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daydreamtofiction · 5 months

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Thou Shalt Not Covet // 9: Sin

Contents | Part 8 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: The night in the rectory continues.

Word Count: 3.5K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, religious imagery, explicit sexual content. Smut: oral sex (receiving), touching/groping, penetrative sex/unprotected sex. Readers must be 18+

A/N: Apologies for the extremely long wait for this chapter. So much has happened since the last upload that has prevented me from being able to sit down and write. Consequentially, this chapter isn't where I want it to be in terms of quality & length, but not posting is driving me crazy so I've decided to just… post it. I really hope you guys like it (and aren't too mad at me for making you wait so long).

Rain fell over the rectory, thrumming on glass and stone like the applause of a crowd. Your head rested on Father Benedict's chest, face turned towards the window as you watched the droplets pattering against the panes, the sky beyond so black they could be mistaken for stars. There was a flash of light, followed soon after by a deep rumble of thunder. But it was soothing; how you were just out of reach, safe and tucked away while the world outside fell victim to a storm.

You hadn't moved from his lap in what felt like forever, thighs still straddling him as you rested against his body, listening to his breath rise and fall as he stroked the hair by your temple with his thumb. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck, meandering towards the hollow at the base of his throat. You touched it with the tip of your finger, drawing the rest of its path with a featherlight touch.

"Does anyone know you're here?" he asked quietly.

You shook your head. "Don't worry, your secret's safe."

He exhaled a slight laugh through his nose, the air tickling the top of your head. "That's not what I meant."

You raised your chin to look up at him.

"I just wanted to know how long we have," he said, his voice pensive, almost mournful in its low, dulcet tone.

You returned your gaze to the window, snuggling your head back into his chest. "As long as you want."

The room fell back into a comfortable silence, tempered by the sound of the rain lashing against the building, another clatter of thunder.

"You're cold," he said, before pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over your naked body.

You relaxed beneath the warmth of the soft wool, hands slipping into his open shirt to hug him closer.

"Are you tired?" he asked.

"No. Just comfy."

"Oh.” He brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face. “Good.”

"Are you tired?" you asked.

"No."

He was soft beneath you, content and satiated, the feeling of skin on skin no longer a blaze but a comfortable warmth. You raised your head slightly and placed a kiss on his neck, listening as the salty skin vibrated with a gentle sigh, the afterglow of your connection threatening to catch light again.

You squirmed slightly, the evidence of him between your legs growing harder to ignore. He'd came inside you - recklessly, eagerly - as though he hadn't wanted to part from you until he'd given every last piece of himself completely. You usually hated the feeling that followed; the slick coating your centre and running down your inner thighs, the overwhelming need to wash it all away the second it was over. It still bothered you, but the idea of leaving his embrace a moment too soon had bothered you even more.

"Do you mind if I run to the bathroom?" you finally asked.

He shifted his arms without a word, allowing you to rise to your feet.

The blanket fell as you stood up, revealing your body to him as you bent down to the clothes on the floor. He watched you intensely from his seat on the couch, eyes trailing hungrily over the curve of your breasts, the dips in your waist. You pulled the jumper back on and looked down at him with a slight smirk, unable to disguise the pride that came with feeling so wanted, so irresistible.

You sat on the toilet long after you'd finished peeing, elbows resting on your thighs as you listened to the storm whirring beyond the small window. The aftermath of your coition had left you in a stupor, unable to think clearly but too content to care; every movement slow and sedated, eyelids heavy as you picked out patterns in the marbled tiles on the wall.

When you finally stood up, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror. Your appearance perfectly portrayed how you felt; spent, satisfied, mussed hair and swollen, kissed lips. You ran the tap and cleaned yourself up, washing away the last traces of him before swilling your mouth with water and digging out the mascara gathered in the corners of your eyes.

Your legs felt weak and unsteady as you moved; thigh muscles aching, orgasm still echoing in your bones as you turned off the bathroom light and made your way onto the landing. You stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, bare feet sinking into the carpet, your weight making the floorboards creak beneath the underlay.

You could hear Father Benedict downstairs, footsteps shuffling and doors closing, a gentle cough to clear his throat. You thought about calling down to him, but the silence felt too sacred to break. So instead you wandered into his bedroom, turning on a small lamp in the corner that barely illuminated the space.

The bedroom was starker than the rest of the house; no garish wallpapers or dated furnishings, no clutter or overflowing shelves. Just a bed, side table and wardrobe, a set of dark green chequered curtains framing another flash of lightning through the window.

Before long, you found yourself standing at the foot of the bed, staring up at a crucifix hanging on the wall above the headboard. A small figure of Christ hung from the wooden cross, its arms splayed, head stooped solemnly as it gazed down at the sheets below. You glared up at it with your arms folded in defiance, like an imp trespassing on holy ground; half-dressed, indecent, and entirely unwelcome.

The door opened behind you soon after. You turned your head slightly, listening as Father Benedict approached. You felt him before you saw him, a finger trailing delicately from the bottom of your back to the space between your shoulder blades, a breath on your neck followed by a soft kiss. A shiver rolled through you, reigniting the tired fervour deep in your stomach.

"I wasn't snooping," you said quietly.

"I know," he replied, bringing his lips to the side of your jaw.

You closed your eyes as his kisses moved to your ear. "What were you doing downstairs?" you asked.

"Locking up."

"Oh. I thought you'd be praying or something."

A soft laugh warmed your skin, his hands sliding up your arms. "I'm afraid I'm past that now," he said.

You inhaled a deep, slow breath, a blend of guilt and relief swelling in your chest.

He reached for the hem of your jumper and began lifting it up your torso. You raised your arms, allowing him to strip it from you completely, his mouth returning to the curve between your neck and shoulder as it fell to the ground. You tipped your head back against his chest, letting his hands roam slowly over your body. His fingers pinched at your nipples, palms kneading the rounds of your breasts.

You turned your head as he trailed kisses to your cheek. "Again?" you whispered teasingly, leaning back against his returning erection.

"Well if I'm going to hell I might as well make it worth it." He placed a finger under your chin, raising your lips to his.

You kissed him deeply, trembling as his nails grazed softly over your stomach. "You don't really think you're going to hell, do you?" you asked.

"Honestly? I’m not sure I believe in hell."

You breathed out a laugh. "What about heaven?"

"I believe in heaven."

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back again, losing yourself in the feeling of his hands on you. "I wish I believed there was something more than all of this."

He slipped a hand between your legs, sliding a finger through your folds and making contact with your clit. "This is pretty heavenly as it is, don't you think?"

A heavy breath fell from your parted lips. You rolled your hips instinctively, welcoming the warm ripple of pleasure spilling through your core. You raised an arm and cupped the back of his head, the other hand gripping his wrist as he moved his finger back and forth along the seam of your pussy, each firm stroke over the sensitive bud putting the lightning outside to shame.

"Divine," you sighed.

He dipped the finger inside you, just once, coating himself in your returning arousal and spreading it over your centre in an agonisingly slow glide. The penetration was shallow, so brief it left you aching for more, knees buckling as you leaned back against him.

A hum rattled in his throat, the sound resonating in your bones, making them buzz with pleasure. He continued to caress the heat between your legs, taking his time to learn the spots that made your muscles tense, the right pressure to draw sounds from the depths of your soul.

You'd always wondered what lay beneath the chaste exterior. For months you sat at the back of the chapel during his services, musing over a moment just like this one; would he be hesitant, gentle, tender? Or was there an animal caged within him, just waiting for a prey to let it free?

"I want to taste you," he whispered, his deep, rich voice pouring directly into your ear.

God, you can devour me, you thought. Pick me clean, swallow me whole.

"You can do whatever you want with me," you replied.

And it was true. Tonight, you belonged to him - every inch of flesh, every corner of your mind - all his. There was no world beyond the walls of this room, no sensation that wasn't fostered by his touch.

The cool air of the bedroom brushed over your bare skin as he released you from his hold. You climbed onto the bed and turned around, hugging your knees tight to your chest as you watched him begin to undress.

You'd seen him in parts; the sliver of porcelain beneath his open shirt, the long fingers and prominent veins of his hands. You'd felt the size of him as he slid inside you, kissed the exposed skin near his unbuttoned collar. But you'd never seen all of him at once. Until now.

He stripped away the shirt and bent down to take off his shoes and socks. You tipped your head slightly, eyeing the slender muscles in his shoulders, how they rippled and stretched as he moved his arms, the lightly freckled skin taut over every tendon and sinew.

He stood up straight and brushed the hair out of his face, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths; hard then soft, broad then lean. His stomach tensed and released as he moved, shadows forming in the ridges of his ribs, soft rolls and pockets of muscle taking shape in the thick trunk of his torso. You'd never met anyone so manly yet delicate before; a body capable of ruining you and indulging you, somehow all at once.

Your gaze followed his hands to the waistband of his trousers. He worked slowly, unhurriedly, watching you watch him as he unbuttoned his fly, as though the mere sight of you was enough to satisfy him. When you absentmindedly licked your lips, a subtle smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Your cheeks warmed when you realised what you'd done, chin dropping to rest on your knees as your eyes fell to the bed.

But the sound of his trousers hitting the floor made you look back up at him, taking him in for the first time in his raw, unclad state. His cock stood proud and firm, rising above the pillars of his thighs with an impressive vigour - you'd gathered from the feel of him that he was blessed, but actually seeing it unrestrained in all its glory made your mouth turn embarrassingly dry.

He kicked away the heap of clothes at his feet and stepped towards you. The bed frame creaked as he pressed his knee to the mattress, making your heart thud in anticipation. Your skin pricked as his hands made contact with you, fingers sliding between your thighs to gently prise them open. You parted them willingly, letting yourself fall back as he crawled up your body, nestling himself between your legs.

His face hovered above yours for a moment, gaze darting between eyes and lips. You tilted your chin, catching his mouth in a kiss - something that already felt so familiar, like the taste of him belonged on your tongue, the pressure of his lips a comforting and harmonious sensation.

The heat of his breath spread through you like a deluge, flooding you from the inside out with molten lust. He pressed himself against you, returning the kiss with equal fervour, his rigid length pinned between you. When he tore himself away, it felt too soon, leaving you needy and aching beneath him, arching your head forward to watch as he journeyed leisurely down your body.

You shivered as he pecked and nipped a trail from chest to inner thigh, his gaze meeting yours as he positioned himself near the bottom of the bed, searing blue eyes staring up at you hungrily. He ran his hands over the peaks and valleys of your body, worshipping it, savouring you like a bounty sent to him by God himself.

"You are... so beautiful," he whispered.

You inhaled a quiet gasp as he took hold of your thighs, parting them wider with an eager yet gentle shove. His touch was warm, the span of his fingers so large it was as if they were everywhere at once.

"You think so?" you replied, your voice barely making a sound.

He shook his head and breathed out a slight laugh, like he couldn't believe you even had to ask.

Your stomach tensed in anticipation as he lowered his head, closing the distance between his face and the most intimate part of you. The sight of him there was so incongruous to the man you'd come to know; the soft spoken, virtuous man, the man who would apologise for letting a swear word slip, who would trip over his sermons if you held his gaze for too long. But there was no uncertainty here, no nervousness or saintly restraint.

He didn't hesitate, dragging his tongue over you and pressing his mouth to your pussy. He sucked gently on your clit, kissing and licking with a pressure that ignited all ten thousand nerves in perfect unison, making them dance inside their delicate bundle.

You'd never been so grateful for a storm; the thrashing of rain and rumbles of thunder disguising the moan that escaped you. You let your head fall back against the mattress, eyelids so heavy you couldn’t keep them open, as if every speck of energy was being drawn to the sensation between your legs.

He groaned as he worked his mouth over you, the vibration of his voice making you squirm. There was something so glorious in the sound, like he was revelling in it, enjoying it even more than you. But with that, your mind began to wander; questioning how many times he'd done this, how many women's pleasure he'd feasted on before yours. You hated imagining someone else in your place, another temptation too delicious to resist. But the ease with which he found the spots that made you arch and shiver, the ministrations that pulled the loudest moans to the surface, made it clear this wasn't his first time.

You ran a hand through his hair, the other reaching up to grip the railing of the headboard. "God," you whispered.

He responded with a gentle groan, fingers wrapping around your thighs to hold you in place.

You'd always wondered why people called out to deities in the height of passion, why the lord's name would come as easy as a sigh, even to the most ardent nonbelievers. Maybe it was gratitude. Or perhaps spite.

You opened your eyes to find the cross above the bed looming over you like an admonition, watching in silent judgement as you squirmed and groaned beneath it, pushing yourself harder against Father Benedict's mouth with complete abandon. You'd never thought yourself a spiteful person before, but there was something undeniably wicked in all of this, something so wrong, so devilishly sinful that made it all the more delicious.

He moved his tongue with serpentine precision; dipping and dragging, flicking and swirling, every lap working to unravel another piece of you until you were ready to fall apart. You tightened your fist in his hair, hips rising off the bed to keep his mouth exactly where you needed it, like you wouldn't be satisfied until he'd consumed you completely.

Your mouth fell open as you came, partly in bliss; the orgasm flooding your core and washing over you with a glorious warmth until your limbs turned flimsy and weak. But mostly, it was shock; shock that you’d actually reached climax like this, with nothing but a mouth and a tongue and barely five minutes. You thought you couldn’t, that you were just one of those women. But here you were, and it turned out that all you’d ever needed was one of those men. This man.

"Where did you learn to do that?" you asked breathlessly, stroking his hair away from his eyes.

He glanced up at you beneath a heavy brow, a hint of amusement in the shadows of his face. "Somewhere between uni and seminary school."

You giggled at the nonchalance of his reply as he placed a kiss on your inner thigh, crawling up to meet you and bringing you face to face once more. You hummed contently as he let his full weight rest on top of you; elbows unlocking, chest pressing flush against yours. You brought your hands up to weave into his hair, holding it in fistfuls, scared he'd somehow vanish if you loosened your grip.

His kiss tasted of you; lips slick with the proof of your rapture, tongue sweeping and swirling with the same skill and attention he'd given your pussy. You wondered how you were ever supposed to watch him talk or preach or guide his congregation in prayer ever again without picturing his face buried between your thighs.

But then again, you weren't sure you’d be invited back after this.

“I wish I’d known you then,” you whispered.

“When?”

“Back then, before you were… this.”

He smiled, speaking softly against your lips. “Are you saying I seem out of practice?”

You exhaled a laugh, the sound more akin to a sigh as it left you. “No. I just… I wonder what this would be like if it didn’t all feel so… sinful.”

He paused for a moment, looking into your eyes as another stroke of lightning illuminated the room.

“Trust me, Ellis,” he said, raising an arm to grip the headboard above you. “The things I want to do to you… They’d have been just as sinful back then as they are now.”

You suddenly felt so small beneath him, so wide-eyed and virginal within the confines of his strong, dominant frame; the span of his arms, the weight of his body on yours, the intensity of his stare. And now those words, the testimonies of lust pouring out of him in a voice as rich as molten chocolate.

You let your hands slowly glide down the sides of his torso, fingers tickling, nails grazing ever so slightly. His skin pricked with goosebumps, the tension in his body tangible beneath your touch. You wanted to make him feel good, watch him melt with pleasure and revel in the fact that it came from you. You wanted to make him thankful for storms, to let out moans that rivalled thunder, to burn hotter than lightning.

“And here’s me thinking it was me who led you astray,” you whispered, your breath turning heavy as it melded with his. “Turns out you were already there.”

A quiet growl rumbled in the base of his throat, his eyes darkening as his knuckles blanched around the headboard. He slid his other hand down between you, gripping his cock and aligning it with your entrance, his impatience bubbling in the air between you. You shivered as the tip of his length brushed over your clit; the slightest touch like an echo of the pleasure he’d already given you.

He pushed into you with a groan, and your body welcomed him with ease; moulding to his shape, his size, hugging every ridge and curve until there was nothing left of him to give. You exhaled a heavy breath, as though emptying your lungs would somehow give him more space to fill, more parts of you to pervade.

But no amount of him would ever be enough. You were certain of that now; with every hot breath, every growl, every press of his fingertips and ram of his hips, it became clearer that your need for him would never be satiated. You were ruined.

You quite liked it.

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @hiddendiary @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch @paola-carter @veryladyqueen @gordorio @shjl15 @thedaredevilsgirl @howardtonypotts @ceccille @wllsfer @thelostsmiles @vi0letdaze @stanfanfiction @king-kongbebe-blog @sof38 @doctorscarletwitch @rmoonstoner @intrappolatatrairicordi

*If you would like to be tagged in the next part, please comment below, or feel free to add yourself to the tag list here

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kittenintheden · 3 months

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imagine there’s a sudden downpour and everyone’s rushing to their tents except Astarion who’s looking majestic while wet and without any effort striking poses, and Tav’s thinking a cat is supposed to dislike water…but still starts sketching him while peeking from her tent

oh I can imagine. its one of those sunshowers where it happens during the day and you can still see the patchy sunshine despite the downpour, which is something Astarion literally hasn't had a chance to experience as long as he can reasonably remember. it's a warm-weather shower, unexpected, so it kicks up some latent dust and mist at first, giving the whole campground that hazy, mystical feel. it prisms and sparks occasional rainbows off the water.

and Astarion's standing out there, maybe walking down the the riverbed near the water, barefoot and lifting his head to the rain, smiling and enjoying the warmth and the scattered light. his loose camp shirt clings to his skin and, for the first time since Tav's met him, he's letting his hair look less than perfect. not only that, but it's going flat against his head with the weight of the rain, giving it a darker slivery look, with his curls showing loose at the ends, dripping.

it's like he's forgotten the rest of them exist. in his own world, entirely, no concern for appearances. his posture is less... performative. it still has that smooth exuberant quality, the movements lithe, his hands in constant motion to feel the drops on his palms. but it's different, somehow, than the careful, exacting way he manipulates his body when he speaks to Tav.

Tav watches with a half-smile, amused and interested in this side of their companion. they pull out a sketchbook and make quick work of the scene, using what little colored charcoal they've been able to rustle up for highlights and pops of color. a willowed elven man, beautiful and pensive, kissing the rain with a river sparkling beyond.

when they snap their book shut, they call out, "Astarion, you'll catch ill. Why don't you get inside?"

"I'm fine just as I am, dear," he calls back. "Don't you worry."

#astarion #astarion bg3 #kitten rambles #ask box #i love asks thank you

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mikkaeus · 10 months

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house md fic recs — short fics (<10k). hilson + rarepairs

Other house rec lists: long fics | episode tags | postcanon | infidelity trope (all of these are mutually exclusive apart from the infidelity one)

highly recommend not skipping out on the non-hilson fics!! scroll to the end for a list of some really great ones. No huddy though because I'm not the biggest fan.

house/wilson and gen fic

I decided to just lump the gen fic together with the slash because really most of them can be read as slash with a G rating. Before we get into the fics, here are some notable authors that have written several house fics. Not all their fics are going to be listed individually, but if I have the author there I've read all or a lot of their stuff and enjoyed it, so I recommend going through their backlog.

otter: Some really excellent prose and great atmosphere. A little soft, a little pensive. And they nail the characterisation and dialogue.

ignaz: im sure everyone has read ignaz's longfic (a modest proposal and its sequel — the one where house and wilson get married so wilson cant testify against house in the tritter arc) but absolutely check out all their other stuff — it's all quality.

bironic: I really enjoy the bit of edge in bironic's fics. It makes them so yummy.

bethfrish: What stands out about their fics is how they peer into all the pointy edges of Wilson and Julie's relationship, thus making them excellent and unique Wilson character studies. Great prose and dialogue that rivals the show's.

Transformatron: fics that are transcendent and porny, all featuring a d/s undertone or theme (wilson as the dom)

astolat: if u dont know astolat idk what to say to u. just go read their fics.

blackmare (livejournal / ao3 pseud 1 / ao3 pseud 2 / lj pseud third_owl for slash fics i think) Does really great short fics (mostly gen) that slot into episodes. Like meta but in fic form. All of them are worth a read. Some of their fics are on ao3 but a lot aren't (like nearly all the episodic ones).

Namaste (livejournal / ff.net): Some short fics, some much longer ones. Mostly gen focussing on H&W friendship, with some fics on canon pairings. Interesting character studies and exceptionally discerning prose that is a pleasure to read.

In order of length. *faves, ***underrated faves

***Touch by zulu (<1k) (2007) The number of ways House could embarrass him with touches, Wilson thinks, is practically endless.

Silent Sigh by thedeadparrot (<1k) (2009) Wilson, autumn, melancholy, and House. Second person.

Heartbeats by thedeadparrot (<1k) (2009) Three moments in which House and Wilson are almost kind of functional.

No Pain by bironic (<1k) (2008) House finds a permanent solution to his pain problem and convinces Wilson to give him what he needs. Vampire fic! Frottage! hell yeah.

Also check out the sequel: No Mercy by daasgrrl (3k)

***The Game of Wilson: Six Cards in a Five Card Game by paradisecity (1k) (2006) If you're going to play a game like moving in together, decide upon three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time. Fun and snappy. Great dialogue.

*we're getting good at this by ad astra dean (1k) Wilson had a migraine. Established relationship. Soft and sweet and realistic esp after 8.19. fuck. Premium hurt/comfort.

**********three more stories by besselfcn (1k) The first time it happens is (New Orleans, 1991 | Albany, 2009 | Augusta, 2012) and they are (drunk | sober | out of time). This fic emotionally obliterated me. I’m obsessed with the format like it’s prose halfway to poetry, so creative and unique and well-executed??? I cried so much. I am UNWELL and immeasurably fucked up about them put me in my grave. (Yeah I said these lists were mutually exclusive but this fic is the exception bc idc)

The Awakening of Wils-Ankh-Amun, Royal Concubine by blackmare, Nightdog_barks, pwcorgigirl (1k) It was a rather unusual 'morning after.' This is hilarious. Reads like a classic prank episode. They're so dumb together I love them.

The One Where House Has Always Been a Woman by thedeadparrot (1k) (2009) Despite the hospital gossip, House is not, in fact, a man-hating lesbian. Genderswapped House but not Wilson.

Gray Morning by starlingthefool (1k) All he remembers is that the transition between a stupid joke and the meeting of mouths was almost seamless. Christmas fic that takes place one year after "Merry Little Christmas" (3.10).

Loser Day Blues by blackmare, Nightdog_Barks (1k) February fourteenth is just another day, and another evening in which Wilson winds up at House’s, although — this time — not for the usual reasons.

*indefinable by PaintedVanilla (1k) House can hear Wilson getting ready for bed; he can hear him brushing his teeth, undressing, being unusually quiet. Normally there’s a humming; a breathless energy that House won’t admit to loving about him. He doesn’t hear it tonight. It’s dead silent.

criteria by PaintedVanilla (2k) “I don’t think they know that we’re married.”

***We Live Together in a Photograph of Time by ignaz (2k) Wilson's hair curls when they're fucking. God I'm devastated. The ✨atmosphere✨. This is so in character. And can we talk about the banger title and summary??? I was gnawing my arm before I even opened the fic. Set in s4.

***Things To Do Before You Die by thedeadparrot (2k) In which Wilson turns thirty-eight and a half, thinks about kittens, and doesn't have a midlife crisis. But not necessarily in that order. Prank war with a twist. I’m so fond. Hits all the right cadences with the writing.

So Let Us Melt, and Make No Noise by ignaz (2k) (2007) "You kill patients all the time," House said. "You never stay at work until--" He peered at the clock. "--Four in the morning to make sure they're really dead."

***Curiosity by Namaste (2k) (2006) From Cameron's perspective. Fun character study of her and by extension House and the other two musketeers. Not shippy.

Welcomed Change by JammiesDodger (2k) A cute G-rated getting together fic.

Alone, Together by daasgrrl (2k) Finding new ways to be intimate.

*Keep Your Eyes Wide by deepimpact (2k) There is no specific amount of time passed, no big event, no one thing that Wilson can pin as the catalyst. Obsessed with this. Great atmosphere, excellent prose, and and everything feels authentic and in character. Set pre-season/s1.

***Carrion Eaters by ignaz House, in some indeterminate future or an alternate universe, from the perspective of a new hire. I really loved this story. It's sharp and sad, with great build up.

***Projection by bironic (2k) Remember Ali, that really pretty 17/18 year old clinic patient that was obsessed with House? This fic is Wilson's elaborate fantasy about fucking her, which is of course as much about House as it is her. Post 3.04.

***No Exchange of Payment by otter (2k) The gifts that House gives to Wilson. I adore this. It's about the little things. Otter has exceptional prose and always nails the characterisation, which makes their writing a real pleasure to read.

***All the Effects of Intoxication (3k) by otter This only happens when they're drunk. Just as yummy as that one-line description suggests. I love this a lot — the characterisation and dialogue are excellent and I think this scenario is very realistic for them.

Leave This Harbor for the Sea by otter (3k) House was never the kind of friend who'd help you move, even when he'd had two good legs, not to mention two good arms perfectly capable of lifting boxes. He'd always been the sort of friend who'd stop by while you were packing, make cutting remarks about the failures of your romantic relationships, and use all the half-filled boxes as an excuse to root through your things.

***the growing up, the falling down by riceonrye (3k for the series) Wilson is trying to buy a nice make-up present for his girlfriend, but there’s a guy in the shop with him brazenly shoplifting. Wilson, meet House. This is so good!!! I grinned like an idiot all the way through. It captures the throw-bottles-at-windows side of Wilson so well. A very cute AU of a different first meeting whilst still remaining true to the characters. Don't forget to read the sequel as well.

***never rains (but it pours) by Transformatron (3k) So... remember that episode where House can't pee? I present you some excellently written pisskink pwp. Nails the hilson dynamic, so even if piss isn't your thing, give it a go?

***Blind Spot by blackmare, Nightdog_Barks (3k) Wilson becomes blind after a head injury. genfic.

***Four Blocks South of Eden by bethfrish (3k) If you wanted paradise, you're a little off. I loved the tentative, slightly off-kilter feeling of this. Bang on characterisation, dialogue, and use of 2nd person POV (House). Set in s1 — Wilson's marriage is falling apart, and it leads to a night that could be the start of something new.

***Lie To Me by zulu (4k) It's terribly simple. No one ever dies, and everybody lives happily ever after. Exuberant ketamine summer House!!! Equal parts sexy and heartbreaking. Check out the sequel as well (1k).

Stumbling Towards Something Real by ignaz (4k) House and Wilson on holiday in Mexico. (A flagrant excuse for smut, basically.) I'm soft. In character and well-written.

Goes the Neighbourhood by Dee_Laundry (4k) One month into their permanent positions, the new fellows catch a case on the weekend and have to track House down.

***Easy by GoldStarGrl (4k) James Wilson is the easiest person in his dorm. At McGill. In all of eastern Canada, maybe. A fleshed-out version of their first meeting, as well as an insightful character study of Wilson. Slots nicely into canon, whether you believe in the "wilson has cheated on every wife with house" version or the "they fucked when they first met and never talked about it again" version. I really enjoyed this — they’re beautifully in character, and it's excellent writing.

***A Momentary Lapse of Reason by otter (5k) Wilson and Julie through House’s eyes, from the beginning to the end. Skips back and forth between the past and now. The quiet yearning!!! Also *standing on the table with a megaphone* have i mentioned how GORGEOUS otter's prose is??

*Blow the Candles Out by bethfrish (5k) Another year older, another year wiser, another divorce lurking just around the corner. So good!!! Wilson celebrates his birthday amongst the detritus of his marriage. The prose is really exceptional here. House's dialogue is also especially well done. It's a fun read that holds up well on a re-read.

***midnight rain by GoldStarGrl (5k) Wilson can't possibly know the pain. But he wants to. I am vibrating!!! Set precanon, in the aftermath of the infarction. Infidelity, spanking, hello??? Hot, vivid, excellent characterisation, excellent writing etc etc. A+ no notes.

***Through The Looking Glass (The Male Gaze Mashup) by zulu (5k) "If Wilson didn't know, great. What he didn't know couldn’t hurt him. If Wilson did know, it didn't matter, because if he hadn't berated House for it yet, then it was permission to continue." Interesting character study of Wilson and the way House slots into his life. Imaginative and fun descriptions. I did feel slightly lost at some points but it was still a great read. Excerpt: House tears open every envelope, even those addressed to Occupant, then brings back the well-read contents like a cat offering half-dead moles to its hunting-deficient human.

Empathy, Inc. by sassyjumper (5k) Cuddy hires a company that provides 'empathy training' to doctors. House reacts. Set in an earlier season.

***All's Fair In Love (and war) by Transformatron (6k) House and Wilson are enjoying the last day of their holiday when an urgent call comes through from Princeton-Plainsboro - a medical mystery that only House can solve. And he does intend to solve it, despite Wilson's best efforts to distract him. (Established relationship.) Wilson making House do a case whilst fucking him?? I'm an absolute sucker for this trope and I was delighted to find a fic with it.

A Towered Citadel by Namaste (7k) A differential diagnosis for Wilson’s serial cheating.

***And the Borders of Old Cities Get Redrawn by blackmare (7k) Continuation/canon divergence from 8.02 "Transplant". Ch1 is the most perfect episode tag I am vibrating . The way they fall back into their old rhythm!! House seeking out his touch like a cat and Wilson accepting it, even liking it!! The hints of pre-relationship are so delicious. (This is a rare slash fic from blackmare.) Ch2&3 are also absolutely brilliant!! Great characterisation, pacing, and tension-building.

A Voice in Ramah (Welcome to Holland) by ignaz (8k) Cuddy POV on her pregnancy journey. Diverges from the show. Really well done. ignaz did this topic and Cuddy's character justice. I also particularly liked House in this one.

Singapore by thedeadparrot (8k) (2009) In which the boys go to a medical conference in Singapore, House has a few surprises up his sleeve, and Wilson figures some things out.

*A Helping Hand by bironic (9k) Wilson has an unusually rough day and House decides (somewhat despite himself) to help. Things go further than he planned. A believable foray into non-platonic territory, set in between 2.22 (Forever) and 2.24 (No Reason). What better way to take your mind off your patients than a good-ol handjob between friends? Chuck in an absolutely delicious fucked-up overtone characteristic of them and we're golden.

Rarepairs

Chase/House

***pretty doctor by spqr (5k) AU where Chase is a hooker. House becomes obsessed with him after he off-handedly gives the correct differential diagnosis. spqr is an excellent writer that I've followed across multiple fandoms, and this fic did not disappoint. Well-written, great chemistry, hilarious. I could read 100k of this.

***atonement in the locker room after hours by missaa (2k) robert chase makes two mistakes in one day Tags: Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, degradation, God Complex, Catholic Guilt This is just as yummy as those tags make it sound. Someone needed to capitalise on the whole *waves hand vaguely* thing that Chase has going on and by god did this person rise to the occasion. Love the characterisation and the elegant prose, and the structure that flashes back and forth between two scenes. I'm insane!

Chase/Foreman Shoutout to ignaz who sold me on this pairing.

*Pretty Harsh (Confirmatory Testing Remix) by everybodylies (2k) Foreman might have flirted with Chase six months ago for like thirty seconds. Chase can't stop thinking about it.

***Two For The Road by ignaz (3k) For the first ever Foreman Fest, prompt 107 -- "after a break and enter gone wrong, Foreman and Chase are both sentenced to 300 hours of community service, which it looks like they're gonna spend picking up trash on the side of the road." Really solid writing (I mean it’s ignaz), believable characterisation and relationship building. I love them 💓💓💓 just overall a real pleasure to read. Also it's hilarious.

***Eric Foreman Doesn't Take It Up The Ass (But If He Did, It Might Happen Something Like This) by ignaz (6k)

Self-Defense, or The One Where Foreman Teaches Chase How to Throw a Punch by ignaz (1k)

Cameron/Foreman/Chase

Third Wheel Rolling by ignaz He's not jealous, but he's been the third wheel for so long that it's hard to tell the difference. Sexy + great characterisations.

Cuddy/Stacy

***Your Reflection and Mine by Starlingthefool (3k) Sweet, hot, well written.

Amber/Thirteen

***Hate (to the power of 13) by ijemanja (2k) (lj) Porny, with snappy writing and believable characterisations.

Hen Night by zulu (<1k) This is how breakups go. Amber's seen movies.

Release by zulu (1k) Wilson dies on the bus instead of Amber.

Chase/Wilson

Erase by bethfrish (<1k) Featuring a bar and crossdressing. Precanon. Second person, Wilson POV.

Patrick Bateman/Wilson

Just Like You, Only Worse by bethfrish (1k) Ok before you raise your eyebrows at the pairing, give it a chance. Bethfrish is an excellent writer. This fic is really a Wilson character study, and it's an interesting read. Second person POV Wilson, set in s1.

#house md #hilson #house x wilson #house fic rec #house md fic #house md fic rec #my rec list #please let me know fi there are any formatting issues or random chunks of text that shouldnt be there or whatever because tubmrl sucks #i spent way too much fucking time on these rec lists

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heartbreak-sandwich · 7 months

Text

Jonathan Byers is your boyfriend 💕

“And if a double decker buuuuuuus,” he sang along to the record player quietly while he flipped the eggs sizzling in the frying pan. Donned in nothing but your boyfriend’s pinstriped oversized button-down and a pair of cotton underwear, you shuffled lazily into the kitchen, following the savory scent of a home cooked breakfast.

“Crashes into uuuuuuuuuus,” he continued, oblivious to your entrance. You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind and felt him relax into your embrace.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he sang along incorrectly with the next line of the song. You reached a hand out and swiped a piece of bacon off of a half-prepared plate on the counter. Jonathan turned around and hurried to the table to grab his camera.

“You look so perfect. Two seconds. Stay just like that,” he instructed, grinning as he snapped a photo of you holding up your bacon, eyes closed in a cheeky smile, both of you savoring yet another sweet morning together.

✨Nicknames for you: Love, sunshine, my girl (He’s always saying “There’s my girl” when he sees you show up anywhere, even if you can’t hear him. Steve told you so.)

💕 love language: acts of service/quality time

Always doing favors without you having to ask

Cooks dinner for you regularly

Loves to give hand massages while he lets you vent about your day

Gentle reminders to set your morning alarm, brush your teeth, and remember to drink water.

Loves to take you on nature walks and tell you facts about the wildlife or plants he’s photographed there

Takes photos of you on every adventure, and your house is filled with framed pictures of you in front of a variety of backdrops: your trip to downtown LA, a sunset by the pacific ocean, a nature walk through the redwood forest.

Always introduces you to new music and loves when you show him music you like in exchange. Hanging out around the house always has an eclectic soundtrack that is a perfect blend of the two of you.

💋 Kissing Jonathan: His touch is sweet, light, and pensive. He loves to hold your face or jaw in his hands when he kisses you, and he almost always ends those moments with a peck on your forehead or nose. His movements are careful, sensual, and comforting, and he is always checking in to make sure you’re okay with what’s happening before moving any further.

#jonathan byers #jonathan byers headcanons #stranger things headcanons #jonathan byers is your boyfriend #sando lists #jonathan byers fanfic #jonathan byers x reader #gn reader #stranger things fic #jonathan byers blurb #kissing jonathan byers #this was my favorite blurb I think #I want to write a fic from the blurb #shoud I?

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thecameronchronicles · 2 years

Text

Override

TW: Loss of virginity. Smut. Language.

SUMMARY: You learn that JJ’s reputation is just that; rumors and smoke screens. Because of this, you take pity on your friend and decide to help him out…

WORD COUNT: 1400

JJ was impatient. It was one of his more prominent qualities that always served as an instigation to his more unsavory of actions. But the specific lack of patience in this situation was almost comical as he was truly excitable with a lack of contentment.

"You good, J?" You teased from the passenger seat, watching him nod but evade eye contact as his fingers tapped in an offbeat pattern over the steering wheel of the Twinkie.

"You-"

"Can you tell when someone hasn't had sex?" His question surprised you chuckled.

"Is that what this is? Need a little attention?" You teased, leaning towards him and taunting a finger to his ear to play with it, as he would playfully swipe it away but remain otherwise in sincerity.

"I mean it...is there like a...a vibe or something"

"A vibe?"

"Forget it..."

"No...I mean...maybe when someone is fidgety and not making eye contact. Maybe if they are asking weird questions..." You teasingly berated him as his eyes finally met with yours, a hint of hesitancy before he spoke. You were almost surprised by this all on its own as JJ was one to rarely do anything without acting on impulse, so to pause in a pensive test was enough to pique your interest.

"Why? None of the tourons falling for your shtick this summer?" You continued, "Can THEY tell you're in a rut?" His eyes fell away.

"No...I mean...can YOU tell?"

"Yes, J...you just need to get laid so you can go back to being the lighthearted joker between us because otherwise that's left to Pope and...I love the guy, but I just don't find talking about the body's secretions very funny-"

"Yeah-"

"J? What happened? Some girl screw with you or something?"

"No."

"Some guy?" He shoved your leg down from the incline it had recently made against your chest.

"Then what?"

"I..I just want to know if you can tell..." You rolled your eyes.

"We've covered this-"

"So you can tell if they haven't-" You slowly nodded.

"Ever?" His eyes now darted away from you just as quickly as they had found rest as your mouth parted.

"You've-You're fucking with me...I've SEEN you bring girls back to The Chateau-"

"I mean I've done things, I'm no saint, God knows, but...I always make some excuse and...it was something John B said about me being too obvious and desperate about it and I just.. shit, I just want it over with, you know. But-"

"What if we did?"

"Yeah, okay...very funny, add insult to injury-"

"I mean it. I mean it IS just sex..."

He spoke your name in warning as you pulled yourself from the binds of the seat belt and towards him over the console as he swallowed hard. Your name left his lips once more, but this time as a whisper as he was pinned between your thighs as you straddled him.

"You want to?"

"I'm kind of thriving off of the idea of knowing I get to be the one to pop JJ's cherry-" You teased, the phrase making him wince, as you forced his attention on you by pulling your fingers to the back of his neck.

"If you want me to, I will, J, but I'm not gonna beg you or anything, if you-" And once again, his patience was limited as he would move against you with a kiss as rough as it was unexpected. A tongue moved against your bottom lip as you set your hand to his chest to slow him.

"Maybe THAT is why...you're in too much of a rush...just...just enjoy it..." You brought your lips to his ear. "Because you're only gonna have me once...You couldn’t handle more than that…" His fingers pulled at your hips as you would grind against him and kiss up his neck and tease his ear. Of the heat from your breath or motions from your hips had not been reason enough for all of his blood to rush between his legs, than that little smirk you made against him was the tipping point.

"Fuck..." He breathed as you palmed him for only a moment over his cargos, his cock, impressive yet untamed, as it flexed eagerly to each motion.

"I need you to get me wet, J...From what I've heard, you're pretty good at that..." You winked as he blushed for a moment before awkwardly helping you out of your shorts and returning you to him in only your panties.

His fingers came between his lips, sucking them until they dripped, before he pulled them behind the fabric.

"Are you sure it isn't gonna be weird-"

"To have the chance to hold this over your head, are you joking?" He paused for a second as you pushed yourself against his fingers.

"Relax, J...Nobody has to know...I mean...unless you make me scream or something..." You looked over your shoulder and to the direction of the road at your back as you'd snuck away to smoke for the afternoon.

"But I doubt it...since it IS your first-" He silenced you with a kiss, his finger penetrating you without a care for preparation, not that much was needed.

You closed your eyes sharply as you rode into his hand, a string of kisses to your jaw and neck making you purr beneath him as he basked in this sight. You were always so close to him, just out of reach. And now you were this temptress offering him a release he'd never imagined would come from you.

"Faster, J-" You begged as he would submit, watching you become manic in the sight of your face twisting and parting in pleasure, a sight he never wanted to fade.

"Are you hard enough?" He nodded, your grinding having done the same work to him that his fingers had to you.

"Then put it in, right now...please, right-" You gasped. He was the biggest you'd had, not that you had much of a roster, but enough knowledge to know that he was well above average.

"Shit-" He stilled.

"I'll start....try to keep up..." You teased while you set the pace, his body unsteady beneath you and threatening to buck wildly if not for your hands cementing on his shoulders.

"Oh god...." He groaned, the sounds of pleasure almost humorous as this may have been the first time you'd found him speechless.

"That good?" He asked as his question surprised you.

"Do I feel good for you-" You took your hand in a clasp around his mouth.

"So good, but I need you to move, JJ..." You explained breathlessly as his nails ate into the naked flesh of your hips as he pulled you slightly higher.

"Goddamn!" He belted into your shoulder, motions quickening and breathing shortening for you both as you could feel his desperations collide with your own.

"J, touch me!" You pleaded as his thumb was quick to your clit, making perfect circles as you clenched him with this natural reaction.

"Fuck! What was that?!"

"You like that?"

"Oh my God..." He groaned as you repeated this before his thrusts became ungodly. That submission he began this interaction with had dissolved into dominance made by desperation.

"I'm gonna-mmm-shit, sweetheart, I-"

"It's okay, I want you to..."

"Are you sure because I can try to-" You pulled at his hair, forcing his attention to you with this interruption.

"Jusy fuck me JJ...make me come, please-" You begged, feeling the tremors just on your horizon as his joined yours in this tango.

"Oh shit-"

"Oh fuck!"

And in a collection of final thrusts, you had captured his virtue along with his release as he bowed his head against your chest.

"Can you tell?" You asked him as he found your gaze beneath the heavy lids of his own.

"Tell what?"

"That I haven't?" His lips parted as you blushed, having shared that same interaction he spoke of in former partners. You knew how to please but never really got anything out of it yourself. You'd been touched and teased every way under the sun, but he was your only penetration.

"You're-"

"Not anymore..." You laughed as he moved you off of him as you continued to chuckle.

"Not even gonna say thank you or-"

"Get in the back with me..."

"What?"

"Because I need my full range of motion this time..." Before you could object , you had submitted.

A round two in the back of the Twinkie that blurred the lines between friendship and lust, only intensified by the decline of a drug haze. And yet, in hindsight, you wouldn't have wanted this moment to be with anyone other than him…

Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @my-baexht-ls @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @obxxrxfes @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @rafesbae @pankhoeforlife

#jjmaybank #outer banks #obx #outerbanks #obx fanfiction #outer banks smut #netflix #jj maybank x reader #jjsmut #jj maybank smut #jj maybank #obxsmut

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evilhasnever · 1 year

Note

Hi! I remember your tweets about XiYao roleplaying as strangers meeting in a bar, and I really liked the idea, so may I suggest this for your list of potential prompts for drabbles? 📝

(corny banter and gege-ing under the cut)

“Do you come here often?”

Normally, Jin Guangyao would shrug off such an uninspired icebreaker with the coldest politeness - but since it is coming from the most handsome man he has ever laid eyes on, he puts down his wine glass and turns to give him an appraising, lingering once over.

“My name is Lan Xichen,” the hot, tall and smiling apparition says, gazing at Jin Guangyao with almost too much soft intensity. “I’m sorry for being so direct, but I couldn’t stop looking at you from the moment you came in.”

“A straight shooter, aren’t you,” Jin Guangyao murmurs pensively, tracing the rim of his glass.

“I don’t usually do this,” Lan Xichen says, with utter seriousness, “but tonight… I didn’t want to be alone. Perhaps it is fate.”

Jin Guangyao considers chiding him for that, but he has to begrudgingly admit that painful earnestness can be a rather attractive quality to someone who can never afford it himself.

“What makes you think I am not waiting for company of my own?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow and gesturing to the seat next to him, in direct contradiction with his words.

“If they’re making you wait, they do not deserve to buy you a drink,” Lan Xichen promptly replies, eyes never straying from his face. Even sitting, he’s so fucking tall. Jin Guangyao props his elbow on the counter and leans slightly to the side, pretending he’s not purposely inhaling his cologne. Sensual, expensive, unobtrusive. Like the man himself.

Jin Guangyao can’t help a quirk of a smile. “And what makes you think you deserve it?” he asks, dimpling playfully.

“Try me,” Lan Xichen whispers back, eyes dark as if in a daze. He seems capable of being surprisingly assertive when he is invited - instructed - to do so, it turns out, but the man has clearly never needed to flirt before in his life. Jin Guangyao is privately torn between raking him over the coals and pulling him down by the lapels immediately, but he has a part to play too.

“You’re right, I’m not waiting for anyone in particular,” he concedes. “I am in the market for… a big opportunity, however.” He turns ninety degrees to face Lan Xichen and he promptly turns towards him as well, so their legs slot together and Jin Guangyao can surreptitiously press a knee against Lan Xichen’s inner thigh, pleased with what he finds.

“Ah,” Lan Xichen says, then licks his lips slowly, eyes slightly unfocused. “Would it be too presumptuous to say you won’t be disappointed?”

“Not if you can back it up. How would you convince me?” Jin Guangyao gives him the double raised eyebrow signal, hoping he’ll insist. He's entirely forgotten his drink, though he is absolutely parched.

Lan Xichen smiles wider, as if he’s found his footing. “I was hoping you would ask.” He’s probably rehearsed these lines, Jin Guangyao thinks with a sudden swell of affection. Lan Xichen leans down and speaks in the shell of Jin Guangyao's ear, his neck flushed red despite his confidence. “It would be my pleasure to persuade you,” he says. “Several times if necessary. On whichever surface you’ll find acceptable.”

“Gege,” Jin Guangyao straightens and lets his mouth fall open in a scandalized little ‘o’ shape. He watches Lan Xichen’s gaze drop to his lips as if pulled by gravity, and it’s more dizzying than the best wine by far.

“Unless you prefer somewhere more private?” Lan Xichen promptly adds, shifting to press into Jin Guangyao’s knee.

“Well,” Jin Guangyao drawls, “it just so happens that I am looking for a ride.” He flicks his eyes down to Lan Xichen’s lap, then looks away casually. “If gege is amenable.”

“My place or yours?” Lan Xichen smiles, a crinkle of amusement around his eyes.

“Ours,” Jin Guangyao laughs, and hooks his arm into his husband’s as they tip and leave in a hurry.

#xiyao drabbles #ask box #xiyao #lan xichen #jin guangyao #I TRIED BUT BOY I AM BAD AT INNUENDO #embarrassed.jpg #shiome fic

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come-down-that-tree · 2 months

Text

Prologue Previous

Warning: unjustified violence against a sweetie and some paaanicking :(

Come Down That Tree! (An aftermare story)

Chapter 16: Kutya pamutambo wemaruva

A week or so had passed since his little soul-to-soul with Geno and his injury…

While that arm was not fully healed yet, the other didn’t seem that bothered about it and even regained almost all of his limb’s mobility. He told them he got all of it back but Nightmare noticed how stiffly he moved it and how he favored his right even though it was obvious it wasn’t his dominant hand.

Nightmare bit into his piece of pear pie. It was sweet and juicy. They didn’t have such high-quality snacks everydays, so he was planning to enjoy it.

How long has Geno been here now?

The weather had yet to turn cold so it couldn’t have been that long.

It felt like it however.

The guardian licked his fingers clean and glanced at the other two. They were silently sharing some lemon bread.

The village must be in a good mood, it was more and more frequent to see Dream coming back bearing a full basket of food and gifts. They even now had a spare blanket and an old cushion they decided to lend to their guest.

…Do you still consider someone who stayed for long at your home and wasn’t showing any sign of moving out as a guest?

Geno met his eyes and slightly inclined his head.

He averted his gaze to watch a random blade of grass.

Oh, a ladybug.

“Is the pie any good?”

Nightmare nodded in his brother’s direction, not feeling like talking just yet.

“Nice. I’ll keep my part for later.”

If the definition of “guest” was, as of now, outdated to describe Geno then…what was he?

“I’ll put the basket away. You should go for an afternoon nap, Geno, you look tired.”

That was true the other had progressively slouched against his cushion during the meal and his dimming eyelight seemed to scream sleep.

He didn’t even answer the proposition and promptly klonked out.

That capacity to fall asleep fast and clean was impressive.

Nightmare stood up, dusting himself off and calmly helped Dream cleaning the last traces of their meal…while keeping an eye on the sleeper.

He couldn’t help but be pensive about all that.

He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He didn't hate Geno. He didn’t fear him either, even though he saw hints again and again of how volatile and dangerous he could be.

Nothing happened recently.

It had been quiet.

They talked a lot. About books. About the sky. About childhood adventures and stories.

It was… nice.

And if he often found himself slightly leaning against his shoulder to sleep at night, that was his problem.

Two amber wells entered his field of vision without warnings and startled him.

“What are you thinking about ?”

He caught himself with one hand against the tree before answering.

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

He couldn’t say any of his thoughts, he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he told him he was thinking about how he didn’t despise Geno anymore.

“Hmmmm, I’ll let that slide… For now!”

With that said, Dream all but jumped on him and he barely avoided falling again. Shifting his feet to stand steadier, he glared at his brother.

This one was making pitiful wet eyes and he knew -oh he knew…- that he was going to be asked something he wouldn’t like soon.

“Soooo, I was thinking…”

And there it was…

“What were you thinking…?”

The doubt and carefulness he tried to convoy didn’t seem to deter his brethren. Sadly.

“You noticed how I’ve been given more gifts recently…?”

“I did… I assume the village’s mood is high for some reason?”

He got shaken quite roughlessly by that overly excited puppy.

“YES! Today is the first day of the Verflor festival so place is absolutely decked out in flowers! And there’re food stands and dances and music and we need to go!”

Nightmare gripped his arm, focusing on the sensation of a fistful of fabric under his fingers.

“We…?”

“...Yes, we. Come on! It’s been ages since the last time you went down! You didn’t even go borrow books recently…”

Dream trailed off for a second before bouncing back into his plea with gusto.

“I know we’ll have a blast! I’m pretty sure the central bookstore said they wanted to put up a stand with newly arrived finds, you can’t miss that!”

Oh he could. But the offer sounded slightly less bad after that statement, somehow. He was still not convinced.

“I’m not su-”

“And don’t wake up Geno. Guy’s great but you spent so much time with him recently. Can’t I request some wholesome brother bonding time when I really feel up to it?”

Yeah, he was not winning against this one. Might as well give up, enter the village for five minutes, find a random excuse and go back right away. Easier than to argue now.

“...Ok, fine. We can go for a bit.”

He was promptly released as Dream twirled around, looking truly enchanted by the news. After a few seconds of this show, Nightmare was once again caught by the arm and pulled harshly enough to make him stumble (again).

That day was going to be exhausting, wasn’t it?

“LESSSSS’GO!”

Surprisingly, the ruckus did not rouse Geno out of his food coma and they runned down the hill, clumsily, as they dug every once in a while their elbows into each other’s ribs.

And soon.

Sooner than Nightmare would have liked if he had a word on the matter.

They reached the village.

And, as promised, the verflor festival was in full display.

Fresh flowers -that kids must have collected early in the morning- were decorating every possible surface. Daylilies and bacopa pots were proudly displayed under each window. The mix of perfume was so strong that he wondered briefly how nobody fainted yet -as far as he knew. A bird-like teen was running around with a water can, making sure the heat was not getting to the vegetation.

That task must have taken all their focus as they almost bumped into him…and apologized without even looking.

The lean feathered guy just runned off to their next pot and fussed over a slightly damaged balloon flower.

“It’s been so long since the last time we went together to that event! How long has it been again?”

Nightmare pretended to think before giving his twin the answer he could have given in a blink.

“6 years, I think.We needed fresh flowers.”

“Ah yes I remember, maybe we should pick up some today as well?”

“...yeah, we should.”

Dream clapped his hands, looking satisfied.

“Then it’s settled! We look around, enjoy the event and pick up some plants -and maybe a book if you find something interesting?- before going home!”

And without waiting for an answer, Dream grabbed his hand and started energetically walking and making comments on how each display of flowers were installed and by who.

Surprisingly, he found himself infected by the other’s joy and quickly started truly appreciating the evening. Some people watched him curiously and some others were sending some rather nasty glares but he ignored all that and focused on his brother’s unending chatting.

They picked up some flowers and put them down their pockets, uncaring of if they’d survive the trip. A flower didn’t stop being pretty just for some bruises and missed bits after all. And both of them were now wearing flowers breaded firmly into their crowns, almost fully masking the glistening metal. Coreopsis, poppies and some treasure flowers for Dream. Delphiniums, lilies-of-the-Nile and some drooping verbenas for him.

The day was sunny and rays bounced across the windows, producing rainbows in water puddles.

The people were merry and colorful dresses and shirts were twirling around in every corner.

It was loud.

It was bonded.

It was so many things he usually avoided.

But somehow…

It was nice.

He could see a table set just down the street with books laying on. From here, he thought he could recognize a cover or two. That red one with the white handle casting a shadow of a knife’s blade, for example, was the cover of a story that was hard to forget…

“Dream, I want to make a stop at the book table just there!”

Dream didn’t answer and soon, he realized he wasn’t holding his hand anymore.

“He can’t be far, he was blabbering about some pie smell just a moment ago…”, he muttered as a self-reassurance.

When had he let go? Or was Dream the one who let go?

The streets suddenly seemed less welcoming.

It was loud.

It was bonded.

It was so many things he usually avoided.

After getting bumped into a few times (and getting insulted for it), Nightmare scooted against a wall and fiddled with his fingers, keeping an eye on the crowd moving around.

He just needed to find Dream and they could leave that place and all would be well! There wasn’t any need for stress here.

Everything was swell.

His hands were pulling on any bit of fabric he could grab onto and he really hoped it wouldn’t tear from the abuse later.

Where are you?

People are staring.

People are judging.

They’re staring. They’re staring. They’re staring.

Calm down, Night’. Deep breaths. Happy thoughts.

His legs were shaking and he couldn’t afford being seen panicking so far from his haven.

They’re staring.

That guy is staring. The children are staring and giggling at his misfortune. That mother is mocking him.

Even that dog is against him.

He needed…out!

But Dream?

Why did he leave him here alone?

Why did he drag him there at all?

Did he…?

A glint of golden metal caught his attention and he dashed in that direction.

Dream!

Unfortunately, he lost the trace fast but he kept running through a few streets just in case.

He just couldn’t bear everything so he sped off into smaller and emptier streets until he was finally alone.

Then, he crashed in this tiny dingy one-way street that smelled of anything but flowers and wept on his knees for a while.

Why must he be like that? Five seconds alone in the street and he started acting worse than a toddler. No wonder he was hated around here… He must have been such an easy target that any aspiring violence couldn’t help but look his way and see a snack.

His pants were damp from his tears before he calmed down enough to close the watergates.

The guardian raised his head to look around.

It was a fairly narrow space but some could still stand up without being squished together.

Beside the walls, he could see the sky and even the top of their tree, merely a green stain dotted with warm gold and purplish black against the blue of the day.

So small.

Nightmare sighed and vowed to only rest a bit more before heading back home.

That corner was void of flowers and he relaxed in their absence.

Wind was making dance two lonely leaves that swirled and twirled before being stopped by a wall then the ballet stopped until a new burst guided them to a new barrier and this, again and again.

Far away he could still hear some laughter and music but he ignored the background noise.

He ignored the distant steps, running and dancing, enjoying the celebration.

He ignored all those sounds to focus on the leaves, on the crown’s weight on his head, on the warm feeling traveling through his vessel of a body and some forgotten tune, he couldn’t name but felt soothing, flowed out of him.

He shouldn’t have, probably.

He shouldn’t have blocked out the rest.

Maybe if he hadn’t…

He could have slipped away in time.

Before the steps were not so distant.

Before the voices were right in front of him.

Before he was trapped with these three.

But he did, so when two monsters and a human showed up, he was taken by surprise.

After that?

There wasn’t much of a conversation. It had been a very one-sided ordeal.

They pushed him, making his thoughts rattle each time his back hit bricks.

Stay calm, they’ll get bored soon.

The purple hare tugged on his sleeves until they ripped.

He already went through this dance and song enough to know how to act to minimize dommages.

The plant bear clapped and hummed, not participating but enjoying it nonetheless.

Do not retaliate, it would only aggravate the situation.

“Ah that’s boring, let’s up the game a bit!”

He had been too boring, that wasn’t going to end well.

The last lanky teenager looked at him for a second before leaping towards his head.

“Give me that circlet thing! That’s too fancy for you!”

A scalding warmth spread through his bones at these words. And he dodged and let the guy crash against the bricks at his turn.

That was where he drew the limit.

Nightmare winced at the harsh sound of flesh hitting solid and crouched down in an action ready.

He wasn’t going to allow those to even dare touch his crown.

Soon, joyful expressions turned sour and he was attacked once again.

Some vigorous kicks made one tumble while another retreated.

One was on the ground, grumbling about stained clothes.

One was looking at him, calculating.

And the last…?

Strong arms caught him under the armpits and he was left wiggling in the air, captive by the superior strength of the bear monster who was towering over him by their sheer size.

Ah. He had lost fast.

He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation as his aggressors came closer.

Then…

Nothing.

Silence.

A tremor runned through his holder and he wondered…

What could have made them hesitate all of the sudden?

End of chapter 16! Go to chapter 17?

@dragon-tamer-1 @shinechermont

Geno!Sans belongs to @/loverofpiggies Nightmare, Dream and dreamtale belong to @/jokublog

#Come Down That Tree!#chapter 16 #aftermare #wooooo it is twice as long as usual!#hope you enjoy that I guess I was so motivated by back to action time!#half of it wrote itself sooo easily #the rest wasn't hard but I wasn't as motivated anymore :3 #hehe two chapters during the same month I count that as a win #I'll be honest I thought about waiting to post because the opt out button has yet to appear for me but I decided it would not stop me #I'm gonna continue to create stuff and show it to you all' regardless of what could happen #I made a home here and I'll not leave because the pipes leak #have a nice day! <3

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pattysplaceofplaces · 9 months

Text

RoleSwap Shenanigans

ACME Agent Carmen SanDiego x Reader:

[Author’s Note: I had this on my mind for a couple of days, not the best quality but writing is writing. This follows the end of Season 1/Beginning of Season 2. Y/n takes Devinaeux’s place]

Agent Sandiego sped walked through the hospital hallways, trying to keep herself calm.

“Excuse me.”

“Sorry.”

“Make way.”

When she found the room number she opened the door. You sat in the hospital bed, looking out the window but now turning your head towards Carmen. “Carmen?” You remember her and a weight is lifted off of her chest.

With a few quick strides she’s by your hospital bed, her hands on your cheeks. “How are you feeling? Are you hurt?” You can’t help but feel guilty that your mistakes caused so much trouble. You lost your ACME keycard and you didn’t check the toothpaste that was placed into your bathroom. You felt like a terrible agent.

Worst of all, you made Carmen worry about you.

“I’m fine.” You murmur taking one of Carmen’s hands from your cheeks and intertwining it with your own hand. “I just feel so…Stupid for compromising ACME like this.” The scarlet agent shakes her head, lightly squeezing your hand. “I don’t care about ACME right now, I care about you.” You’re surprised to hear this. Agent Carmen Sandiego is Chief’s right hand gal, everyone knows for a fact that she’ll be the one running ACME when Chief retires.

“Please…Just tell me what happened. Chiefly told me but I want to hear it from your own mouth.” Carmen begs.

Your mind is a haze but you remember things, some are more coherent than others. “There were two people. They put…Something on my head and it made me tell them everything I knew about ACME.” Tears well in your eyes and you lean your head on Carmen’s shoulder, losing yourself in the red of her coat. “I wasn’t strong enough.” Carmen couldn’t blame you for getting emotional. What happened to you sounded terrifying. You could have died.

Carmen blames herself for this. She was a great agent but a terrible lover. According to Chief, you had also seen the Jule Thief. Your girlfriend’s grip tightens on you, not enough to hurt you but enough for you to notice.

That thief is going to pay.

Super Thief Julia Argent x Reader:

Julia looked out the private plane’s window pensively, watching as the clouds flew by. “What’s wrong, Jules? Aren’t you happy we got the hard drive?” Player asks, interrupting the thief from her thoughts.

“I am but…” A small frown appears on her face. “I wish I could have done something to prevent this from happening in the first place.” Player had known Jules since her VILE schooling. She was a great thief with an even greater moral compass, but she had a soft heart. Especially for ACME agent Y/n. Agent Y/n was the person apart of ACME that understood there was more to her than she meets the eye.

“ACME will take care of them.” Player tries to reassure her. “You should be worried about you right now. Coach Brunt broke two of your ribs and you were saved by ShadowSan. Inside and out this has to be wearing you down.” Julia shrugs but Player knows he’s right. “Are you sure you want to do this caper? Maybe you aren’t ready.”

Julia shakes her head, putting on her brave face. She doesn’t look very menacing but she’s still a force to be reckoned with. “I’ll be fine, Player. A lot is at stake here.”

The plane is on its to Rio de Janeiro. Thanks to the hard drive supplied by ShadowSan, she could continue her capers. Hopefully she’ll be one step closer to taking down VILE.

Hopefully in the future she could explain everything to you, that she could apologize to you directly for getting you caught up in this mess. But for now, Julia has to be seen as the villain.

#carmen sandiego x reader #julia argent x reader #Carmen Sandiego 2019

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pb-dot · 9 months

Text

The Clockwork Boy Ch. 1: The Sky-Eyes Boy

As I mentioned in my 100 followers celebration/acknowledgment post, I'm posting the first proper chapter of The Clockwork Boy. Call it a bit of a longer sneak peek than the snippets I usually post. The chapter is just about where I want it editing-wise, but I can't promise I won't fiddle with it more. Without further ado, full chapter beneath the cut.

Jake didn’t much like hauling, and yet it was an activity he found himself doing frequently. Admittedly, it could be argued that what he did this particular day was more akin to schlepping, as pulling a hand cart loaded to the brim with tin was pushing his strength just about as far as it would go. Regardless of the exact definition of what he was doing, it was tiresome tedious work. It made Jake the kind of tired that had him making stupid mistakes or really quite clever observations. There wasn’t much of an in-between, and today he was going to do both.

The practical-minded clockmaker’s workshop always bought its materials in bulk, ideally already smelted into ingots for ease of use. While employing the economics of scale was undoubtedly preferable, this required access to a market that his humble, if not entirely disreputable workshop did not have. The biggest providers of raw materials tended to be bought out in a hurry, and the contracts for new clients quickly became restrictive to the point of exclusion. Smaller dealers usually were left to do their limited business in peace, although there was a definite limit to how big they could get before accidents started happening, or anonymous tips into shady business practices led to lengthy investigations with no protection against bankruptcy and destitution. So his employer bought materials wherever they could get them for reasonable prices, which usually meant low quanta and mediocre quality at best, and smelting them was expensive and at times dangerous, but it was better than saddling oneself with the usurious revenue garnishing payment plans that the more convenient suppliers used.

Jake had come to gain an understanding of the workings of the city. It wasn’t a place for mercy, but it was reasonable in its own way. There were rules and laws, of a sort, like any place else, but there were also strongly worded suggestions, things one was better off doing. One of the biggest rules was to keep your head down. Both avoiding eye contact in public and not standing out, in general, were strategies that Jake employed all but subconsciously after a few years in the city, and now no longer questioned. There were, of course, disadvantages to looking at the ground while lost in thought, but at least when pulling the handcart, his profile was looming enough to dissuade all but the most thoughtless jaywalkers. There is, however, no shortage of foolishness and recklessness in the world, and on occasion, a fool of as of yet unmatched magnitude will make their presence known in the worst sort of way. One such hitherto undefeated champion of duncery was driving a passing steam pavise. The horseless cart was pulled by a trio of disembodied steam-powered leg pairs, reminiscent of the brutish beasts that had once provided the propulsion to similar contraptions in days past. The steam pavise itself was about to go the way of the horse and fade from the streets as the more energy- and space-efficient Gear Walkers took over. If this changing of the guard brought any pensive humility to its drivers, said humility had not penetrated to the madman driving this particular vehicle. The wheels of the pavise didn’t as much hit the cart as they briefly snagged the handcart’s wheel, sending the whole contraption and its hapless driver into a spin, before careening further down the street with the rhythmic beat of automated hooves.

Jake felt his body sting and ache. He had managed to stop the handcart from spinning out or hitting anyone, but he was pretty sure he had pulled at least a couple of muscles in doing so. It would sting like the dickens, and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be hammering or lifting anything in the next couple of days. At least he should be able to get the cart back to the workshop, the slight slope would take him the rest of the way all but unaided.

It was only once the brightest flash of adrenaline and other pain-numbing chemicals subsided that Jake found it in himself to be angry at the pavise driver. In days gone, you could talk to the constables about that kind of behavior, but the streets hadn’t seen as much as a badge for decades now. There was always trying to sic The Enforcers on people who mistreated you, but as long as you weren’t rich they were just as likely to rough you up for your trouble. Besides, Jake thought, even if he thought the guy absolutely shouldn’t be driving, he didn’t want him beat up. Lightly chastised? Sure, but that was the extent of it. Jake felt his pulse calm and the fog of anger and pain clearing up. When he found it in himself to look up at the world around him, he realized, with a sudden shock, that he was being watched.

A street stoat was staring at him from the little side path that it and its brethren had carved through the litter that filled the sides of the street. Jake wasn’t sure, but he suspected the animal had frozen in fear from the brief moment where the cart was in danger of spinning out and hitting the little predator. “It’s alright,” Jake said, he had no idea why he was speaking to the stoat, but it felt right like the little thing deserved some attention. “You’re not in danger, go along now, don’t you have finches to hunt?” The stoat kept staring. It wasn’t freezing fear in its eyes, Jake now realized. The stoat was appraising him with some sort of mustelid intelligence.

Jake couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m flattered for the attention Mr. Stoat, but I better get going and so should you, shoo.” Jake waved a hand in the stoat’s direction to shoo it away. The little fur tube finally took the hint and darted down the street. It was probably going to hunt trash finches in some alley, or perhaps it was on its way back to whatever den it had built for itself. “When the fox sleeps the raccoon feasts, huh,” Jake murmured to himself

As he righted the cart and prepared for the last leg of his tedious transport journey, he realized it wasn’t just the stoat that had been watching him.

The boy, for Jake could not think of him as anything else despite being a head taller than him, had the bluest eyes Jake had ever seen. This, he realized with a start, had to be how the sky looked above all the smog during the golden hour. Jake had no idea how he got to this conclusion as he had lived in the city long enough to forget the smogless sky and honestly had no expertise in color or poetry even on a good day.

There was something with the pensive look in the eyes of the strange young man that just drew out the similes. His eyes weren’t blue, they were like a perfect sky; His hair wasn’t blond and tightly cropped, it was like freshly harvested wheat; His cloak was not oversized and ill-fitting, it was like an immaterial fog swathing his delicate form. Perhaps the young man could not be comprehended otherwise, at least not by Jake.

Jake barely had the time to snap out of his sudden and all-encompassing reverie before the moment was over. The sky-eyed, wheat-haired elflike youth disappeared into the nascent bustle of the city as if Jake had dreamed him up whole cloth. Jake had no idea if the boy had moved unnaturally fast, or if his reverie or his exhaustion had merely dulled his senses to the point where it seemed like it. Another strongly worded suggestion for living in the city was letting things go. If something was too unusual to understand without extra effort, or strange in a way that wasn’t explicitly dangerous, you’d be better off just forgetting about it. Little good could come out of sticking your nose where it didn’t belong, and that counted double for things out of the usual.

There were no hidden treasures, no long lost knowledge or forgotten riches just ready for the taking in the city, just disappointments you hadn’t had the option of experiencing yet, losses you hadn’t suffered, dangers that you had unwittingly avoided. It was easier to just not think twice about it, never consider what-ifs, and let bygones be bygones, lest things found a way to get even worse. It wasn’t much of a life, Jake had to admit to himself as he pulled the cart the final bit to the workshop, but it surely had to beat dying.

In the little schooling he had received, Jake had come to learn that an idea in theory and an idea in practice were two wildly different things, and seldom intersected in their entirety. There was, or so his teachers had told him, a push and pull there, where theory informed attempted practice, and experience from practice shaped future theory. It struck Jake as somewhat of a pointless exercise, an admission that you’d never truly know anything resembling the truth, but perhaps that was the point.

As he parked the handcart and signaled for his colleagues to assist him in unloading the materials, however, Jake had to concede he might need to tweak his theory regarding forgetting about the strange young man. It was going about as well as his attempts at attracting the attention of his coworkers, who did a decent job of looking entirely too busy to help. The thought of that strange young man didn’t leave him, but most of him merely haunted the peripheries of Jake’s memory. One part, though, stayed with him, as clear as when he’d first seen it. Put simply, he could not put those eyes out of his mind.

What manner of things they seen, he wondered, to seem so sad, and yet so beautiful? Now that he thought about it, it reminded him of a childhood memory. It had been one of the few excursions he had experienced in his life. The orphanage had hired a rickety old steam pavise to take them to the outskirts, to “the forest” where some natural vegetation still existed. They had played among the trees and by the brooks and river in the forests that still remained on the fringes of the city, it could charitably be called “nature.” It was a lovely memory, but one also tinged with profound sadness, and, Jake was starting to realize, anger.

He hadn’t thought about it at the time, but looking back at it, the trees looked like they were dying. Leaves and even branches curled and twisted with unknown maladies, even the evergreens lost their needles and those needles who remained gained an unnatural orange pallor and a faintly oily smell. The same stink could be felt wherever the water grew stagnant in the rivers, even as a child he had noticed that. Some of his friends had gotten sick after that, he recalled, but most of them survived it.

Jake wasn’t quite sure what to think about what he was thinking, but there really wasn’t anything for it, the thoughts were there whether he liked them or not. He was happy for remembering the fun he had had, running around and being a carefree child for once, he felt sad for his friends that got sick, and he felt angry for the world that had allowed a beautiful place of nature to decay. No, he thought, it was worse than decay, it was rot, putrescence, poisoned with the malice of carelessness or greed rather than conceded to entropy. He assumed it was runoff from the city or one of the factories dumping their waste material, and that some of whatever toxic sludge had resulted made its way to the groundwater. Jake hadn’t been back there since then, but he suspected the trees were entirely gone by now. It could even be that the city had expanded since then, and the entire diseased copse was now brick and cobblestone.

Tag List

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#writing #hearts in clockwork #the clockwork boy #writeblr #full chapter

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tinydappledleaf · 5 months

Text

Title: Stay

Chapter: 2/6

Pairing: Ezra x f!Reader, Ezra x you (Reader is addressed by 'you' or nickname)

Rating: 18+, smut in chapter 6

Content: Situationship to romance, soft Ezra, intimacy, loss of limb (non-explicit), canon compliant

Summary: When you've almost given up waiting for him, a certain prospector returns to the Pug to call in a favor...

Ao3: complete fic

《 chapter I chapter 3 》

Chapter II

Ezra gains awareness more often now, his wakeful moments brightening the room's atmosphere significantly. The second his voice fills the space, still rough and worn from its lack of use, the gloom of doubt retreats. He’s recovering, slowly but steadily, fighting off death’s cold and grabby fingers.

There’re secrets, between him and the girl, that you witness with each conversation, wordy or mute, that happens between the two. You wonder what has prolapsed out there, in the Green, to bind such and unlikely duo. Neither Cee nor Ezra care to share, yet, and you tiptoe around it, cautious to mind the delicate boundaries reigning all queries and tales.

He's told you that he owes her. That she has saved his live, more than once. That she chose to stick around, has nowhere else to go. The least he can do is allow her to stay and learn, though he hardly deems himself anything akin a teacher, let alone guardian.

"I apologize for loading that onto you as well, Patches," he says when Cee's out and about to look for... well, something she didn't want to tell you about.

"As soon as I'm back on my feet, we'll be off your back. I won’t overstay my welcome."

You raise a brow at him as you dribble expectorant into a half full glass of fresh water. Getting rid of the dust is something you won't (let him) neglect. You know the dangers, the potential consequences of protracted infections. The Green is lethal. Years later, unexpected, for some.

Not for him.

You'll make sure of that.

He takes the glass, pulls a pout, then downs it in one go. You shake your head at his antics and free him of the empty glass.

"You're always welcome here. Both of you."

"Very conside-"

"No, I mean it, Ez. I enjoy your company."

You rarely snub him, adore his verbose quality. Sparking exasperation in most, for you its soothing, somehow, to hear him turn any two word matter into a full discourse. But there's no further discussion in this point and you want it known.

"I've been waiting for you to show your mug here for much longer than anticipated. I'd appreciate if you didn't run off and jump right into the next heap of trouble the tick you recover."

You know he still might. Ezra’s an alley cat. A roamer. He doesn’t stay, doesn’t commit. It sucks, you think. But it’s part of who he is.

As if he has read your very mind, he offers a sheepish smile and a shrug that makes him wince.

It hurts you still, to see him like that. In pain. Bone-weary. Somewhat broken and at wit's end. It’s not the first time he’s taken damage out in the void. You’ve patched him up countless times, bestowing a little more meaning upon his nickname for you, besides the obvious hint to your well-loved patched up overalls. You’re certain it’s one of his reasons to keep returning. For you to aid all injuries and grievances, big or small, and help him rebound. But none of those have ever been so… devastatingly permanent.

“That dreadful, hm?” he asks and only now you become aware that you’ve been staring at the bandaged stump that once was his right arm. Caught, you redirect your gaze to his face. His pensive smile unsettles you greatly, hence, you boldly lie.

“I’ve been eyeballing measurements. For replacement.”

Ezra tilts his head and sees right through you. He knows you long and well enough. You’re not that sloppy when it comes to your work and passion. He doesn’t call you out, however.

“I won’t be apt to compensate you suitably, I fear. Great loss and little gain have marked my voyage into the Green. Not quite what I had longed for.”

It’s your turn to shrug then. You don't live off the smell of you oily rags. You can bear one job without payment. You cannot bear watching him and sensing the concern that festers inside. The whisper of uncertain future and dread to accomodate to his life altering predicament.

“I’ll figure something out, Ez.”

You know he’s not entirely destitute, either. When you stripped him out of his tattered suit with the help of Cee, a singular aurelac gem dropped from one of its pockets. You’ve shoved it back in, not mentioned it once, since. You won’t now. He’s lost his crew, his ship, his belongings, his arm. You will not take the little he has left. And he’s smart enough not to offer it. After all, he has a teenage girl to care for. And many necessities to replace. The meager haul will barely serve to get them through for a few seasons, give and take. Not worth its cost.

“You know what?” you say and pat his shin through the blanket, “Since you’re up, I’m gonna cook.”

His eyes grow large at the prospect of food. Real food. Not those ready packed protein slushies and Bits Bars he’s been surviving on. His innocent reaction lures a smile from you, the heavy prior conversation momentarily forgotten.

"You're kevvasend, Patches. I hereby vow, I will acquit my debt to you. If there's anything I can do to compensate, speak your wishes."

“Oh, hush Ez," you laugh as you get up.

You can't ask him to stay. You won't clip his wings.

You leave him to his own devices then, glad to direct you focus elsewhere and away from the wistful thought, and head into the niche that is your kitchen. Your living quarters are by no means large. The Pug offers little in matter of quality of living. At least in your financial range. There are spots for the luckiest ones, who’ve turned adventures into riches. High up, above the container structures that serve the those below the salt.

You don’t love the Pug. You don’t hate it either. For you, it serves a purpose. Travelers of all sorts frequent here and there’s always something to repair - be it a radio. Or a foot. It all pays well enough.

The area you live in might not be one of the nicest, but at least its no hellhole. Those are located closer portside. The days out are safe around here, beyond the occasional pickpocket. The nights are certainly not.

Cee knows as much, so she comes in no later than sundown. You’re relieved to see she seems to carefully gain some autonomy, unsticking herself from Ezra’s side little by little since he’s up. The trauma sits deep inside her soul, so much is obvious. But the ever-present haze of gloom that hangs above her lifts the tiniest bit with each passing cycle. She’s talking more now and her smartness shines with each witty retort.

Today she comes ‘home’ early. As she enters the living room, she holds a curious flat package pressed close to her chest, similar to the one she brought in cycles prior, and you wonder what's inside. Her sneakineass piques your interest, though you don't pry. If Ezra trusts her, so do you. There's no ill intent behind her secrecy.

Immediately after entering, she disappears into the tiny adjacent bedroom that has become her save haven. Surrendering it to her had only seemed the right thing to do. You don’t mind making do with the makeshift cot beside your provisory workspace, compiled of old roll mats, blankets and some stray pillows.

It’s all a bit cramped and no permanent solution for sure, but the situation justifies it for the time being, no question.

Cee reemerges from her hiding spot no sooner than you call her.

She helps you craft a crude dinner table from supply boxes in front of the couch and takes a seat as you serve dinner.

You’re a little proud of yourself as you carry the bowls over.

Living by yourself, you rarely take the time to cook. But Cee looks like she could use a decent meal and Ezra must be starving by now.

You’ve been taking it slow for him with solid food, not sure how much he’d be able to stomach, given his overall condition. But you’ve heard his stomach grumble several times throughout the afternoon and decided it’s time to take pity on him. Thus, you now offer something a tad more substantial than thinned out nutrient rations.

As you set down a bowl of stew in front of him and Cee, excitement settles over her features, and she doesn’t waste time to dig in. Very much like Ezra, it apparently has been some time since she last got any proper food between her teeth. She praises your (in your mind decent) cooking skills avidly between loaded spoons and you revel in her joy over something as simple as dinner. Your attention is on her until she freezes, spoon mid-air from bowl to mouth. A slight frown replaces the expression of content.

“Are you okay?”

Her cautious question returns your attention to Ezra, who’s fallen utterly silent. He still resides on the couch, now upright despite the nasty gash right though his midsection. The white-knuckled grip on his innocent cutlery sparks concern. First you guess pain. Then frustration. The situation must harshly remind him that he now, by force of events, is left-handed. A circumstance that threatens to grow more challenging with his progressing recovery.

But his expression reveals something entirely different. Brows drawn tight together, he stares down into his untouched bowl, lips almost non-existent with how adamantly he presses them into a line. Brown eyes brim with unshed moisture and a shaky breath runs through his tightly strung frame.

“’m fine,” he says but it doesn’t convince either of the friends present.

“Suppose I simply did not expect to someday enjoy another home cooked meal.”

It hits you then, like a wave crushing in. That he’d been closer to giving in than ever before. The Ezra you knew had his ups and downs, sure. You’d seen him falter and rethink, fuss and curse, if something did not turn out the way expected.

But he always, always, found his way out of life’s tumult eventually and, afterwards, spun it masterfully into serpentine stories of misfortune and close calls.

This time, however, he had been on the brink to surrender fate.

It scares you. It scares him. And it is all you can do not to join in and break, after cycles of watching him stubbornly battle the consequences of this one disastrous undertaking. Swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat, you reach out and wrap your hand around his.

“The more reason to enjoy it.”

His iron grip slackens with your touch, and he collects himself enough to blink the tears away. Soon enough he’s digging in as well and regains a tad of his usual radiance. It does you a world of good to see him delight in the carefree moment that sprouts. In the jokes and banter, the recount of memories.

Ezra narrates one of your misadventures to Cee and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his unbelievable exaggeration of your occasional clumsiness.

You hadn’t meant to set your supplies on fire. And they sure as hell didn’t burn down entirely! But the mischievous glint in his eyes, the verbal jab of his elbow, stokes a familiar warmth deep within your chest.

You’ve missed this - him - so much it hurts. And you long for the moment to last.

Alas, dinner comes to an end eventually.

At least it does in laughter, you think, as Cee mockingly threatens to stab Ezra with her spoon at the mere mention of ‘channel rats’.

You totally get her.

Shortly after, she excuses herself to ‘prepare’ something and you’re left alone with your now exhausted chatterbox.

You’re still undoubtedly curious about the girl, but Cee won’t spill a word about her mysterious project before she retires to her room.

“She writes a novel,” says Ezra off-handedly as you accompany him to the bathroom and only goes into detail at your astonished expression, satisfied to now own your undivided attention as he praises his fledgling. Cee manages to impress you time and again.

Your focus, however, is elsewhere already as you maneuver Ezra to stand in front of the narrow shower cabin. You pause to consider how to go about your task without further hurting him.

“You certain this is necessary?” He quips, obviously mildly amused by your very thoughtful frown.

“Dead certain. No more cat baths, Ez. You reek.” you mutter and he does look somewhat affronted, though he knows you’re absolutely right. Its something else that has him stall. With a sigh, he relents and drops the humor.

You feel the tiniest bit sorry for barreling right through his façade but the tiptoeing around all sensible topics drains your energy. By now you’re tired. You both are. You want to get this over with.

Taking a small step back within the cramped space, you allow him room and privacy to rid himself of shirt and pants. It’s a time-consuming process, but he’s learning, accepting. And you’re there to help, if need be.

While he undresses, you busy yourself preparing new bandages and waterproof stick-on foil to keep his healing injuries dry.

As soon as he’s bare, you step in and skim cautious fingers across his skin to apply the foil around his right shoulder and over the cut in his abdomen. He’s lost some weight, you notice, as your hand ghosts across his stomach. It doesn’t take or add from his looks. He’s always been handsome to your eyes. Always will be.

Mid-way through enduring your gentle care, Ezra begins to ramble again. He tells you about the nights in the Green. How the mist crawls in on stormy ones. And how bright and clear the stars shine through the calm nights. No exhaust. No light pollution. Solely the mesmerizing radiant glow of myriad stars across the void.

You smile at that and try to imagine the beauty he’s found within the Green’s death trap. He amazes you, too, time and again.

You stay as he showers; too afraid still unsteady legs might give in to the slippery tile floor. He doesn’t mind your presence, its nothing new, but neither asks for assistance until he’s done. Upon his call of the nickname he bestowed you with, you hand him a towel and help him peel the waterproof layers of foil away. You don’t leave him time to lose himself in the misted mirror, to mourn his loss and detest his marred image.

You turn him to face you instead, and gently cradle his jaw in both of your hands until your reassuring gaze has melted his frown away. Nothing has changed in the way you see him, how you care for him. With a smile, you allow no space for doubt and he mirrors it, just the tiniest bit more confident.

Only then you move to change his dressings and check the stitches under his attentive observation.

You think there’s something on that wicked mind of his, as you briefly glance at his face. Something on the tip of his silver tongue.

But for now, it remains a secret.

#ezra prospect #prospect 2018 #prospect film #ezra x reader #ezra x you #pedro pascal #f!reader #soft ezra #fluff #leaf writes

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checkxmaster · 1 year

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(For the wandering verse?)

“It’s good to see you again. What made you decide to join up with this lot?” (Alice; @mxrvelouscreations

@mxrvelouscreations

Chad was ecstatic to see Alice again. He thought everyone else in the Hive had died. After waking up on the train tracks to an empty Hive, open doors, and dead Umbrella scientists strewn about at its entrance, he'd assumed the worst, and the worst was what he got. It was astounding how quickly the world went to hell in a handbasket. The only thing that kept Chad going was helping people. I made him feel useful, and like he was somehow making up for his part in letting this all happen in he first place, at least in some small way.

He smiled as he set up the motion sensors for the night. "They were people who needed help. So... I'm helping them," he said simply, with a light shrug. "You shoulda seen the paranoia and the lack of sleep they were all suffering from before I ran into them and implemented this motion detection perimeter. Now..." He patted one of the cameras mounted on a pole and stuck into the sand. "...they know if something comes close, they'll hear an alarm go off. Everybody's getting better sleep, and that can make all the difference."

It was the little things that mattered in this post-apocalyptic hell now, since no one was guaranteed to survive even one more day. "Besides... I feel like... I kindof owe it people. It's my fault he virus even got out in the first place..." That made his smile retreat, but soon it was back, albeit while taking on a more pensive quality than before. "It's good to see you too, Alice. I'm glad someone else survived who... knows how this all began." He wasn't sure why that mattered to him, except that it was somehow comforting to be around someone else who knew what he'd been through and how hard he'd tried to stop the virus from escaping the Hive, even if it was all in vain.

#mxrvelouscreations #kaplan rp #{ on to the next mission } ʷᵃⁿᵈᵉʳⁱⁿᵍ ᵛᵉʳˢᵉ #{so i'm imagining he's with a group like in extinction}#{and he's taking the place of someone like mikey}

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butchniqabi · 1 year

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Hiiiiii! As a trusted sci-fi enjoyer, what are your thoughts on enders game? I’ve never read it, but I see a lot of people put it on their essentials lists. I know the author is very mormon, so I’m just if it’s still worth a read or not.

oh goodness. it's been probably a decade since i read ender's game! my friend was obsessed with the series at the time and so before the movie came out i read it and honestly hm. i remember being SHOCKED by the twist like. SHOOK to my CORE, the intergalactic implications the ramifications the DRAMA. the story itself was mostly "meh" but this was before i started to really Love scifi (didn't happen til i was around 15-ish?) and hated reading scifi novels, so i can't say if my view is the most reflective of the quality! i had no idea he was a mormon though omg? odds are theres shit i missed at the time. im pretty sure that it and its successive novels are pretty staunchly anti-war and anti-genocide (like not even subtly) which is why i was initially confused as to why the marines sometimes have their recruits read it ? cant think of what message *they* get out of it considering it ends with a child being traumatized after being manipulated and used by the military (like???). but anyways! this is all to say that conceptually i fucks with it and upon reflection what i can remember was very cool and fascinating, but i cant in good conscience say either way because i dont have a solid view :pensive emoji:

#asks #saurry......i mean i can ask my friend about it and ask what he thinks now that he's older #but we have different tastes when it comes to certain media types so i cant even say if his assessment would even #be reflective of mine should i happen to reread LOL

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evadwrites · 1 year

Text

love was your religion (and you’re godless) || 1313 words || written for @sapphicmicrofics

Pairing: Ginny/Pansy Rating: M Prompt: In between [ April 10 ] Also read on AO3

Ginny’s breasts fit perfectly in the palm of Pansy’s hand.

She's soft and pliant under Pansy’s fingertips, easily undone by a few carefully crafted words. Warm like a furnace from wearing her favorite sweatshirt for hours, she shivers from every single one of Pansy’s touches, leans into it with cat-like laziness, chasing the cold, the subtle differences between them, between their worlds and their smiles and their bodies.

Ginny is so easily flustered Pansy can’t help but find it adorable: a scrape of teeth against Ginny’s neck, a few orchestrated almost-bites bring out quiet whimpers and almost-even-moans. They’re music to Pansy’s ears. Ginny is an orchestra, a symphony Pansy can’t get enough of, so she softly scratches the tended-tender skin above the waistline of Ginny’s underwear to bring out more sounds that she’ll end up catching with her lips painted scarlet.

Ginny arches into her with each touch, then falls back down on the silk of Pansy’s emerald-green sheets—a question mark turned exclamation, a gasp morphing into a drawn-out moan from a bite to her shoulder that will surely leave a mark. And when the trail of Pansy’s scorching-hot kisses reaches the slope of Ginny’s breast, Ginny fists Pansy’s hair in her right hand unprompted, refusing to let her go.

Pansy is rough and gentle at the same time—she knows that’s how Ginny likes it the most. She bites down lightly on a hardened nipple, tugs tugs tugs, then lets go just as Ginny starts to writhe under her. She soothes it with her tongue eagerly, does that for what feels like hours switching from one breast to another, undoes Ginny just to put her back together with practiced ease of someone who had done it countless times before, even though this is their first.

As Pansy pulls away, towers over Ginny, looks at the beautiful mess she created with her tongue, her fingers, her mouth her own two hands—she knows, instinctively, that it won’t be their last.

“Ginevra, dearest,” Pansy drawls, and the command is clear in her voice; Ginny is always eager to obey. “Look at me.”

Ginny’s eyes fly open—a glassy, cloudy gray with mint-green speckles and an amber ring in the middle, or maybe crystalline-blue with a ring of light caramel-brown. Pansy wishes for a pensive to remember the exact peculiar shade of Ginny’s eyes, to be able to commit the entire thing to memory: a stuttering mess of Ginevra Weasley, with bite marks all over the upper half of her body, her breasts covered in Pansy’s saliva and the crimson shade of her favorite lipstick—a perfect match to a fiercely soft blush on Ginny’s cheeks that just won’t let up; a perfect contrast to the Slytherin-green of Pansy’s silk bed sheets.

Ginny is an offering to the gods, and Pansy takes it eagerly—holds Ginny’s gaze with the confidence of a seductress and caresses the base of Ginny’s throat with her left hand.

Ginny whines, and Pansy can practically feel the need to come undone rolling off of her in waves, yet she doesn’t dare disobey and close her eyes. There's a haze in them that tells Pansy Ginny’s memories will have the quality of polaroid pictures—grainy but ethereal and movie-like, something you’re not sure happened in real life, to you, but oh, it did.

Pansy will make sure to leave enough marks for Ginny to never doubt that.

“That’s my good girl,” Pansy says, and oh—the way Ginny’s hips buck, seeking pressure, eager to come undone once and for all—isn’t it just the most beautiful thing Pansy has ever seen?

Pansy fights the urge to tighten her hold on Ginny’s neck, but still leaves it there—a welcome pressure, a reminder of who is in control, though she’s not sure Ginny needs one. Ginny is at her servitude, and Pansy is eager to take.

“Now, just look at that.” The words are drawn out, teasing; Pansy’s lips—scarlet lipstick now smudged—stretch out in a devilish smile. “Don’t tell me Ginevra Weasley likes hearing how good she is?”

Ginny is unburdened by the words, and an unbidden litany of please please please slips past her lips in-between quiet whimpers and moans. Pansy looks down on her, coos different variations of poor baby, so needy and makes sure to roll Ginny’s hardened nipples between two of her fingers as an afterthought.

Ginny fists the bedsheets underneath her in her hands, holds them so tight her knuckles turn white, and finally begs—please, please, just fuck me, Pansy, please, I want you to fuck me.

Pansy smiles, and things click into place.

“There it is,” Pansy whispers. “Such a good girl for me. Coming undone so easily, practically ripping at the seams—I'm gonna have to spend hours putting you back together.”

And as the last words slip past her lips, accompanied by Ginny’s drawn-out, hiccuping moan, Pansy finally pushes Ginny’s panties aside and touches her where she needs it the most.

Ginny is dripping, coating her fingers in just a few strokes. Pansy looks at her, and all she can think of is—what an eighth wonder of the world she is, a mess created just for her and by her; a rare painting stolen from the British museum to spend the rest of her life underneath Pansy, tangled in the emerald-green of her silk sheets.

Pansy enters Ginny with two piano-player fingers and cannot stifle a moan of her own—Ginny is so tight for her, so warm inside. As Pansy starts moving her fingers, she lets her hand fall from where it was nestled at the base of Ginny’s throat, uses it to support herself as she leans down and catches Ginny’s lips—just as an almost incomprehensible murmur of Pansy, Pansy, Pansy leaves them.

Ginny lets go of the sheets and wraps her hands around Pansy, claws at her back with cat-like intensity that will surely leave marks—as soon as Pansy feels the first drag of Ginny’s slightly sharp nails pressing into her previously unmarred skin, she starts moving her fingers faster, presses on Ginny’s clit with her thumb, murmurs good girl in an obvious show of approval.

Just like that, they’re timeless, and when Ginny finally comes undone after hours of Pansy drawing back, then pushing back in (with three fingers this time, because oh, what a delight it is to stretch her out, mold her into the shape just for Pansy); when Ginny finally gets her long-awaited release, it’s with a moan ringing so loud in Pansy’s ears that she’s surprised all the glass around them doesn’t shatter.

It's with a hiccuped oh, Pansy leaving Ginny’s lips as Pansy pulls out, brings her come-coated fingers to Ginny’s face, and looks looks looks at her without needing to say a word or a command. Ginny understands, because she is spread open at the altar, an offering to the gods the likes of Pansy—with constellations in their eyes and a devilish undertone in their scarlet-smudged smile.

Ginny is pressed in-between the warmth of Pansy’s body and the coolness of the emerald-green bed sheets Pansy bought just for her when she makes the decision that will forever seal her fate.

As Ginny’s lips close around Pansy’s fingers, as she tastes herself on her and moans—vibrations against Pansy’s fingers, pushing them in deeper, the motions of Ginny’s tongue, oh—

As Ginny looks up at her with her cloudy gray eyes with speckles of mint-green and a ring of amber, there’s an offering to the gods in neat cursive engraved on the inside of Pansy’s heart.

I have nothing, I am at your mercy.

Pansy smiles, removes her fingers from Ginny’s month, and leans down to kiss her—gently, softly, with the air of someone who knows she possesses a beautiful mess underneath her.

You have me.

#ginsy #ginny weasley #pansy parkinson #ginny x pansy #eva writes #sapphicmicrofics #when i tell you that to get it to 1313 #i only had to remove ONE word #like yeah i'm already a pro at this

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comfy-whumpee · 1 year

Text

Spooked

Continuing the ‘mafia has a loyalty issue’ plotline... CN: guns and death threats.

@bloodybrambles, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @suspicious-whumping-egg, @eatyourdamnpears

Joey Hancock had been working for Mr Dechart for almost a year. Before that he’d been a fence, and a decent one, but his eye for quality and detail had been better than required of someone pushing stock on the street. Someone had noticed and passed it up the chain, he’d gone through some extra training, and then came the promotion. Now, he was one of the quality assurance team.

There were lots of stops on a smuggler’s supply chain, and at any step along the way they ran the risk that someone would swap the goods for fakes. Joey’s team made sure they were always paying for the real deal.

There was a place for fakes and forgeries, Mr Dechart believed, and they had those in bulk elsewhere. But the real profit came from the luxury goods shipped tax-free and traceless. From tobacco to exotic meats, jewels to guns, whatever people wanted, they provided. Hell, they’d started the business with silk.

Joey hadn’t worked many places before he got into the mob. He’d done a fast food job, and a paper round. Working for old bitches with too much ego and not enough power had given him nothing to look forward to about work, but Mr Dechart was different. He listened, really listened. He trusted your opinions. At the same time, he was like everyone’s uncle. He told goofy jokes. He had Christmas lights put up and it wasn’t even the end of November. He was feeling out whether people wanted Italian or Chinese for the Christmas party.

Joey figured rich guys could afford to do stuff like Christmas parties, since they didn’t have to worry about making money all the time. For his own part, since moving up to the quality team, he’d bought a flat and upgraded every component of his PC. Even the graphics card.

Helped that those were shipped in, too. “We keep prices down,” the guys would joke. “Supply and demand.”

It was a good deal. Joey was always happy to do what it took to get a good life, the best life. Crime was no different.

Nor was snitching on his boss.

It wasn’t personal. He really did like working for the mafia. But there were some things he couldn’t get here; things money couldn’t buy. Mr Dechart wouldn’t know it was him, with how many people he had working for him. Joey was just some second-string QA guy who kept his ears open.

Of course, rumours started flying. Mr Dechart’s partner had been meeting with some higher-ups. There were loyalty issues somewhere and people wanted them sniffed out. There had been risks to Mr Dechart personally. Joey had heard a little about him being driven off the road one night, on his way to a meeting.

“He got shot at,” Laverne had told him, who knew the person who did Mr Dechart’s dry cleaning. “But he didn’t get hurt. We don’t know who it was, so people are on edge. We didn’t think anyone’d dare go for him like that.”

Joey looked surprised and pensive and didn’t say anything except, “Damn.”

In the weeks that followed, a few people got called away for meetings with Mr Dechart. They always came back and nobody seemed traumatised. Laverne went herself, nervous on the way there, happy on the way back. All fine. But nobody would explain what the meetings were about.

It was a month before Joey had his turn. He was in the warehouse on Southland Port and checking out some designer handbags, comparing them to the images he’d found online, and he got a shoulder tap. One of the personal guards had come for him. “Mr Dechart would like to borrow you,” he said, looking down at Joey on his chair without any visible expression. Pure neutrality.

Joey took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was the same as what had happened for the others. Nobody knew he’d said a few things to someone he shouldn’t have. Nobody knew what he’d bargained for. And they’d all do the same anyway, if they had the option.

He got up, leaving the bag on his desk. He quickly tucked his hands into his pockets, and then took them out again, not wanting to look too casual. He followed the escort to the office, where Mr Dechart had taken over that morning. He’d been waiting to get called in all day, today and all the days before.

Maybe someone pocketed a diamond, Joey thought hopefully. Maybe it’s something completely different.

As he opened the frosted-glass door to the office, Mr Dechart stood and smiled warmly at him. “Joey Hancock, good to see you.” They shook hands, his grip firm and palpably strong. Joey wasn’t short, but he was half the man’s size. “How have you been? I’m glad to see you’ve settled in here. Eduardo says you do good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joey said, trying to clear his throat as his words croaked. “I’m enjoying it.”

“Very good. The team have been performing well recently, though I can’t give sole credit to you. I’ve had only three complaints come back to us this quarter, so almost all the forgeries are being caught. There’s often a couple, or pieces that are just defective, but the more we catch, the better our connections value us.”

Joey nodded along, relieved as the conversation seemed to be on a familiar track.

Mr Dechart was wearing a pure white shirt you could see his muscles through, and he set an arm on his leg, showing an understated gemstone cufflink. Joey couldn’t tell if it was real; he’d never done jewellery, that was left for the real experts. The indication of wealth was subtle and classy, but god, it was scary. No amount of hard work could get Joey up there. This was a man who could buy his whole life from under him.

“Now, in terms of our meeting today, I’m sure you’re aware I’ve been having these one-to-ones with the team.” Mr Dechart smiled easily, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve heard rumours, I bet. I took a couple bullets, we knocked down the Mannington lot, and we had a little manhunt. It’s been a bit dramatic around here.”

Joey swallowed, unsure if he was meant to reply. He settled for a wobbly nod.

“I’ll be frank with you.” Mr Dechart leaned forwards, clasping his hands between his knees. His eyes were dark and magnetic. Joey couldn’t move. “We’re having a loyalty problem.”

His heart was hammering. Would everyone else have felt like this? The boss was terrifying when he wasn’t being a goof. Did Joey look more nervous than other people? Or had he already been found out? How?

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Joey?” Mr Dechart asked gently.

His throat bobbed. His stomach turned, churned and turned again. He shook his head slowly. If he admitted to it, he was dead. He knew he was. Mr Dechart only had three rules.

“I only have three rules.”

He knew the rules. They all knew the rules. But Mr Dechart said them anyway, methodical with each word.

“We don’t hurt children. We don’t keep slaves. And we don’t turn on each other.”

Joey thought he should nod again, but he couldn’t make himself move. Any slight twitch would give him away.

“Breaking the first two rules gets you in trouble. But the last one… That’s the big one. That gets you killed.”

He knew. He knew all of it already. His eyes were watering but he didn’t dare blink.

“Now if you’re innocent,” Mr Dechart continued, his eyes never pulling away, “I’m sure you’ll find that reassuring. You can head back to work feeling fine. There’s no risk to you. We’re just cleaning things up. You’ll keep your eyes and ears open, and pass on anything suspect you see.”

The words slid over him without sticking. He wasn’t innocent. Did they know? Could they tell?

“If you’re guilty…”

He couldn’t feel his hands.

“You should get your affairs in order. Alright?”

His whole body was buzzing.

“I’m expecting a ‘yes, sir’, Joey.”

His voice barely whispered as it left him. “Yes, sir.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Mr Dechart watched him, and Joey wondered if he was about to get a bullet to the head, right now. Was this it? Everything fucked?

When Mr Dechart rose, he flinched. Then he hurriedly stood too, surprised that his legs would hold him. They didn’t feel solid.

“Back to work now,” Mr Dechart told him, smiling that easy half-smile again. “And remember, if you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Joey forced up a strained, desperate smile. “Thank you, sir.”

He felt the eyes follow him out, and tried for all the world to be as carefree as those before him.

It was three torturous hours later that he finished work for the day. The time had passed in a blur, barely memorable now that it was over. He was pretty sure he’d done his work. He probably hadn’t just stood there the whole time listening to his heart pound in his ears. Someone would have noticed, and he’d been very careful to act normal.

The meetings proved Mr Dechart didn’t know it was him. Unless the meetings with the others had been to corroborate evidence, or warn them not to tell him anything, and maybe they all knew he was getting the chop but they hadn’t told him… But Mr Dechart had let him go. He was on his way home. So maybe it was all a bluff.

Either way, he wanted a backup plan. He wasn’t fucking risking getting shot. Once he was safely clear of work and in his car, he pulled over, and made a call.

“Martin speaking.”

The voice sounded calm. From a whole other world. He needed Martin to give a shit right now. “Martin, it’s Joey Hancock. They’re looking for the mole, they’re putting the screws on everyone. The boss is watching me. I don’t know if he knows. I need some protection.”

“Joey, slow down.” Martin was still calm. “What exactly were you told? Did they name any names or was it empty threats?”

Joey wanted to laugh, or maybe cry. A strange combination of both bubbled out of him. “You don’t understand. You don’t fucking understand, man. Mr Dechart doesn’t just sit on stuff like this. He’s going after the traitor ready to skin them. I’ve never seen him like that, he looked like he could kill me as a fucking afterthought.”

“Calm down, Joey—”

“You calm the fuck down! This is my fucking life. I wasn’t supposed to be in danger. I was supposed to do some shit for you and get the rest taken care of. You said, you s-said—”

“I know what I said.” Abruptly, the tone was soothing. Joey hiccupped back a sob. “We aren’t going to abandon you. You’re on your way to being one of us. We look after our own.”

We don’t turn on each other. Shit, he’s heard that before. But this asshole is all he’s got. “Okay. Fine. So what do I do? What do I do now?”

“You keep going.” Still, the soothing voice. Patronising, actually. Dickhead. “They don’t know who it is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. So just act normal and forget about what you did for us. When things have died down, we’ll be in touch.”

“You’re abandoning me, you’re f-fucking leaving me to—”

“This is the safest thing to do. Running will make it obvious you’re guilty.”

“You were meant to make sure I could get away!”

“You will. When the time is right. Good luck, Joey.”

“You can’t—”

The call was ended. Shaking with rage and more besides, Joey thumbed the redial, but there was no response. The pulsing drone of the ring drove into his head until he threw the phone into the footwell and dropped his head against the steering wheel, letting out a shout of wordless frustration.

It was all so fucked. He’d said little things. Harmless things. But it had been shit about the Decharts’ kid. Harmless or not, it had crossed a line and he’d known it.

And he was meant to just keep coming and going at work like he was just a stupid, second-string QA guy.

He sat there wordlessly trying to work out an escape route for long enough that someone knocked on his window.

He looked over, wondering if he looked as shit as he felt. He rolled down the window.

“You okay, mate?”

“Yeah, fine.” Then he squinted at the face, cast in shadow from the sun behind him. “Do I know you?”

“Maybe.” Then there was a gun. “I know you. Put your hands on the wheel.”

Joey swallowed air. His thoughts blanked. That sure was a gun. Pointed right at him.

He put his shaking hands on the wheel. The familiar stranger reached through the window to unlock the doors, and got in the back. Joey glanced into the rear-view mirror, but he couldn’t see much. Half a face. A shoulder. No sign of what part of him was at the barrel.

This was all so very fucked.

“Alright, Joey. Nice and calm. Let’s drive back to the office, shall we?” The voice was almost in his ear. The man, the hand, the gun, were all too close. “Mr Dechart would like to see you.”

#mafia whump #whump #mob whump #my fic #betrayal #guns #gunpoint #interrogation #alfonse #martin #they're called the silkrunner mafia btw #i think

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princepsumbra · 4 months

Text

Foam-Flecks on the Reins

Ruthlesness was a requirement for becoming a concubine.

Every woman possessed the quality in varying degrees; the soft-spoken ones were the most watched, for who could tell if they hid a knife behind their demure smile? In the early days, when a reasonable but heartbroken king sat upon Nohr’s throne, the knives were still sheathed. Assassination attempts came not with weapons but with words or cleverly planned group actions meant to destory a woman deemed unfit. Inferior.

Leo always grows pensive around the anniversary of the Concubine Wars end. Broken, sharp-edged memories rise to the forefront of his mind of a time best left untouched. As a result, he’d taken Faustus out for a longer ride than usual today, exploring an oft-ignored offshoot of their usual track.

Faustus flicks an ear as Leo dismounts. Hay crunches under the prince’s boots. The horse’s flanks heave, shining with a thin layer of foam. His head hangs low, great exhales stirring the dirt and hay below. Leo pats one breathless flank, also taking a much needed break to ease his own breathing.

Unbidden, a long forgotten fear flickers to life in his stomach as he stares at Faustus. Near the end of the war, when those who remained grew from ruthless to cruel in order to see another sunrise, a young Leo had found Faustus poisoned.

In a desperate searh for some measure of safety, he’d made his way for the royal stables. They were supposed to be a relatively peaceful part of Castle Krakenburg, as few concubines claimed horses of their own. But that evening, the stablehands at either fled from the crossfire or been slaughtered because of it. Leo never remembered why no one else was there with him, only that he sought comfort in the only living being he knew with certainty was alive. (It wasn’t until much later he learned who among his siblings still breathed.)

At first, he didn’t realize anything was amiss. It was normal for the animals to be quiet this late in the evening, when the cloud-covered moon loomed ghostly over Nohr. He’d entered the stall on silent footsteps, closing it shut behind him with trembling hands. Only then did he hear the labored breathing.

Assuming it a person, Leo, unarmed, turned around, eyes adjusting onto the dim shape of his horse laying on his side. Faustus’ foreleg twitched on every exhale. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes rolled frantically. Frozen, the young prince wasted precious seconds merely watching as the one thing he’d thought untouchable fell victim to the rot within Nohr’s heart.

Suddenly angry, the prince sets to work removing the saddle with jerky movements. His brows crease in a frown as a buckle sticks. There’s another huff from above when Leo pulls too hard, and it breaks through the thick cloud of emotion and memory clogging his thoughts. The buckle slips free.

“We’re alright, boy,” Leo murmurs, lifting the saddle away. He hangs it on the appropriate hook, then removes the sweaty saddle blankets and tosses them into a corner. Faustus regards his master with one unreadable black eye.

Leo never discovered the culprit. His assumption that it was one of the concubines in the faction against his mother could be completely wrong. But few had access to the royal stables, and fewer still bothered with the spare prince’s horse. In fact, he barely recalls what happened after he’d knelt next to the horse. There’s a faint impression of Leo running—somewhere. Returning to the stables, someone at his side. A healer, most likely, though all the finer details remain obscured, as if viewed through heavily scratched glass.

Shaking his head to dispel the unpleastaness, he finds a clean rag and begins wiping down Faustus’ coat. The rhythmic motions soothe them both, their pants soon turning into regular, even breaths.

He tells the world he personally takes care of Faustus, rather than a stablehand, because he’s particular. Some may assume him arrogant, egotistical. Let them say what they will. The real reason is far more human than that–fear. Fear that someone may yet still harm Faustus, and Leo will be too late to stop it. Fear that had he ignored Faustus in those harrowing days of recovery, the horse would have never again accepted Leo as a rider.

Fear that he’d lose more to the ruthlessness of that so defined his childhood.

#paladin mastery here i COME #pretend i posted this months ago whoops #failure is no option [drabbles]#leo ur trauma is showing again we gotta do smth about that #reminder to me: wc is 729

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