#but the man just had his stomach sewed back together with fish hooks and i do have to ponder the absurdity of that for a sec first

[genderfluid-druid]

Arthur Lester's bodily injuries follow ninja movie rules. The more ninjas attacking the protagonist, the easier the fight will be. The more the thing that just happened to Arthur definitely should have killed him, the more he fine.

#malevolent #malevolent podcast #malevolent spoilers #he fine #he fine!!! #i am laughing at this with all the love in my heart #if the law of this universe is 'Arthur Lester is fine' then I'm perfectly happy to take that and move on with my life #but the man just had his stomach sewed back together with fish hooks and i do have to ponder the absurdity of that for a sec first #he fine!!!!

[softscummymammon]

€Unexpected Acquaintance€

Assisted by:: @jinjinjinjin

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Sukuna just wanted this day to end. He was already in a bad mood from the storm last night, where he got little of his much needed sleep, and his mood had only gotten worse when he was faced with a bunch of "nature friendly" bastards protesting near the docks where his boat was tied down.

Now, he just wanted to get his daily load of fish for the market, and have a nap without dealing with any other goody two shoe hypocrites. He could already feel the headache building up behind his eyes.

Though the gentle rocking of the boat over the surface of the water did ease him slightly. People besides other fishermen were always so confused when he actually said something about himself and it happened to his be career in fishing. They were always so astounded when he said he could stay on a boat for a whole day. Weaklings, all of them.

Rubbing at his sore eyes, Sukuna glared at the surface of the horizon and took a sip of the alcohol in his canteen. Tucking the tin back into his wader's pocket, he patted the pocket for safe keeping.

Walking to the front of the boat, he checked his net markers he left a few days ago. Sukuna gasped when he saw his marker bobbing up and down frantically. Getting his equipment ready, he tugged on some gloves and grabbed at the net right under the marker.

Taking a breath, Sukuna started tugged on the net. Grabbing every piece of net coming from the water, Sukuna huffs as he pulls the net further and further from the water. The sound of splashing water reached his ears and he smirked in victory.

Putting all the access netting into one hand, Sukuna quickly reaches behind him for the mechanical hook. The machinery on his boat was built and bought by him only, so only he knew how it worked. By reaching for the net first, he can easily tie the access onto the hook and pull up the rest of it out of the water.

Doing exactly what was needed, he tied the net to the hook and grabbed onto the leaver and started cranking the leaver clockwise. The machinery raised the net out of the water better than he ever could. The load he hauled onto his deck made him smile and rub his hands together gleefully.

" This shipment is definitely worth a pretty penny. Now, all I gotta do it sort you out, fish sticks. "

*Slap* "Who you callin' fish sticks, blubber mouth?! "

Sukuna froze. Looking up, he raised his hand to his face and wiped away some water the fish that had been thrown at him left on his cheek. Peering down at the fish now flopping on his deck, he gave the thing a death glare; as if that would give him any answers. He must really be going crazy-

"Up here, blubber-for-brains. "

His eyes snapped up towards the voice. But the air in his lungs escaped as if they were punched out of him. A human(?)'s upper torso was visible at the top of the net. It was leaning against the hook of the machinery and was throwing and catching a fish in its hand.

Sukuna raised a brow, " What the fuck? "

The thing raised one of its brows back, " Nice use of language, Oh Smart One. I thought you humans were supposed to be intelligent. Though, every one of your kind I've encountered uses fowl language, so smarts must just be a myth. "

Sukuna growled at the things snarky commentary, " Oh yeah? And what kind of intelligent creature like you gets stuck in a fishing net, huh? So much for being smart. "

The thing snarled, showing off rust colored stained teeth dyed by no doubt blood as sharp as many of Sukuna's own fileting knives. It held tightly onto the fish in its hand, " Watch your mouth, human, I still got a whole lotta of ammo here, and your face is lookin' like a big ol' target from where I'm sittin'. "

Sukuna rose an unimpressed eyebrow and pulled out a harpoon gun he kept in the captain's quarters, " Mine hurts worse. "

The thing flinched back and hissed at the gun, but slowly set down the poor he probably squeezed to death in his panic. The thing made a whiny sound in the back of its throat, " I didn't choose to get stuck here. I was getting chased by some shark mers. Those nasty ones only know the smell of blood and the next potential meal. I'd choose to be anywhere else right now, trust me. "

Sukuna huffed, " Yeah, sure. " Putting away the gun, Sukuna sighed and looked back up to the sulking thing. Looking closer, he was the slightest shine of scales decorating the cheeks, neck, and forearms of the thing. Its eyes were steely and sunken in, as if it's seen things beyond it's life time.

Sukuna chuckled upon realization, " You're a mermaid, aren't you? "

The mer scoffed, " Merman, thank. But 'mer' is just fine. I still don't get why ya humans always gotta gender code things. Damn, just call us what we are? "

Sukuna chuckled again, " What? Nuisances? "

The mer hissed again, " We wouldn't be if ya humans knew to keep to yerselves. Ain't this section of the coast off limits to fishers like yerself? "

Sukuna shrugged, not giving an answer. The mer scoffed and crossed it's arms over it's chest. Sukuna looked at it up and down, taking in everything he could. He hummed delightfully.

The mer must have caught on, " What'cha lookin at me fer? Think I'm some sorta snack for yer to eat? "

Sukuna shook his head no, " Nah, I was just rememberin how much one of your kind goes to sell on the blackmarket. You gotta be worth something. No rich bastard would give up the opportunity to call a thing like you pet. "

The mer's eyes went thin, but already creamy skin paled considerably, " You wouldn't... "

Sukuna rose a brow, " Oh, and why wouldn't I? I could definitely use the money. "

The thing stayed quiet, before it soon started to shake. Sukuna was about to sneer and comment about it being weak, but paused when a face formed from agony and rage shot up to glare at him. Sukuna had to keep himself from tensing and tried to look as calm as he could be.

The mer growled, " That's all that ya humans are. Selfish and greedy monsters only willing to do something if you get money in return. Do you know how many of our kind is sacrificed, hunted, and killed just so the others can live? Just so you humans can play god and reap what we mer's sew. "

Sukuna gulped, remembering the auction show he was emailed an invite to since he contributed a large amount of fish to the CEO of the company. It was a disgusting show of wealth. How millionaires and billionaires fought over a small little thing that held a resemblance to the one right in front of him.

The mer wasn't done, but tears of grief started to roll down it's eyes, " How many of our guppies, our children, are pulled from our arms to be sold like live stock?! You are no better! "

Sukuna had enough of this tantrum, " Do not bundle me with those people! I'd never harm a child, even if I am considered a monster by other people. I will not allow it to be done by a fish like you! "

The mer shrunk back, breathing irregular and struggling, like a faint wheeze. It swallowed roughly and looked away. Sukuna rumbled, now over flowing with guilt he felt he should not harbor. Looking back up, he became slightly alarmed at the shallow and wheezy breaths the mer was taking.

Mer's need water, his mind supplied. Sukuna growled, and hackles raising when he caught the mer flinching again. Walking away from the net, he went down below deck on got out a giant glass tank he kept in case he needed to keep a fish alive for more profit.

Taking it up the stairs and on to the deck, he set it down on some secure boxes and grabbed a bucket to start filling it with water. He had to make haste though, or the mer would die from drownin? Suffocation? And all of this work would be for waste.

Once the tank was full and covered from the beating ray of the sun, Sukuna walked over to the leaver controlling the hook and rotated it counter clockwise. He watched as the machine lowered the net onto the deck and he let go of the leaver. Once the machine stopped, he stepped up to the net and untied it.

Being this up close and personal to the mer, he watched as the sun made the scales look iridescent. Slipping his arms underneath the torso of the fish being, he pulled it out of the other fish and dragged it towards the tank. The mer roused slightly, trying to fruitlessly push Sukuna away. The bigger man scoffed and dropped the mer into the tank.

The reaction was instant, the mer took a deep breath through the large gills covering it's side and it slumped against the rim of the glass tank. Sukuna watched, looking at the mer's tail that could he classified as art in itself. It was beautiful, though he would never admit it. The thin tarp Sukuna draped over some boxes didn't stop the light from the sun bouncing off the glittering scales.

Sukuna's gaze went back up to the mer's face, startling to see the mer was also looking at him. It's hair fell in it's face, blocking out most of it. It puffed, blowing some of the strands out of it's eyes to get a better look.

Sukuna hated the way his chest constricted at the show. The mer raised a webbed hand, and Sukuna slowly took it and shook it. He made a face when he pulled it back and fake gagged at the slimy feeling left on his skin. The thing laughed at his disgust and shook it's head, getting water everywhere.

It smirked, " The name's _____ _____. What's yours, blubber man? "

Sukuna sneered at the nickname, " That's not my name. It'd Sukuna Ryoumen, nothing else. "

The mer smirked, " Well now I gotta call you that every time I address ya. "

Sukuna growled, " Don't you dare. " The glint in the fish's eyes didn't quell any of the building dread that sat in the bottom of his stomach. He really debated on if he should sell the fish or not.

❃.✮:▹»»——⍟——««◃:✮.❃

#anime headcanons #jjk x male reader #ryōmen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #x male reader #male character #mermaid male reader #sukuna ryoumen x reader #sukuna x male reader #tw blood #tw gore #tw fishing #tw harmful endangerment #alternate universe

[devil-kindred]

Repercussions

Pairing: Isobel Walters⎟Female Deputy/John Seed

Rating: T

Warnings: drug use (bliss), hallucinations, kidnapping (i guess?)

Summary: Isobel disappears into the Henbane, intent on staying away from Holland Valley for as long as possible and takes an unfortunate trip in the bliss that opens far too many eyes to a revelation that could change everything. [aka: Faith tests the waters of temperament with the deputy and learns some valuable information.]

WC: 2,429⎟1/1⏤ part two of the sins of the past series (though part one is not required reading as it’s set before the events of FC5)⎟read it on ao3

-

“Bliss. Great, just great.” Isobel murmurs as she takes in the expanse of greenery coated in fog so thick she can barely see three feet ahead of herself. “Don’t know what I expected from Sharky’s stories but not… this.”

She holsters her gun and tentatively steps forward, unsure of what direction to head into let alone what she’ll find hiding in the bliss. She doesn’t wonder for long, however, as a figure rushes from the fog and latches onto her with both hands.

“Deputy!” A giggle from the woman who’s appeared before her. “So kind of you to join me!” Faith relinquishes her hold and dashes a few steps away, twirling once before throwing her arms wide with a smile. “Welcome to the bliss, a peaceful place where things can be whatever or whomever you desire.” 

Isobel stares her down cautiously, still aware of herself if only slightly.

“Oh come on, Deputy. Don’t you want a rest? To see the people you love at peace? You can have it.” She disappears into fog, only to reappear behind her causing Isobel to turn and nearly jump back at the sight. “All you have to do is walk the path. Do that and you’ll be accepted into our family.”

In the ensuing silence, Faith steps forward once more and takes Isobel’s hands in her own. 

“The Father will look after you. He’ll make you feel loved and safe.” Faith stares into Isobel’s eyes, that gentle smile still in place even as her tone twists. “Don’t you want to be safe, Deputy? Both you and your daughter?’

Isobel freezes, the words hitting her like a bucket of cold water to the face, and all the hazy ease of the Bliss is gone. Replaced by mounting panic, and, as her gaze goes wide Faith’s turns knowing.

“What?” She asks, her quick nonchalant laugh sounding near hysterical.She tries to backpedal, to reel in her loss of control like a fish on a hook, but it’s of no use.

“Shh, everything will be all right, Deputy.” Faith, now looking smug, yanks her down into a cluster of bliss flowers and holds her. One arm wrapped tightly— far tighter than someone her size looks capable of— around her shoulders, holding her still in the field of bliss as she draws in big gasping breaths of tainted air. “It will be all right. Just breathe… and relax.”

Faith’s words grow faint as she strokes Isobel’s hair, and just as her vision starts to go dark— sparkles drifting and dancing at the edges— she vanishes in a puff of green haze. 

As if she were never there to begin with.

-

Everything has a hazy warmth when she opens her eyes again and she finds herself sprawled out on a grand bed. A fluffy white pillow is tucked beneath her head and sheer white curtains waft in the warm breeze at the edge of her line of sight. The mattress creaks and dips beside her and she slowly turns her head to find the source of the added weight.

“John? What are you doing⏤”

“Shh.” He shushes her as settles onto the bed next to her, hooking his fingers into the hem of her shirt and slowly pulling it upwards. “Everything’s fine, deputy. Just relax.”

He splays a hand across the exposed skin of her stomach and drags his palm against it, his long tattooed fingers tracing the silvery white scar stretching across her abdomen from side to side.

“Cesarean.” Her voice is soft and lazy, barely there as the warmth of the room intensifies.

“She wasn’t natural?”

“Well gee, John, when you say it like that you make it sound like I bought her from a lab somewhere.” Isobel says as she stares down at him with a mix of distaste and annoyance. “No, she wasn’t a natural birth. She was breach which made my only option a cesarean.”

“Stubborn.” He chuckles, his palm still flat against her skin as he looks up at her⏤ dark blue eyes staring deeply into her own amber. “Did it take long?”

“Given they had to put my internal organs back and sew me up afterwards, yes. I didn’t get to see or hold her until after they cleaned her off.” Isobel’s voice is soft and, while her eyes still meet his, he can tell she’s lost in the memory. “Her eyes were grey when she was born⏤ not unusual with newborns⏤ but they turned blue later.”

“What is she like, Isobel? Tell me everything. I want to know all about our daughter.”

Something in his smile looks… off, and yet she finds all kinds of details falling from her lips as the room turns hazy and her eyelids grow too heavy to keep open.

When Isobel comes to once again, John is laying beside her on the bed with his head propped up on hand and the other tangled in her hair. He flashes that same smug smile as blinks up at him, trying her best to shake the fatigue from her limbs.

“Quite the sleepyhead, aren’t you?” 

John’s voice sounds wrong and after some thought in she realizes the southern drawl that has always laced it is missing from his tone. He speaks again before she can question it and she spends her time trying to wrap her still fogged mind around what he’s asked.

“What?”

“What is your daughter’s name, Deputy?”

Isobel squints up at him in confusion as he looms over her on the bed. “I already told you. Did you say ‘your daughter’?”

“So you did.” He says quickly, smiling gently and steadfastly ignoring her question. “It’s just, we’ve talked about so much. Your old home and town— who our daughter is currently staying with, and all about her. I know you gave me her name, I just need you to tell me again so I can make sure I have everything right. Don’t you want her to have a proper welcome into our family?” He coos, stroking her hair with a tattooed hand.

“Bella.” Isobel answers, dark eyes fixated on his hand as he pulls away. “John?”

“Yes, Deputy?”

“Why are you missing a tattoo?”

At her words, his likeness wavers as if someone had waved a hand through him. 

“John?”

 The John who was not really there smiles and reaches a hand out of her line of sight, shaking his head gently. “Don’t worry, we’ll all be together very soon.”

Isobel feels a prick in the inside of her arm and the world falls away.

-

The screech of tires and a large cloud of dirt are what greet Isobel in the waking world as she comes to with an accompaniment of voices loudly bickering with each other.

“You sure it ain’t a peggie? I don’t wanna get over there just to have some frickn’ angel trying to claw my face off.”

“Hurk, man, I would know if it was an angel. They just stand there, they don’t lay down. ’Sides, I’ve been traveling with po-po for days. I know how to find her.”

Isobel sits up with a groan, a hand to her head and a stinging feeling in her arm.

“Po-po! See, I told you I knew how to find her.” Sharky rushes to her side, crouching down to look her over. “Man, you are way worse for wear than I expected.”

“Thanks, Sharky.” She says dryly, even as she grins.

“What happened? One minute I had you with me and the next you disappeared into the damn trees like some sorta nymph or something. ’Cept it was more creepy than sexy, no offense. It’s not you, just the way you walked off kinda dead eyed and didn’t listen to me. Total boner killer.”

“Madre de dio, my arm is killing me.” She swears, either ignoring or not hearing Sharky as Hurk Jr. climbs out of the car and hauls her up to standing position. “I was with John.”

Hurk Jr. and Sharky exchange a glance. 

“Uh, Dep, we were right on the edge of the Whitetails when you disappeared.” Sharky stares her down with a concerned gaze. “Nowhere near the Valley and the Seeds do not strike me as people who like to share their toys. So unless Johnny boy was pulling an extreme heist⏤ and believe me, he’s too lazy for that⏤  there’s no way you were with him.”

“But he asked about Bella.” She replies, confusion lacing every bit of her tone.

“Who’s Becca?” Hurk Jr. interrupts, as he helps Isobel to the car and lifts her into the seat with ease.

“Bella.” She corrects, head lolling back against the seat. “My daughter.”

“Uh Dep,” Sharky says, climbing into the front of the truck and leaning into the back seat as Hurk Jr. climbs in the driver’s side. “let me take a look at your arm real quick.” He takes her extended arm gently, turning it this and way that, his eyes locked onto the large bruise and needle mark in the crook of her elbow. “Did anything look weird when you were with John?” He asks, making quotations as he says the name with his free hand.

“What do you mean?”

“Did anything look hazy? Or, like, green? Maybe there were sparkles somewhere?”

“Why would you ask⏤ The bliss.” Isobel pulls her arm out of Sharky’s grasp and digs frantically in jacket. “I was in the bliss, I saw Faith and wherever she is the bliss is always involved.”

“Dep, what’re you looking for? Maybe if you just, slow down a bit... You might’ve overlooked whatever it is.”

“No. No. Fuck!” Isobel shrieks and slams a hand down against the seat, eyes wide in panic. “It wasn’t real which means she knows, which means he knows.”

“Who knows?”

“Faith! She knows about Bella which means J⏤ means that her dad knows about her.” Isobel can see the ‘wait a minute’ stare on Sharky’s face, but she’s lucky enough that he lets it go and doesn’t press her on it. Instead, he focuses his efforts on getting everything back to normal or as normal as peggie-infested Hope County can be. 

“Dep, you gotta calm down. Let me get us back to the valley and we’ll get the Doc to look you over.”

“No!”

“Hurk, I don’t think the valley is very high on Dep’s list of places to be right now.”

“Where do you want me to take her then, Sharky? She needs looked over! We just picked her up out of a field in the middle of the Henbane⏤ she could get pulled back into the bliss again if we stay here. Besides, she’s not in any shape at this point to be running around the Whitetails unless you wanna go toe to toe with Jacob motherfuckin’ Seed.”

“You don’t have to be so harsh, dude. I’m just saying we shouldn’t make her panic more than she already is.” Sharky turns back to Isobel, patting her leg absentmindedly. “Dep, I know you don’t want to go back to Holland Valley but we have to take you somewhere. Let’s drop by the Rye’s for a bit, maybe Nick or Kim can take a look at you and see if they can have the Doc come to you.”

Isobel gives a reluctant nod, slumping back against the seat and saying nothing in reply as Hurk turns the car around to head to their newfound destination.

-

Faith stalks down the path to Joseph’s church, ignoring the curious stares of the chosen as she walks by without a word. As she reaches the building two of the chosen standing guard scramble to open the doors for the herald of the Henbane. She nods in their direction, all the acknowledgement she’s willing to give them as the doors of the church are thrown open wide. She steps inside, barefoot as always, as the faithful turn to look with their guns at the ready… They hesitate when they see it’s only one of the heralds, but only lower them at Joseph’s command.

“May I have a word alone with The Father?”

Joseph inclines his head and the faithful file out without a single protest.

“Joseph—“

“How fares our wayward Deputy? Has she yet joined out crowd of the faithful?’’’ He asks from his seated position, voice terse as he studies the pages of bible in his hands. 

“No, she’s still resisting—“ Joseph sighs in disappointment and Faith rushes on quickly to evade the oncoming fallout. “… but I learned something important. Something that could be helpful in our efforts to sway her to our cause.” She bounces slightly on the balls of her feet, graceful footsteps carrying her up the steps to the pulpit. She twirls once and then faces forward, hands braced on the dark stained wood as she leans towards him with a smile. “The Deputy has a daughter.” 

There is an uncomfortable stretch of silence following her words and, as her eager smile begins to slip away, she rocks back on her heels. Faith had thought he would be pleased with the knowledge... but his silence says otherwise.

“As much of an opening as that would provide, the idea of using one’s child against them seems unbecoming of our noble cause.”

“Even if the daughter were one of our own?” Faith questions as she steps away from the pulpit, slowly descending the stairs and kneeling before Joseph. “Wouldn’t you want to save her?”

“I wish to save as many souls as I can. You know this.” He shuts the bible with a loud snap and stares her down with a level gaze. “Enough dancing around the topic, Faith. You have my attention and it must be very important for you to leave the Henbane without permission. You say the deputy’s daughter is one of our own?”

“She’s John’s daughter.” She says with renewed glee, bouncing back to her feet. “She told me herself.”

Joseph closes his eyes and turns his face to the heavens, letting out a slow breath as Faith waits, eagerly bouncing from foot to foot. After some time, he opens his eyes and levels his gaze with Faith’s own.

“Have the deputy brought to me and speak of this to no one.”

“But Joseph⏤”

“I will look into this information and, if things are as you say, I will have our family be reunited.”

“Yes, Joseph.” Faith exits the church with renewed purpose and sets off to locate Isobel, and as she pulls the stolen phone from the pocket of her dress, ponders on doing more digging of her own.

#ship: bad at love #oc: isobel walters #isobel x john #far cry 5 fanfiction #far cry 5 fanfic #fc5 fanfic #fc5 fanfiction #john seed x deputy #hopecountygazette

[possiblypeachy]

tea & schemes. (5)

―; summary: Gods are not often found in the library but it seems as though Florence has a talent for finding things that she shouldn’t.

―; pairing: jacob frye x ofc

―; word count: 4.7k (another biggun)

―; warnings: light swearing.

―; A/N: i love a good catalyst (a.k.a. from this point on is when it gets juicy, y’know)!! 

this chapter also features jacob being too kind to flor and, each time i write them together, i get closer and closer to making them just like kiss or smth BUT i have to stick to my outline so :(( no smooches yet :((

―; part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

― ❊ ―

The headache from her and Evie’s last conversation had not yet left her. It had certainly done a number on her; even Freddy shot the occasional concerned glance toward Lissie over dinner when Florence displayed too much politeness. It was not her— this well-mannered, tame woman— but it is what everyone had wanted of her, so who was she not to give it to them? It was a shame, whatever spirits that watched over her thought, that such a sharp woman had been dulled— like a blade without its care.

She had taken to reading more often, finding that the public library was a quaint enough place for a woman of her status. Now that she had put a barrier between herself and adventure, sitting down with a good book was about as far into her wildest dreams that Florence could delve. While at home, Duncan brought her comfort— even if he seemed to always have that scowl on his face. When the weather would be too terrible to think of going for a walk, he and Florence would sit together near the windowsill, looking for any birds that had the misfortune of flying that day.

Duncan was doing just that, a breeze from the opened window ruffling his whiskers, while his owner read quietly at her desk. She had been mulling over Pride and Prejudice (a terrible book to read when one wants to remove themselves entirely from romance, but it had always been one of Florence’s favourites so she had allowed it) when the tabby began to yowl behind her. She ignored him for a time, now using a finger to trace underneath the lines of writing to keep her focus on the book. The sound of him leaping from the windowsill to the bed was the next thing that broke her concentration. That, and the fact that he continued to meow.

With a sigh, Florence’s shoulders slumped and she paused in her reading. “Duncan, lovely, be quiet; mama’s trying to read.”

“Oh, we’ll try to be quieter. Sorry.”

When it felt like her soul rose from its very body, she lost the page of her book and slammed her hand down onto the desk. A harsh, through-the-teeth “shit!” slipped from her lips and her head hung closer to her body, eyes closed. It was quiet for a few moments, save for a gentle chuckling. Then, Duncan meowed again and Florence finally turned her head, eyes being greeted by her cat leaning into Jacob’s hand, chirruping quite happily with the scratching his head was getting. “You didn’t think to even say ‘hello’ as you came in? Give the window frame a knock?” She rubbed a hand across her brow, huffing out a breath. “You could’ve killed me.”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Jacob observed. She heard him take a seat on the bed behind her. Duncan’s purring didn’t cease. In fact, it sounded almost like he had begun to knead the man’s thighs, preparing to, presumably, fall asleep upon them.

Now, one mustn’t discount Duncan the cat as an unimportant element of this story. He had always been a good judge of character, like his human ‘mother’, but had the luck of being born into a feline’s body, meaning no one really expected much from him. On one occasion, one of Freddy’s colleagues had appeared at the door, smelling of liquor, near to the witching hour. Both siblings were still awake; Frederick was preoccupied with some manner of paperwork and Florence had been with Lissie, giggling next to the fireplace over a bottle of wine. Freddy, too polite and concerned for the man’s safety, let him stay in the spare bedroom in the basement until morning, much to Lissie’s (who now had to sleep in a room adjacent to the bloke) displeasure. Duncan, not liking the way he carried himself-- or stood dangerously close to his paws, took it upon himself to make that night a living hell. The man got all of about two hours sleep, constantly interrupted by a hissing tomcat and a fair few bites to the ankles. Lissie was disappointed to see that Duncan had also taken it upon himself to mark his territory in the corners of the room.

‘How does this relate to the tale at hand?’ you ask. Well, Duncan will have you know that that ankle-bitten man ended up breaking a family heirloom out of pure carelessness the next morning and was later discharged from the police force for ‘abuse of power’. Then, he would like to remind you that he is a good judge of character.

Florence knew this, having cared for the dastardly cat for long enough now, which made it so much worse when Duncan had decided that Jacob wasn’t just a good person to have around-- in fact, he was splendid. He’d never had a head scratch like that before!

Her own cat was betraying her to hasten her realisation of the goodness before her.

Terrible.

“I woke up on a perfectly fine side of--” Florence bit on her own words, pulling the stress in her voice back by a leash. Her jaw clenched. “Why are you here, Mister Frye? I don’t have any leads on work and--”

“Ouch.”

She steeled her expression before turning to look at him, hands clamped onto the back of her chair. “What?”

Jacob frowned slightly. Something seemed to be settling in. “Why are you angry with me?”

Upon seeing his genuine worry, Florence’s gaze softened for a moment but, when a flood of reminders to become a better woman flushed her mind, her attention flickered away from him. It returned once more and the honey of her eyes was now hard like bronze. “I’m not angry with you. I’m just preoccupied--”

“With what? Reading--” He moved to peer over her shoulder and, before she could shuffle the book away from his prying sight, he finished with a “-- Pride and Prejudice?” Jacob shot her an incredulous look, brows knitted together, and she looked away. “The Florence I know wouldn’t be… like this.”

Florence swallowed, refusing to look back at him. “Well, perhaps the Florence you know is not who I truly am. Sorry to disappoint, Mister Frye.”

Silence.

Jacob studied her. There was a hint of… something in her eyes: doubt? Insecurity? She wrung her hands together as she went to turn away from him again and it clicked: “Someone has said something to you.”

She felt her stomach flip. Duncan had stopped purring. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“They have, haven’t they? That’s why you’ve started to do all these… ladylike things. Reading, sewing--” He gestured to the broken shirt hung over a nearby chair, “-- and I can tell that you haven’t been out yet today; the bottom of your dress isn’t dusty.”

If one listened closely enough, they could almost hear Florence huff out a laugh. “I do ‘ladylike things’ most of the time; it’s what people want of me.”

He groaned. “But it’s not what you want, is it?”

She went quiet. In an attempt to comfort, Duncan leapt from the bed to the chair, balancing awkwardly before wobbling down onto her lap.

“What did they say?”

Florence felt her resolve weakening. He was too nice to her. “You should probably be elsewhere. You have important things to do for the better of London and I’m not well-enough equipped to help with that.”

All the pieces fell into place and he rolled his head to one side, gaze following his movement. “They’ve put it into your head that you’re not… assassin-y enough to spend time with me?” She gave him one look that said all he needed to know. “Bullshit.” The way in which he contorted his face forced Florence to hide a smile. Damn him. “I have had drinks with Charles Dickens and he is far less capable than you are.”

Hazel eyes bore into her like a fishing hook with her growing grin being the catch. The sight that met his again was warmer-- more like her. “You have not gone to the pub with Charles Dickens.”

Jacob finally gave a smile-- one that they often shared together. “Of course I have! He’s--”

“Oh, fuck off. Don’t you dare lie to me, Jacob Frye.”

He leant his head back to chuckle, a weight lifting off of his chest. “He’s part of a Ghost Club; Evie and I joined it.”

Florence giggled, moving her head to the side as if to keep it from his view. “You’re just digging yourself further into a grave with the stone above it engraved as ‘liar’. I mean, a Ghost Club?” She nodded mockingly at him, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn into a tight smile. “Of course.”

“I’ll take you one day, if only to prove my innocence. I reckon you’d like a good ghost hunt.”

The little rev of Duncan’s chest had returned upon feeling his owner’s body and soul relax beneath him. One of Florence’s hands moved to stroke him gently, content. She felt better-- like she had control again. Perhaps acting differently to how you are is a terrible decision after all.

It was quiet for a small while, during which Jacob simply watched Florence and Duncan, feeling much better about his visit today. Then, she opened her mouth like she was going to say something but stopped herself with a smile. He cocked his head and she sighed, sounding almost relieved. “Thank you, Jacob. Really. I have felt--”

“It’s no problem.” There was a pause. “It’s nice to get away from all the assassin business sometimes. One might call you ‘an escape’.”

“Refreshing like a holiday to the seaside, am I?” Florence raised a brow. Jacob was glad to see the dimple in her cheek again.

He smiled that devious little smile of his. “I wouldn’t know. We’ll have to go together someday, dear Flor.”

She swallowed that rising feeling in her chest and gave a small nod, an impish light flickering wickedly in her eyes. “Certainly-- if my brother allows it.”

“Well,” Jacob clicked his tongue, his lips straightening into a line, “we can kiss goodbye to that idea then.”

Florence hummed, agreeing. It would be terribly scandalous for a young, unmarried woman such as herself to be seen on holiday with a man-- a man below her station, at that. What was she? Some kind of lady of the night? Those were words she could hear her eldest sister, Harriet, say; she had liked Florence and her ‘feminism’ about as much as one likes vomit on their doorstep.

“Everything from before aside,” She began, veering the conversation elsewhere. She sounded kinder now, “what brings you to my humble abode, Jacob?”

He paused for a moment, thinking. Then gave a positively confused look. “I’m not sure actually. I was just passing by and thought that I’d pop in, I suppose.” His mouth formed a lopsided grin when he glanced down to Duncan. “I just couldn’t stay away from little Dee and his charms.”

“Is it impossible for you not to give something a nickname?” Florence asked, exasperated. Duncan seemed fairly happy with the new name, however, made clear in a tired, little ‘mrreow!’ from her lap.

“It makes life more interesting. Plus,” Jacob had that look again-- like he lived to annoy, “the best part of my day is hunting down your brother and calling him anything but ‘sergeant’.”

Florence gave a laugh at this; what kind of sibling would she be if she didn’t find joy in her brother’s misfortune? It wasn’t her problem that he had decided to ally with the Fryes.

With a little sigh, she patted Duncan off of her lap and stood, trying her best to brush the cat fur from her skirt. Although the furrow of her brows was disgruntled, when she glanced at Jacob, her eyes spoke of contentment. “Right then, Jacob. Time spent here is time wasted. Why don’t we go for a walk?”

“Only if you hold my arm like a damsel pining for me.” Jacob raised a brow, eyes wide and an arm held out like the offer he made was meant to be tantalizing.

Florence huffed a laugh out through her nose, shaking her head. “You really do push your luck, Jacob Frye.”

“Oh, but it’s a tempting offer, isn’t it? I have been told that I have a strong arm.”

“By who? The many other women you have doting on you?”

Jacob grinned. “So you count yourself among them? How lovely.”

Florence raised a hand as if to slap his arm and he flinched away, laughing. She gave him a chiding look, though the effect was negated with how her eyes squinted when she smiled, and left the room, leaving him to follow her down the stairs.

--

Florence had indeed succumbed to the offer of holding his arm as they walked. She insisted that it was to prevent her from becoming a victim of her own clumsiness but Jacob had dismissed that with an unconvinced “of course” and a shit-eating grin.

Walking this closely to him had brought her to the realisation that he was quite a bit taller than her. When he spoke, she noticed that she had to crane her head up a bit to look at his face and, upon coming about this discovery, she soon decided to simply look ahead when replying, as to keep him from realising this debilitating advantage over her. It also birthed the thought of: Good Lord, Evie Frye is a tall woman. Florence classed herself as ‘an average build and height’ for a woman living about London but Evie seemed to just take the cake. Perhaps the air in Crawley encouraged growth?

Their conversation had been idle and quaint for a while, consisting of curious questions about one another. He had learnt that her favourite colour was blue, though she had barely enough dresses in the shade. Florence spoke of her siblings-- all four of them, to which Jacob mentioned he could hardly imagine having one other Evie, let alone three. While speaking of her childhood, there was a brief, melancholic mention of a man called ‘Thomas’ but she breezed over it so quickly that he barely had time to ask about.

She had learnt that the shilling he kept around his neck was a memento of his youth and some kind of good luck charm. When she had asked about his scars, Jacob gave a rather nondescript account of the death of a target ending in a terrible barfight. Florence had worried at him about it, despite it having been an incident years past, but it brought a fond little smile to his face, that feeling squeezing in his chest.

All had been well until they had arrived at a dock in Lambeth. There was a small commotion near some salesman and, as soon as they both heard “Starrick”, Jacob began to tug them closer to the source of the fuss. In an effort to help him better move, Florence pulled her arm away from his and hurried along behind him, muttering apologies to anyone who had the misfortune of being in their way.

Starrick’s Soothing Syrup? What a ridiculous product to sell. She supposed he did have a hand in every industry in London but, goodness, that just didn’t seem safe.

A woman had started a row with the man, pointing angrily to a rather… unhealthy looking man behind her. He seemed to be on the verge of violence-- so did the lady, if one speaks honestly-- so Jacob, giving a brief gesture for Florence to stay there, moved towards them. Immediately, upon Jacob uttering a few words, the bloke pulled a knife on him, to which he swatted hit away. Despite the danger, Florence gave a little laugh; it was clear that a little shiv would be the least of Jacob’s concern. It was then that the salesman was off, running down the dock.

Jacob sighed, then turned to look between Florence and the woman, saying a simple: “If you’ll excuse me, ladies” before sprinting off himself.

The pair of women stood in silence for a few moments, simply staring after him.

“Your fella is quite the athlete.” The woman broke the silence, sight flickering toward Florence.

Florence gave a small smile, bemused by the whole ordeal. “I… suppose he is.” Her brows were furrowed, unconvinced of her own stance, and the woman gave her a strange look before moving away to the sick man a few metres back.

Well.

She stood on the Lambeth docks for a while longer, unsure of what to do with herself.

Perhaps a visit to the library would be fine.

Florence had come to enjoy the library, regardless of whether or not she was there to appear more womanly or not. It was quiet and smelt of old books-- a scent that she thinks not enough people give credit to. Only rarely was she disturbed and most often it was by the librarian’s assistant; she was the librarian’s wife and looked so much like a sweet, little mouse that Florence could whole-heartedly say that she would trust the woman with her life, despite only having spoken to her a handful of times.

Having ran her fingers along the spines of books for long enough, Florence finally pulled from the shelf ‘The Woman in White’ and took a seat at a nearby table, nestled into the corner of the building beside a window. There were only a few other people around: a pair of ladies a few tables across, the librarian organising the shelves; if all went as she wanted, she would go undisturbed for the couple of hours she would stay here.

However, a few chapters into her book, her plans seemed to have been sabotaged.

“She was a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t know what she was - anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted.”

Florence placed a thumb on the page she was at and looked up. She met a pair of brilliantly green eyes-- like a meadow begging to be explored. The owner of the eyes gave her a small, gentlemanly smile and nodded to the seat across from her, silently asking to sit.

She gestured to it as acceptance then glanced at the book he held in his hands. “David Copperfield.”

The man nodded. “Indeed. One might think that Dickens looked to you for inspiration for those words.”

Now, Florence was never one to turn down compliments directed at her. In fact, some might say that the young woman had somewhat of an ego heaving along with her. Though, it was rare to be so openly and publicly worshipped by a man so… beautiful. If his eyes had not already been enough to intrigue her, the gentle curl of his blonde locks made a part of her being swoon. He had a strange kindness to his features, what with the permanent upward curl of his lips and the graceful glint he held in his gaze.

Well, if she was to marry someone, he may as well look like that.

“Might I ask your name, sir?” Florence’s head tilted somewhat, the smile that her mother had taught all of her daughters carefully drawn upon her lips.

Now sat across from her, he closed the book and interlocked his fingers in front of him, gaze never leaving hers. It was almost overwhelming how dutifully he kept eye contact. “Willard Molyneux-Herbert, madam-- third son to the Earl of Carnarvon.” He held a hand out and Florence placed her own within his grip. Willard, that quirk to his lips still there, drew her hand upwards and placed a gentle kiss to the back of it. “A pleasure.”

Florence had to look away for a moment to quell the rising heat in her cheeks but Willard appeared to have already noticed this and had a rather pleased, feline grin painted across his features. She silently chided herself; she would not be the blushing maiden. She would not.

“I’m afraid I don’t have as much grandeur to my name, Mister Molyneux-Herbert.” Willard quirked a brow upwards, asking her to continue regardless. “I’m Florence Abberline. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance.”

Upon hearing her name, something in his eyes changed but the softness to his expression never left. She stopped herself from narrowing her eyes at this difference in demeanour. “Florence is a beautiful name, Miss Abberline. It’s root, I believe, is Latin: floreo-- meaning ‘to flourish or blossom’. It is suiting for a woman so much like a flower herself.”

“Well,” Florence began, her mind slowly beginning to unpick his mood and mannerisms piece by piece, “I’m sure Willard has just as lovely of a meaning--”

“‘Strong desire’. Willard means ‘strong desire’.” His eyes were boring into hers and something began to unsettle Florence. He was very… full-on; even the women from the table nearby had gone into frenzied whispering about their interactions. What would Freddy say?

Silence fell over them for a few moments and now his eyes, rather than meadows, felt more like pits to fall in. That smile hadn’t yet left either; he looked like a wolf-- a predator. Why was he speaking with her? A library was not the place to try to court a woman. Florence couldn’t help but feel as if something darker was afoot.

If Duncan was here, she was sure that he’d agree.

One of her hands moved down to rub her clammy palm against her dress, though her expression showed no sign of discomfort. If anything, she made herself look more like a flustered young lady, eyes rather daringly studying each aspect of his face. Willard seemed to revel in this. “What brings you to my corner of the library, Mister Molyneux-Herbert?”

For a moment, the man appeared to be taken aback by the query. She could see him rack his mind for an answer before smoothly replying with: “When one is perusing the library’s stock and sees such a beauty between the shelves, they shouldn’t dismiss the opportunity to introduce themselves.”

Florence’s mind drifted to Jacob; he was forward but… not like this. His way exuded charm and the kind of playfulness that was born from a want for friendship-- companionship. Willard, despite his physical perfection, had something dangerous lurking beneath the surface, she was sure of it.

Or was she?

Perhaps she was just being paranoid. He had been nothing but kind since first speaking to her. Maybe this was just how men acted while courting someone properly? Florence, herself, had never experienced a formal process of ‘courting’, though she could barely see how love could come from such hungry stares. She felt small near him-- like she was a woman beneath him-- but she couldn’t deny the draw of Willard’s beauteous aura.

“You are very forward, sir.” She observed. Florence’s eyes now fought against his for dominance; she had finally found her feet once again. Half of her hoped that her straightening posture would weaken his resolve but if anything it seemed to egg him on-- the acceptance of a challenge gleaming in his eyes.

“One must be if they are to have any chance with a lady such as yourself, Miss Abberline. I imagine you have all manner of suitors knocking at your door.” The way in which he said that felt almost insincere-- mocking.

Florence smiled sadly, though she felt none of the true emotion. “You think too highly of me, Mister Molyneux-Herbert.”

“I do not think highly enough of you, madam. Say,” a brow quirked upwards and he unclasped his hands, showing both of his palms to her as if to ask if she would take them in her grasp, “would it be too brash of me to ask for you to meet me here once again tomorrow? There is not enough time left for me today to truly convince you of your own splendour.”

Florence had not yet taken his hands and, with the way his fingers twitched, he seemed to be getting increasingly agitated by the prospect of being turned down. However, when a courteous smile graced her features, he relaxed somewhat. “Certainly. I’ll be here again at midday, if that suits your needs.”

“Anything you do shall suit my needs, my lady.” He grinned in that wolfish way again and Florence bit back a grimace, rather replacing it with a blush to the cheeks and a shy look away. Willard was pleased with that. “It pains me to say it but I must be off. I have parliamentary business to attend to--” he glanced to her as he stood, hoping that his flash of power would weaken her knees, “-- and a dinner party to host tonight. I shall see you again tomorrow.” He gave a small nod of his head and, with that, was away-- a pride to his stride that made Florence frown behind him.

Rather appropriately, a bout of goosebumps arose on Florence’s arms upon being left in the wake of his being. Something wasn’t right but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. He was undoubtedly a charming man and took the hearts of many women (the ladies to her left seemed quite taken with him, whenever jealousy wasn’t dampening their expression) but there was something ungodly about him-- about the way he ate her with his eyes. She would have to tell Freddy about this when she got back home, though she doubted he would--

“Excuse me, miss?” The librarian’s assistant coaxed her from her daze by waving a small slip of paper before her. Florence blinked herself away from her thoughts and gave the sweet young woman a smile, asking her to continue. “Have you dropped this? I found it on the floor near the table as I was tidying.”

“No, that isn’t mine” is what she should’ve said, had she not been a woman who enjoyed noseying through other people’s possessions. Instead, she gave a laugh, as if to say ‘oh, silly me!’ before taking the paper from her. Honey eyes flickered down to it briefly but she simply mentioned: “Thank you, Miss. I couldn’t have left without this” before standing from her seat and hurrying out of the library.

Now out on the street-- Willard not in sight-- Florence began to unfold the paper, walking rather determinedly toward the bridge to cross the Thames. Despite Willard having been the son of an Earl, his handwriting was terrible, though she suspects it was all written in haste.

Oh, Florence had a beautiful degree of luck.

It was a slip of paper with answers to enquiries about Frederick Abberline written upon it: his schedule, where he lived, who he lived with. Florence’s own name and the word ‘sister’ had been circled a great number of times, alongside a small scribbling that she frequented the library as of late. A shiver shot up her back; someone had been watching her? How… concerning.

At this point, she decided that it was likely in her best interest to get into a carriage the rest of the way home, lest she get kidnapped off of the street. Upon paying for a driver, Florence settled into her temporary safety and continued to examine the slip. Near the end, his writing was illegible but, with much difficulty, she was able to make out the words ‘revenge’ and something about Willard’s brother. She gave a thoughtful hum, flicking the corner of the sheet with her index finger until all the dots connected-- well, connected as well as they could.

If she could recall correctly, Freddy, about a month ago, had mentioned about the arrest of quite an upper-class man-- a doctor. He had been doing decidedly inhumane things and was detained in his own home, much to the chagrin of his family. One of his brothers-- maybe Willard?-- had been aggressively vocal throughout the whole ordeal, though Freddy never gave any names during his brief account of the scene. She would have to discuss this with her brother when she finally got home.

Perhaps herself and Jacob would be working together again soon.

#assassins creed #assassins creed syndicate #ac syndicate #jacob frye #jacob frye x oc #jacob frye x reader #evie frye #frederick abberline #florence abberline #writing #willard is bad #hes just an angry skinny dude #flor needs a hunk of a man like jacob

[albrtmason]

Hey, could you write Albert being at the gang's camp? :) Abigail mentioning she always liked Mary and remembering that Mary and Arthur used to play dominos makes me think it's not unheard of for outsiders being in camp. How does he end up there? Did Arthur just bring him along one day, or did someone mistake him for a spy, or did he just stumble across it in the way he just happens to stumble across things?

what the living do

rating: gcharacters: arthur, albertpairings: arthur/albertword count: 3118read on ao3

buy me a coffee!

as they ride, albert tallies up the losses in his head: his equipment, the two changes of clothes he’d brought, his camera, his horse. 

it was that last that stung the most, though the camera may have been a close second. he’d grown fond of that horse, a grumpy old nag that he’d bought for a few dollars not long after his train had first rolled into saint denis. he’d not even had a chance to say goodbye; as soon as the shooting had started, arthur had been on his horse and was pulling albert up behind him.

now, it would have been ideal if not for all the danger. he had his arms wrapped tight ‘round arthur’s middle, his cheek pressed against arthur’s back; he could feel the shift of his muscles, his heartbeat, could feel the faintest rattle when he breathed in deep. it was like something straight out of albert’s dreams.

but they had been shot at, and albert was making himself as small as possible to avoid being lashed by any stray branches as arthur’s sturdy ardennes shot like a bullet through the undergrowth. he’d had a breath as they raced through the countryside near rhodes, the gently rolling hills and red dirt less dense than the swamp, but as they approached the shores of flat iron lake arthur had pulled them back into the trees.

someone shouts, at a distance but near enough to be heard, and albert’s heart stutters in his chest for a moment, convinced that they’d be in the thick of it again; but arthur hollers back, and albert would have sworn his voice rumbled down to his bones. “it’s arthur, you dumbass!”

arthur tugs the reigns and they low to a trot as the trees open up into a clearing filled with tents, looking out on to the lake. albert spares a moment to feel sorry for the poor horse as it snorts and heaves before arthur loops the reigns loosely over a hitch and slides to the ground, easy, and not nearly as stiff as albert was sure to be.

“c’mon, now,” arthur says, and he’s as gruff as ever, but there’s a crease of worry between his brows that albert prides himself on reading. “lets get you looked at, mister mason.”

arthur’s hands are warm and albert chooses to focus on that rather than the bright, lancing pain that blooms from the dull ache in his ribs, but something that’s half-gasp and half-whimper rises to his mouth regardless. he’s not as good at hiding it as he’d hoped, because he can feel arthur’s grip on him tighten for just a moment before loosening again.

“i must say, mister morgan,” albert says, voice shaking as he’s led… somewhere. he’s not quite sure where arthur’s taken him, to be honest, but he’s settled to sit on a cot and even though the jostling makes the pain flare up again, it’s good not to be standing. “i don’t believe i’ve ever been shot before.”

“and let’s hope it don’t happen again,” arthur huffs. he lingers a moment, his hands just hovering awkwardly, before he turns to the woman that had bustled after them nearly as soon as arthur had pulled him from the horse. “bullet went clean through, did the best i could to patch it up ‘til we got here. miss grimshaw, your stitches’ve always been cleaner’n mine. could you…?”

“and you didn’t think to go to a doctor?” the woman- miss grimshaw, then- scoffs and waves him off with a stern look, but she’s already appraising albert with a critical eye by the time she says, “go get me some water, hot if you can, and a needle and thread.”

and then she tells albert, “you’ll need that shirt off if you’re expectin’ me to sew you up.”

albert hesitates, just for a moment, but it’s long enough for miss grimshaw to roll her eyes and give a long suffering sigh, pushing at his shoulder so he lies back on the cot, perching beside him as she works deftly first at the buttons on his vest, then on his shirt. not that it matters, because he was very sure that he couldn’t move his right arm without pain anyway, but the embarrassment is there regardless.

“here we are,” comes arthur’s voice, and albert glances over as he sets a bowl down on the table nearby, and then hands over what looks to be a needle but may also be a bent fish hook. “warm water’s best i could do, but i’ve got pearson watchin’ the kettle right now.”

up until then albert had done a very good job of ignoring the blood, had tried his best not to look at the hand that had been covered in it from a lousy attempt at staunching the wound. see, the thing was that he’d never been good at handling blood, let alone his own, and the thought of that needle threading through his skin made him feel simultaneously queasy and light-headed.

“drink this, mister mason,” arthur says, helping albert to lean up on one elbow and lifting a bottle to his mouth. “it’ll help with the pain.”

it’s whiskey because of course it is, and albert sputters at first, as taken back by the initial burn as he always is; but he manages to swallow a few mouthfuls with little more than a grimace and a hiss as he lowers himself back down, and arthur seems almost impressed. the thought makes albert feel warm down deep in the pit of his stomach, but maybe that was just the alcohol.

and then arthur offers up a belt from somewhere, which albert takes with only a little trepidation and holds between his teeth.

“clean it out, arthur,” miss grimshaw commands as she holds the needle over flame, and arthur rolls his eyes but reaches for the flannel he’d brought and wrings it out over the bowl. his touch is gentle, infinitely so, as he dabs lightly along albert’s side, around the wound tucked between his hip and the bottom of his ribs. 

and then he pours the whiskey over it, and logically albert knows that this was a sound practice, sterilizing to prevent infection, but it burns, hurts perhaps more than being shot in the first place had. he bites down hard on the belt, digs his teeth into the leather, and manages to choke back the shout that had risen in his throat down to a whimper. once the worst of his has passed he pulls the belt away to draw in a deep breath, just for a moment.

“i may faint,” albert warns in a wavering and breaking voice, half serious, as miss grimshaw rounds on him with the needle, threaded with catgut. the woman herself scowls, hardly in good humor, but arthur snorts as albert wedges the leather back in his mouth.

the anticipation was always the worst, he thinks, and he squeezes his eyes shut, measures the thick breaths he drags in through his nose and listens as miss grimshaw draws near with the needle. he does, in the end, indeed faint, maybe even before the first stitch is finished. 

it couldn’t have too long after when albert blinks his eyes open, but it’s dark even though they’d arrived no later than midday, if not a little later. he was still in the same cot he’d been laid in earlier, a scratchy blanket pulled up to his chin; the darkness, he found, was owed to the sheets of canvas that had been rolled down to offer some sense of privacy.

the pain is still there, though when albert peels back the blanket he finds gauze bandages wrapped neatly around his middle, holding a wad of cotton to the wound. it hurts to sit up, but albert hauls himself up, legs stretched out in front of him. someone had removed his boots, too, and set them neatly beside the cot.

the light that pooled past the canvas was the gold of evening, and albert looks around; it was clearly someone’s living space, littered with personal effects. he peers at the photo pinned to the wagon that served as a wall: a dog, a mugshot, and then a portrait of three men posed together.

he didn’t know who the two other men were but one was plainly arthur, younger and leaner, clean-shaven though he was. albert can’t help but be charmed; this arthur posed with the cockiness that came natural to young men, leaning forward in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he stared straight into the camera.

a smile twitches at his mouth. the arthur that albert knew may not have the same arrogant pride, but he was certainly just as bold.

“…your mister mason,” a voice outside the tent says, an unmistakable derisive lilt to the words. “he’s a liability, arthur. he’s gonna put us all in danger. your mary girl didn’t bring the law down on us back then, but we ain’t gonna be so lucky twice.”

the crunching of footsteps on grass pause, coming to a stop nearby, and albert holds his breath. arthur’s voice responds, frustrated, “he ain’t like that, he’s good people.”

there’s a beat of silence, a moment that feels like it stretches on forever, before arthur continues, quieter, more intense. “i trust him, dutch, trust me on that.”

albert can’t see their faces to gauge their expressions but albert can nearly feel the contemplative silence, the thoughtful look he may have been favoring arthur with, the way arthur’d stand stubborn in his resolve.

“for now,” is all the man, dutch, says before albert can hear his footsteps walking away.

arthur sighs and twitches open the tent flap, slipping inside and freezing when he sees albert sitting up. the surprise is only there for half a second though before it’s overtaken by that gruff concern, a tightening at the corners of his mouth in a way that made albert desperately want to wipe away the worry lines from his face.

“you’re up,” is the first thing arthur says to him, belated.

“i’m up,” albert agrees, and then he hesitates. “i won’t… i won’t turn you in, you know. any of you. i don’t even know anyone here besides you, mister morgan.”

“i know,” arthur says, “that’s what i told dutch.”

they lapse into silence then, awkward, and albert is keenly aware of several things: that his shirt was gone and someone had cleaned away all the blood, that the bed he was in must have been arthur’s, and that he desperately wanted a drink. he was tired, and he was in pain, and there was an uncomfortable twist in his gut that he tried desperately to beat back.

“it’d be bad form, regardless,” albert continues, looking away and picking at the blanket. “if nothing else my mother taught me good manners, and repaying the kindness you’ve all shown me would be terribly impolite and outright ungrateful, and i’ve never been that type of man, you know…”

“mister mason,” arthur says abruptly, and when albert glances up he finds that arthur’s straightened from his uncomfortable sort of slouch and though the worry is still there in his face it’s sharper, colored darker with some other emotion. “mister mason, you just about died. you got shot.”

and albert blinks at him, a bit taken aback. he was used to being interrupted and talked over, but he wasn’t sure quite where arthur was going with this. “yes, well. i gather from the speed that your miss grimshaw responded that that’s not exactly an uncommon occurrence around here.”

it’s arthur that looks away this time, working his jaw as if he were chewing over his words. “you go wanderin’ out there in the wild just for the love’ve it, leavin’ yourself at the mercy of anyone’n everyone, and you don’t even know how to shoot a gun.”

“yes?”

“i think you’re just about the biggest fool i’ve ever met.”

albert doesn’t recoil, not exactly, but it’s a close thing. the hurt is sharp and cutting and he tells himself that he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know why such a mild rebuke hurts so much, why it feels almost like a betrayal. the arthur that he knew was kind, if a bit rough around the edges, slyly humorous and quietly indulgent, not this creature before him, tightly constrained and controlled, nearly angry.

“that’s an awfully bold accusation, you know.”

“it’s true,” arthur insists, “you ain’t got no care for your own life, like it wouldn’t matter one way or ‘nother if you got eaten by a gator or robbed by some bastards like those lemoyne raiders out there.”

“well, it wouldn’t.” albert wasn’t wholly sure of why arthur was so worked up about this; he himself must have been shot any number of times, and in far more dire straits. “i’m not anything special, mister morgan. it would be unfortunate, of course, and i’ve no particular death wish, but that’s a risk i’ve chosen to take.”

“you really think some pictures are worth dyin’ for?”

gently, gently, albert says, “we’ve all got our causes, arthur. that’s mine, and it’s my choice.”

“you got,” arthur says, then breaks off with a frustrated sigh. “you got a family, don’tcha? people that care for you? parents, brothers, sisters- hell, a wife, maybe, i dunno. someone else can go out and get those pictures. it don’t have to be you.”

“you really don’t know me at all, do you?” albert’s smile is humorless; he thinks that maybe he would have been better off if arthur had just dragged his sorry self to rhodes and dumped him on the doctor’s doorstep. “no, it doesn’t have to be me, but i want it to be.”

arthur makes an exasperated noise and looks like he wants to throw his hands in the air, like he wants to turn around and storm away. “i ain’t always gonna be there to save your skin, y’know.”

“i never asked you to be,” albert fires back immediately. his hands are curled tightly in the blanket; his choices weren’t arthur’s to define or control, no matter how good of friends they may have been. “why do you care so much, mister morgan, if all i seem to do is inconvenience you?”

he doesn’t like to think of himself like that, as a burden, but it looked as if that was how arthur viewed him. and it stung to know that, to know that while he had believed arthur his friend and had enjoyed his company, arthur had only ever stuck around to keep him from getting himself killed. 

albert was no child to need watching over. he could take care of himself. 

arthur’s expression is tight, though, conflicted, like he has things to say but doesn’t quite know how to say them. he rubs his hands over his face then settles one on his hip, dragging the other through his hair. albert takes pity on him and pats the edge of the cot; arthur eyes him critically for a moment before taking the spot, carefully, carefully leaving an inch or two between them.

it’s a long time before he talks.

“i ain’t a good man, mister mason,” he says eventually, slowly, almost sad; his shoulders are curled inwards and he does not look at albert. “i don’t know how i’m gonna die, or when or where, but i know i ain’t long for this world; there’s just no place for folks like me, not anymore. but you… mister mason, albert, you got a whole life your there for you.”

he pauses, and albert holds his breath. his voice is quieter, this time. 

“i help you out ‘cause it’s somethin’ i can do that ain’t killin’ or robbin’ or beatin’ a man half-dead for a few dollars. i ain’t done much good in my life, but with you… with you, i feel like i could.”

the arthur that albert knows was already a good man. reticent and secretive and gruff, maybe, but good, overwhelmingly so. albert often teased and called him a gentleman because arthur was the antithesis of the prim and proper, outwardly-chivalrous city-dweller, but he was kind in his own way, and honorable, and albert had always looked forward to when they might meet again. 

“oh, arthur,” albert says, the anger and irritation gone from his tone. he hesitates only for a moment before laying a hand over arthur’s shoulder. the rest of his thoughts stick in his throat when arthur covers his hand with his own.

“you make me wanna be better, mister mason.” the words sound like pulling teeth for all the difficulty arthur has getting them out. “if i can pay that back by keepin’ you safe, then i’ll do it.”

“arthur,” albert says again, a touch louder. “you are the kindest, most thoughtful, accommodating, thick-headed, oblivious-”

“hey now,” arthur protests as he glances back over his shoulder, fingers tightening over albert’s.

“-stubborn man i have ever had the blessing to meet, and i would very much like to kiss you right now.”

it’s a daring thing to say and it hangs in the air between them like that, heavy and unexpected, and arthur turns to face him for fully. his expression is very serious and albert’s heart kicks up a staccato rhythm between his ribs; there’s a fear, there, that he had crossed some uncrossable line, that he had asked for too much.

but arthur just looks at him and his eyes are very, very blue. he says, “is that so?”

as a child albert’s parents had once taken he and his sister to go see a circus. there had been all sort of magnificent acts, fire-breathers and lion-tamers and sharpshooters, but he thinks now of the tightrope walkers, carefully, perilously balancing one foot in front of the other lest a single wrong move end it all. 

he says, “it is.”

it is arthur that moves first, leaning in slowly, slowly, until albert grabs at his collar and pulls him in. the kiss itself is closed-mouthed and clumsy; arthur doesn’t quite seem to know where to put his hands but albert near melts when the outlaw settles his palm flat against his chest, fingertips lightly stroking the dark curls of hair there. they find a rhythm eventually, slow and sweet, but when albert tries to push for more arthur stops him with a firm hand against his sternum.

“you got shot,” arthur says, close enough still that albert can feel his lips moving as he speaks.

“i’m better now,” he insists, and arthur huffs out a quiet laugh and kisses him again.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #albert mason #2am #am2 #fic

[androidsfighting]

untitled Never Let Me Go snippet

from a planned Taako Murders Governor Kalen fic I’ll probably never get around to writing but i just liked this bit a lot

“Tell me about you and Julia’s wedding again,” Taako says, elbow on the table with his chin in his hand, watching Magnus across the kitchen.

He’s washing the dishes, wearing this frilly apron that Taako sewed himself - it looks ridiculous across his broad chest, but he says he likes how pretty it makes him feel. Magnus glances back over his shoulder, eyebrows quirked but smiling. It’s an effort, on both their parts, to talk about Julia more often. It will always be hard - but it’s worth it.  

“Fishing for ideas?” Magnus teases. “I didn’t think Kravitz would let you have a hand in any of the planning at this rate.”

“God, he’s a monster,” Taako groans. Kravitz is their best man, and also their self-designated wedding planner, and he’s proven that 1.) there’s a lot more to weddings than Taako ever thought possible, and 2.) Taako doesn’t give a fuck about ninety percent of it. This surprises everyone, but honestly - he loves a good party but he's a hundred years older than he thought he was, has known his fiancee a hundred years more than he thought he did, at this point he's just ready to do the damn thing. Kravitz, however, cares so much that you’d think it was his own wedding, and Taako is about ready to elope just to get him to chill out. “Like, no, I don’t give a shit about the ‘symbolism’ of the flowers, I care that they don’t smell like ass. I’ll go out and pick some wildflowers out of the yard if it’ll make him stop stressing about flowers.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It is sweet, he can’t really be mad about it, no matter how often they spat about color combinations and seating arrangements. But back to the matter at hand, though wedding planning, despite the recipe cards and invitations strewn across the table in front of him, is in truth the last thing on his mind. “Tell me about the catering, at least I have full control over that.”

“Oh, it was fun. We did it potluck style, and we didn’t do a cake, we had like, a million different kinds of pie. And for the main course we roasted a whole pig.”

“Ooh, rustic, I hate it.”

Magnus laughs, setting a stack of plates on the rack to dry. “Everyone brought their favorite dish and gave us the recipe as part of their gift. Guess those all burned along with the house.” His tone is light but there’s a tightness to his voice that he can’t disguise.

Taako stands up, crosses the kitchen to where Magnus stands in front of the sink. Through the kitchen window he can see Stephen “Steven” Junior and Johann The Dog wrestling, tumbling through the vegetable patch that Angus is currently trying to weed despite the dogs’ efforts to destroy it. There are Kravitz’s bee hives, Magnus’s workshop, the overgrown grass they’re all too lazy to trim. He wraps his arms around Magnus from behind, squeezing tight around his middle, and hooks his chin over his shoulder, watching out the window.

“Hey,” Magnus murmurs, turning his head to bump Taako’s.

“What was the best pie you had that day?” He asks, nuzzling the short cropped hair at the back of Magnus’s head.

“Julia’s mom’s, definitely,” Magnus answers quietly. “Blackberry. Picked ‘em right from the neighbor’s yard. I wish I had the recipe for you.”

“That’s okay,” Taako whispers. But it’s not okay and that’s why he has to do what he’s about to do. He should have had that recipe; all those recipes given to Magnus and Julia should never have burned. Julia should have gotten the chance to show him how to make her mom’s blackberry pie, gotten the chance to do a lot of things, she should have been part of this family they’re building together. Recipes are a silly thing to cling to, maybe, but it’s one more thing to strengthen his resolve to kill Governor Kalen.

Murder him. Call it what it is. He’s going to kill a man in cold blood and he isn’t sorry about it, not at all.

He watches the life they’re building through the window, and feels Julia’s absence in it. I’m coming back, he promises to himself. This is mine and I’m coming back. He still has a wedding to plan, after all.

“You know I love you, right?” Taako says, resting his cheek between Magnus’s shoulder blades, feeling the way his chest expands with each breath.

Magnus’s hand covers his where it lays against his stomach, soapy and wet, but Taako doesn’t mind. “I love you too,” Magnus says, worried. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

“Course I would,” he lies.

#my writing #snippet #never let me go series #taagnitz #taagnus #taz fic

[fluffymusketeer]

“X” Marks the Spot (Explore)

Trust Eren to plan something truly weird for their anniversary.

This is the first of a series of four drabbles I’ve written using the NSFW prompts for the Ereri Month of Love! Thank you to @ererievents for organising this event & @omglevixeren for beta reading <3

A couple of quick notes. There is a sex pollen element to these drabbles, in case anyone prefers not to read that, and the story takes place in a canon universe where no one important ever dies and curses don’t exist. The magic of writing! Enjoy :)

Well, this is different, Levi muses.

He reaches up to snag Eren’s military issue sock from the high tree branch. He knows it is Eren’s sock, because Mikasa has stitched his name into the cotton. The early morning dewdrops have dampened the edges of the scratchy material. It’s a sorry sight.

Levi checks inside the sock – thank fuck it’s clean – and sure enough, he discovers another neatly folded square of paper. He fishes it out and stuffs the sock into his pocket, then scans the spidery ink for his next clue:

High up in a tree, you stumbled on me. During winter last, in red I am cast.

“What the fuck, Eren?” he mutters to himself.

He’s been at this for an hour now, waking up with the first rays of dawn to find a folded paper clue on the other side of the bed instead of the usual drooling scruff of a man. Trust Eren to plan something truly weird for their anniversary. No doubt his devious little friends helped him out too.

Levi trudges through the forest, the first carpets of spring bluebells dappled in sunlight and shadow all around him, and considers the clue. It takes him a while to work out, but eventually he uses his gear to fly up to the old robin’s nest he’s never quite forgotten the location of.

He’d knocked the nest out of the tree by accident during a training session the winter before last, and Eren had stumbled across Levi desperately trying to fix one of the fledgling’s wings. He’d gently coaxed the story of Isabel and her bird out of him, and it wasn’t long after that things had changed forever between them.

Levi crouches down, and he can see the nest has not been used this year. Instead there is the folded paper and requisite clue, attached to a slightly wilted red rose:

Grown hollow am I, I reach for the sky. Not easily missed, where you and I first kissed.

Cheesy treasure hunt aside, Levi supposes this isn’t a bad way to spend a morning, zipping through the treetops, a cold breeze in his hair and the dew drops clinging to his eyelashes. Of course he’d rather be in bed getting his dick played with like a normal person on their anniversary… but it’s Eren, so Levi is determined to make the best of this silly, romantic treasure hunt he’s cooked up.

This tree is a little harder to find, largely because Levi’s memory of it is swallowed up by the shock of Eren’s tongue being shoved down his throat, overeager little idiot that he was. It wasn’t until he was a good ten or fifteen seconds into showing Eren how not to suffocate a person during a kiss that Levi had frozen and realised he was making out with Eren.

There hadn’t been much hope of getting rid of him after that.

Levi pulls his cloak in tight as he alights on what he thinks is the right tree. Birds scatter from the branches into the cloudless sky, cawing in offense. Levi is momentarily distracted by the elegant beat of their wings as they catch the updrafts of warming air. Then he rolls his sleeves up and begins searching for the next clue.

He hopes there’s breakfast at the end of this treasure hunt, as his empty stomach gives a protesting growl.

In the end he finds the clue wedged deep inside the hollow of tree, and Levi flicks a beetle off his arm as he pulls it out. “Fucking disgusting. Thanks, Eren,” he mutters.

He reads the clue aloud. “As shallow as the ocean is deep, find me quick and you may keep. As calm as the ocean is wild, take care you are not beguiled.”

Levi leans against the tree bark, scowling into the leaves overhead. Beguiled? Clearly Eren had some help from Armin with these clues. And if Levi finds out Erwin had any prior knowledge of this little escapade, he’s going to make good on an array of threats over the years and throttle the bastard.

As he’s making his way to the lake, Levi spots something on the forest floor. With a burst of gas, he swings back around and glides down to inspect it further.

It’s Eren’s shirt.

He’d have half a mind to put a stop to Mikasa sewing name labels in Eren’s clothes, if it didn’t cheer her up so much. Whatever keeps his best soldier happy. Levi sheathes his gear and grabs the shirt off the ground. It’s still warm, and he’s very tempted to shove his face in it and breathe Eren in, but he won’t, because he’s nearly forty damn it.

His eyesight is still good though, he reflects, as he spies another item of clothing in the distance, draped carefully over the bluebells. The trail leads in the direction of the lake, and Levi’s interest in the game slowly evolves as he picks up Eren’s clothes from the forest floor; a little less annoyed, a little more heated.

The lake is an expanse of sparkling aquamarine, rich with winter snow melt, when Levi finally bursts out of the woods. He has an armful of clothes folded neatly under his arm, and a half-hard cock.

Half-hard becomes fully hard when he sees Eren standing knee deep and naked in the glistening waters of the lake. Facing away from Levi, the smooth muscles of his back are on full display. He appears to be watching the lake’s resident ducks and geese as they paddle around and flutter their wings. Ripples of water spread from where his firm thighs meet the blue-green waters, and tanned skin is reflected on the surface of the lake. “Fuck,” Levi hisses under his breath.

Maybe getting up early wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“You couldn’t have folded your damn clothes?” he calls out.

Eren peers over his shoulder and smiles. “You took your time,” he calls back.

Levi stomps down to the lake shore, ready to start shucking some clothes of his own. There is nowhere to hang Eren’s stuff, or his own, except for the damp pebble-strewn sand. Fuck it, he thinks, and drops Eren’s clothes atop some tufty grass. He sits down in the sand to wrench his boots off, then begins tugging at his straps and gear, eyes raking greedily over Eren’s lithe body and long legs. He appears to be purposefully keeping his back to Levi, firm ass flexing as he cranes his head to watch Levi undress.

“So what’s this in aid of?” Levi asks, gesturing to the lake, resplendent with the shimmering deep green and brown feathers of the mallards and the crisp white wings of the snow geese.

“I don’t know, really,” Eren says, scooping up a handful of clear water and trickling it over the back of his neck. It runs in rivulets between his shoulder blades, and Levi can feel his mouth watering. “Just felt like coming to the lake.”

“Mm.” Levi wades into the water, biting out a curse at the frigid temperature, and presses himself up against Eren’s backside, arms snaking round to hug the warmth of his body. “It’s fucking freezing.”

“Yeah,” Eren agrees, letting Levi tug him backwards.

He strokes the firm planes of Eren’s stomach for a while, nosing Eren’s hair aside and pressing kisses to the soft skin at the nape of his neck, snuggling into his warmth. Eren shudders in his arms, and gently caresses the backs of his hands as they explore. Levi’s cock twitches against Eren’s ass cheeks, warming up again. “You look so good,” Levi mutters against Eren’s skin.

“So do you. Did you like the treasure hunt?”

“I like the treasure,” Levi replies, fingers dancing down to Eren’s groin.

Eren snorts indelicately.

The ducks and geese out on the lake are busy with the business of spring too, tussling over females and jealously guarding their chosen mates for the season. Levi watches the subtle feathery politics over Eren’s shoulder as he wraps his hand around a hard length.

A puff of air escapes Eren, misting in the cool morning, and he presses back into Levi, shifting to get Levi’s cock between his ass cheeks.

“The geese are early this year,” Levi remarks, giving Eren’s cock a squeeze.

“Mmm.” Eren lays his head back, their bangs brushing together in a tangle of black and brown. “Not many yet though.”

“No,” Levi agrees, finally sliding himself between Eren’s buttocks. He grunts at the sensation, his cock already leaking precome.

“Remember when we were at the ocean last?” Eren murmurs. “With the puffins?”

“Yeah.” Levi ruts against Eren’s ass. “Fuck.” He really should have jerked off before he got up this morning, but the folded piece of paper on Eren’s pillow had been something of a distraction.

Eren gasps as Levi begins stroking his cock, setting a rough but steady pace. Eren’s hands find their way into Levi’s hair, gripping tight as he keeps his limber body still for Levi’s ministrations. He looks like some kind of glorious, tanned statue, his muscles elegantly wiry, and not for the first time Levi marvels that this gorgeous young man wants him. Levi flexes his hand, using his strength to work Eren exactly how he likes it.

“Oh fuck,” Eren moans in his ear.

“Their nesting behaviour is fascinating,” Levi murmurs. “Burrowing into the ground like that? Talented little fuckers. And the way they pair up, s’almost romantic.”

“But—but is it as talented as the geese? You know, Armin thinks they migrate—”

“Who cares what Armin thinks?” Levi grips Eren’s hip and grinds into the cleft of his ass cheeks, which are growing slick with precome and warm with friction. “Fuck, I love you.”

“Ah!” Eren’s head falls forward. “I love you too. I love you so much.”

Levi feels himself grow hot, flushing with pleasure at Eren’s words. He never tires of hearing it, never tires of the sensation of Eren hooking into his heart and breaking it wide open, of all the emotions Eren pulls from him, of the way Eren makes him feel so alive. Damn it, he wishes he’d thought to bring the oil with him. He could go for a good fuck right now, could happily bury himself deep inside Eren and enjoy the view of the lake while he takes him hard and fast.

But who would have guessed Eren’s crazy crack-of-dawn treasure hunt would lead to this? Levi has all but forgotten his hunger. Breakfast can wait, he has a sexy young piece of ass to take care of. Beguiled, indeed.

“Faster, Levi,” Eren says. “Faster.”

Levi skims his palm over the slick head of Eren’s cock, luxuriating in the familiar soft velvet of his foreskin, the way his erection curves slightly to the left, the little ridged vein on the underside that Levi loves to lick, the one that drives Eren wild. He mouths at Eren’s shoulder with damp lips.

“Actually,” Eren says between gasps. “Mallards are mo—monog—monogamous too. Oh fuck, oh fuck!”

“You sound good,” Levi says. “Keep going.”

“But I still think… the geese are the most interesting…”

“Oh?” Levi twists his hand, pumping his own hips in a steady, rhythmic, fulfilling grind. His cock looks fantastic between Eren’s buttocks, swollen and red. He’d rather see it sinking deep into Eren’s entrance, slick with oil, but this is a good substitute. He releases Eren’s hip and grabs a palm full of ass cheek, loving the smoothness of Eren’s skin.

“Ah! Their migration… their migration is…”

“Eren,” Levi murmurs against Eren’s shoulder, desperate and wanting. “Why… why the fuck am I turned on by birds right now?”

“I don’t know!” Eren whines, thrusting into his hand. “I am too!”

“Shit,” Levi says.

Something very weird is going on. He can’t get the damn birds out of his head. When he peers over Eren’s shoulder, at the water-born flocks of ducks and geese, their feathers shining in the morning sun, the quacks and honks ringing out across the clear water, reminding him so much of the endless ocean— “Shit, shit,” he hisses, moving faster. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t—”

Something startles the geese, and they take off as one, a cloud of white wings into the sky. Levi and Eren moan in tandem, and Levi feels his whole body flush in arousal. The thought of Eren describing the way they slice through the air, majestic snow geese in full flight, the gentle voice he uses just for Levi in the depths of night undulating like soft velvet over words such as nesting and plumage and – fuck – allopreening, Levi can’t handle it.

He groans and spins Eren round, finally staring into wild green eyes. Eren looks just as confused and horny as he does, chest glistening with sweat, practically hyperventilating. Levi reaches a trembling hand down to stroke his cock, and Eren takes hold of Levi’s length.

Levi leans his head on Eren’s shoulder. “Damn it, Eren, I can still heard them flapping.”

“I know, I know,” Eren says, shuddering.

“You’re so hard.”

“I’m gonna—”

“Me too.” Levi can feel heat coiling in his stomach, and the head of his cock weeps as Eren’s hand flies over it. They know each other so well, and Eren moves his hand in long firm strokes, right down to the soft hair at Levi’s base,the sensation driving Levi wild. “Eren,” he moans.

That is when he feels it. He glances over just as a soft, white feather floats down from the sky and lands upon his shoulder, the barely-there tickle glancing over his skin like silk.

Levi’s knees buckle, and practically collapses into Eren’s arms with the strength of his orgasm. “Eren!” he cries out, overwhelmed.

At some point he is distantly aware of Eren taking over from his slackening hand, continuing to work his own cock. Levi leans heavily against him, murmuring encouragement as he rides out his own pleasure, still so aware of the feather on his shoulder.

Shakily, he reaches up to grab it, soft and white and gentle. Eren moans, guessing what Levi plans to do.

Levi reaches down, and brushes the feather over the tip of Eren’s cock.

“Fuck!” Eren’s come coats the feather and Levi’s fingers, then splashes down into the cold waters of the lake.

Levi watches the spectacle, unsure which of them is holding the other up. Eventually, their breaths slow, and he drops the soiled feather into the water. For long seconds, neither of them seem able to speak.

Levi swallows, and gently twists his fingers through the hair at the nape of Eren’s neck. “Eren—”

“I don’t—” Eren interrupts, then stops. A flush creeps into his cheeks. “That was… um, different.”

Levi can feel himself turning red in similar mortification. Birds. They both just got off to birds. He peers out over the lake, staring at the ducks and geese. They’re… birds. He feels nothing. He glances at Eren, and gives his hair a tug. He takes a deep breath. “It’s alright,” he says.

A duck quacks, and they both flinch. Levi closes his eyes.

What the hell just happened?

TO BE CONTINUED...

#monthoflove #eren x levi #danni's drabbles #danni's fanfic #x marks the spot