I had to contact him. Had to know where Claire was.

In hindsight, I should have known instantly, Ian’s voice stuttered slightly, tone hesitant. “Jamie, how are ye, how’s Hellsville?”

I immediately dropped the façade I had planned upon, “what’s wrong with Claire’s phone Ian?”

Another pause.

“Em, I dinna think there is ought wrong with it, man…”

“Is she avoiding me?”

“I’d say that could be more accurate alright.”

Something registered about Ian’s vagueness, almost as bad as my own answers these past few weeks.

“Is Janet listening to ye?”

“Aye.”

“Can ye tell me what I have done to Claire?”

I heard muttering in the background.

“What did Jenny say?”

Another pause.

“She said yer a prick.”

My stomach turned.

“What the hell is wrong Ian, will ye no spit it out and tell Jenny to keep her nib out.”

Ian sighed deeply. “Geneva Dunsany answered yer phone.”

“She what?” I asked incredulously.

“She answered yer phone to Claire?”

My mind was whirling, palms wet. “Why the fuck would she – “

“In the wee hours of the morning” Ian whispered into the phone, I wasn’t sure to protect himself or me.

“When?” – I tried to think quickly, when had she access to my phone, god what was Claire thinking surely she would know I wouldn’t – fuck.  I saw her then as clear as day, her face close enough I could touch it. Lips trembling slightly, her back set proudly. A tell she had when she was hardening herself not to cry. “Why Jamie?”

I rucked a hand through my hair, kicking something across the room, “Can you get Claire to talk to me?”

Ian either didn’t hear me or was choosing to ignore me. “She was doing braw Jamie, ye should ha seen her and the lad around the farm helping out, I actually think she mightha stayed…” he trailed off.

“Where is she?”

Suddenly there was shuffling, and Jenny’s voice came on the phone “a bràthair?

 “Janet will ye tell Claire –“

“She sat at the table” – Jenny’s tone was nearer a growl “she was fierce, she dinna let Dougal cloud her mind when he insinuated that something was going on with ye and that Dunsany bitch.”

“Claire?” I asked stupidly

“Aye, who do ye think.” Jenny snapped.

“She held her head high and she dinna waiver, but then I said let’s ring Jamie, tell Jamie what the fuck wit of an uncle has been up to, thought we would all have a good laugh at it, I never thought that she would be answering yer fucking phone at 2 o clock in the morning Jamie!” Jenny’s tone was shrill, I knew it she was beyond mad, she was upset.

“Jenny, it’s not what ye think, I dinna ken what Geneva was playing at but – I.”

“Oh she kens exactly what she is playing at” Jenny said through gritted teeth, “She was cute enough to ring Dougal the next morning, told him that she answered yer phone to Claire, said ye were sorry Claire had to find out like that, had Dougal call to Claire in the cottage and do yer bidding .”

A sharp inhale of breath, “In – front – of – Willie” she said pointedly.

My mouth fell open, throat tightening painfully, that conniving bitch, how could I have been so stupid?

“He told Claire” I choked out, “that we were sorry? Jesus”

  I said exhaling loudly. Flopping to the bed as my legs gave way.

A voice in the back of my mind kept saying, don’t forget their listening. I didn’t care, I had to know.

“Jenny”, I couldn’t hide the shake in my voice,

“Aye.” Her tone was softer now, her breathing starting to calm.

I swallowed painfully. “Where are Claire and Willie?”

My cheeks were wet, and my heart was thumping so hard I thought it would break through my ribs.

“they’re gone,” she said sorrowfully. “Jamie” – her tone was pleading -  “Claire missed ye so much, but she put on such a brave face, the poor lass couldna stay here a day longer thinking ye had betrayed her.”

I pinched my eyes with my thumb and forefinger willing the tears to stop, I sniffed noisily. Jenny’s soft voice was murmuring comfort into the phone, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Can ye explain it to her Jamie, maybe she will listen to ye…”

“that’s the worst of it Janet” I choked into the phone, “I canna explain it, just now.”

The softening sympathetic tone lacing Jenny's voice suddenly reverted to the shriller tone of earlier. “What do ye mean ye canna explain it? For god’s sake, Jamie do ye want to lose them?”

“Are ye mad Janet, of course, I dinna want that – I just need to think a minute will ye let me think.”

I pressed my lips into a thin line, breathing heavily through my nose as I racked my brain trying to come up with a way to tell Claire, to make her understand what was going on here.

Bile was rising up my throat as I imagined her reaction, what she thought of me, how she must hate me. Fear gripping my insides that I wouldn’t be able to change her mind.

Geneva had planned this, as I was busily conspiring against her and her family, she naively believed that if she removed Claire from the picture, there was something to be gained between her and me, that was my fault.

 I had brought this on us, I had followed directions, played along to get the answers, didn’t rebuke unwarranted touches or flirtatious smiles. I had led Geneva to believe there was hope. I had left Claire, and I open to this, it didn’t matter that it was a lie, how would I ever explain this without telling her why?

How could I make her believe it was only her for me? That it was laughable, I would ever want Geneva Dunsany in any way.

I couldn’t go to her yet without sabotaging everything. If I left Geneva would never face the consequences of her action, all of this would have been for nothing.

There had been nothing but silence on the phone for a long time, Jenny just waited as if knowing I had to try and work out what I could say.

I… I need to ask something of you, Jenny?" I said, sometime later, my voice sounded different to my own ear, smaller, less almost.

“Yes,” she said without faltering.

“When ye can get through to Claire, will ye tell her two things from me.”

I heard Jenny swallow, and she hoarsely mumbled: “Aye Jamie, go on.”

“Tell her I love her, and tell her not to forget that I am her obligation, so she needs to try to keep her promise.”

Jenny remained silent, probably wondering what the hell I was going on about, but eventually, I heard static and her sure voice saying “Aye, I will a bràthair.”

If nothing else, the fear in my tone had achieved one thing. My sister believed me, without reason or explanation, she knew.

I hung up the phone, one thing clear in my mind. I had to get word to Claire. I couldn’t lose her.

#outlander fanfic #ourson #chp11

[jmflowers]

You’re her family, too Charity Dingle x Vanessa Woodfield Emmerdale by J.M. Flowers

883 words

               She doesn’t mean it. Not really, not in the way she says it.

               She can’t, not when just last month she was sat over Noah and that homework you hadn’t been able to make sense of. She can’t, when she tucks Moses in as tightly as she does Johnny, pressing a kiss to his head as she whispers good night. Can’t mean a single word of it, when just this morning she’d called them ‘the boys’ and smiled at the idea of having your own home together.

               No, she doesn’t mean what she’s just said. She’s not thinking straight – her eyes are all glassy and there’s a far off look on her face like maybe she’s not thinking at all. Like she’s caught back up in that fog she’s been walking through for days now, barely able to make sense of her own hands in front of her.

               But it doesn’t stop the way it pricks. It doesn’t ease the rush of hurt that floods to the surface of your skin. I need to be with my family right now.

               As though you’re not family when you’re all sat around the table having tea, her smile alight with something that burgeons warmth in your chest. As though you’re not family when she leans across the bar for a kiss, twisting her fingers into your own. As though you’re not family when she reminds Noah to pick up his school bag or Moses to put on his shoes or passes Johnny into your arms like he belongs there, too.

               It’s felt like family for a long time, now.

               Hasn’t it?

               Only, she doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t mean it like that. She just means her sister, her blood, another tie to the father she’s just lost. She means the boy in her arms she’s been terrified to let go of, not yet ready to tell him that his grandfather is gone. She means that house where they all lived, before the two of you came together and built a family of your own.

               She doesn’t mean you’re not family, too.

               You replay it over and over in your mind, picking it apart and piecing it back together, filling all the spaces with excuses and explanations and anything to still the pounding of your heart. Because you can’t imagine what you’ll do if she does mean it, can’t imagine how you’ll pry your life from hers and start again.

               There’s not enough scar tissue left inside your chest to do it anymore.

               It’s your fault, though, isn’t it? Your own daft, misguided heart trying to protect hers. Lying by omission once again. It’s only right that she be angry, that she push against the desperation in your voice when you try to apologize for what you’ve done. She’s got barely enough left to give to herself, how can she give any sort of understanding to you?

               She’s grieving, you remind yourself, aching and not ready to feel the depth of it. She’s barely cried a tear since, her shoulders rucked up around her ears like her chest has filled right up with all the sadness she needs to shed. You’ve been tiptoeing along the glass beside her, waiting for the moment when it cracks, holding her like a broken kite string once more.

               She’s been telling you for months now that she doesn’t like when you hide things, no matter the intent. Holding your hand and reminding you that anything and everything is safe inside your little bubble. You’re trying to learn that, you are, but it just seems so easy to forget when you want nothing more than to protect her from all this hurt. As though you can wrap her up in your arms and become a forcefield between her and the world.

               It doesn’t work like that, though. Your head should know better than to lie. You’re trying to know better, for her. For both of you.

               It’s what takes you home, instead of storming through the gate and banging on the door and begging her to speak with you. It’s what keeps your lips screwed shut when all you want to do is yell and lash out and beg her to make sense of the turmoil in your gut. It guides your heavy feet to the back door of the pub and urges you inside and pours yourself a glass of wine you never drink.

               Because she’s grieving. Because she doesn’t mean it. Because she’d looked half deflated, trying with all her might to stay upright.

               She’ll come back to you. In the darkness of night or the half light of morning, she’ll come back. She’ll slip in the door as quiet as a mouse, always mindful, always careful, always thinking of others, and leave her shoes on the mat alongside yours. She’ll tiptoe into the kitchen and make herself a brew she’ll only drink half of, desperate to find her center in the methodic stirring of her spoon. She’ll try to smile over the brim of her cup, muscles tugging at the corners of her mouth.

               It won’t reach her eyes, that smile, but it will reach your heart. Your daft, deeply-in-love-with-her heart. Your misguided, must-protect-her, can’t-be-without-her heart.

               Because she doesn’t mean it, what she’s said.

               You’re her family, too.

#sorting through that line from last night #because that inner monologue is always loud inside my head #charity x vanessa fic #minefic #minefanfic #fanfic by me #I never remember what tags I use #charity x vanessa #catch the feelings wave #now I give myself permission to watch tonights episode #this was too short for my AO3 length standards

[georgeharris0n]

Blisters On His Fingers- Chapter 1 “Eskimo”

Rated: PG-13

Word Count: 2.9k

Pairing: Ringo Starr/George Harrison (Starrison)

Chapters: 1/25

Plot Summery:  George can’t help but watch Rory Storm and The Hurricanes play, but John and Paul know he just has his eyes for their drummer. Ringo has some problem with his hands, and George may just see his perfect opportunity to talk to the handsome drummer. (Hamburg Beatle Era) Note: Based on @cirilee ‘s  adorable Starrison art!!!! Here  Check it out! You won’t be disappointed, they are precious. :’)

I hope this fic isn’t an absolute mess- just bare with me.

The thick air and beat of the band had George completely out of his head. They weren’t the best, George knew him and the lads were much better, and could really bring down the house, but that didn’t mean he wanted to miss a second of that steady tempo. It was past midnight now, and the set was nearly done, but George ought to have left by now. Their set had been finished hours ago, but here he was, sitting at the furthest table he could find watching a particular pink suited fellow bash away at the skins. The back beat, his quick wrists, the way his head bobbed back and forth, messy Teddy curls bouncing about with that cute white streak on the sides-

“George!”

A startlingly familiar voice broke George’s attention.

“Geez Paul! What do you want?

George turned to his bandmate, trying very hard to not to shove him off the chair beside him. He was being way too distracting. Too distracting from the beat of those heavy drums, either that or the beat of his heart at the moment.   

“Geo, I’ve been calling you for the past five minutes. It’s getting late, we need to head back to the theater for some sleep.”

“But, can’t we-”

“Sorry George, but it’s getting real exhausting watching you gush over the Hurricane’s drummer, and y’know Paulie needs his beauty sleep.”

George stared wide eyed, opposite of Paul was John lounging with his boots rucked on the table. Had he really forgotten they were both here?

“We usually don’t mind it Geo, but you’ve done this same thing the past two weeks, and you haven’t tried once to talk to Ringo.” Paul added, shoving John’s boots off the table, and standing up to look down sympathetically at the young guitarist.

George felt his throat go dry. He hoped that the other lads hadn’t noticed, but he supposed it was strange now that he thought about those two weeks.

“I don’t know w-what you’re both on about. I don’t have a thing for him! I just appreciate his… drumming that’s all. He’s 10 times better than Pete is.” George figured he could snipe about Pete considering he wasn’t here anyhow. George definitely saw Ringo as a superior drummer, and took plenty of opportunities to point it out, though the lads may think he has other motives for it, he really saw Ringo’s talent for drumming, not just for… well, Ringo.

“Sure you do Georgie, and I’m sure you’d get to appreciate a lot more than just his drumming, if you stopped starin’ at him, and tried talking to him. Alone.” John smirked, now standing beside Paul who was sporting a very uncomfortable glare John’s way.

“What John means to say is, maybe you could give it a try, huh? Just give it a chance? You clearly fancy- or um… appreciate him, so why not at least try?” Paul affirmed with an encouraging smile.

“You both act like we’ve never spoken before or something! We see them every week after all.” George murmured, running out of excuses. It was true that the infamous Beatles knew Rory Storm and The Hurricanes. They all occasionally shared drinks or chats between sets, but it was true. George hadn’t spoken with Ringo alone with out someone else facilitating the conversation around them as a group.

“Well then! Guess we’ll leave you to it then! Paul and I are going to go get some well needed shut eye, but don’t you come home until you’ve figured out what little drummer boy’s favorite type of snog is.” John teased, while he tugged on Paul jacket sleeve who looked almost like he had half a mind to stay with George if it meant not having to hear anymore of John’s lewd banter on the walk back to their crummy sleeping arrangements.

The two left a wide eyed wreck at the table by himself. George knew from listening to each gig that the band would be done after this one last song. There was no way George was going to be able to do it. He was already petrified by John’s teasing. If he fucked this up, they’d know as soon as they saw him. The embarrassment would be plastered on his face.

No, after this last song, I’m leaving. No more of this.

Of course, it was hard to know if that were true. Considering George could melt watching Ringo hammer on those drums for the last number, a particularly loud one with a crushing drum beat. George hadn’t recognized it from his last visits, so it must have been a new edition to the Hurricane’s repertoire.

If anything George liked it a lot, he liked seeing the drummer smile as he hit the symbols with fever, clearly energized by the feel of the new song, even in the dead of night. It only made it even more disappointing when the song ended, and the band already started to disperse from the stage.

Once again, George was going to leave regretfully. He almost wished it didn’t have to end, and that he could stay and watch Ringo play forever.

George stood up from the back table, and was ready to make a beeline for the door when he heard a small familiar voice back at the stage.

“Aw shucks…”

He glanced for barely a second, and knew right away it was Ringo. He was looking down at his palms from the side of the stage. They must have been aching from those heavy drum sets of the night, especially with that last number being so raucous.

George can’t be sure where it came from, but before he could get even get to the door, he found himself sneaking away to the back of the bar counter.

It was a bit messy, but behind countless bottles of old beer, was a familiar first aid kit. A ratty white box, probably standard issue for the establishment. He remembered Paul borrowed it from the barkeep after John busted his nose in a typical bar fight. That had been real messy, John’s blood was still stained on the floor boards, nasty business that had been.

He shook away the thought, and quickly looked for something to help. Rummaging past old dried bandaids, and some empty disinfectant. George got a hold of a roll of untouched wrapping bandages. Once in hand, he took a quick peek over the counter. Ringo was alone right where George last saw him. The place was practically empty, save for the bartender and the other Hurricanes having after show drinks.

George straightened his shoulders, took a few breaths, and quickly checked his reflection on the nearest bottle of stale liquor. George ran his fingers through the tuff of hair tall upon his head making sure he didn’t look like a complete mess . With shaking hands, he gave himself one last glance, and prepared for the embarrassment of a lifetime.

Ringo sat about on a red stool, still having a look at his calloused palms. George had to admit, he looked cute, even in a dirty shit club like this. George sucked in his next breath, strode over to the handsome drummer, and pulled up a stool beside him. George attempted to give a suave smile, but quickly dissipated when he met eyes with his subject of interest.

“Hey there George! Whatcha got there?”

George went mute for a solid five seconds. That’s it. No words. He forgot how to use his vocal chords.

You daft git!

If the fellas could see him now. A fool, that’s right, a bleeding fool. Can’t even talk, doesn’t even know what to say.

“Uh..George?”

“-Thought you could use a hand.” There, he did it. A bit late, but he did it.

Might have cut him off too, but let’s just ignore that for now.

George, now finally catching up with reality pulled the end of the bandage tape.

“I mean- you’re hands bothering you?”

Ringo smiled, then looked at his palms again. “Just a few blisters, you don’t have to…”

“No really, it’s no trouble, you really were gear on those drums tonight! It’s the least I could do Ritchie.”

Ritchie? Why would you call him that? You don’t even know if he likes that? What are you-

Shaking away his inner monologue, Geo took Ringo’s palm into his hands, and started wrapping it up.

Ringo was watching George as he cared for him, he looked rather comfortable. Legs outstretched a tad. With a calm… almost endearing expression. George figured it was just his tired eyes from the long gig. Those eyes, looking now, were even more blue up close. Bluest eyes he’d ever seen alongside those drooping lids. George tried to avoid them, he wanted to make sure his wrap on Ringo had a firm hold. But they were so pretty…

“So, who’s the bird?”

All the way from left field, was the most confusing question Ringo could’ve asked. George’s eye squinted a bit, and his head tilted as if trying to find this mysterious “bird”.

“Bird?”

Face gone red, Ringo looked flushed, and slowly took his bandaged hand back. “ Oh! I just assumed- that, um… I mean, you’ve come to every gig these few weeks. I figured you might have your eyes on a girl.”

“I- no! No, girl, I mean- I don’t fancy a girl. N-no girl.” George stammered, reaching for Ringo’s other palm. Ringo seemed to relax at the statement, and allowed Geo to continue the wrap. George was only now aware of how close the two had gotten. He wondered if Ringo could hear his heart beating like it was, or if he was counting the seconds until Geo was finished and could leave.

“Almost done, promise.”

“Not too quickly I hope.” Ringo quipped with a toothy grin. George about swooned. Here he was with Ringo Starr. The lads would have field day if they saw him right now. Saw how smiley he was, or knew how much his cheeks hurt from it.

“Trust me, this is probably the highlight of my week.” George chuckled, clearly getting more courageous. Ringo somehow made it so easy, he was calm, collected, and that goofy grin was real easy on the eyes, as was everything else about the fellow. Despite Ringo being older than him, he didn’t feel like a child like he did with John and Paul sometimes. He was 19 now, not some kid, and Paul was barely any older than him anyhow. What if Ringo did see him as some kid though? George had a young face after all. Ringo was scruff n’ruff lookin’. He and the boys were even scared of him at one point before actually having the pleasure meet him.

George was nearly done, and with another quick look he noticed those pretty grey streaks on Ringo’s temples. Without thinking, George’s hand reached up to the side of Ringo’s cheek, and gently smoothed the temple streak down. Ringo flinched, not moving away, and George was just now realizing what his hand was doing. He didn’t move though, he couldn’t, he wasn’t quite sure what Ringo was thinking, or what he himself was either.

Ringo was so flustered, but the hand by his cheek and temple was so… tender, that he couldn’t help but lean into the touch.

The bandage roll fell to the floor. George’s other hand came to rest on Ringo’s lower jaw, his index finger traced the softness of his skin. He could feel Ringo’s breath exchange with his own, and gently he saw the hooded blue eyes of the drummer he so admired all these weeks.

“T-these make you look real handsome y’know.” It wasn’t really a question, just some of those weeks of frustration, and gawky coming out in the open. Geo was barely keeping it together, but he’d come this far, and Ringo seemed to be… comfortable, with all his touches that is.

Those teddy curls, and those parted lips. His eyes rested on them, and he could feel his cheeks blush. He didn’t want to ruin it, this atmosphere filled with tension, he hesitated, but those blue eyes drew him in, and soon his own closed, and he pressed his lips softly onto the other lad’s. There was no pull away, and they pressed on, testing the feeling, relishing it, actually. It was unbelievably gentle. Ringo’s lips were so soft on his, and could feel him smiling into it too.

George felt Ringo’s hands rest on his seated waist. He could feel the stubbling beard on the drummer’s chin tickle his own, causing a fit giggle to escape his mouth. They drew back, now both red faced, and clearly awe struck. Ringo leaned forward, and rested his forehead on George’s, still sporting that smile that had just rested on his very own lips. Geo could feel a chuckle in his throat. He should have done this much sooner. Had he known this would have resulted with a kiss like that…

“It’s you Ritchie.” George lamented.

“Hmm, me?” Ringo murmured, still dazed, trying to wrap his mind around that kiss…

“You’re the reason I’m here. Every night I mean, I love to watch you drum, and- I was just too scared to talk to you without the lads around.” George now moved his cupped hands from Ringo’s face. Allowing these confessions to come out in the open.

“You… like to watch me drum?” Ringo said.

“Well yes, but not really, I like… to see you.” George quickly avoided Ringo’s eyes, ringing his hands together in his lap as he scooted away slightly. George couldn’t believe he’d just told Ringo that. It sounded so stupid for him to say out loud, and Ringo probably thought he was a creep, or something. George thought he ought to just leave. He sounded pathetic-

George felt a finger hooked under his chin, gently turning his head to meet with fond eyes, and once again breaking his train of thought.

“Well, I’m right here aren’t I? Might as well have a look.”

George almost wanted to pinch himself. This was like a dream he once had, of course with less open mouth kisses on his neck… and cake, he remembered there was a cake somewhere. Seemed like a good cake, chocolate maybe? Does a Ringo like chocolate? Should he ask? Maybe he should? It would be a little off topic to say the least. Maybe he should ask about those kisses? Probably not- that would would be a little forward of him. Maybe he’ll just go with the cake.

“Gosh, looks like the bands’ left.” George broke from his recounting to turn back at the bar. Ringo was right, Rory and the gang seemed to have already hightailed it out of here without im’. It was rather secluded back here, definitely a darker spot in the place. The bartender himself was far to busy sweeping away behind the counter to even notice the two of them settled in the back.

“You probably should be off then, I still got to pack up me drums.” Ringo said standing from the stool.

George, though disappointed at the idea of leaving, felt pretty exhausted. He wished he could fall asleep right here beside Ringo but- well, this place is filthy, so not exactly the most ideal spot to pass out beside the lad you fancy.

“You don’t need any help with those?” George yawned, trying desperately to extend the time he had with Ringo as much as he could.

Ringo chuckled. “No, you go on, and get some sleep. I’ve got it. But-”

Ringo shuffled a bit, and he cleared his throat. “Will I see you again tomorrow?”

George felt his mouth open agape. Tomorrow! He wanted to see him again? Him? George Harrison? Tomorrow- wait.

“You don’t have a gig tomorrow.” George said, clear confused to how Ringo could forget he wouldn’t even be playing tomorrow.

“I know, but… will I see you?”

Oh. OH-

George smiled the dumbest smile he had ever smiled EVER.

“YES- I mean! Yes, yes I’d love to see you tomorrow.” George gushed. John was right, he was gushy wasn’t he? Who cares, Ringo Starr just may just asked him on a date, how would he not be gushy?

“Great! I’ll see you then Georgie.” Ringo quirked his lip up, and gave him a wave with a bandaged hand.

Georgie, he called me Georgie, that’s the cutest shit I’ve ever heard.

Walking out the bar entrance onto the street, George was already fantasizing of what he was going to tell John and Paul when he burst into-

Oh, wait. One last thing.

He sprinted back like mad through the bar door, and straight to Ringo and his drum kit.

“Ringo! One last thing, please don’t ask why, just know John is an absolute pain in my arse- what’s your favorite type of… kiss?” George could practically die, but the confused look on Ringo’s face faded changing into a mischievous grin.

Before he knew it Ringo’s hand slid behind his lower back, and they were pulled flush together. George gasped at the suaveness of the motion, and stared straight into those blue hooded eyes. Suddenly, Ringo leaned up to meet Geo on his tippy toes, and sweetly nuzzled his nose against George’s, then promptly pulled away with a cheeky wink, leaving a gaping George barely standing on his feet at Ringo’s answer.

“Eskimo.”  

Read Chapter 2 here!

#starrison #Ringo Starr #George Harrison #beatles fic #cirilee #starrison fic #geo reaLLy likes Ringos blue eyes #ringo gets flirty at the end

[amuseoffyre]

Crossing Paths - 370AD – Thagaste

Notes: Yesterday I posted a St. Augustine-based chapter, but then I had a read through the confessions of the man himself and realised that I had fluffed significant things such as his age (16, not 14), the town he was in (Thagaste not Madaurus) and the time the incident happened (night, not midday). So I deleted it and now, I have written the more historically-accurate version :)

370AD – Thagaste

The crescent moon was high in the star-smeared sky and the streets were deserted.

The silence was broken by a crash of pottery, echoed by raucous laughter.

“Out!”

A door opened onto the street, a slice of lamplight pouring out onto the pale flagstones. Four young men piled out through the doorway, a tangle of brown, olive and pale limbs, all of them flushed with drink and mirth.

“You lose valuable customers, Gaius!” One of the young men bellowed, swaying where he stood. He considered the clay cup in his hand, then hurled it to explode on the doorframe, dregs of wine dripping down the pale stone. His friends burst into fits of laughter.

The innkeeper appeared in the doorway, face black as thunder. “You son of a sow!”

The young man clasped his hand proudly to his chest. “And the finest sow in all Thagaste she is too! Unlike yours!”

When the innkeeper stormed towards them, cudgel in his hand, the young man’s friends tugged him, still jeering, and they reeled off down the street.

From the shadow of an insula doorway, Crowley watched them, grinning. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy his work, but it didn’t hurt when it took no effort at all and young Augustinus of house Aurelius was about to give him the easiest night of work imaginable.

He slipped out onto the silver-painted flagstones, winding his way after them as the four boys tottered onwards, singing filthy songs about some random woman’s breasts.

“What now?” The red-haired lad in the group demanded, leaning heavily into Augustinus’s side.

Augustinus threw his arms wide, his friend staggering. “More wine!”

“No more taverns,” the olive-skinned boy complained.

Augustinus’s dark face creased in annoyance. “Futuo!” He swung around. “My house has wine. We can get wine there.”

Crowley meandered after them. “Why limit it to your house?” he asked the young man as they wandered out of the town and towards the house of the Aurelius family. He felt the prickle of speculation in the lad, barely more than a boy. “It’s not like anyone could stop you, is it?”

“We could have grapes,” the fourth of their group said. He was a round-face boy, pink-cheeked. “Can we have grapes?”

The vineyards spread across the fields flanking the road, leaves and fruit shining in the moonlight. Augustinus considered them. “They’re not ripe yet.” He waved grandly. “But one day, we will make the best wine with them.”

“Fah.” The red-head snorted. “Not wine yet.”

Crowley glanced around, then chuckled to himself. Sometimes, the classic temptations were the best. “What about that?” He nudged Augustinus’s attention to the wall on the other side of the road. A tree was visible over the lip of the wall. “Looks ripe to me.”

The young man turned, looking up.

The leaves rustled in the warm evening breeze, whispering around the plump swells of fruit that hung heavily on the branches. It wasn’t quite the lush red of the apples of Eden, but you worked with whatever material you had and right now, Crowley had pears.

“Bet they’d hate if you took them.” He coiled around the boy, his voice low and enticing. “Can you imagine the look on his face? And if you’re sneaky, he’ll never know it was you.”

Augustinus’s dark eyes glittered. “We could have pears, Marcus.”

The round-faced boy squinted at him. “From a vineyard?”

Augustinus answered by veering over towards the wall. “Pears,” he replied, waving upwards.

The trio exchanged hazy, drink-addled looks. “But… but that’s not your house,” Rufus said, swaying gently.

“So?” Crowley prompted with a serpent smile. “Pompous old man. Why should he tell you what to do?” He leaned a hair’s breadth closer. “Wouldn’t it be fun?”

“It’s probably bad,” Marcus added, though he was staring wistfully up at the pears.

“So? I think we should have pears!” Augustinus laughed, groping for the cracks between the rocks of the wall, hauling himself unsteadily upwards. His sandaled feet skittered on the stone and two of his friends hurried forward, boosting him up, encouraged by his boldness.

It wasn’t the highest wall in the world, but for a sixteen year old several jugs into his cups, it probably felt like scaling Everest. Crowley watched as he finally flopped, hanging like a folded cloth, over the top of the wall, his legs dangling down.

“Can you get them?” Rufus demanded in what he must have assumed was a whisper.

“Ngh.” Augustinus’s legs kicked feebly and there was the wet sound of someone being sick on the far side of the wall.

“Eugh! Augustinus!”

“Missed the pears!” The boy’s voice floated back, sounding considerably damper. It took him a few more minutes and some kicking and flailing to haul himself up onto the wall. He swung one leg over and sat, swaying in the moonlight.

“Where are the pears?” Marcus demanded petulantly. “I want one!”

Augustinus peered down at his friend, then reached out and grabbed a pear, tugging it off the branch. He considered it solemnly, then twisted on the wall and lobbed it straight at Marcus’s head, with surprisingly good aim for someone who was almost cross-eyed with drink.

“Ow!”

“You wanted it!” Augustinus crowed. He leaned down, offering his hand to Rufus. “Come on. There are too many for me to get on my own.”

His friend reached up and grabbed his wrist, scrambling up the wall to join him. “How many are we taking?”

Augustinus grinned, a flash of brilliant white in his dark face. “All of them.”

Crowley chuckled, leaning back to watch as one little temptation blossomed, turning four rude young men into thieves and vandals.

 __________________________________

 It was a lovely night, but one wouldn’t have thought so by the state of the poor woman, kneeling before the makeshift altar.

The beads of her rosary rattled through her fingers, her eyes closed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she recited her prayers, the beacon of her faith glowing fiercely. She was well-reputed already for her piety, but Heaven had far greater things in mind for her.

Aziraphale approached, reaching out to lay his hand lightly upon her head.

The blessing cast a divine glow around her and her prayers stuttered, almost as if she felt it. Her tears dried and a rapturous smile spread across her handsome dark-skinned face. Her name would be remembered, her piety and faith rewarded.

One day, eventually, she would be a Saint.

Aziraphale smiled, watching her, the bliss of the blessing washing away a little of her fear and grief. The seeds were there already. He had just offered them a little light to help them grow.

Silently, he withdrew from the house, slipping unseen by the other humans. Most of them were asleep, but there was a guard sitting at the door, a lamp beside him and a surly look on his face. Not keeping dangers out, Aziraphale realised, but waiting for someone.

Technically, he could have carried himself back to the centre of the town on a whim, but it really was a very lovely night. The stars speckled the sky, barely a cloud in sight to obscure them, and the air was warm and clear.

“No harm in walking a little,” he murmured, as he slipped through the gate and set off down the shining silver road that led back into Thagaste.

Around him, the landscape rolled in gentle slopes, the hillsides woven with vines. It was a shame it was too early in the season. The budding clusters of grapes were only small, but there was promise of a generous harvest. He scanned the broad expanse of the fields. A few weeks more, and if he happened to pass by in time to try them while bringing another blessing or–

Or Crowley?

Just a little way to the side of reality, the demon was sitting on a rock beside the road, sprawled back and gazing up at the sky.

“Coo-ee! Crowley!”

Crowley whipped around, momentary panic written on his face. He spotted Aziraphale and huffed with relief, a grin curling his lips. “Angel!” He sat up a little straighter on the rock. “What brings you all the way out here?”

Aziraphale waved a hand in the direction of the Aurelius house. “Just a blessing. You?”

“Not much.” Crowley shrugged expressively, rucking up his toga – it was awfully like the one he wore in Rome, which seemed very inconvenient so far out in the empire. Aziraphale had elected a simpler tunic, though he added a rather nice cape. It was very stylish, he thought.

“What do you mean not much?” he inquired.

The demon waved a hand dismissively. “You know. Temptation here, temptation there.” He flashed his widest grin. “Maybe I was just following you around to see what damage I could do when you were finished?”

Aziraphale gave him a mostly patient look. “Oh, really. You’re doing no such thing. I saw you stargazing.”

Crowley made a face at him. “S’not a crime.”

“Well, no.” The angel fiddled with his fingers. “Are you heading back into the–”

A stifled but very human grunt made him turn, puzzled.

As far as he could see, there was no one but him and Crowley.

“What do you suppose…” He looked back at the demon, who was staring up at the high wall behind him. Aziraphale followed his line of sight and spotted a pair of bony brown hands appear over the top of a wall on the opposite side of the road. The hands were followed by a black-haired, dark-eyed face and Aziraphale stared in dismay. Oh he knew that little one. Just as he’d visited Monica before, he had seen the boy too. “Oh, Crowley, you didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?” Crowley said, looking wounded. “Just because some daft human is climbing walls in the middle of the night doesn’t mean it’s anything to do with me.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to comment, but above them, the head and shoulders tipped over the top of the wall, then the young man gave an alarmed yelp as the brick he was leaning on gave way and he dropped – headfirst – towards the rocky ground.

Aziraphale’s hand moved before he could think, cushioning the impact and saving the boy from a nasty head injury. “Oh my dear!” He brushed by Crowley, bustling towards the boy. “Are you all right? That was quite a tumble.”

The young man rubbed his bruised head and squinted up at him. “OH HELLO GOOD MAN! IT IS VERY LATE FOR YOU TO BE ABOUT! I DID NOT EXPECT TO SEE YOU.”

Aziraphale blinked. Perhaps he hadn’t been fast enough. “There’s no need to shout, dear boy,” he said, gently helping the young man to his feet. He glanced anxiously at Crowley, who was muffling laughter in his hand. “It’s not funny, Crowley! He might have hurt himself!”

“He’s a teenager, angel,” Crowley choked out. “S’what they do. Bloody stupid, reckless things. Might have knocked some sense into him.”

The angel glowered at him. “You are such a terrible person.”

Young Augustinus swayed against his hands and Aziraphale recognised the scent of more than one kind of wine. No wonder his blessed mother was praying again, if he had been out and misbehaving. Honestly, sometimes it made you wonder if all the work was going to be worth it in the long run. Free will made no guarantees, even for one elected for divine influence. “Ah. A little too much to drink?”

Augustinus gave him the look of a young man very resolutely sure that he did not seem drunk. “I am quite well, thank you very much, good sir.” He bobbed his head. “Thank you for your concern. It is very… er… good.” He groped about in a pouch on his belt. “Let me give you a gift of thanks.”

“Oh, really, that’s not necess–”

Augustinus shoved a plump, ripe, golden-green pear in front of his nose. “A pear!” he declared, then beamed. “For you, my helpful friend.”

“How generous,” Crowley gasped out. He seemed to find the drunk boy unreasonably entertaining, even though the boy didn’t even seem to notice him.

It was quite a lovely pear as well, freshly picked from the look of it. “I oughtn’t.”

“You ought,” Augustinus insisted, pushing it into his hands. “For your journey home.” He flashed that luminous smile again. “And I will definitely be going home too and not falling off walls or taking anymore pears or anything.”

Aziraphale looked down at the pear in his hands, then back at the boy. “Well, if you’re sure. I do like pears.”

Augustinus nodded, then glanced up and flapped a hand urgently.

“What is–?” Aziraphale started to raise his head.

“Probably nothing,” Crowley wheezed, bracing a hand against the wall.

“Moth! Big one!” Augustinus insisted. “That’s all. Not anything.” He caught Aziraphale by the arm, steering him towards the road. “It’s very late, good sir. Have a safe journey.”  

“I think that’s a hint,” Crowley said, finally gathering himself enough to wander after them, though his mouth was still twitching. “Want some company back to the town?”

Aziraphale eyed the young man, who stared back at him earnestly, his hands clasped in front of him, the picture of drunken virtue. “Do you think he’ll be able to get home safely?” he asked the demon, beyond the human’s hearing.

“Yeah,” Crowley knocked the boy on the shoulder as he passed. “Hasn’t got far to go, has he? I don’t think he’ll be climbing any more walls, do you?”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale agreed. He gave the boy a smile. “Thank you for the pear, young man. It was very kind of you.”

Augustinus raised a hand in something halfway between a wave and a salute. “S’all good, sir. Very good.” He beamed, showing all his teeth. “Have a good night, sir.”

Crowley chuckled. “Come on, angel,” he said. “Let’s leave his lordship to stagger home.” He set off down the road and Aziraphale gave the boy one last careful look before turning and trotting after him, his pear held snugly in his hand.

“He seemed a very polite young man, didn’t he? I mean, aside from the inebriation.”

“Mm.” Crowley’s lips were twitching again. “He had his moments.”

“And we can hardly be the ones to criticise him, I suppose,” Aziraphale added.

After all, they certainly indulged themselves often enough. Speaking of which…

“You don’t happen to have a knife, do you, Crowley?”

The demon gave him a wary look. “Why?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I thought we could share the young man’s gift. If you would like?”

The expression on the demon’s face softened. “It’s not a very big pear, angel.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said firmly, “I didn’t even have a small pear until now, so even half of this is more than I had before, which means it’s only fair that we both get a share.”

The demon laughed. “You are such an angel sometimes,” he said, but he still produced a knife from somewhere on his person. “Go on then.”

And as they walked back to Thagaste in the moonlight, they shared the fruit between them.

#fic: crossing paths #good omens fic #good omens #crowley #aziraphale

[sheepsandcattle]

Chapter 5

When his parents split up, Curly wasn’t really at home for most of it - not as far as he can remember, at least. He doesn’t even remember crying over it at any point after that one time; the day they sat him down at the kitchen table to explain it all.

He remembers his dad crying though; remembers him smoking in the garden even though he’d never seen him do it before. Remembers spending some time with Brandon, probably to keep him away from the brutality of his old man packing up his things and leaving his home.

He can’t remember how long it was that he stayed with his best friend, but there were countless nights spent whispering under covers, giggling past bedtime and dozing off before they could even say ‘goodnight.’

He remembers forgetting about the things happening at home.

One night at Brandon’s house, Curly had found his mind drifting for the first and only time during his miniature-break down the road, to his parents and their home and the office that was his dad’s and “what will we do with it now? What will we put in there? Where will he go?”

“It’s quite fun, you know,” Brandon had said. “My dad’s house is better colours than mum’s.”

Curls had sighed. “My dad might get lonely.”

Brandon had sounded so sure - had frowned as he said, “no he won’t," like it shouldn’t have needed to be said at all.

“Why not?” He rubbed his eyes; far past their bedtime again, and the heat they’d trapped under the blanket was making him even sleepier.

Brandon shrugged. “Same reason I don’t get lonely,” he explained and placed a hand on Curly’s shoulder that made his friend seem more grown-up than he was a few seconds before.

Brandon smiled like he was too shy to say any more, but he didn’t need to. Curly wasn’t too shy (never was), leaning over to wrap him up in a hug.

***

A few months melt into one another. He’s not sure where a few of the weeks go. Maybe he was sleeping; his body and his brain becoming mutually exclusive for a while.

The ‘being more careful’ thing he promised to Dean isn’t going great due to unforeseen circumstances.

He doesn’t have his rubbish job anymore. Doesn’t like to think about it too much because it makes his head fog up and his jaw ache. That’s what happens when he gets stressed, he’s discovered. Smoking helps calm him.

His manager was kind enough to pay him a week’s notice when she fired him at the beginning of December, even after weeks of coming into work absolutely steaming after late nights, and leaving early when his highs just didn’t wear off right.

She’d said, “enjoy the holidays, Curly. You’ll be alright,” and hugged him goodbye.

He is alright as well. He’s making okay money and he’s brought his mum some bits for her kitchen for Christmas because she has a boyfriend now and he doesn’t love the orange and green theme she has right now.

Curly’s selling all sorts; drugs that even he hasn’t tried and some more that he’s tested for the sake of knowing what he’s talking about. Some he’s dabbled in more than he planned to.

Regardless, it’s all under control, all in the name of a good time and good money and, when Christmas does roll around, he spends it with his mother’s parents, almost perfectly sober with just a little pot in his system to take the edge off.

He applied for some jobs but he hasn’t heard off any of them. Yet. It’s been two weeks since he gave up.

His mum asks if he’s feeling okay when she catches him staring across the table at nothing in particular, but he’s always gotten overwhelmed at family dinners like this, so it’s easily excusable. His grandparents don’t seem to notice; they only used to see him two or three times a year when they’d visit England, so he’s not sure they even know what his natural state is.

He wonders if that’s just what happens when you don’t see a lot of someone, even if you trick yourself into thinking you’ve some kind of unwavering blood-bond with them. He wonders if his grandparents feel a little bit awkward around him just like he does with them, or if it’s different because they’re older and cherish him in a different way entirely.

He wonders if that’s what it will be like with Genie as she continues to grow up without him.

“Gosh, Elliot,” his grandma would say every time they’d meet again. “You’re so handsome” and, “you’re still growing!” He’ll never forget her face when he tried growing stubble just after high school and how she’d said, “oh stop! Stay young forever!”

Now he’s clean-shaven and his skin is as bad as it was when he was fourteen, and his grandmother doesn’t say that he’s handsome today, just that he looks older. He doesn’t feel very handsome; sleepy and achey. Looking older doesn’t feel as good as it used to. It feels like dry skin and shooting pains, cramping jaws and headaches.

He’s with his family though, and he’s happy nonetheless. They look happy too, so it’s all fine.

It’s all fine.

His mum’s buzzing because, thanks to Curls, she’s got a kettle again with a toaster to match and insisted that everyone had a brew after dinner, so his grandparents are in the lounge now, watching the telly with a cup of tea each. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, his mum gives him a haircut -shorter at the sides, neater on the top- whilst Curly chats to her new boyfriend about The Cure. It turns out Dom has great taste and is an all-round really nice guy.

He doesn’t feel so bad now for missing so many of his mum’s calls.

As he walks back into the lounge with his new haircut, his grandma says, “very handsome,” and he feels a bit less trodden down and a bit younger again.

***

And then January is slow and dull and he doesn’t get out of the house much really unless he’s dealing drugs or buying more fags.

He’s not sure when he got so caught up with Jules’ and Oscar’s shit. Not sure when this thing started where he trails behind them while they do deals of their own, or while they huddle in parks and fields and alleyways with dodgy people he doesn’t know to share a hit of whatever it is they fancy that night.

He gets sad sometimes. Lonely like he used to be. Heroin helps; makes everything in the world feel fine. Only in dire situations, though.

Still, January has him caught up in the half-there place. He forgets a lot. Jules gets frustrated because he’s always forgetting the daftest things he says when he’s high. He makes promises he can’t remember when he’s sober, but his roommate is kind - kind enough to let him off the hook for most of the things he owes him these days.

Drugs and money, that is. A few apologies here and there too, after nights cut short thanks to Curly’s weak stomach or empty skull or whatever else it is that demands he goes home immediately.

***

February.

What a blur it is. A girl tries to kiss him outside a club that he doesn’t manage to sneak into because he’s too young or too far gone or a combination of both. He feels shy and weird and says, “sorry love, I’m just a bit drunk,” because he feels too guilty to simply say ‘no.’

Fooled, the girl calls him a gentleman and gives him her number on a receipt but he loses it on the walk home - can’t even remember taking it out of his pocket. Can’t even remember walking home at all. Jules says he tried to smoke it which Curly thinks is fucking hilarious but doesn’t remember it and therefore decides he’s talking bollocks.

February. A Valentines party in his apartment.

Turns out ‘party’ means the usual five-man circle (together again) drinking and smoking and pretending they have an excuse to do it. They’re still laughing about the girl at the club last week, Oscar says, “maybe you’re gay,” but it’s only a joke. He remembers more laughing and drinking and having a good night until Jules offers him a line of coke for free, to sober him up a bit. Jeff says “don’t,” says “slow down,” says “take it as a sign to stop,” but he does anyway. It’s free. He doesn’t remember losing track and overdoing it.

He remembers waking up in Dean and Jeff’s apparent with sick on his top the next day.

Still February. His birthday.

Calling his dad in the morning is hard. Speaking to Genie and crying in his bedroom for some daft reason isn’t nice either. She’s forgot about a World War II project she was meant to do, is breaking her heart about it.

Spending a few hours on google and writing five-hundred words for her and figuring out how to send it in an email because the thought of her standing in front of her class with nowt to say kills him. She says there’s loads of spelling mistakes but she loves the bit about the Spitfires and he’s “the best brother in the world.”

Crying again when he gets off the phone because he’s a mard-arse apparently and he just misses her, alright?

He forgets to call Brandon - again.

He remembers going to a party and flirting with a boy called Robbie. Doesn’t realise he was flirting until he’s remembering later… Almost kissing him, feeling shy and weird, telling him, “I’m sorry love, I’m just a bit drunk,” because he feels guilty - again.

Robbie says “me too, I don’t mind,” but Curly does, so they don’t.

He remembers meeting Jules in the bathroom for another hit that night, hearing two men yelling in a cubicle of a club he cannot remember getting into, and then watching one of them storm out. The guy looks at Jules, dark brows pinched as he drags a hand through near-white hair and says, “the fuck are you looking at, red?” Then he rucks his denim jacket back over his shoulders and shoves past them on his way out.

He doesn’t remember taking the hit, blacking out.

He remembers waking up in Dean and Jeff’s apartment again with a black eye this time. They don’t wanna hang out with Jules anymore. He doesn’t ask why ‘cause he doesn’t wanna know.

The three of them spend the next day together and it finally all slows down.

They watch Trainspotting because Curly hasn’t seen it in ages and Jeff and Dean haven’t seen it at all. Curly remembers that day more than any other that month.

They just talk after the film - no more telly, no music, nothing. They just talk and talk about daft things they’ve all done and said. Silly stories and memories that Curly thinks are happy until he says them out loud and they all seem to make him feel sad.

“You miss England,” Jeff tells him like it’s something Curly really needs to know. He supposes he’s forgotten to acknowledge it recently.

“I miss my family,” he says. Brandon too - misses having a friendship that feels unconditional.

They get weed-high in the evening and all get ‘choose life’ tattoos that same night - Curly’s on his knee, Jeff’s on his shin and Dean’s on his bicep. Curly does Dean’s for him because he can’t get the angle right himself. He panics because it’s wonky but Dean says “it’s perfect.”

“Can I borrow it?” Curly asks, handing the tattoo gun back to his mate.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Jeff answers for Dean, who laughs and adds, “I’ll have to teach you first.”

Curls says, “mint,” because yeah, he supposes it sounds like a better plan than jabbing the needle in and hoping for the best.

Trainspotting is their favourite film now, even though Jeff and Dean struggle to understand the accents and think it’s an ‘inaccurate representation.’

Of Britain or addiction, Curly’s not sure. How would they know, anyway?

Jeff drives him home a little before midnight and Jules is passed out on the sofa with a bag of frozen peas on the ground beside him. His arm hangs over the edge of the couch and his knuckles are bruised but Curly doesn’t ask why because he doesn’t wanna know.

Oscar’s in the kitchen and he says “oh, you’re back,” and pours three mugs of coffee.

“Course I am,” Curly replies and they both hear Jules groan in the living room. His eyes dart towards the door and then back towards Oscar again and he whispers, “have we fallen out?”

Oscar chuckles, shakes his head. “It’s not you, man. Jules just gets like that. Don’t cry ‘bout it.”

He doesn’t know what he’s not crying over, but he nods anyway and, after that, nobody talks about whatever it is that happened the night before.

That evening he calls Brandon and they both (pretend not to) sulk over the phone. Brandon isn’t lonely - says he’s met a girl, and Curly is jealous but he’s happy for him. He doesn’t tell him how lonely it gets here, just tells him the best parts that make Brandon say, “mate, I’m so jealous, but I’m so happy for you,” but it doesn’t sound as sad when Brandon says it as it does when Curly thinks it.

He remembers saying he’s tried, but he can’t remember falling asleep.

#Reading Rules of Attraction honestly helped me understand my OWN writing style so much more wow #ch #ch5 #writing

[mentalmimosa]

something to offer

Prompt: You don’t get to say I didn’t warn you. Prompt from this generator.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, her teeth caught in her lip. It made her look impossibly young, impossibly fragile; not at all the person who’d made the first move, who'd invited him home, who’d caught his hands that night as they walked home from the movies and pulled him behind a streetlight and strung her fingers up and up through his hair.

“We don’t have to--I mean, you’re under no obligation to--”

She laughed, a startled bird of a sound, and opened her eyes, looked down to find his. “Do you always argue with people who want to have sex with you, Ben?”

His face ticked up towards red wine, a flush that singed the tips of his ears. “No, but that’s not what I’m doing. I’m trying to make sure that you’re, ah--that you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” She reached for his hand and uncurled from the bedclothes, from the scrabble of sheets the color of sky and drew it over her thigh, up and under the rucked splay of her skirt. “Do you need proof? Something empirical you feel more comfortable acting upon?”

She was teasing, he could feel that, but it still felt like a kindness, an acknowledgement of his nerves in a way that said: I get it. It's ok.

So when he answered, he tried to make his tone a tease, too. “You have something to offer?”

She pulled at his hand a little harder and his fingertips found silk, the edge of a soft, scalloped stretch, and then he was petting at heat, a sweet kind of damp, and when he swept his thumb across it, freed now from her grasp, she shuddered, gave him a startled sort of gasp. “How’s that?” she asked. “Is that answer is enough?”

He stroked her again, tracing the outline of her lips, easing down towards where she was open, where she might let him in if and when he tugged her panties down and just the thought of her spread like that--the way she’d feel against his face, hot and soft and demanding--made him close his eyes, made him groan.

She scratched a hand through his hair and murmured: “That’s what I thought.”

With his free hand, he rucked her skirt up to her hips. She gave a low, encouraging hum and he was conscious of her watching him touch her, watching his fingers move over her, rough skin over peachy pale silk. She was still pulling his hair and she was lifting herself up to meet him, her ass rising up to catch the pads of his fingers; to get him, he thought, right where she wanted him.

She knew what she wanted; it was something he’d always liked about her. From the moment she took over the evening shift from Hux, the acerbic Brit who talked to Ben like he was an idiot but treated the customers with charm and aplomb, he’d appreciated her forthrightness, her total lack of fear in asking questions, in challenging him, in telling him how she thought things should be. He’d never worried, leaving the shop with her in charge; she was smart and thoughtful and not afraid to speak her mind and even his crankiest customers--the book club ladies, the professors, the stay-at home dads--grew to like her, made a point of telling Ben just how much.

When he’d put her on days, there’d been a little riot; the afternoon and evening crowd wanted to keep her all to themselves, and some of them were still mad. But others made a point of coming in earlier, of trekking down from the college or the play park at lunchtime to spend time looking at the new arrivals--and to spend time with Rey.

And somehow, he’d found himself doing the same, spending more time that he needed to in the front, on the floor, instead of messing around with his inventory in the back. When it was quiet, he’d carry his laptop to the armchair near the register to work on special orders and to talk with her, if she wanted; if not, he’d try to judge what was wrong by the CDs she played, as if the cheery voice of Ray Charles or the sad bow of strings or the dip and slide of Daft Punk were the Rosetta Stone to her moods, to the slump in her shoulders or the uncertain sadness in her eyes.

But most days, they talked, and one day, they’d kissed, her mouth warm and sweet against his in the stockroom, tasting of Early Grey and cream, and now, he was on his knees by her bed, his head pitched against the inside of her thigh, his eyes locked on the swell of her cunt beneath the turn of her panties, on the path his fingers were running down and up and around.

She was leaned back on her elbow and her face was tipped towards the ceiling, one hand still strung in his hair. There was a curl of rose at her throat that spread down her breasts, around her nipples that were still wet from his mouth, still curled up fat and tight. She’d panted while he licked her there, groaned when he’d given in and finally sucked, and rubbed herself against his thigh, insistent, her skirt inching up towards her hips.

He teased at her clit with his thumb, more urgent than before, harder, and she bucked, gave up a sharp, needy sound.

“Use your tongue,” she said. “Please, Ben, god. Right there. I need your tongue.”

He surged forward, helpless, and buried his face where his fingers had been; breathed in the smell of her, salty, and kissed her through the fabric, a thin, final skin between himself, he thought, and sanity; between need and his last, fading strands of self-control.

She yanked his hair, trying to get his mouth where she wanted it, and he shook his head--No--and caught her hips in his hands, pinned her fast to the bed.

She made a noise, greedy and loud, and he felt her pulse against his lips, felt the hungry clutch of her cunt.

“Yes,” he said, his voice muffled by the promise of her flesh. “Rey, yes. Fuck.”

He found her clit with the tip of his tongue, dug for it through silk, and he knew he’d found it when she fell back flat on the bed, her chest heaving. She cupped her breasts as he licked at her, rutting against his face as she pinched at her nipples and let out these punched-out little sounds that went straight to his cock where it twitched anxiously in his jeans.

He reached in and rubbed at her opening as he lapped her, mindless, his face shaking with a low, unending growl. There was something filthy about licking her like this, through her panties; it made him feel like they were fooling around, like they were teenagers, like they were misbehaving while somebody’s mom and dad were out of town. Not that he’d ever done that in high school; he’d been too buttoned-up then, too focused, too intent on shit that it had taken him 20 years to see didn’t matter: how smart he was, where he went to school, how many letters he could stick after his name. This is how he’d should’ve felt back then, what he should’ve been doing, but if he had, would he have ended up here, at the feet of the most interesting woman he’d ever met, one who didn’t take his crap and argued with him and was two shakes from coming just from this, the heat of his mouth, the hint of his tongue on her flesh.

She had a hand over her face now and she was shaking, her whole, lovely body trembling for him, because of him, and he couldn’t wait any longer, didn’t have to; he got his nails under her waistband and in one, solid stroke, pulled them up, pulled them off, and then her legs were over his shoulder and he was nuzzling her pussy, reveling in the smell of her, the heat.

“Put your fingers in me,” she said, tattered. “Oh, god, Ben. Please. Don’t stop. I’m gonna come.”

Inside, she was scalding and so fucking soft that he fed her another finger just to feel her flutter around him, just to feel her tense up and clench. He kissed her clit, gave a short, eager suck, and she closed around him hard, her back arching, the air filled with her high, needy cry.

He was hard, jesus, was he, and he wanted to be inside her so badly he could barely see and the awful part, the best one, is that he knew she would let him in right now, just like this: bare, with his pants around his ankles, with no pretense about it, not an ounce of finesse. It was stupid and reckless and he could barely breathe, he wanted her so fucking much.

“Ben,” she said, the word faded, her thighs shaking. “Ben, Ben. Fuck me. I want--oh, fuck, Ben, goddamn it, fuck.”

A hum snuck up his spine and spiked in his smile, the shaking curve of his tongue. "Yes, baby," he murmured. "Oh, yes."

#reylo #modern au #enthusiastic consent #bookstore au

[sincerelybluevase]

Prompt 29 Alternative Ending

So this fic is based on @cooldoyouhaveaflag​ /RipperShipper’s Prompts of Turnadette prompt 29. Go and check all of those prompts out if you haven’t already; they are super well written and just plain amazing! Anyway, in prompt 29, Shelagh has a bit of a nasty encounter, after which Patrick comforts her. I wondered what would have happened if it was one of the nuns who intervened, and thus this fic was born. Thanks to cooldoyouhaveaflag for letting me write fanfic of fanfic haha ;). Also I wanted to upload this earlier but then exams got in the way. At least it is here now!

TW: assault.

Shelagh had expected to be stared at, had expected whispers and rumours. After all, it wasn’t very day that a nun decided to renounce her vows and accepted a marriage proposal by the local GP. It was only natural that people talked.

She just hadn’t expected it to be quite so vicious.

Conversations fell quiet when she entered a room. Heads turned, eyes followed her. There were hushed comments, stifled snickers. Shelagh didn’t know if she found those hardest to bear, or the people who came up to her to spew their gall straight in her face.

I was naïve, she thought as a former patient complimented her on how slim her belly still was, and again when another woman wondered out loud whether the sisters of Nonnatus would allow her to come back to work if she wished to even though she’d seduced the doctor whilst still being a nun.

“I’m not pregnant,” she’d stammered, hating how her entire body flushed. She’d tried to smile. “Doctor Turner and I… nothing untoward happened, nothing of the sort.”

“Of course, dearie,” the former patient had said, and had given her a pitying smile and a small shake of the head.

Shelagh had gone into Patrick’s office and hugged him hard, trying not to cry. They knew the truth, and that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

“I’ll tell them to keep themselves to themselves,” Patrick had whispered, and had planted kiss after kiss in her hair.

The nurses and nuns shut those comments down whenever they could, but there were many gossipers, and plenty of places where they could talk uninterrupted.

But no matter how rude the things people said to her, Shelagh had always believed that people did not really bear her ill will. This was a point of view she was forced to rectify one evening. She had visited Patrick and Timothy, had stayed with them till dark had fallen. Patrick had offered to drive her back to her lodgings, but Shelagh had declined; it had been a long day, and he was on call. The walk was nothing she couldn’t handle, and she knew the streets of Poplar like the back of her hand.

She was halfway through a small alley when a man stepped into her way. She hadn’t seen him, and her heart made a painful little jump. He was tall, and broad-shouldered.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, and tried to go past him.

“Where ya going, sweetheart?” he asked. He leaned against the wall with one arm, effectively barring her way.

She blinked. “Please let me through,” she said, accent thick.  

“Oi, it’s the little sista!” the man said, and grinned. He missed a tooth.

He wouldn’t dare touch me. No one dares touch a nurse or nun,  she thought. But she wasn’t wearing a uniform now, or a habit. She looked just like an ordinary woman, and everybody knew that the streets of Poplar were not safe after dark for ordinary women.

Everyone but you. You forgot. How naïve…

Shelagh turned around, determined to walk away before the man could say another word, but one of his friends had stepped into the alley and blocked her exit. Her pulse sped up.

“Told ya it was a bloody shame some of them nuns hide under so much fabric,” the second man said. He laughed.

Shelagh resisted the urge to straighten her skirt, to touch her coat. What she wore was hardly risqué, but it did accentuate her figure more than the habit had ever done. What piece of clothing wouldn’t?

“We gotta thank that doctor of yours for the view,” the first man said.

“I have to go home,” she said, and tried to duck under the man’s arm. He gripped her arm with bruising force. She yelped, and stepped back.

“I wasn’t done talking, sweetheart,” he said, voice low. He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. She slapped his hand away, anger coiling in her belly.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she hissed.

“Oi, this one bites,” his friend said. He laughed a rumbling laugh that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

“What will ya do about it?” the first man said. The tip of his tongue protruded from the empty space where one of his front teeth had been knocked out. “The doctor had a taste of you. He’s a peoples’ man, isn’t he? Likes to give and share. I bet he wouldn’t mind too much if my friend and I here took you. Isn’t that how he got you out of that habit in the first place?” He brought his face close to hers. “Did he press you against a wall and ruck up yer skirts? Or did you undo his trousers first?”

Shelagh slapped him before she knew what she was doing. Her palm smarted, but the heat in her face burned more fiercely. She stared at her hand in horror.

“Why, yer little…” His friend yanked her head back by her hair. She screamed and gripped his hand, trying to unwind it. The first man fumbled with the buttons on her coat, tearing one off. It hit the cobbles with a metallic clank.

I’ll have to sew that on again.

His rough hand groped her through her jumper The cold autumn air kissed her throat, kissed her belly through her slip as he pulled up her jumper and the blouse underneath. “No!” Shelagh hissed, and gave him a swift kick against the shins.

“You little slut!” he groaned and stepped back. Shelagh rammed her elbow in her assailant’s stomach. His hand startled open, letting go of her hair. She whipped around and scratched his face. He roared and groped for her blindly. She stepped back, ducked under the other man’s arm, and ran.

They came after her almost immediately, their heavy boots thundering on the slick cobbles. Shelagh shot out of the alley, almost knocking someone from their bike.

“What the…?” the woman said.

Shelagh blinked in surprise. It was Sister Evangelina.

The two men stumbled out of the alley, their faces contorted masks of fury. They stopped dead in their tracks as they took in the angry nun with the red nose on her bike. “Sista,” one said, and took off his cap.

“What’s going on here?” Sister Evangelina asked, her little eyes shooting from the man with the bleeding face to Shelagh who was clutching her coat closed. The wind ruffled her hair. There was nothing left of her neat French twist.

“Nuthink much,” the man with the bruised shin said.

“Nothing?” Sister Evangelina stepped from her bike, threw it against a brick wall, and advanced with her hands planted on her hips. “Nothing?”

The men stepped back, looked at each other, nodded, and ran.

“I’ll remember your faces!” Sister Evangelina hollered after them.

Shelagh laughed at that. The sound was throaty and empty and strange. She leaned against the wall and pressed a hand against her mouth to still the stound, but she couldn’t stop. Her body shook, her hands trembled. She inhaled fast between the bouts of laughter, then laughed again till her lungs were quite empty.

Sister Evangelina pulled her into a bone-crushing hug, and still Shelagh could not stop.

“Let it all out,” Sister Evangelina said, rubbing rough circles between her shoulder blades. “I always thought you’d be more of a crier than a laugher, but by all means do laugh.”

Eventually the hoarse sound petered out. Shelagh wiped her eyes. She felt empty inside. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Sorry? Those men will be sorry once I find them and am done with them. I’ll use a cheese slicer on their testicles.”

“You can’t say that, Sister,” Shelagh whispered, but she felt only mildly shocked.

“You’re not hurt, are you?”

Shelagh shook her head. Her scalp burned and she was probably bruised, but nothing too serious.

“Can you walk?” Sister Evangelina asked.

“I think so, yes. I’m not an invalid,” Shelagh answered. I was only assaulted.

“Let me take you to your lodgings and leave you in the capable hands of Mrs Smith. She’s a fine landlady if ever I knew one.”

“Isn’t there a patient you need to tend to?”

“Mrs Redgrave has delivered a healthy baby boy. I was on my way back to Nonnatus.” They started walking. Shelagh shivered in her coat. Her hair whispered around her face.

“Do I need to use my cheese slicer on Doctor Turner, too?” Sister Evangelina suddenly asked.

“What on Earth for?” Shelagh asked.

“What man lets his fiancée walk around alone in the dark in Poplar?”

“I insisted he’d let me go home by myself, Sister. He was on call. And I didn’t think… I’ve always been protected by my habit. Now I’m suddenly quite naked and vulnerable, and I’m not yet used to it.”

“Then why don’t you let your former sisters protect you?”

“How could I? Your association with me would just smear Nonnatus’ name. People…” She paused to wipe away a tear. “People say horrible things about me and Doctor Turner. It can’t do Nonnatus any good.”

“Don’t you think that you add fuel to those rumours if you avoid us? Makes people think there’s a reason we don’t want to see you.”

“Well, don’t you?” Shelagh whispered. “I’ve… abandoned you. I’ve left you because there is someone I love more.”

Sister Evangelina snorted. “Don’t be daft. I knew you weren’t content with us. You were too young when you became a nun. I was against it from the start. I knew something like this would eventually happen. I’m just glad you got your head turned by a good man.”

“He’s a good man, isn’t he?” Shelagh agreed, and smiled.

“Hmpf,” Sister Evangelina said, suddenly looking vexed, as if Shelagh had made her say something she’d rather kept inside.

“Here we are,” Shelagh said. She turned around to face Sister Evangelina. “Will you be off to Nonnatus now? I’d hate to keep you. Mrs Smith will make me a cup of tea, I’m sure of it…”

Sister Evangelina took Shelagh’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “I know I’m leaving you in capable hands. Just… come and visit us at Nonnatus again. We miss you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Sister.” Shelagh drew a little circle with her thumb on the back of Sister Evangelina’s weathered hand.

“Silly girl,” Sister Evangelina said, but her voice was kind. She let go of Shelagh’s hand. “I need to go.”

“Thank you for everything, Sister. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t been there.”

Sister Evangelina shuddered as she mounted her bike. “Best not think about that, and thank Him upstairs for sending me to you in time.”

“I will. I haven’t lost my faith.”

“Good.” Sister Evangelina started pedalling. “Do phone that Doctor of yours and tell him I’ll come after him with a cheese cutter if he ever lets you walk home alone again though!” Sister Evangelina called over her shoulder.

“I’ll rephrase it for you!” Shelagh said, but smiled.

She was going to be all right.

After all, she had the best family someone could wish for: Patrick, Timothy, and the whole of Nonnatus.

#call the midwife fanfic #call the midwife #turnadette #shelagh mannion #sister evangelina