#its that blink and you miss it type of scene | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

syneilesis · 4 months

Text

[fic] if only for a moment

if only for a moment

Love and Deepspace | Rafayel (Qi Yu) x Main-Character!Reader | T | 3.6k words | ao3 link (with correct formatting)

Rafayel waits. And waits. And waits.

A/N: Another LaD fic!! This time it's Rafayel. Several elements of this fic are inspired by and loosely based on his story anecdotes and bond story, plus that Deep Sea card line backdrop. So more spoilers in this one, I'm afraid. I think you need to be aware of them in order to follow the flow of the fic. But if not, here's what you need to know: basically Rafayel accepts a visiting professorship at the University of Linkon to reunite with the MC/you. And the prose poetry interspersed are loosely situated in the Deep Sea card lineup setting (you can search in YouTube for the scenes. This one is a brief glimpse of the scene). That princess/knight(??) dynamic is yum yum.

If possible, please read the version on AO3. I formatted the prose poems there as if they're really prose poetry, so I'd appreciate it if you check that out. (Though there isn't too much difference between the formatting here and there, I did make the effort of coding a little 🥺)

Anyhoo, hope you enjoy, and I am sO STOKED FOR THE OFFICIAL RELEASE. rip my wallet 💸😭

JUST LOOK AT THIS MAN AND BELIEVE

There’s a type of berry in a distant land that produces a rare shade of ink that matches the color of your eyes. It takes a hundred of them to create the right hue and volume for the art that he wants to make. It comes to him in a dream: endless desert, then fireworks of verdant sparks that coalesce into stem, leaf, and, finally, fruit. Rafayel remembers that land, so much different from the iridescent blue of ocean underwater, and the acrid gold of the barren desert. His mouth filled with the succulent sweetness of the dream, the lingering sandpaper roughness of the berries on his fingers. He already knows the name of the artwork even before he’s begun—Waiting, Missing. The ache in his bones gaining form, an intangible thing taking flesh.

Under the ocean surface, time is muted, a deafening thickness that surrounds you with its ambiguity. On land, however, it is linear, and fast, and in a matter of blinks, Rafayel’s visiting professorship nearly wraps up.

He’s only glimpsed you once or twice. Thrice at most. The university is big, but not big enough to warrant a dearth of fateful encounters. The first time he saw you it was at a coffee shop: walking along with your friends outside, your voice mellifluous and festive wafting through the trellis of the café entrance. You were talking about him—well, about Lemuria to be specific, but these days any talk of Lemuria inevitably draws in his name.

He’s committed your schedule to memory, and yet it just seems impossible to capture a moment with you. Even just a brush of shoulders, or of sleeves—an asymptote of contact. Just navigating around your orbit, but never truly meeting.

What would it be like—finally talking to you? You in front of him, face to face? Rafayel imagines the ache of waiting fading into the background until it’s completely gone. He yearns for that feeling, the release of it. A conclusion—or maybe even a beginning.

i. take my hand, he told you under the glow of the lustrous moon, the only source of light that contoured the secretive valleys of his face. i want to show your highness something. there was a country, he said, beyond the undulating monochrome of the desert, blanketed by lush trees and shrubberies and flowers that buildings were made in betwixt and around them—a nation of trailing and winding architecture, a marriage of the natural and the manmade. you wanted to ask why he’d planned on taking you there, and the only answer you got was a curt turn of his head and the profile of a masked man layered by shadows and distance. it would have been nice, you thought, if the moon poured light upon his hooded gaze.

Eventually he begins to frequent the café. Twice a week at first—he doesn’t want to come off strong right away, of course—and then making his way up until he’s hanging out there more than his own studio. He schedules his visits around your classes, always during the ones when the probability of you dropping by the café is high and he can ‘coincidentally’ be around the same area. It’s gotten to a point that Thomas calls him out on it, and nags at him to focus more on his painting. The next exhibit is immediately after his visiting professorship after all.

“From where I’m standing,” Thomas says, “you’re not painting at all.”

Rafayel ignores him.

Five minutes later, he says, “Not painting is part of the painting process.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he leaves him to it.

At the café, Rafayel attracts curious looks. A few attempt to approach him, but he pretends not to see them. They linger around the periphery, like moths to flame.

And then something happens: the entrance door chimes, and you swan into the coffee shop, earphones and denim overall skirt, the kind of rosy-cheeked image Rafayel finds on teen magazines, wide-eyed and earnest. You fall in line and order when it’s your turn, and your eyes sweep across the packed café searching for a vacant seat until they finally land on him.

Rafayel’s heart stumbles.

Up close, the baby fat on your cheeks still gives you the appearance of being younger than you actually look. You turn a polite smile his way, and his heart stutters again—but this time it is taken as a warning.

“Hi,” you say, tentative. Any hint of recognition absent. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

ii. you're counting the steps of your inevitable parting. you're at the edge of the desert, far away from your home and its familiar scents, oriented towards a direction that promised a future sad memory, the gentle warmth of his hand, the downward denial of his gaze. this longing that grew out of your bones, aching during cold, aching during heat, aching when he looked at you with such tenderness he had to hide it through the sharp tug of your joined hands, the long strides that opened up a lonely distance. intimacy was dangerous, knowing was dangerous, the bowels of his heart like a solitary flower on a high peak. what would you do to such loneliness?

Memory isn't always an infallible thing. The human brain cannot hang on to every moment of your life, though Rafayel wishes it were so. But still—to think that you would forget him, and it hasn’t even been a century. You were like a phantom thief stealing his heart in the night—no recourse, no resolution.

To wait is to be in agony, the burn of yearning locked within the heart. Rafayel has been waiting for a long time, and the only memory scorched in his heart is fire, the blaze and its blinding, all-consuming want.

What would you do to such want?

You have a blurry childhood, Rafayel discovers. After the first Wanderer descended on Earth, the incident strummed your memories like a stringed instrument that tired of the same chord, over and over. It had bothered you at first—not being in control of your own memories—but eventually you had learned to live with it.

“Grandma and Caleb—my childhood friend—helped me through the process,” you tell him, stirring your iced mocha with its straw. “I owe them a lot.”

Eyes cast down, but still the melancholy shadows remain in your expression. Rafayel folds his arms on the table, and leans closer.

Around them only a few people occupy the coffee shop at this time. How fortunate for Rafayel to catch you during your break while every other student is trapped in class lectures.

“There’s no use in dwelling upon what's already happened. Even sharks have to give up when their prey escapes. When you remember, it will be all the more joyous, no?”

The smile you give him is crooked, disbelieving.

“If I remember.”

“You’ll remember.” Because there’s no other choice, for you and for him. Rafayel cannot bear being shelved in the history of your smile and happiness. Waiting can only be endurable if there’s an endpoint.

In his studio, Rafayel begins his next painting.

iii. the berries tasted sweet, with an edge of sourness that clung to the bottom of the tongue. it had the exact shade of your eyes, a detail that rafayel brought up the moment he plucked it from the shrub. raising it to align with your eyes, comparing them with his artist's meticulous gaze. maybe when this is all over, i'll go back here again to extract ink from these berries, and paint a portrait of your highness using these to color your eyes. he never showed you any of his paintings, merely mentioned them in passing, and you constructed a dream of him from the throwaway words that left his covered lips. i'm not used to sitting for so long, you reminded him, and he glanced at you, then at the berry between his fingers. my memory is enough, then handed you the fruit.

In the few weeks of meeting with you Rafayel forgets that his visiting professorship is ending soon and he has to give out his last lecture. Thomas had asked him what his topic would be. At that point Rafayel had no answer. But now he has.

“I’ve been hearing you talk about Lemuria every now and then with your friends.” He props his cheek on his hand, tilting his head slightly and giving you a charming smile. “Interested?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I’ve seen you a couple of times here, and I happened to hear your friends chat about my lecture. Your points were almost accurate, I’m in awe.”

“The visiting professor—that’s you?!”

Rafayel pauses, the slosh of his drink nearly spilling on his frozen hand.

“You didn’t know?”

Sheepish, you say, “Honestly, I didn’t make the connection. Is that why plenty of people have been glaring at me as of late?”

He releases a frustrated sigh, eyes rolling heavenward.

“In any case, my final lecture is on Friday next week. It’s titled “Memory and Meaning in Lemurian Art”. Why don’t you drop by and listen, and you can tell me what you think afterwards.”

You retrieve your bullet journal to check your schedule. It’s colorful, filled with stickers and doodles that Rafayel finds endearing. Then the excited moue on your face drops into a frown, and Rafayel can foresee the next words that will come out of your downturned lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say guiltily, “but I have a major test that day, and I need to get a high score in order to pass the course.”

Rafayel exhales, long and weary, but ultimately shrugs off the apology. “What a shame, but I forgive you. Just don’t fail your exam or else my magnanimity would be all for nothing.”

He calls Thomas that night.

“I’ll disappear for a while once the professorship is over.”

“Hey, wait, what do you me—”

“You’ll be happy to know that this is for my next painting.”

A beat. “Okay … but for how long?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Then he hangs up.

He’s trying, he really does. The lecture ends to a resounding applause, and it’s mechanical how he answers the questions posed by the audience. But he’s trying, he’s trying. There’s no specter of you in the sea of faces in the auditorium. You’re at the other end of the university compound, sweating your way through your exam. He genuinely hopes you’d pass, for your sake.

Thomas had booked his flight to another country, where he’ll traverse to a land that he’d visited many times in his dreams and had woken up with a filmy, sweet-sour tang at the roof of his mouth. He’ll leave the morning after the closing dinner party the faculty has prepared for him. There isn’t time to pack much, and no time to tell you goodbye.

Rafayel guesses that it’s only fair: how would you feel waiting for him at that café, the chair across you empty, only the sunlight pooling from the window as your companion?

iv. parting, somebody once said, is such a sweet sorrow. much like those berries in that ever-green nation, a lingering sourness remained underneath, the sting of it reminding you every now and then. he was already mourned for even before he left. tell me what it's like—the ocean. he was elusive, untouchable in his grief. you'd heard through whispers, the story of his migration, the drowning before the drying, the unwanted journey. grief brought him to you and grief would steal him away from you, you knew, down to the cells of your body and the hopelessness in your blood. —and yet. and yet you wanted to have a taste of it, anyway.

The ever-green land is no longer green, or lush, or alive. Time corroded it into memory, sepia-faded, wizened. Past. The berries he’s searching for don’t grow here anymore. Everything here is empty, barren, helplessly so.

Rafayel hasn’t accounted for such development, but he should have known. Disappointment stings at his chest, and bitterly he turns away and stays at the next town over. At a family-run restaurant situated near the outskirts, he looks over the wide windows, across the highway road, beyond the jagged horizon. The painting won’t be finished, then. Another tragedy, pressed flat next to the forgetting, to the waiting, and his home.

The chef personally serves him his order and, after a shuffle of hesitation, brings up a question.

“Young man, you came from the direction of the old country, yeah?”

Rafayel meets his inquisitive gaze. “Yes, why?”

“It’s been a while since we had someone visiting that place. There’s nothing in there anymore, it’s been that way for years. Why did you go there?”

Rafayel is reluctant to say, but at the guileless set of the older man’s face, he concedes.

“I was looking for berries. The ones native there. They produce a shade that I need for my painting.”

At the mention of the fruit, the chef’s expression lights up. “Oh! I see, I see. You’re in luck, son. We grow them here at the farm. Plenty of those for everyone. How about I give you some? It’s rare meeting someone who still remembers the old country, it’s almost fate. How many did you say you need?”

Fate. Just like the time of your first meeting, as if the universe had gifted you to him. Just like the time of your parting, of your forgetting, of his waiting. Fate as a connection from you to him, red and burning brightly.

He doesn’t want to seem eager, but he knows he’s failed from the way the chef toothily grins at him.

“A hundred or so.”

The chef falters at that, jerking slightly back. But he accepts it with a nod, an avuncular smile making its way across his kind, powdery features.

“That sure is a huge number, but I think we can work something out.”

His painting takes a month to complete, inclusive of the time spent making the ink from the acquired berries. Sometimes, Thomas watches him paint, quiet in the background. His stays usually don’t last—a quick flash that Rafayel nearly misses, or deliberately ignores. But during the final stages of the painting process, Thomas hands him the exhibit details.

“I’m just thankful you’re on time for this one.” He sighs, relieved, then leaves.

Alone, Rafayel creates. Brushstroke after careful brushstroke, each varying by pressure and angle. He lets each layer of paint dry before moving onto the next. The berry ink—the color of your eyes—the solely different element of this painting. Center, central. The focal point. The beating heart. The years and years of waiting and longing. The form and the flesh. Alive.

This, too, is an endpoint.

v. can i see your face, just this once? your hands grazed his mask like a ghost wanting to touch. rafayel stayed still beneath your desirous fingers, observing, waiting, his own fingers twitching towards his dagger. even in the parting he could not let go of this distance. hopeless, hopeless. your highness would get nothing out of seeing my face. he's wrong, his eyes never left your face, and he's wrong. he didn't stop you from your grasping of his mask, and him—finally—bare and beautiful yet a little sad. you're wrong, you said, tracing his slightly parted lips with a trembling finger, you're wrong. it is everything to me.

The gallery is packed. No surprise there. It’s almost boring, in a way. Waiting, Missing hangs at the farthest hall in the floor, special and intimate as it should be. Thomas knows him well; otherwise, Rafayel would have whined at him to hell and back just so he could be granted this demand that is in reality a mandate.

He’s hiding from the throngs of journalists and art critics alike and sequesters himself in a corner that has a clear view of the painting. Loosening his collar and tie, Rafayel breathes and closes his eyes, leans tiredly against the wall. A few more minutes, and he’ll slink out of the building, reputation be damned.

He melts into the shadows whenever somebody passes by. He has neither time nor energy interacting with people today. Watching them through half-mast eyes, Rafayel stays in his secret place and studies with weightless detachment the people looking at the painting.

He’s made a bet with himself about the opinions of his followers and admirers. Who thinks what and why. It makes for great entertainment. The last time, a fresh-faced critic praised Rafayel’s technique as “innovative and a soul-rending reflection of the prodigy’s character.” He had laughed and laughed for hours until he couldn’t breathe any longer.

Another walks by, and before Rafayel retreats further into the corner, he glimpses a familiar gait and a familiar face.

His heartbeat races. He’s never told you that he’s holding an exhibit today. After the professorship Rafayel failed to maintain communication with you, convincing himself that it’s for the best that he protect you from afar that day onwards. It didn’t help that he had to leave as well. At the same time, you never made an effort of reaching out, and Rafayel thought that it was back to square one again, that waiting, that yearning.

But here you are right now, elegantly dressed, like someone gliding out of a dream. Rafayel swallows, his hands shake. You do not have someone else with you, and your eyes are brightly focused on Waiting, Missing, and for a fleeting moment your expression flickers into longing, strange and old and battered and sad, that it compels Rafayel to take a step forward—to you.

“Hey.”

The curious look vanishes; left no traces in your delighted face, as if it wasn’t there in the first place. “Rafayel!” you exclaim. “Long time no see! Congratulations on the exhibit; these are all beautiful.”

Outwardly he smirks, belying the torrential emotions he’s currently going through. He cants his head a little, works his charm on you. “Impressed? No need to hold back your compliments.”

Laughter, prismatic and crystalline. “Yes, yes. Especially this one—Waiting, Missing. What an interesting title. At the center, what paint did you use?”

Ah. Rafayel inhales before answering. “It’s actually ink. I had to make it from a hundred berries. It was a tedious process, but I wouldn’t use anything else. It has to be this, you see.”

“Whoa, no wonder you’d been radio silent all this time. You were creating this masterpiece.”

He hums, afraid that, if he speaks, he’d reveal too much.

“Well …” You throw a playful glance at him. “Shouldn’t we celebrate your success?”

His breath catches. “I—”

Before he manages to finish the sentence, a journalist calls out to him and that summons plenty more, swarming him with no chance of escape. It pushes you out of his peripheral vision, and Rafayel wants to shout your name, but you smile and gesture at him to entertain them first. You mouth, I’ll be back, and wander around other paintings some more.

When he finally succeeds in shaking the journalists off, he seeks you out and stumbles upon you near the exit, where there’s fewer people to pile on him.

“Excellent,” he says, sidling up beside you. You turn to him and smile, and there’s that lightning-flash of something again. For one unbelievably surreal instant, Rafayel thinks that despite your hazy memories, maybe you’d been waiting for him all this time, too.

And that thought emboldens him, moving closer and closer until your bodies almost touch. An asymptote of contact. But this time, he has mustered the courage to close that unbridgeable gap.

Rafayel offers you his hand. “Let’s get out of here?”

You stare at his hand then at his face, his eyes, and a meaningful moment stretches between you and him. But even before the idea of retracting enters his mind, you grab his hand joyfully, grinning ear to ear. His heart warms, full with everything.

You squeeze his hand, ready to go. “Lead the way, then!”

vi. a kiss is a greeting and a goodbye, and rafayel tasted of ferocious tides even if you'd seen them only in dreams. his eyes closed, as though savoring his last moments with you, guarded till the bitter end. would that i could ask you to stay—with me. but he shook his head—a final rejection. maybe in another life. there was nobody to watch you cry, in the after.

Rafayel is working on a new painting—a portrait this time. The model squirms on his couch, obvious about the discomfort of posing for too long. He huffs a laugh to himself, hidden by the canvas strategically placed between them.

“I heard that,” you grumble.

“Shush, you’re breaking my concentration.”

“If that already breaks your focus then I pity the rest of the art community.” A beat, then: “Is it done?”

“Patience, my dear muse. You need endure it a little more.”

“Hmph, fine. But after this you’re treating me to an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“All right, all right.” He shakes his head, fond. “My muse, so demanding.”

Something sweet touches the edge of his tongue, succulent with a hint of tartness. Like longing. Except now, it’s layered with something new and exciting. Something like a new beginning.

In the far distance, the sea murmurs, lit fire by the setting sun.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #lad rafayel #lad qi yu #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace qi yu #fic #my fic #rafayel x reader #qi yu x reader #lad rafayel x reader #lad qi yu x reader #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace spoilers #it's near midnight again i shall now sleep

438 notes · View notes

skamenglishsubs · 10 days

Text

Subtext and Culture, Young Royals, Season 3, Episode 4

Last episode ended with Simon coming home to a smashed window, this episode starts the morning after, Simon takes the bus to school, while Wilhelm is anxiously waiting for him.

Culture: At a high school level in Sweden, there's national tests in Swedish, English, and Math. Like everywhere else, the purpose of these tests is not only to grade students, but to align all schools across the country to combat grade inflation.

Blink and you miss it: Vincent is trying to cheat by looking at Nils' answers.

Blink and you miss it: Vincent draws a dick in the gravel while waiting for the others to be done with the test.

Subtext: This entire episode is overflowing with examples of privilege. For Vincent, and many other rich kids like him, studying and learning doesn't matter, they'll graduate regardless, so he doesn't care about the exam, he only cares about the graduation party.

Cinematography: Even with Felice and friends being completely blurred out in the background, you can still see Stella and Fredrika turning to look at Sara, and then turning their backs on her.

Culture: In the US, a lot of people are using "socialism" as a catch-all phrase which means politics they don't agree with, regardless of its actual ideology. Likewise, in Sweden, a lot of people use "communist" in the same way about generally left-wing politics, which is what Vincent is doing here.

Subtext: Wilhelm asks Simon if he can reconcile the conflict of dating a royal while being anti-monarchy, but the real question is of course if Wilhelm can reconcile the conflict in himself.

Subtext: This is where the show's political stance shines through, and this argument, that Wilhelm wasn't allowed to choose his life for himself, is the main argument they're gonna use in the finale.

Subtext: Wilhelm is weakly defending the monarchy, but just ends up repeating what his mother told him; it's a privilege, not a punishment, but does he believe it himself?

Subtext: The letter-to-yourself plot is mainly there in order to help August along his redemption arc, but here the show is using it to reinforce the point of the previous scene. Who does Wilhelm want to become? Does he have a choice?

Culture: In Sweden, Säkerhetspolisen, SÄPO, is the government agency in charge of national security, which includes providing security and assigning bodyguards to the royal family.

Subtext: Note the great use of passive voice here by Farima to avoid taking responsibility for the decision to force August to join the birthday foundation event. She's also expertly bargaining with Wilhelm to get what she wants.

Subtext: We know it was the far-right assholes who posted comments to Simon's videos a couple of episodes ago.

Blink and you miss it: Jan-Olof really perks up when Linda talks about moving to Gothenburg, because that would probably mean the end to the relationship between Wilhelm and Simon, which would solve all of his current problems.

Subtext: Like Farima, he bargains with Linda and Simon to get what he wants, for Simon to stop posting things to social media. It's almost as if their strategy was to do nothing at the start, waiting for things to blow up so they could swoop in, help out, and start making demands in exchange...

Blink and you miss it: The option to inactivate and hide your social media account is right there, but of course Simon has to choose to delete everything, because it will cause more drama and anguish.

Blink and you miss it: Fencing! Woohoo! I did fencing for five years as a kid until 8th grade or something, but I only did foil, and not épée like these students. I have absolutely no idea where these two are coming from or going to though, where would they practice? Is there a hidden fencing hall somewhere on the grounds that we haven't seen yet? How many kids at Hillerska are fencing? Also, he's carrying a practice blade and not an electric competition blade, so that checks out. Of the three types of modern fencing, épée is unique in that the entire body counts as a valid target, while in foil only the torso counts, and in sabre only the upper half counts. Oh wow, it looks like the gear is now wireless and every fencer carries their own indicator lights. Cool! Back in my day you had to be strapped in with a cord for competitions.

This tumblr is now about French School fencing. Allez! Touché!

Subtext: The narrative is that it's perfectly ok for the crown prince to be gay, as long as he's not gay gay.

Culture: The show keeps saying this, but in real world Sweden it's no longer the case. Supporting los jibbities is viewed as a completely mainstream and inoffensive opinion, on par with supporting human rights in general.

Subtext: Another example of privilege is being in a position to do a lot of good, and then just not caring about it. Simon is fighting for the causes he believes in, so seeing Wilhelm just casually throw it away is extremely disappointing for him.

Subtext: Unlike Vincent, August is actually a natural leader, someone people listen to, which is why he manages to quiet down the room when Vincent is unable to. Maybe a good quality in a future king?

Subtext: Simon is continuing the argument from before. Wilhelm could have shown solidarity with mental health causes or LGBT causes, but chose not to. However, he immediately decided to join in solidarity with the other rich kids protesting the school rules, which is rather selfish.

Subtext: Colour theory! Sara in purple, because part of the reason she's back at school is that August asked her to? And Simon in yellow, because he sure isn't loving Wilhelm very much right now.

Subtext: Just a reminder that Sara has actually been completely out of the loop since the end of season 2. She has no idea about the school rules, what's happened at home, how it's going with Simon and Wilhelm, or what's happening at school.

Blink and you miss it: Fredrika is so close to stop striking as soon as she's threatened with repercussions.

Subtext: I keep hammering this point home: The culture is in the walls, it's not something some of the kids made up. The visiting alumni were also hazed as new students and kept it going as third years. Same for the parents of all these kids. They're all part of the system, they all kept the cycles of abuse going, because they want the school to be like that.

Subtext: Privilege is thinking you can get things your way with almost no effort. None of these kids have ever struggled or protested something for real and then not been given what they wanted, so they seriously believed they'd win immediately.

Subtext: Another theme of this season is bringing secrets out in the open. We've all seen August struggling with body dysmorphia and an eating disorder since season 1, but no-one has ever called it out and put words on it, until Simon immediately recognizes it and calls it out.

Subtext: ...while the rich kids are just stuck in denial, because eating disorders is for poor people or something, it's not something that happens to them. And if it did, you certainly wouldn't admit it to anyone else.

Subtext: August tries to jokingly fend off Nils because he doesn't want anyone to know that the letter actually meant something to him, until Nils pushes too hard, and August punches him.

Subtext: Vincent talked a big game about striking in solidarity, but when they're caught as hilariously unprepared as they are, they're not pooling their resources in solidarity with each other, and instead resort to selling them to the highest bidder. Capitalism in a nutshell, illustrated perfectly by the behaviour of spoiled rich kids. Also, pet peeve, the English word for the currency of Sweden is "kronor", not "crowns".

Lost in translation: They're actually repeating a single word in Swedish, "svikare", which is pretty hard to translate. The verb, "svika", is a bit worse than letting someone down, but not as bad as betraying someone. The adjective, "besviken" typically means disappointed. So "svikare" means a person who is letting other people down, disappointing them, or betraying them.

Subtext: The culture is in the walls of the place, but the kids are also pretty damn complicit in continuing all the shitty traditions. This looks like a game of strip poker or truth or dare that went off the rails and just resulted in more bullying, with everyone joining in.

Subtext: The other girls are upset with Felice because she broke the code. You don't snitch to outsiders, you don't tell the truth, you keep up appearances.

Blink and you miss it: Henry won the potato chip auction, happily ate the entire bag, and passed out in a chair, clutching the bag. Mmmm, sourcream and onion.

Subtext: Speaking of closing ranks towards the outside, this also applies to this strike. It would be bad PR for the school if anyone outside found out that it happened, so it's better to solve it quietly and discreetly. Vanessa can trust the kids not to snitch. Vincent is also right, the parents, who are paying the tuition fees, are on their side.

Subtext: Felice can't be seen talking to Sara, so she checks that the coast is clear, and then drags Sara into a private bathroom to have their conversation.

Subtext: Likewise, Sara was probably Felice's first real friend.

Subtext: Nice little foreshadowing. I would have loved seeing Simon's drawing though!

Subtext: Well, he could have just made his social media private, but the show has to maximize the drama, so here we are, piling on more examples of how Simon is losing himself to the monarchy, that maybe he can't reconcile the conflict.

Subtext: Erik spent three years living at Hillerska, of course he wouldn't have told his then twelve year old kid brother about all the shit going on at the school. August spent an entire year living with Erik at the school, seeing what went on first hand, so of course he knows a side of Erik that Wilhelm doesn't.

Subtext: August has been trying to keep his mouth shut and avoid Wilhelm, but since they have yet another fight, he decides to drop the bomb about Erik to hurt Wilhelm.

Subtext: Again, the culture is in the walls. This is not something that only Erik's class did, once. It's probably been happening to all the boys for decades. It happened to the current second-year students, it happened to Erik, and lots of students before him who kept this shitty initiation tradition going.

Culture: Let's talk about the gay porn hazing a bit more. To me, this is an urban legend. I heard about it when I was a teenager back in the 90's, but I don't personally know anyone it happened to, or anyone who did it to anyone else. It was always hearsay, it happened to a friend of a friend's brother, or a classmate's cousin's friend or something similar, as is typical of urban legends.

Let's also make one thing absolutely clear: It doesn't work. The homophobic idea behind this shit is that if you are forced to watch gay porn and get a boner, you are gay, and if you don't, you're straight. But that is actually not true, erections don't work that way, and the fear of being found out is quite the boner killer. Also, what if you like guys, but the guys in the porno aren't your type? There's just so many ignorant misconceptions behind this idea.

I've also seen a lot of fan comments that keep playing into this ignorance; that the only reason Nils decided to stop the tradition was because he obviously failed it. Or that the only reason August is against it is because he failed, and the only reason he failed is because he's secretly not straight. No. Remember that the test doesn't work. Nils probably passed, despite actually being gay. August might have failed, despite being completely straight. Regardless of what happened, they both found it humiliating, and that is why they made a pact to stop it.

#young royals #young royals subtext #young royals analysis #young royals season 3

174 notes · View notes

fanonical · 10 months

Note

Don’t take this as someone hitting [X] for Doubt but why are people saying Gwen Stacy is canonically trans?

I’m not really a comic book enthusiast nor a marvel fan but I enjoy the Spider-verse movies and I love hidden/blink-and-you’ll-miss-it/iykyk representation in media as much as the next guy but I what did I miss in the second movie that led to this conclusion?

so first of all, Gwen has a trans flag hanging in her bedroom that says “PROTECT TRANS KIDS”. people are saying, well she could be an ally etc but are forgetting this isn’t like, a real person’s bedroom, it’s the bedroom of a fictional character where everything is placed there as a commentary on what type of person she is. in this case, it’s pretty clear to me she’s saying she is a trans kid. her dad even has the trans flag stitched into his uniform - i’ve never heard of a cop doing that unless they have a trans kid, and again, i think that’s pretty clearly what we’re supposed to take from that. finally, Gwen’s entire world and design is defined by the colours of the trans flag. if you pay attention to her outlines, backgrounds, the colour grading of the scenes she’s on, it is clearly and specifically the trans pride colours. sure, it’s also her costume’s colours, but with the trans pride flags it’s pretty obvious what we’re supposed to read these colours as, if anything it implies that’s why she chose those colours for her suit. finally, the Spider-Woman “coming out” and “returning home” sequences specifically are defined by these colour palettes. when Gwen explains being torn between being “just a normal girl” and the new moral panic in the news to her father, when she finally opens up about the decisions she made to kept who she was secret from him, the entire scene very obviously bleeds into the entire trans flag. Gwen’s hair, normally a dyed blonde & pink, is the trans flag, vibrant and passionate — truly who she really is.

it’s not even really that subtle? its really obvious especially if you watch the scene with this in mind, it literally bleeds in like water colours into the scene.

there’s also just plenty of other details. her narrative is one pretty identical to the experience of a trans girl coming out. her dad, normally loving and caring, is awful and hateful about just one thing — who she is, who she has been this whole time, who she’s hiding from him. and when she finally is forced to come out, he insists on this hatred. and she has to run away. to a group of people just like her, where she can crash on the couch of a punk instead of going back to her dad. but with time, he comes to accept her. he changes - it’s no coincidence that this is the scene with the trans flag watercolours.

also she shares a shoesize with Hobie lol

#atsv #atsv spoilers #gwen stacy

456 notes · View notes

emry-stars-art · 11 months

Text

I didnt mean to rediscover how much I like brainstorming and world building stuff but here we are - this time it’s (mostly) pirate Neil and shark Andrew flavored!

@tell-me-your-vision had some very good tags on the last post like this so of course I started thinking harder about it lol, you all know by now that the best way to get me to draw more is to leave ideas and questions in your tags 😘 it’s very interesting figuring out what parts I want to be drawn directly from the source animal and what I want to have artistic liberty with! Sometimes you just gotta say “it’s this way because I decided it is” and offer no more explanation, not even to yourself.

That being said. If the snippet interested you, find more of the unfinished scene here :D (and if you want to leave a comment… 👀)

I don’t know how clear this image is going to end up being, so here’s the important notes typed up:

Does [Andrew’s] missing fin cause maneuverability problems? Yep. Fins keep the body stable and streamlined in the water. No fin/half detached fins means Andrew spends a lot more energy to be equally as efficient while swimming. (That’s part of why he had more upper body strength than most mers.)

Does jelly Neil feel pain like humans? Not at all. Pain vs nociception - the detection of averse stimulus. So Neil can sense and respond to ‘painful’ stimuli, and he does feel some pain like a person would in his upper half, but it’s mostly just a sensation that he responds to. (This is dangerous. Less pain means he doesn’t realize how dire a situation may be.)

A second eyelid - like a crocodile/etc; a clear secondary eyelid that closes horizontally beneath the primary eyelid, developed to keep the eye safe and clear underwater. Why jelly Neil rarely ‘actually’ blinks

Pirate Neil’s prosthesis. Most of it is always hidden under clothes; it’s made of leather, copper, rubber, and cumaru wood. It was given to him by Stuart as soon as the man found out that Neil had lost his leg, and Stuart had it custom made through his vast connections. At one point in the timeline, Neil angrily takes it off to show a wary and lashing-out sharkDrew that he has also once been on the wrong end of a ‘whaler’s’ knife.

The tiny two panel comic in the bottom right corner: pirate Neil says “stop trying to stab me in the leg” while sharkDrew was fairly certain he just took out this pirate’s kneecap with his sharp rock

The snippet:

“And it was terrified. It’s second eyelids fluttered, it’s eyes were hazy. It held the rough stone ready in case Neil tried to get close again. It still wasn’t breathing right. It was still bleeding.

“Okay,” Neil said softly. He held his own hands out a little to the side. “I’m not going to hurt you more.”

The shark snarled, though it’s mouth never opened.

“I didn’t hurt you in the first place. They’re still finning mers?”

Neil tried to step in, slowly, and was met with another vicious swing. He was ready this time, avoiding the sharp stone neatly.

“Hey, thing. Keep moving like that and you’ll bleed to death.”

Another attempt, and another swing. Neil looked at the place it’s fin had been, now a horrible, gaping wound on its back. He could see the meat beneath the blood. If he didn’t help soon, the shark would go into shock, if not simply die here on the rocks.

“Do you even realize what’s at stake for you?”

#oops i was so worried about links I forgot tags #uhh #mer au #jellyneil au #sharkdrew au #mermay #aftg #fan art #my art #all for the game #neil josten #andrew minyard #brainstorming #sketchbook #shark #basking shark #jellyfish #sharkdrew #mer research notes

342 notes · View notes

oleander-nin · 9 months

Text

A/N, not important: Ahahaha, friendly reminder I'm really bad at action/fight scenes. I didn't mean to make it so short, it just... Idk, it's getting hard. Sorry, I just really didn't want it to be the cliché kiss on cheek you missed type story... Oh well. My writing's getting worse, and I'm sorry. I only have two more of the special to do, and then I'm home free. Uh, requests will probably be closed for a long time. Hate. I can't do it anymore. Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

-Ollie

Tw: chasing, knives, getting attacked, mention of minor wounds

Words: 886

Prompt(s) requested: 18(A soft kiss) & 9("You missed.")

Summary: Donnie comes to your rescue

My footsteps thud against the ground as I run, my breathing erratic. I push past the people on the sidewalk, strangers shouting behind me. I ignore them all and keep my vision set on the ground in front of me. I glance up, scanning the rooftops around me. One head. Then eight. Twelve.

I curse, running faster. The foot ninja continue to follow me, their black costumes a stark contrast to the twilight background of the sky. I turn down an alley, skidding across the ground. My calves burned and my lungs ached. I glance up again, my eyes meeting one of the ninjas.

I keep running.

Stupid foot clan with their stupid vendetta against the turtles. I couldn’t help but feel a bit bitter it was me they were going after, I had only just started training.

I grit my teeth as I stumble over a crack in the sidewalk, my arms flailing as I attempt to gain my balance. I turn to keep myself steady, my eyes widening as a chain flies by my head. I freeze for a second. That could have killed me. My mind kicks on high alert as another pair of raid footsteps sounds behind me, and I dash off once more.

I bring my wrist to my mouth, clicking on the communicator Donatello gave me. "Hey, not to rush you love, but they are now trying to KILL ME!"

I dodge a thrown knife as I hear the communicator buzz for a moment before Donnie's voice sounds through. "Keep running. I'm almost there, I promise. Please, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Donnie! I don't mean to rush you, but faster!" I shout into the mic. I glance up, barely dodging the wall in front of me. I veer to the side, panting. I slip into another open alley in an attempt to lose them, muttering curses under my breath. Another chain flies by my head and wraps around the dumpster handle it attached to on impact. I look up at the rooftops, laughing despite my situation.

“Hah, you missed!” I continue to gloat to myself for another moment as I run. Maybe I wasn’t too bad at this after all. The world stops for a moment as I feel a hard surface wrap around my legs, bringing me to the floor. I use my arms to brace my fall, skinning my palms, legs, and arms as I crash. My chest hits the floor, all air escaping my lungs as I sit there for a moment. My mind spun and my eyes water from the impact.

Everything around me is spinning as I try to regain awareness. Footsteps and sounds of fighting sound around me and the world slowly moves back into clarity. I blink, trying to stand up but fall back down when I can’t move my legs. I turn over, scanning the chain wrapped around my lower body before scrambling to get it off, not paying attention to my surroundings.

A loud thud sounds in front of me and I look up, my jaw hanging. One of the foot ninjas was laying face down on the pavement in front of me, having just fallen off the roof above. Donnie soon jumps down as well, landing on the soldier before they pop, paper confetti floating through the air. Donnie looks down at the ground for a moment, a look of small surprise on his face. “Huh, didn’t realize that one was paper.”

I slide the rest of the chain off, standing up as Donnie walks forward, his Bō staff retired to its holder on his battle shell. Donnie pulls me into a tight hug, his muscles tense as he holds me against his plastron. “I apologize for not arriving sooner, I came as fast as I could.”

I sigh, leaning into Donnie. “You came at just the right time, thank you.”

Donnie holds me against him for a moment, rocking us back and forth. I let him, just leaning onto him as I try to calm my racing heart. The adrenaline slowly drains from my body as I relax, Donnie’s hold making me feel safe. His muscles were still tense, his own paranoia and worry yet to subside. It was understandable. One second later and I would’ve been caught.

“You got hurt.”

I look up at Donnie before glancing down, the skin of my arms and legs raw from my crash down to the concrete. They didn’t hurt much now, but they would definitely be bruised later. It wasn’t too bad considering how everything could have gone. “I’m fine, Dee. It’s just a few scrapes.”

Donnie shakes his head, tsking his tongue at me. “Absolutely not. I’m taking you back to the lair to get you patched up. I’m not leaving you like this.”

I look down at my injuries again, shrugging. It would make Donnie feel better, plus, letting him play doctor was funny. I was a bit worried about tracking through the sewers with semi-open wounds, but it would be fine. Probably. “Sure. That sounds good.”

Donnie kisses my temple before gently grabbing my wrist, leading me towards the nearest sewer opening. I trail behind, listening contently as he babbles on about different inventions and such. Despite everything, today was turning out pretty fine.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt donnie #donatello x reader #donatello #tmnt donatello #donatello hamato #donnie #donnie x reader #rise donnie #rise #donnie rottmnt #donatello rottmnt #donatello x y/n #rottmnt x reader

122 notes · View notes

necroromantics · 3 months

Text

🧺 — Laundry And Taxes

chapter 14. // (masterlist)

(AN: SORRY For the lack of updates, life has been very hectic lately and I haven't been too confident in my writing/story-telling skills so I have been slacking fr. I can't say Ill be posting regularly again, but I AM NOT abandoning the fic. L&T will get its ending eventually, thanks for sticking around 🫡 Enjoy)

The afternoon sun beamed down as a crowd of people swerved around the dramatic scene which had been playing out in the midst of the bustling winter market. The girl, who Toby knew as Nina Hopkins, collapsed into Natalie’s arms, nearly sobbing about how much she had missed them.

“It’s so good to see you two are alive!” Nina spoke out, clinging to Natalie’s body, which had tensed up like a nervous cat.

“You’re causing a scene,” Toby muttered lowly, glancing at the people who were giving strange looks as they passed by the teens.

“Let her do her thing, Toby,” Natalie scolded quietly, patting the girl on the back with an awkward fondness.

Toby shuffled in his place uncomfortably, shoving his hands into his sweater pocket as he waited for the girls to be done with their heartfelt reconnection, secretly hoping to himself that Nina wouldn’t have any tears left for him. The boy looked over the sea of people rushing by, and then down, to see a little boy clinging to Nina’s side. He looked to be about 9 years old, with neat brown hair, and he quietly glanced around with a subtle sort of embarrassment.

“Who the fuck are you?” Toby spoke out at the child, catching his attention, and Nina’s, who glared at the older boy as she slapped his arm.

“That’s my little brother, you jerk.”

“Oh, so that's why he looks like that.”

The group of eccentric teens pushed through the market as they exchanged casual conversation, splitting off from the crowd in the snowy streets of the market, and made their way into the Bulldog Tavern. The atmosphere was a relaxed contrast to the midday busyness of the town outside, and there was no one in the empty tavern but the four youths who sat themselves down around a table. The overhead lights draped over the room, a soft golden glow, shining off of the wooden floorings and bottles of alcohol sitting untouched on the shelf behind the bar. It smelt like rye whiskey and firewood, and only the bubblegum-pitched sound of Nina’s voice rang throughout the room.

She explained that she had found herself in the new world with her back pressed against the same bed she had slept in when she was a teenage girl, in mid-October. Confined by the same poster-filled walls she had once torn down, to escape into the arms of a man who didn't care if she lived or died, in another world. When she found herself back in her mother's house, Nina had come to the understanding that even after she ran away, even after all the atrocities she had seen and done, she hadn't lived a life any different from the one she had lived as a 16 year old girl. She still tied her hair back with ribbons, and she still smudged her mascara. She still wanted to find Jeff, and she still wanted to be loved.

The scars that once etched itself out from the corners of her mouth had washed away, alongside the chemical burns that previously littered her body. Nina rubbed her hand over her arm, a melancholic smile painted onto her teenaged face. She looked softer, healthier, than Toby remembered. The girl radiated the same type of glow as rave lights; flashing, headache-inducing.

Nina explained that as soon as she made an ounce of sense of the world she woke up in, she began to obsessively search for answers.

“So what about Jeff?” Toby blurted out, asking the question Natalie dreaded to ask. Nina blinked for a moment, a layer of uncomfortable silence dancing around the bar, then she awkwardly laughed to herself.

“Oh, yeah, I’m totally over him. I did a ton of digging but couldn't find anything on him, so I don't know if he even exists here. It’s whatever.”

“Well that's a relief. We’re all better off without him here anyways,” Toby said as Nina’s painted nails twiddled with the ends of her hair, which had been tied up with a purple ribbon. He crossed his arms over his chest in irritation as Natalie nudged him to shut his mouth, and leaned into the conversation.

“So what's your plan now?”

“Oh my god, I don't even really have a plan. I just had to get away from my mom and stepdad, and crazy enough, I found out where Clocky stayed, so I took Chris and ended up here.”

The little boy sat silently beside his older sister, looking around at the desolate bar, trying not to think too much about the strange things she had been discussing with the two others who were sitting across the round, walnut-wood table. Nina glanced over at her little brother, placing her cheek on the palm of her hand, as Toby leaned over towards Natalie, and whispered to the girl about how she's too easy to find, which earned him another rough elbow into his side.

“I was actually going to ask if we could, like, stay with you guys for a bit? Just until I get a job!” Nina squeezed her hand closed, and anticipation buried itself onto her sun-browned cheeks, and into her bright eyes. She sounded desperate, maybe a bit hopeful, as she pleaded to her two old friends.

“No.” Toby quickly shut down, before being brushed off by the girl next to him.

“You can stay with us, but with a few conditions.”

Natalie crossed her slender arms atop the table, laying down the rules of their stay as the older boy sulked, sinking angrily into his seat. The conditions were that the siblings both had to enroll in school, help around the house, and Nina had to actively look for a job. All of which, to Toby’s dismay, were ones the eccentric girl across from them agreed to with a wide smile on her face.

The February frost mingled on the worn, decaying front porch step of the small farmhouse, and only the sound of ragged sneakers and winter boots stomping off excess snow spread out over the quiet, white winter fields as the four youths made their way inside. Nina held stars of awe in her eyes as she looked out at the vast countryside property, and a girlish sort of excitement as she followed her friends through the dim hallways of the house, only lit by the sun shining through the icy window panes. Chris followed closely behind, he didn't say anything at all, but he took in the chipped gray-blue wallpaper, the lifted old wooden floorings that squeaked under his weight, and the smell of something dead, like cigarette smoke. There was a strange sense that there had been something lively here once, maybe a family, maybe a boy his age who would run through the halls as his mother cooked dinner, or an elderly couple who never wore their rings, waiting for the day the other passed.

The little boy ran his hand along the walls as he wandered behind his older sister, not bothering to listen in to the conversation she held with the two strangers who showed them where the bathroom was, then the kitchen, then the living room. Then, they came to the old art room where Chris and Nina would be sleeping. When the older boy opened the creaky door for them, there was a grand reveal of nothingness. A completely empty space; like a blackhole had swallowed the life out of the room one night, and never spat it back out.

“You’ll have to sleep on the floor for right now, at least until you can afford mattresses,” Toby said, gesturing his hand out at the lack of furniture.

Nina waltzed into her new bedroom, and Chris hesitantly followed after her, uncomfortable. He tugged on her coat to catch the girl's attention, and whispered to her, a horrible confession of sorts.

“I don't wanna live here, Nina. I don’t wanna sleep on the floor.”

The girl had a rich history of sleeping on forest grounds and dirty carpets in the old world; so often, that sleeping on the floor was just another thing she had grown accustomed to, alongside the stench of blood and rot. It was almost more comforting to Nina than the bed she'd woken up in when she came to the new world. She was grateful to have a roof over her head, and told Chris to be as well, ignoring his complaints.

Natalie threw down a couple of pillows onto the floor, and a few blankets she found tucked away in her bedroom closet. The sun outside the window had begun to hide itself behind the winding hills of the farmland, the orange-red skies reflecting off of the glistening snow as the room darkened. The forest trees in the distance stood tall, still, and branched over the warm gleam of the horizon.

“This should be good for tonight. Let me know if you need anything else, alright?” Natalie said with her hands on her hips, looking down at the two guests sitting in their makeshift beds.

“Thanks so much, again, seriously. You're a lifesaver Clocky,” Nina smiled at the tall girl as she curled herself under the blanket, her dark hair sprawled over her shoulders and pillow.

“Just call me Natalie,” she replied as she turned to leave the room, flicking off the lights, leaving only the dim glow of the sunset draping itself on the floor over the pair of siblings, and reflecting from the girl's tired eyes.

“Night, Natalie.”

“G’night, Nina.”

As promised, through the course of the early February days, Nina had enrolled Chris in the small elementary school in town. But instead of finishing her high school education, the girl had focused entirely on getting a full-time job. She would sit for hours at the old library computer, and perfect her resume, before handing it out to every retail store and salon she could find. The winter frost kissed her cheeks as she buried her chilled face into her wooly scarf, mitted hands hugging her body for warmth as she made her way back to the tiny farmhouse, nearly every day.

Eventually, as her friendship with Lady Luck would bring, Nina had found herself working at a clothing store in the smalltown mall. Cursed with the boredom of a 9-5, but thrilled with her first legal paycheck. And the first thing she bought: a pair of new shoes she had kept an eager eye on from the boutique the girl had spent time window-shopping, which instead cursed her with sore feet, and a scolding from Natalie about her poor financial decisions.

Toby tossed a piece of chopped wood into the dying flames of the fireplace, listening to the crackle as the lumber began to be overtaken by the eager fire, and watching as it burned to char. The sparks danced, scorched, in his eyes; the color of pinewood being set ablaze. The boy remained still for a moment, and witnessed, with a sort of hunger that he couldn't quite name. Then, he heard the sound of the front door creaking open, and the sound of little footsteps stomping off snow. Both Nina and Natalie had been kept busy at their jobs that awful season, and sometimes Nina would stay late into the evening, leaving Toby to watch over Chris after the young boy had returned from school.

Chris quietly shuffled into the livingroom, and sat on the couch, reaching for the TV remote, and turning it on. The blare of the television overtook the room with a laugh track from an early-evening sitcom, and Toby looked over at the child who’s gaze was glued to the show. He stared at Chris’s face for a moment, his full cheeks like his sister, neat brown hair, big brown eyes that haven't yet seen half of the world in its tainted glory. Toby turned to look down at the boy’s hands, which settled around the remote mindlessly, and how his legs were too short to touch the floor as they dangled over the edge of the couch. A bright, wide smile crept onto Chris’s face as he exhaled out a repressed laugh at the juvenile joke on TV, followed by another ear-scorching laugh track.

There was a sick sort of feeling gripping the older boy’s chest as he eyed the child next to him with furrowed brow, and he couldn't help his face from scrunching in a sort of disgust, or anger, or guilt. The only thing Toby could think of, was the guttural sobbing of the mother he had witnessed that dead winter night, through the shattered window, watching as she held the body of her child, wailing, pleading to a God they both knew wasn't listening. And when Chris laughed again, at another childish joke on that blaring TV, boyhood resting innocent in his eyes. Toby could only picture him dead.

The older boy quickly stood to his feet, placing a hand over his stomach as a wave of disease and dizziness overtook him. Chris glanced over at Toby with an unassuming concern, but didn't say a word, and watched as the teen stormed out of the livingroom.

Toby had begun to develop an unfortunate habit over the days of avoiding the little boy. He hid in bed to avoid looking at Chris, because he didn't want to look in his eyes and see the terrified, pleading eyes of the children he had to kill before him. He covered his ears, because he didn’t want to hear the soft, quick, tiny footsteps of the boy wandering the halls outside of Toby’s bedroom; unseen, like a ghost, haunting him. And soon thereafter, Toby had begun to make home with the snowy forest landscape outdoors, ignoring his ice-bitten hands, because it was better than facing punishment in child-form.

He laid himself back in the snow, and stared up at the cloudy afternoon skies. Gray and dark, as if there had been a forest fire, and the smoke had spread over the wide heavens. But the woods around the boy remained quiet, only interrupted by the occasional deer running past, or rabbit. And everytime an animal would rustle through the frost, or a twig would snap, Toby would jolt up, heart beating, looking around for the source of the sound, before collapsing back down into his white, cold cradle. He sighed deeply as his heart slowly settled after another twig-snapping scare, and looked up at the dead tree branches towering over him, reaching across the gray skies. The boy felt his eyes grow heavy, and tired, and when he stretched his arms up, he noticed how red his fingers had gotten, nearly blue with chill. Toby let out a groan of irritation at the condition of his hands, and pulled himself to his sore feet, brushing the snow off his sweater as he made his way towards the warmth of the farmhouse.

Toby huffed out hot air into his palms, and rubbed them together before going to open the backdoor, entering into the kitchen. The first thing he saw was the sniffling boy sitting on the floor by the dinner table, and then he saw the blood. Toby didn't quite understand physical pain, but he was taught from a very young age that blood meant injury, and injury meant something bad had happened. Toby looked down at Chris who shied away in shame, rubbing his teary eyes, and turning his bleeding forehead away from the olders gaze. There was a violent sort of feeling that rushed through Toby’s body, a loud irritation, frustration, and his lip twitched.

“Get the fuck up, stop crying,” he shouted out, gesturing the boy to stand up, which he did.

“You hit your head on the table? Are you fucking stupid?” Toby yelled at Chris, who didn't say a word.

For a second, Toby could only look down at the child, and see his 9 year old self looking back up at him. Angry, and so small. And for a second, Toby could only look up, and take a deep breath in, and try not to think of his father. He stood tall across from Chris, who’s gaze remained firm at his feet, and there was no more shouting. Toby’s hand slowly made its way down to the hatchet that sat on the holster of his belt, and gripped the handle for a moment. He stared down at the little boy, half-imagining his younger self who he had killed long ago, alongside many other little boys, because it had to be done, and Toby realized something horrible. Standing over the child, his hand gripping the hatchet handle, the frustration that steamed off his sun-spotted shoulders — he was in control. And even worse, Toby had been in that place many times before, and he made his own decisions, and it haunted him, and now, the ghost stood quiet before him, in the form of a child choking back tears. A child that sort of looked like him.

Toby took a deep breath, inhaling the early evening sun, which had already begun to set, and the musk of the old kitchen. He knelt down, and met Chris’s height, and raised his hand off the hatchet handle, to which the little boy fought against a flinch at the movement.

“Alright,” Toby spoke quietly, “How bad is it?”

Chris sat still on the wooden dining room chair, his feet unable to touch the ground, as he tried not to look at the older boy who shuffled through an old first-aid kit he had found under the bathroom sink. He pulled out peroxide, and a large bandage, and turned to face the boy.

Toby pushed back Chris’s hair from his forehead as he washed the small wound out, holding his head firmly in place as he winced.

“Quit moving, I gotta clean it out,” he muttered as blood gathered on the wet cotton ball he patted gently over the cut. He examined the wound over again, before peeling open the bandage, and placing it onto the boy’s forehead.

“You’ll be fine,” Toby awkwardly reassured as he finished up, avoiding the boy’s uncomfortable glances and turning around to put the supplies away.

“I know,” Chris muttered quietly, “my stepdad's hit me worse.”

Toby quickly stopped, his hands remaining still on the edges of the first-aid kit he had been packing back up. His heart sank deep into his chest, like it was revolted, or stabbed. He looked over at the little boy, who had not only spoken to him for the first time, but had confessed something, like he was on his knees in his bedroom at midnight silently asking God for help. Toby slowly made his way back over towards the child who sat uncomfortable, a bit sad, on the dining room chair.

“Uh, listen, Chris,” Toby stumbled over his words, trying to find something, anything to say. There was something small buried within him that wanted to be heard, something that had been beaten down for so long, that began to crawl, and scratch, and fight its way out of his throat. Toby sat down next to the boy, and there was a subtle, silent ambiance that settled over the two boys, battered and wartorn.

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispered.

“It’s not your fault,” Toby whispered back.

Natalie slipped off her work shoes as she entered the quiet house, darkened by the evening. She listened to the muffled sound of the TV playing cartoons from the livingroom as she shuffled tiredly down the hallway, and into the kitchen. Her overworked fingers dug under her ponytail, and wriggled the hairband off, letting her tangled hair fall on her freckled shoulders. Natalie turned on the squeaky sink faucet, and watched water pour into her cup, filling it nearly to the brim before she turned it off. The girl sighed to herself as she sat exhausted onto the dining table chair, and took a sip of her water. As she placed her cup down onto the table, she raised an eyebrow, and ran her fingers over the once-sharp corners, which had now been sanded down.

#tombwrites #tombfic #creepypasta #ticci toby #nina the killer #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta fanfic #ticci toby creepypasta #ticcitoby #chris hopkins #creepypasta nina the killer #creepypasta ticci toby #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta headcanon #ticci toby fanfiction #ticci toby fanfic #ticci toby headcanons

44 notes · View notes

miss-nob0dy · 10 months

Text

hey everyone……… funny seeing you here 😀😀 I am SO SORRY for disappearing??? school got cray cray but ITS SUMMER BREAK AND IM BACK SO HIT ME UP WITH REQUESTS 🗣️🗣️🗣️ nobody requested this but I wanted to make a comeback. And it’s EXTRA long for my Rodolfo lovers out there (me) and also to make up for my disappearance.

——

General Headcanons for Rudy

Rodolfo Parra

He reminds me of Loving Machine by TV Girl, like it’s just how it sounds that reminds me of him.

Definitely affectionate; only shows it behind the curtains though.

PDA makes him a lil shy, be careful.

He seems like a very organized and clean person, he would appreciate it if you were somewhat the same.

At the same time, he looks like he would be in a “opposites attract” situation.

He’s the calm, reserved, and somewhat quiet person in the relationship. You? Oh girlllllll-

You would probably be the more loud, outgoing, and (hopefully) confident person. Someone pokes fun at him and he doesn’t like it? Oh naw watch out 💀💀.

“He asked for no pickles,” type thing.

DEFINITELY smells good AUGHHH.

Would probably smell like the rain, or a fresh cologne.

Has THE SOFTEST SKIN EVER even with the scars he has.

Likes it when you play with his hair, just twirl his curls with your fingers and he’s melting right there in your arms.

Some days, he’s either SUPER cold or SUPER warm. No in-between.

“Rudy, tus manos están tan frías…” (Rudy, your hands are so cold…)

“Mejor me los puedes calentar con tus manos.” (Maybe you can warm them up with your hands.)

Bro is smoooooth with his flirting, he leaves you a blushing mess.

Tbh, he looks faded most of the time. It leaves you wondering if he probably smoked weed beforehand.

“Cariño, you look high.”

“Just tired.”

On the topic of tiredness, he looks like he needs a well-deserved nap.

Likes it when you’re in his arms, but DIES when he’s in yours instead.

Definitely falls asleep in a matter of seconds when he’s just cuddled up in your arms. It’s only better if you got some muscly ones.

Call him “Guapo,” or “Papi,” bro loses it.

Loves it when you praise him or say words of affirmation. He missed out on those when he was little, so he’s in need of some love.

Kinda likes it when you’re the dominant one…

He’s a pretty introverted man in my eyes, so you kinda have to be the one to make the first move.

At first, Rudy is nervous to be physical just in case he makes you uncomfortable. So make sure you show him it’s okay to give you a little kiss.

Dies for forehead or cheek kisses.

IS THE CUTEST THING ALIVE IN THE MORNING.

Let me set the scene. Whenever it’s the morning, he wakes up with a cute bedhead and you find out why you were cold for most of the night.

You let out a small laugh as you saw the scene right beside yourself. Rudy’s hair was slightly messy and disheveled, appearing as if he just came out of the trenches. Although, it was endearingly cute. It was rare you got to see him out of his collected, reticent shell, and rather in this cute and–just a little–meek state. However, you noticed how he was hogging almost the entire blanket up.

At the sound of your voice, he blinked his eyes open. He raised his eyebrows in an amused way, and turned his body around, facing away from you.

“No, Rudy-” And there went the quarter of the blanket you had. Now you were left with nothing, staring at the pile he had on him.

You lightly smacked his back, and he made a small grunt. “E, give me back my part of the blanket.”

Grabbing his shoulder, you turned him around. You slipped under the covers while you stuck close to him, almost being able to hear his heartbeat.

Shifting your gaze towards his, you brushed away a few strands of his hair away from his forehead, and planted a small kiss against it.

“You look cute in the morning.” You muttered with a small smile.

He scoffed playfully, hiding his face into the pillow. It’s so painfully obvious that he’s not used to it yet. And probably never will be.

Poor lil meow meow also gets nightmares :((. He’ll need a lot of comfort after he wakes up from one.

Won’t admit it, but loves it when you trace the scars he gets from his job.

I feel like he enjoys baking and cooking, and probably makes BANGER tamales. Tamales are probably his favorite food. OR OR mole.

Has a childhood plushie that he (eventually) shows you.

Loves floral and clean perfumes. Especially if it’s strong enough to leave a lasting scent on something or in a certain area.

Let me tell you when bro has THE BIGGEST ASS EVER???

And the way he walks doesn’t make it any better yo 😭😭. If you’re in a relationship with him, smack dat ass at least once cause GYAAAAT

Only in private though, never in public cause he will blushhhhh ooo

If you slap his butt, he gives you his signature ‘are-you-serious’ look.

“Did you just slap my ass?”

“Yeah, what about it? Not my fault you walking around with that truckload back there.”

Although he does let out a small chuckle whenever you do. It’s like an inside joke between the two of you.

Arguments with him are like, wowwww.

Since he’s more thought out, he would be the one to step back and take a moment. He hates arguing cause I imagine that he grew up with parents that argue almost everyday (real Rudy, so real.)

So even when it feels like to you that he’s probably pushing the problem away, he just doesn’t want the arguing to escalate to anything more hurtful.

When he comes back, he tries to talk it out with you. And to make up for it, he gives all of his attention towards you. Just make sure to reassure him that you would never actually hate him for arguing.

He’s literally just too cute to hate or not fall in love with.

In the end? 10/10, would smack his butt again.

#call of duty #mwii #mw2 x reader #rodolfo parra #rodolfo parra x reader #gender neutral reader

146 notes · View notes

genderlessdude92 · 3 days

Text

HEAVENLY DRINKS

CHAPTER 2

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩

PAIRINGS: Alastor x F!Reader

SUMMARY: In this chapter, the protagonist finds themselves in a confrontation with Alastor, known as the Radio Demon. Vox, another character, intervenes, leading to a tense exchange. Later, the protagonist returns home, reflecting on their fame and current situation. Alastor is just annoying.

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. Mature Content, Sensitivity, Alcohol use, like HEAVY, (It was noted in the intro that reader is an alcoholic but gets better throughout the story), Verbal Altercations, Implied Violence, Character Behavior, Sexual References, News Media, Emotional Turmoil, Cliffhanger.

NOTICE: please don't steal/copy/translate my work. But thanks for liking it, though!! ^^ Posting chapter every friday but this one is early! Asks are always open, but i can’t get to all of them at the same exact time so if yours is answered right away…You might be lucky 🙏

WORDS: 2.9k

HEAVENLY DRINKS MASTERLIST

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩

The waitress squeaked out of fear and ran to Lucifer knows where, clearing the space of view between you two.

‘Fuckin’ wimp.” You thought.

“No manners these days, am i wrong?” The deer said, turning his head to face yours.

You snapped out of your trance, “Uh…I was doing just fine my myself.”

“I could tell.” he smirked, “You must be pretty desperate to drink every single type of liquor in here.”

You raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he replied, “For starters, you were naming those liquors from the top of your head like the songs in your albums..”

You only blinked.

“Secondly, you’re dressed like a prostitute. Thirdly, you’re not even wearing a bra,” He cleared his throat, “Fo-”

“What gives you the fuckin’ right to call me out like that?!” You argue, “Do you know who I am, fuckin’ asshat?!”

Alastor’s demeanor shifted more eerie, along with the lights in the establishment, “Do you know who I am?” He retorted, “I think somebody needs a quick lesson since they’ve missed some classes, shall we?” He asked, sizing up his form.

You snarled, “You cocky…”

“What the fuck is going on here?!” A loud voice yelled from the entrance.

Both of your heads turned to meet a vision on Vox standing at the entrance, clearly fuming.

“…Why the fuck-“ He points his claw to you, “are you doing he-“ He then snaps his like of view to Alastor, “I-what the fuck?!”

You started to laugh like a child, only now you were a drunk-full-grown-not-mentally-stable-and-not-currently-alive-adult.

Until Alastor slapped you on the back of your head to stop.

“My office, now!”

***

Vox’s office was dimly lit, with soft jazz music playing in the background. The walls were adorned with paintings of various musicians, and shelves lined with books and trophies. A large desk dominated the room, with a sleek computer monitor and stacks of papers piled high on its surface.

Alastor sat across from Vox, observing the scene before him. He seemed to find this situation amusing for some reason.

But you certainly didn’t.

This was not how you wanted your first day out to go.

“What do you want from me?” Alastor asked, his tone casual. “I’m already banned from this fine establishment, am i not?” He chortled.

“That’s the fuckin’ problem,” He slammed his fist on the desk, “I don’t even know why i bothered to bring you in here.” He growled.

Vox then shifted his eyes to you, “-and you.” he added, “You shouldn’t even be showing your face here. do you know how mad i am at you?!” He yelled in your face sparks igniting in his antennas.

“…What.” You gave him a droopy smile.

He groaned, “How much drinks did she have, fuckin’ hell-“

“-34, my good sir.” Alastor intervened.

You chuckled, “No, i had like, 4 shots.”

“Well, you must be mistaken, because i counted 34 drinks.” Alastor corrected, bending his neck slightly.

“Wh-hold on, why were you watch-“

“Enough! That is not what we are talking about.” Vox yelled, standing up from his seat to show authority.

After a surprising moment of silence, he continued, “Y/N, You literally vanished from sight a day before we had a massive show planned at my convention center,” Vox answered, sitting back down, “I know you weren’t told that you aren’t welcome here, but you aren’t and it should be obvious.”

You stayed silent for a moment, getting sober by the second. How long ago was that?

“…Sorry.” You crossed your arms.

“Now you see how none of you are allowed here?” He folded his hands on his desk, looking down and sighing in stress.

“…Yeah, yeah.” You said.

***

Walking out of the building, you jumped slightly when you felt a claw on your shoulder.

“You really don’t remember who I am, little lady?” Alastor said, turning your shoulders to face him.

You looked up slowly, relaxing the alcohol in your body, “No, i know you. Just thought it was funny.” You put a hand on your hip. “You used to put my songs in your broadcast in intermissions, if i remember correctly”

He laughed, “My highest point of listeners.” He grinned.

“I don’t remember much, though,” You admitted, scratching your cheek. “Kinda what i was wanting las’ couple of years.”

“I’d imagine.” He replied, “Drinking every night for forty years isn’t healthy, even for someone like you.” He scoffed, still

plastering the same grin on his face.

“wh- ‘someone like me?’” You questioned.

He sighed, “Look, i know you haven’t been seen for a while, but that doesn’t mean that we forgot about you, if that’s what you’ve been wanting.” He clarified, “You’re a well known woman, but you’ve had…issues since you were alive.”

“good way to bring down the mood,” You scoffed, “i thought we were just getting along, y’know?”

He laughed, “That would be a headline, for sure.”

You tilted your head in confusion, “You’re weird.”

“You’re drunk.” He claimed back.

You growled, about to bite back, but he cut you off, “It seems our time here is up,” He said, now looking at his watch (that clearly does not exist) on his wrist, “My radio show starts in little over ten minutes. Ta-Ta!” He waved goodbye, walking past you.

You began to walk over to him, to give some piece of mind to him, but he then materialized into the shadow.

“Piece of trash…” You muttered, beginning to walk away from the building.

***

As you unlocked the door to your manor, you can’t help but wonder why, after all these years, people still remembered you?

You stepped inside, kicking your heels off.

That was the whole point in rotting in this trash bin, anyways. You couldn’t have all this fame, it wasn’t ethical.

You tossed your fur coat into the laundry room.

And on top of that, you were banned from one of your favorite places. who the fuck does that? He’s just jealous-

You plopped your body onto the plush couch, not bothering about the feeling of your dress riding up your thighs, as you would’ve.

“-yeah, jealous,” You said aloud, “He’s a fucking television, I’m full bodied. I’m a legend and he’s just a piece of trash.”

you scavenged around the coffe table’s under-cabinets until you found a half empty bottle of wine-

…and let’s not forget that stupid deer.

“After all the fucking fame i probably got him, he just treats me like imp-shit. I was just tryna be friendly, start a little fake fight, but noooo-“

You took a large swig of your bottle.

“He just had to get me in trouble, embarrass me, and walk away as if nothing fucking happened.”

You sighed.

You looked at the bottle that was now empty.

…And think if… you did this to yourself?

“…Nah.”

You take off your jewelry, take off your clothes until you were in a bra and panties, and sprawl yourself on your couch, reaching for the remote and turning on your television.

“He’s probably getting… bullied on the news or somethin’.” You muttered to yourself, laughing softly.

Swapping through news networks-

…Oh fuck.

“Famous singer and dancer star from back in the day, Y/N (or stage name idk), Has returned to the bustling streets of the pentagram after 40 fucking years of an absence!” Katie said clenching her script sheet in hand with a shit-eating smile on her face.

You always felt bad for that other guy next to her…

-That’s not the point.

“…apparently, she got into a little fight with the infamous Radio Demon we all know and hate, Alastor! Talk about the conversation of a 40 years!” She added as a laughing track played.

You cringed, “Fuckin’ bitch.”

“But that’s not all! Apparently, this has caused quite the uproar among the fans of the two. Some are worried that our beloved star may never return to performing again, and is just scavenging for some drinks and dicks! While others are ecstatic that she has finally reappeared after such a long time.”

“…Fucking hell, m’ not dealing with this.”

“In other news-”

You turned off the tv, tossing your remote onto the floor.

“Her boobs are so fuckin’ fake, I hate that bitch.” You ranted, Stretching your back and staring at the ceiling.

“…Let’s see, ok…I’m out of books to read.” You noted, “…No more alcohol in this stupid jail cell of a shit hole…” You noted as well, “…and I’m all over the news now…”

After a moment of contemplating life, you sit up again and go to your room.

“I should go to another bar…a really expensive one…” You muttered, immediately rummaging through your closet.

“…I have a lot of money anyways…” You grinned, “Probably more than that stupid dear. I could probably hunt him and eat him…it would taste…” You looked down to your naked body for a moment, thinking, “…like…if it were medium rare, really good…”

“-What was that?” a static voice asked from across the walk-in closet.

“What the fuck?!-“ You turned around, covering your boobs, “How the fuck did you get into my house, pervert?!”

“I’m sorry, dear. But I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Alastor said, crossing his arms, “And for the record, I’m far from a pervert.” He said, squinting his eyes.

“How the fuck did you get in here?!” You demanded.

“Well, you see-“

“No, no. No explanations. Get the fuck out of my house, perverted demon!” You yelled, throwing a shoe at him.

He caught it without effort and stared at you with his red eyes, “Excuse me? You…just asked me why I was-“

You narrowed your eyes, “Oh my gosh, you are so annoying, i can do see how Vox hates you now…” You groan, looking for a robe.

“…You know,” he began as you continued to search, “There’s a saying that goes along the lines of, ‘Drunk men say wise words’ I believe?” He questioned aloud to himself, “…I don’t think that goes for women.”

As you tied a robe around your waist you put your hands on your hips and looked at him. “What are you doing here.” You asked.

“…” Alastor waited silently.

“…Like…actually.” You clarified.

Alastor nodded, “I came to make sure you were alright.” He said simply, “You were rather intoxicated earlier today.”

“…”

“…And you were also not wearing anything under the dress, it kept slipping off.” He added, adding an awkward laugh to it.

“…”

“…So, naturally, I was concerned for your safety.” He finished.

“…”

“…Was it something I said?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“…”

“…Or maybe it was the fact that you threw your shoes at me.” He stated bluntly.

“…Wait- why would it be about the shoes?”

Alastor smiled, “Never mind, it sounds much nicer in here when it’s down one voice.”

You scoffed, “What the fuck is your problem? didn’t you come over here to check in on me?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

You rolled your eyes, “Then why are you acting like an ass all the sudden.”

“Actually…” He pondered for a moment, “…I was hoping you would… join me for dinner.” He replied casually.

You raised a brow, “Dinner?”, You said flatly, crossing your arms.

“Yes,” Alastor confirmed. “I’ve…prepared a special meal for us to enjoy together.”

“…That’s so mean.”

“…What…what do you mean?-“

“You’re just tryna get me to not go to a fuckin’ bar.”

He laughed blandly, “You are very wise, my lady.” He claimed, “But, may i remind you that a free dinner cost less than putting another 34 drinks onto your tab?”

You looked at him confused, but then realized something that disgusted you, “Are you gonna feed me cannibal food?”

He laughed, “For you, I’m sure it’s your favorite meal, but for me, yes, it is a cannibal meal.”

“…What-“

“Medium rare deer?”

You gasped, “Stalker! I fuckin’ knew it!” You claimed, getting another shoe from the ground and getting ready to throw it.

“Don’t!-“ He grabbed the shoe from your drunken-soft grip, “-you dare.”

“…Just don’t go to the bar,” He sighed as if taking care of a toddler, “I’m doing you a favor.”

“-And why would the Radio Demon care?”

“…It’s not pity,” he began, “…I just get second hand embarrassment seeing you drunk.” He grimaced.

“Nah, you just want me and not want anybody else to check me out.” You grinned, turning around to rummage through clothes again.

“Excuse me?” He said, offended, “I don’t view you that way whatsoever.”

“It’s okay, I worked hard for my glutes.” You slugged out a laugh, “Plastic balls wouldn’t look good in my skin.”

Alastor let his disgust cease for a moment before sighing, “I’m leaving. But,” He pulled out a pen from out of nowhere and wrote something down on a piece of paper, that also appeared out of nowhere, and handed it to you when done. “-If you ever need anything. You know, since you’re so vulnerable outside right now, I’ll be at this location.”

‘Hazbin Hotel, Morningstar District.’ It read.

“I’m not vulnerable, I’m just really hot and everybody wants me.”

“…Ugh, okay,” Alastor said to himself, “I’m out. Goodbye, Y/N. Until we meet again.”

And he was gone with the shadows.

You sighed, “Probably still watching me.”, you said aloud, pulling out a black silk dress from the mountainous pile on clothes beneath you.

***

You awoke in the morning to a pounding headache.

You groaned, rubbing your temples as you sat up and opened your eyes.

Your gaze fell upon the empty bottles of liquor strewn across the room and a wave of regret washed over you.

“…At least I decided to buy more.” You said to yourself, sitting up as you yawned and stretched.

Your eyes drifted towards the nightstand next to the bed and saw a glass of water and some painkillers.

You smiled softly, thankful for the kind gesture your past self gave you.

You popped the pills in your mouth and drank the entire glass, feeling slightly better after the medicine kicked in.

You looked at the clock on your wall, seeing that it was only 7 am.

Sighing, you get out of bed, ignoring the fact that your entire outfit from last night was still on (including the heels), You stalked your way over the kitchen to make some hangover stew

After a few minutes of chopping, mixing, and boiling, you finally had a bowl of hangover soup in front of you.

You took a bite and moaned.

It tasted delicious, as usual from your cooking.

And decided to turn the TV on.

Which was a bad idea.

Many news channels reporting on the Pride Ring were showing pictures of you and Alastor at the bar and outside the building-

“Could this be the relationship of the century or a big fluke?” The news reporter asked the audience-

Switch.

“-Another soul for Alastor to collect? Find out more after-“

Switch.

“-Personally, I wouldn’t date her if i was him, yeah?” The television guest claimed to the news reporter now on screen.

…what?

“I mean, look at her. Her boobs are flat and her ass looks fake. I mean, she could’ve at least had some surgery happen in those 40 years or bought some pads for bras.” He added, making the reporter laugh-

Click. Off.

You slammed the remote down and groaned.

You had just gotten out of a 40-year-long-hangover and now the world wants to talk shit about your body?

And you?

Great.

This was a great start to the day.

You got up, grabbing a bottle of wine from the table and taking a swig, feeling the burning sensation in your throat and the dizziness in your brain.

“…What am i doing to myself.” You said, looking at the bottle.

“…I should go to town and find a fuckin’ news reporter,” You claimed, placing the wine on the coffee table, “Fuckin’ rumors spreadin’ like that guy’s ass…” You trotted to your room to find an outfit.

You stopped, looking at your outfit from last Night, “…or jus’ fix my makeup.”

***

Strutting into the heart of Pentagram City, this was probably your first time appreciating how much eyes were on you and those…’phones.’ (which you found out the name from the television.)

You walked with confidence, but also with a little bit of embarrassment.

But mostly confidence.

You looked around, taking in the sights of the bustling city and the sounds of people chatting and laughing and yelling.

Alastor submerged from the shadows next to you, walking by your side.

“Enjoying the outside, my fellow homebody?” He asked with a grin.

“Not now, Alastor.” You said, scanning the area.

“Now, What’s gotten you so worked up with smarts?” He asked like a babysitter, “Haven’t seen you this focused since…never!” He laughed.

You scoffed, “Some guy dared to insult me on live television.” You answered, “Called me flat on my Himalaya’s.”

“…Your what’s?” He asked.

“My boobs, Alastor… they’re not that flat are they?”

I’m not answering that question.” He announced.

You pouted.

“Think of the headlines, dear.”

“…Yeah, you’re right.” You shrugged.

“So,” Alastor started, “Anything i could do to help?” He asked, clenching his cane in curiosity.

“…I needa find a popular News station. So i can announce my…opinions n’ stuff.” You said, “a popular one around these parts.”

Alastor thinked for a moment, “…Ever suggested to yourself…Vox 2 Nite?”

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩

NOTES: CHAPTER TWO IS OUT AND EARLY?! Guys the Alastor x Reader tumblr community is dead rn I need people to like RISE FROM THE DEAD and get their friends who also thrive here like…do their job??? Show support??? Requests??? NOTES??? COMMENTS??? ahem, Anyways, I’m proud of this chapter, It’s gonna get better though, there is spicy material coming, but you guys just have to be patient <3, support is appreciated, Love you guys!!!

-Genderlessdude92, Kiki!

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩

HEAVENLY DRINKS MASTERLIST

OTHER WORKS

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩

TAGLIST:

@martinys-world

@sirens-and-moonflowers

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩

COMMENT TO BE APART OF THE TAGLIST!! HAVE A NICE DAY BAII!!! ;3

#alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x wife reader #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor x you

29 notes · View notes

ladylannisterxo · 2 years

Text

Kiss Me Deadly

Pairings; Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Words; 9.4k (wowza!)

Warnings; S M U T (18+ only), unhealthy coping mechanisms, protected and unprotected sex (yes there are two smut scenes!), semi-public sex, fingering, oral (f! and m!receiving), marking, light face slapping (only once, a blink and you'll miss it moment), teasing, praise kink, flirting, a single drug deal, smoking, angst, fluff, love confessions, angst with a happy ending, reader had a past relationship with Billy, reader is kind of mean (on occasion), somewhat follows canon storyline (yeahhh, I think that's everything lmao!)

Summary; On your good days, you can manage to navigate life without thinking of Billy at all. Sometimes he only springs up in your mind once or twice but it's never long enough to throw you off course. But on your bad days... well, that's what led you here into the arms of Eddie Munson, a boy you're determined not to like but one who is eager to burrow under your skin and never let you go.

A/N; Ahhhh I'm so excited about this one! I've been tossing this idea around in my head for about a week and I just HAD to write it - Eddie has taken over my entire life so here we are, with 9k words (my longest fic ever) of just Eddie goodness!

{ masterlist }

It started off simple enough and it’s not as if any of this was planned. No way. Eddie Munson, the local menace to society, was your dealer. That’s all, case closed. And it’s not as if you wanted to become a druggy overnight or anything, but after the events of Starcourt, you were beginning to feel less and less like yourself and more like an alien trapped inside of a body you no longer understood.

Starcourt had been… a disaster, and that’s putting it mildly. Sometimes in the deepest, darkest corners of your mind, you can still see the flashing lights of the fireworks and, always of course, the overwhelming guttural screams Billy had let out in his attempt to fight off the Mind Flayer. Billy was never supposed to be a part of this. Billy was never supposed to die. On your good days, you can manage to navigate life without thinking of Billy at all. Sometimes he only springs up in your mind once or twice but it’s never long enough to throw you off course. But, on your bad days… well, that’s what led you here.

After Starcourt had fallen, after all of the funerals, Hawkins did its best to return to a state of normalcy. How everyone around you was able to casually move on as if this wasn’t the biggest hit this town had ever taken was beyond you. It ended up being one big cover up: a mall fire. Something about a corroded gas line that ended up setting the place ablaze. How quaint. But if anyone in this town had half a mind to really think about it, how does a brand new shopping mall already have a corroded gas line? Short answer, it doesn’t. It wouldn’t.

It was after the cover up story and after everyone started to move on that you stopped feeling so sad all the time, stopped grieving so much. Instead, all of those emotions morphed into one that seemed to sit in the pit of your stomach day in and day out: anger. And not just any type of anger, the type that is white hot, unbridled rage. It’s all consuming and when you really start to feel it, it takes over every nerve ending in your body and makes your brain check out.

You needed to take the edge off, you needed to sleep without having an abundance of nightmares all the goddamn time. And that’s what brought you to Eddie Munson. You had heard from a friend of a friend of a friend that Eddie sold drugs on the side. You didn’t really know Eddie all that well, having never really spoken to him, but you knew of him. You knew he was repeating senior year for the third time which was absolutely baffling to say the least but you also knew that while he talked a lot of shit about parties, he was always at them. Every single one, or well, all of the ones you had been to anyway over the years. He would always operate as a wallflower, lurking in the shadows, selling his supply to the overeager teens of the town—really just being a productive member of society, no doubt. It was truly something, how the well to do teens of this town had branded Eddie the label “freak” and yet when they needed to get blitzed out of their minds, he was their guy! What a bunch of bullshit.

You had never partaken in the drug scene, never wanted to stray off course. You were a good student, more than good, if you were being totally honest. And it’s not as if your grades were slipping or anything, you just couldn’t focus anymore, your mind constantly drifting back to that night. You couldn’t take it anymore and that’s how you had originally found yourself staring down Eddie Munson as you engaged in your first ever drug deal. What a classy gal you are.

“I can give you a half ounce for uh… twenty. That work for you?”

“Sure?”

You had no idea what you were doing and now it was blatantly obvious. You hadn’t expected him to go all business-like on you when he popped open the lid of the container he carried around with him. Your eyes dart around the wooded area, fingers drumming lightly on the picnic table.

“First time, huh?”

It’s not unkind, more curious. Your eyes flick up to find him already staring at you—big, brown eyes searching yours, seemingly trying to figure you out. Why you of all people would be contacting him for a shady drug deal. You start to feel small under his weighted stare, a feeling that automatically sparks the anger inside of you.

“Thought you were a drug dealer, not a narc,” you snap, “what’s it matter to you?”

His eyes blow wide for a brief moment and then an easy smile forms on his lips. He turns his attention back to the assortment of drugs in front of him and starts pulling your “order” together.

“It doesn’t,” he responds after a moment, “just making sure you’re, ya know, good.”

“I’m fine.”

He smiles again. “Sure.”

And then he’s holding his hand out, eyes focused intently on you, waiting. Right. He’s not going to give you the goods without getting his payment first. Smart. Still baffling how he’s repeating senior year for the third time but common sense and book sense are two entirely different things. You rifle around in your bag for a moment before pulling out a crisp twenty dollar bill and placing it into his awaiting hand. He places your payment into his container and then drops what you came here for directly in front of you on your Chemistry textbook.

“Thanks,” you mumble, pulling yourself to your feet and shoving your “order” into the bottom of your bag.

“My pleasure.” He grins. Why does he keep smiling? “So, hey, random question, but do you play D&D?”

Your hands still as you turn back to face him. “Huh?”

“D&D? You know, Dungeons & Dragons.”

“I know what it is.”

“Right. So, I’m asking, do you play?”

What the fuck? You squint your eyes at him because surely, he’s fucking with you. This was just supposed to be a drug deal, where you exchange payment for goods and then carry on with your fucked up life. But here he is, Eddie fucking Munson, staring back at you with another one of his stupid smiles with, what appears to be, the patience of a fucking saint.

“I- I don’t- What?” Smooth.

He shakes his head with a chuckle, his brown waves bouncing slightly. “Look, you just, you seem like you could use a break and for me, well, D&D has always provided a stellar means of escapism.”

“I don’t know how to play,” you say flatly, willing the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“I could teach you,” he offers in return, “I’ve been told I’m quite good.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Uh huh and why would you want to be oh so kind and teach me the ways of D&D?”

“Like I said, you look like you could use a break.” He smiles again, you narrow your eyes. “And, yeah okay, we could use another player.”

You scoff but in spite of yourself, a hint of a smile finds its way onto your face. This is the most normal conversation you’ve had in months and it feels… good. So good. You’re not sure how to explain it but for all of Eddie’s wild antics and boisterous personality, he makes you feel calm, grounded.

“Okay, sure, why the fuck not?” You nod. “And you can… teach me? That’s not going to be difficult?”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not going to be an overnight thing but I’m the Dungeon Master so if anyone can truly teach you, it’ll be me.”

He winks and you’re biting back a grin. This is so not how you thought this day was going to go.

“I’m sorry,” you laugh; can’t help it. “Dungeon Master?”

“Yeah, it’s the game organizer,” he explains confidently, “the one who creates the campaign and the… what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing! It’s just,” you pause, tilting your head to the side, granting him a sly smile, “I mean, you realize how it sounds, right? Dungeon Master?” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to let him in on the joke. “Come on, Dungeon Master! It makes you sound like a sex fiend!”

He snorts. Dropping his head, his chin rests against his chest as a laugh ripples through his entire body. Then he’s covering his face with his hands and he almost looks… embarrassed? No way, Eddie doesn’t get embarrassed. Does he? But his laughter subsides and he meets your gaze again, a shimmer still present in his eyes and a forever smile on his face.

“Sex fiend, huh?” He winks. “Not the worst thing I’ve ever been called.”

“Okay and we’re done here.”

He laughs again and you’re pretty sure that he’s just laughing at you at this point. His eyes remain focused on you as you finish packing up your things and sling your bag over your shoulder.

“So, let me know if you ever need to take the edge off again,” he says simply, gathering his own things, “and I’m free tomorrow for D&D if you’re still… interested?”

You give him a thumbs up because that’s apparently something that you do now and instead of waiting for a response or, God forbid, another awkward moment, you start walking back towards campus. You can feel his eyes on you, burning right through to your soul but you don’t dare turn around because if you have to see him smile at you one more time, you might shatter into a million pieces.

That was three months ago and your “not so relationship” relationship with Eddie became surprisingly easy after that. He continued to hook you up with weed whenever things became a little too difficult to manage; you never took anything stronger, you didn’t trust yourself enough to give up complete control. He also kept his word and taught you the ins and outs of D&D. You’re no expert but you’re decent enough to keep up with the longtime players of the Hellfire Club, a club which you now find yourself a part of. You have the shirt and everything.

And Eddie was easy, uncomplicated. You liked Eddie. You liked Eddie a lot. You found out he played guitar in a band; a band which you still haven’t seen play yet but you keep telling him you’ll come to a gig one day. He’s also surprisingly funny, always doing the absolute most to make you laugh, and he’s smart too, smarter than he gives himself credit for. He just lacks… dedication? Determination? Confidence? All of the above.

Oh and then there’s the sex. That came later, about a month after the initial drug deal. Sex with Eddie was also another thing you did not plan for but it came so naturally. But there were rules… or well, you had rules and Eddie abided by them. He had to or else he wouldn’t be getting his dick wet. And they weren’t unreasonable, not to you anyway, and there were only three.

Rule Number One: No one could know. And it’s not because you were embarrassed about being seen with him, that didn’t matter to you. You spoke to him when you passed him in the halls, you sat with him at lunch, you wore the fucking Hellfire Club shirt that let everyone else know who you spent your time with. That’s not what this rule is for. You didn’t want anyone to know that you were fucking Eddie, rather regularly, because you didn’t want anyone to slap a label onto your relationship. Because it’s not a relationship, not at all. It’s just two people engaging in casual consensual sex because it feels good and it helps take the edge off. It means nothing and you can stop at any time. Besides, if you were being completely honest with yourself… you wanted one thing that was just yours, a thing you could keep away from the prying eyes of Hawkins because if no one knew about it, it could never be ruined.

Rule Number Two: No kissing. This also includes no marking, which is a sub point to Rule Number One because a mark would alert everyone to something happening. You were fine with fucking Eddie; you were good with blowing him and having him finger you and eat you out at the same time. These were all things that you were perfectly content with. Because it’s meaningless but kissing? No way. Kissing is intimate, kissing is a risk, kissing opens the door to feelings and… no, fuck that. Eddie had thought this rule was a bit too much so to compromise, you allow him to kiss any part of your body, just not your lips. Halfway happy.

And then there’s the final rule. Rule Number Three: No talking. Now, this seems a little excessive, you’re aware of that. But this doesn’t include shooting the breeze or talking about D&D or music or whatever. This is specifically for those deeper topics like why sometimes you need to buy weed from him every day of the week or why it looks like you didn’t sleep well the night before or what exactly happened at Starcourt that fateful July night. No, there is no room for that type of talk because all it does is piss you off. The one thing you found that you liked the most about Eddie is that he doesn’t pry and maybe it’s because he really doesn’t give a shit one way or the other but you both learned the hard way what happens when he asks if you’re feeling okay. You had snapped at him hard one afternoon after a routine hookup and he recoiled from you like he had been burned. Now this rule exists and everyone is much happier for it. Right? Right.

The school day had been dragging and it was only noon. You sometimes prefer to spend your lunch period in the library studying or getting caught up on work but Hellfire Club is meeting later this evening and Eddie likes to brief everyone ahead of time. So, here you are, sitting alone at a lunch table waiting for everyone else as you go ahead and complete your Physics homework. You’re currently trying to figure out how the back of the textbook is claiming the problem you’re working on should result in an entirely different answer then the one you’re getting when you feel a presence behind you. You see a Newsweek magazine drift down in front of your field of vision and his mouth is right at your ear.

“The devil has come to America,” he says ominously.

He drops himself down on the bench next to you, straddling the seat and facing you. He brings the magazine up in front of his face and scans the article dramatically. You drop your pencil with a sigh and grant him your undivided attention because surely, this is going to be good.

“Dungeons & Dragons. At first regarded as a harmless game of make believe now has both parents and psychologists concerned.” He reads off in an overly exaggerated tone. “Studies have linked violent behavior to the game saying it promotes satanic worship, ritual sacrifice, sodomy, suicide, and even… murder!”

He slaps the magazine down on the table with a flourish, granting you a manic grin. You breathe a laugh, pulling the magazine closer to scan the rest of the article.

“Sodomy, huh?” You inquire, eyes trained on the magazine.

Eddie barks a laugh. “Apparently.”

“Hm. Interesting.”

You can feel his eyes on you as he leans in closer, trying to gauge even the subtlest of actions.

“I’m sorry, am I learning something about you right now?”

“What do you mean?” You ask innocently, dropping your voice to a whisper. “Sodomy includes oral and let’s be honest, we are no stranger to that.”

“Sure but it also includes anal so again, am I learning something about you right now?”

“I dunno.” You shrug and it’s not an answer but he’ll figure it out later… one day… eventually. “But I’m pretty sure the devil has been here the whole time and even if he is just now making his way to America, riding in on the back of a fantasy game just seems illogical. But hey, what do I know?”

He rests his head in the palm of his hand, listening to you run off at the mouth over something as inconsequential as a bullshit article about the dangers of D&D. He feels a warmth bloom in his chest but he ignores it, he always ignores it—he has to. Instead, he opts to stare at you with a whimsical smile etched on his face. His eyes travel down to your notebook full of equations he can’t make heads or tails of.

“What are you working on?”

“Physics,” you reply easily, picking up your pencil and resuming your work.

“I didn’t know you were taking Physics,” he mumbles, leaning in closer to watch you work.

“Yep, AP.”

“Oh, little miss advanced placement, huh?” He purrs, breath tickling your ear. “Too bad this isn’t multiple choice. You could pick D, all of the above for everything.”

You snort. “Mmm, is that what you do? Pick D on all of your quizzes and tests?”

“Well actually,” he states, taking on an overly posh accent, “I’ll have you know that the general rule of thumb is that if you don’t know something, always pick C. Which… now that I’m thinking about it, that’s probably where I keep going wrong.”

“Oh that’s where you keep going wrong,” you say, dropping your pencil and turning to him with a smile. “And here I thought it was because you didn’t study and didn’t try.”

Eddie scans your face as a mischievous glint forms in his eyes. “So D then, all of the above.”

You shake your head with an eye roll. “You’re insufferable.”

You turn back to your work and a companionable silence falls over the two of you. He watches you for a few moments more before pulling out a pen and doodling in the margins of your notebook. You let him, finding the notion that you’ll eventually be turning this work in and your teacher will also have to gaze at these doodles endlessly entertaining.

“You have really pretty handwriting,” he murmurs offhandedly after a moment.

Your heart twists in your chest and you hate it. You don’t hate it because he said it, you hate it because you actually don’t hate it. Not even a little bit.

“I need something from you,” you blurt out, trying desperately to skip over how his stupid compliment made you feel.

“Alright,” he nods, still drawing his doodles, “is this a weed kind of something or… another kind of something?”

“I dunno,” you breathe, “skip fourth and find out.”

Eddie’s eyes snap up to meet yours and he can instantly tell from your weighted stare and shallow breathing that this isn’t the “weed kind of something”. He smirks.

“How am I supposed to graduate if I keep skipping all my classes?” He’s messing with you, he likes to do that from time to time. He doesn’t really care though, he’ll skip every class if you ask him to. “Where do you want to meet? The woods—”

“—Your van. Parking lot. Fourth period.” You lean in a little closer, breath fanning over his face. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

His eyes flick down to your lips and then back up. He doesn’t go for it, he knows better. Going against your rules always ends up with him getting burned. He lets out a shaky breath and opens his mouth to respond when Gareth drops his bag down on the table with a loud thump. You and Eddie immediately spring apart as the others file in to sit with you. You bite your lip, turning back to your work and he knows the rest of this conversation will have to wait until he gets you alone during fourth period.

The remainder of lunch passes by fairly quickly. Eddie briefs everyone on what to expect at Hellfire later and you admittedly only focus a little bit as you really are trying to get this Physics work out of the way. Especially since Hellfire always runs longer than planned, especially because you’ll be skipping fourth period. You squeeze your thighs together in anticipation.

Third period English feels like it lasts an eternity and while normally you’re invested in the novel of the week, you can’t help but find yourself staring at the clock, willing the minutes to tick by quicker than they are. When the bell sounds, you’re immediately out of your seat and booking it to the exit that leads to the parking lot. You hope Eddie is already there waiting, you don’t like arriving before he does. It offers too much risk for someone to see you lingering around his van.

You slow your pace when you finally get outside, trying to act casual as you meander slyly on over to where his van is parked. You spin in a slow circle to see if anyone is paying any attention to you and once you deem yourself completely anonymous, you thump your fist against the back door of his van: two steady knocks, a beat, and then four more in quick succession. You came up with the secret knock after the one time he took his precious time in letting you in and someone almost saw you. Just another sub point to Rule Number One, that’s all.

One of the doors opens just wide enough for you to squeeze through and then he’s reaching out a hand to pull you up and inside. Once the door is shut and locked and you do a quick perimeter check to definitely make sure no one is getting nosy, your hands immediately fly to the buckle of his belt, unbuckling it and whipping the belt through the loops of his jeans so fast, it makes a cracking sound in the stillness of the van.

“Someone’s eager,” he laughs, “not that I’m complaining but I’d be interested to know what it was I said at lunch to warrant you being all over me like this.”

“Why?”

“So I can do it again, obviously.”

“Shut up,” you huff with an eye roll, “take your clothes off.”

He does, starting with his shirt. He pulls it up and over his head, exposing the inky black of his tattoos against his pale skin to you. When he catches you staring, he smirks and then he’s kicking off his Reeboks and sliding himself out of his jeans and boxers in one swift motion. He’s on full display and you’re still very much clothed. His cock stands at full attention, red and leaking, ready to be touched and sucked and fucked.

“Good thing I’m not self-conscious,” he admits, eyeing your still fully clothed form.

“I want you to do it,” you state matter-of-factly and then, “please.”

He walks on his knees over to you; it’s awkward but no one here is laughing. It’s all heated stares and crackling sexual tension. His hands run softly up your stomach to cup your breasts and then back down around your waist to squeeze the swell of your ass. The action pushes you flush up against his warm skin and his nose bumps against your own. He’s too close so you turn your head before he gets the wrong idea and he latches his lips onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder and suckles at your skin.

You moan softly at the sensation, hands resting on his biceps. “No marks,” you warn.

Eddie lets go with a sigh and then his fingers are teasing the hem of your shirt before he rips it up and over your head in one swift motion. His hand splays against your back in search of the clasp to your bra and you breathe a soft laugh after a moment of intense fumbling.

“Front clasp, Eds.”

He looks down and finds the damn thing sitting pretty between the swell of your breasts and his breath hitches. “Even better,” he groans.

He pops the clasp open and pulls the bra off your shoulders and down your arms, flinging it to the discarded pile of clothes already accumulating. His attention is back on your breasts in an instant, cupping them in his hands and teasing your nipples between his fingers until they’re hardened peaks. You drop your head back with a sigh and he licks a stripe from the base of your neck up to your jaw. It sends a shiver cascading down your spine.

“Can you help me out with your shoes at least?”

You drop rather awkwardly down onto your ass and pull at the laces of your Converse, tugging them both off and tossing them over to where his Reeboks lay. You lean back, keeping yourself propped up on your elbows and he takes the initiative to unfasten the button of your jeans and pull them and your panties down and off your legs.

Your hand reaches out on instinct, teasing your fingers along his shaft. He twitches at your touch. Eddie leans over you then, hovering just a breath away from you and before you can turn your head away from him again, he presses a delicate kiss to your cheek and then moves his lips to your jaw and then further down your neck. He stops for a moment at your breasts, lavishing them with his hands and tongue, taking each nipple into his mouth and drawing out the most wanton moans from you. As sinful as you sound, it’s like heaven to him. He trails wet kisses down your belly and then he’s finally, finally where you want him most.

His breath is hot against your pussy and his nose brushes ever so lightly against your clit. You bite down on your lip, keeping yourself still as you wait for him to make his fucking move. You’re just about to chastise him, tell him to take a goddamn picture, it’ll last longer, when he flattens his tongue against your entrance and licks all the way up to your clit.

“Oh,” you breathe, letting your arms buckle out from underneath you to lay flat on your back.

After fucking in his van started becoming a regular occurrence, Eddie took it upon himself to make it a bit more comfortable for the two of you. There are now a couple of blankets for you to lay on and a few pillows because why not? The more comfy it is, the better. He likes to refer to his ride now as the “Shaggin’ Wagon” as a joke which he finds hilarious. You didn’t at first but each time he uses the term, he waggles his eyebrows and gives you a mischievous grin and you can’t help but laugh with him. Eddie is a total loser sometimes but you like it.

His tongue circles around your clit for a moment, loving the whiny sounds you grace him with. Then he’s latching on with his lips and sucking fervently against the sensitive bundle of nerves and your back arches at the feeling. Your hands immediately fly to twist your fingers in his hair but also to keep his him right fucking there. A single finger prods at your entrance and in one fluid motion, he’s buried knuckle deep inside of you, the cool metal of his rings flush against your ass.

“Fuck, Eds,” you moan, “right there.”

His finger slips in and out of you at a steady pace, lips still stimulating your clit. Your fingers twist tighter in his hair, impending orgasm right on the horizon. He slips his digit from you, wraps both hands around your thighs, and buries his face completely in your cunt, his tongue pushing inside to get you just where you so desperately want to be. You roll your hips, feeling his tongue push in deeper, and then with an elongated moan, you’re cumming on his tongue and he’s lapping at your dripping pussy, taking everything you give him.

With a shuddering gasp, you push at his head to keep him from overstimulating you because this is far from over. His mouth is slick with your arousal and he wipes his fingers across his mouth, gathering up your wetness and licking them clean.

“Have I ever told you how fucking good you taste?” He asks, finger in his mouth and mirth ever present in his eyes.

“Today? No.”

“Well let me remind you,” he whispers, crawling back up your body and bumping his nose against yours. “You taste so goddamn divine, sweetheart, it’s too bad you can’t taste it for yourself.”

“Don’t start, Eddie,” you caution.

“Okay, okay,” he relents, “do you want to keep going?”

You spread your legs wider around him, reaching down to take his cock in hand. Hips rolling forward, you brush the tip of his cock against your entrance.

“What do you think?”

“Fuck,” he breathes, “okay, let me get a condom.”

Eddie pulls away from you then, fumbling for his discarded jeans. He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and then he’s pulling a foil packet from its confines. Tearing it open with expert precision, he rolls the condom onto his length and then he’s back, hovering over you once again. He grasps one of your legs, hand gripping the underside of your knee, and pushes it up towards your face, effectively spreading you open for him. He lines himself up at your entrance, teasing his cock through your folds a few times.

“Ready?” He asks, voice like gravel.

“Yes,” you whisper, anticipation like ice water in your veins.

He slips into you, torturously slow, inch by aching inch. Your hands run up his torso, landing on his chest and digging your nails into his supple skin. He hisses at the contact, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth and then he’s bottomed out, hips flush against your own.

“Don’t hold back,” you tell him, “give me everything you got.”

“I always do.”

Then he’s gingerly pulling back out and his eyes flit to yours—the last possible second for either of you to put a stop to this dancing between the two of you—and then he’s snapping his hips and setting a brutal, mind-numbing pace. You moan like a whore, you always do when Eddie fucks you. Your nails rake down his chest leaving scratches behind in their wake; Eddie doesn’t mind, he never has. He doesn’t care if you mark him, he likes the reminder that he fucked you so hard and so good that your first instinct was to scratch his skin all to hell.

“This is what you wanted,” he grunts, “what you needed, isn’t it?”

You nod, biting down sharply on your bottom lip. He hikes the leg he’s holding higher, changing the angle and you wrap your other leg around his waist, keeping him close to fuck you faster, harder, deeper.

“Nuh uh,” he reprimands, slapping his hand lightly against your cheek and then pulling your lip from between your teeth, “you know I like it when you tell me how good this feels for you.”

You scoff. “God, you love to be praised, don’t you? Have to be told just how much of a good boy you are.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks as he grinds his teeth and you match his steely glare with one of your own. And then he’s smiling one of those wicked smiles he usually reserves for D&D when he surprises everyone with a hellacious plot twist. He shifts his position, pulling himself onto his knees and then he’s grabbing both of your legs and pushing them as far forward as he can, practically bending you in half. Your feet brush against the roof of the van and with one last smug grin, he resumes fucking you with such ferocity that it punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh fuck! Eddie- I- oh my God.”

Your breathless, brain completely frazzled and you can feel him everywhere, like he’s digging himself a permanent home underneath your skin. Your hands grapple against his chest, searching for purchase as his hips snap against yours brutally. He’s still got that wicked gleam in his eye and you know he’s got you right where he wants you. The head of his cock slams against your sweet spot over and over again and it has you screaming as pleasure courses through your body.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he laughs, shoving two of his fingers into your mouth, “you really gotta shut the fuck up. Don’t want people to hear what a whore you’re being for the freak, do you?”

You moan around his fingers, sucking on them in the same way you'd suck his cock and the mental image has him groaning as his eyes flutter closed. Victory swims through your veins at being able to unravel him so quickly. You slap his hand away, his eyes reopening to gaze back down at you. The wicked, smug gleam is gone and all that’s left is pure desire. The way Eddie looks at you sometimes stills your heart in your chest because why would he want to? You’re an absolute fucking mess most days. You haven’t been something worth wanting in a long time… but here he is, looking at you as if you hung the fucking moon.

You grin, shoving those thoughts from your mind. “Thought that’s what you wanted. Thought you wanted to hear me scream for you as you pummeled my cunt with your huge cock.”

Eddie lets go of your legs, allowing you to wrap them around his waist and then he’s covering you with his body, one hand pressed to the floor and the other tangled in your hair. His nose brushes against your cheek, breath hot against your ear.

“You say such nice things to me, sweetheart, and nice girls get what they want,” he whispers against your heated skin, “so why don’t you be a good girl and cum for me, yeah?”

You whimper in response, his hips rocking into you at such a steady pace that it makes you want to burst. Your orgasm bubbles up inside of you, twisting tightly in your belly and you roll your hips against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, letting him take you higher and higher and higher until it feels like you’re floating above your body.

“Come on, Eds, make me cum.”

He untangles his fingers from your hair and brings them down to rub quick and firm circles onto your clit and with one last loud and elongated moan, you’re cumming on his cock.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, fucking you through your high and chasing his own release. “Shit, you’re so good for me, you know that?”

He buries his head in the crook of your neck and you rake your nails down his back, keeping his body flush against your own. He thrusts one, two, three more times and with a choked moan, he finds his own release. The two of you remain in this position for a few moments, catching your breath and relishing in the post-orgasmic bliss hanging in the air. Gently, Eddie pulls himself up and out of you and then he removes the condom, tying it off and tossing it toward the back door to be disposed of later. He lays down next to you, head propped up in his hand while the other rests on your stomach.

“What are you thinking about?” He inquiries softly.

You shake your head, eyes trained on the roof.

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers dancing along your skin, “are you feeling okay?”

With a huff, you sit up and immediately grab for your clothes, pulling them back on as quickly as possible. Eddie sits up as well, eyeing you warily as he reaches for his own clothes. He’s not entirely sure what it is he’s done but he’s positive he’s gone against one of your rules. It’s not as if he meant to, he was simply concerned and like hell is he going to believe that being concerned for the wellbeing of someone else, someone as special as you, is going to be considered a character flaw.

“Can you stop for a second?” He asks gently.

You’ve already managed to pull all of your clothes back on. Pushing your hair wildly out of your face, you begin the task of lacing your Converse back up so you can get the hell out of here. It feels like you’re suffocating, like the fucking van is on fire.

“I don’t know why you keep doing this,” you mumble.

“Doing what?” He slips his shirt back on and then he’s leaning back against the side of the van, trying to keep as much space between him and you as he possibly can.

“Ruining things,” you snap, “you always fucking do this, Eddie!”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t call me that!”

His eyes grow wide at the seething tone of your voice. You’ve finally slipped on your Converse and you snap your head over to stare him down. If he could get further from you, he would. The anger is rolling off of you in waves and it’s unbelievably stifling in this confined space. How did everyone go so wrong so fast?

“I have three rules, Eddie, and you agreed to those three rules, did you not?” You don’t wait for him to respond. “So I don’t understand why the fuck you keep going against them and why the fuck you’re always so goddamned surprised when it pisses me off!”

“Jesus Christ, is this all because I asked if you were okay?!”

“I don’t want you to ask me if I’m okay! I don’t need you to ask me! I am fine! I have been fine this whole time and I will continue to be fine. Okay?”

He shifts his eyes away from you, staring out the front windshield, muscle in his jaw jumping with tension. “That was a convincing lie the first few times you said it but it sounds a lot like bullshit now.”

“You don’t fucking know me,” you hiss.

“How can I? You won’t let me!” He turns his eyes back on you and he looks wounded, like you’ve ripped his heart out and crushed it right in front of him. “Your rules are bullshit! And the only reason they even exist is because you’re too afraid to let someone, let me, know you!”

You scoff, a bitter sound that runs over his skin like sandpaper. “We’re done.”

You shove the back door open and step out into the parking lot, inhaling copious amounts of fresh air to help settle your nerves. Eddie’s presence looms behind you like a shadow, like he’s the predator and you’re the prey. You start walking back to campus, refusing to look back his way. All you want is to go grab your things from your locker and get the fuck out of here, forget that you ever wasted a single goddamn second on Eddie Munson. The van door slams loudly.

“Are you still coming to Hellfire tonight?”

The question catches you off guard, stops you right in your tracks. Is he fucking serious? You slowly turn back to find him leaning against the side of his van, lighting a cigarette. Seemingly not a care in the world.

“What?”

“Are you… still coming… to Hellfire… tonight?”

He enunciates his question like a fucking asshole and it makes your blood boil. He’s not even looking at you, too preoccupied with his stupid cigarette. Coward.

“That’s what you’re concerned with?”

“Well,” he begins, taking a long drag of his cigarette, “since I’m not allowed to ask you about anything else, I figured falling back on D&D would be a safe option.”

You want to scream but it comes out as a humorless laugh. “Yeah, Eddie, I’ll still be there. Just because I’m no longer fucking you doesn’t mean I’m gonna fuck your campaign.”

“Jesus Christ,” he scoffs, tossing his cigarette to the ground and jumping into the driver’s seat of his van.

He doesn’t pay you a second glance as he peels out of the parking lot, leaving you behind in a cloud of dust. The wind gets knocked out of you fairly quickly after that and you’re not sure what exactly it is you’re feeling. It’s definitely not anger although you’re used to anger, you prefer anger. No, what you’re feeling is an emotion you haven’t felt in a very long time. Pain. It scorches through your veins like fire and you want to dig your nails into your skin and rip it out over how badly it burns.

But you can’t be feeling pain or sadness. Not about this. Not about Eddie. You haven’t felt pain like this since Billy died and you went numb fairly fast after his funeral because you cried so much. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be capable of feeling that level of pain again. But it’s not like Eddie died or anything; you’ll see him later and he’ll remind you all over again just how annoying he is when he cracks his jokes or captivates you with his enticing storytelling or looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

You sigh. Fuck.

The next few hours slip by in a blur and before you know it, you’re back at campus, halfway through another round of Eddie’s campaign. He barely glanced up at you when you had walked in, choosing to focus on getting everything set up. He didn’t even speak to you. It didn’t feel right; you usually showed up early anyway and you and Eddie would shoot the breeze and tease each other and laugh until everyone else arrived. But not tonight; instead, it was like a vice had twisted itself around the room and sucked all the air from it.

For as much as he ignored you when you first arrived, once the game got going, it was as if he had never been bothered about anything ever in his life. He was the same Eddie that he’s always been—eyes alight as he waits for the perfect opportunity to spring the next great plot twist on the group, a dazzling smile etched onto his face because he’s right where he needs to be, in his element. It makes your stomach twist and your brain go fuzzy. You want the game to be over.

And then it is and everyone’s clearing out in high spirits because tonight was a good run. Then it’s just you and Eddie left in the room and that vice from earlier is circling the room again.

“You were good tonight,” he says offhandedly, not looking at you, “you barely need help anymore.”

“Thanks,” you say, “I had a good teacher.”

An awkward silence falls over the room and you’re not sure what to do. Should you leave? Should you stay and help clean up? Should you say something? Should he be the one to say something? You remember all too well what long silences with Billy meant and usually you only needed to give him some time and he’d come around but Eddie isn’t Billy and you’re not really sure where to go from here. It frustrates you to no end and you want to cry but you also don’t because God forbid Eddie see you cry. The thought is unbearable. When you look back at Eddie, he’s already looking at you and his expression is unreadable.

“I’d ask if you’re feeling alright but,” he stops, sighs, “I really don’t want to fight with you again.”

“No, it’s- it’s okay. You were right.”

He nods. “I’m really not trying to be an asshole here but right about what exactly?”

“Everything,” you say, voice catching, “I’m not fine, Eddie. I haven’t been fine in a long time.”

He crosses the room in three long strides and suddenly you’re enveloped in a hug and it feels warm and nice and like home that a sob immediately erupts from you and then you’re clutching onto him like he’s the only thing keeping your feet on the ground.

“Shh shh shh,” he whispers against your hair, kissing your temple, “don’t cry, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry I screamed at you today,” you cry, pulling back to look at him, “that wasn’t cool.”

Eddie chuckles, looking at you like you could never do any wrong and you hate it. Hate that he’s so understanding, hate that he just gets it, hate that he’ll never ask you to be anything other than what you are. But what you hate most is that you don’t hate it, not even a little bit, not even at all.

“Come here, let’s sit down,” he says, pulling you over to the table and then you’re both perched on the side of it, turned towards each other, knees brushing and hands interwoven together.

“Look,” he says softly, “I shouldn’t have come at you like I did today—”

“No, Eddie, you—”

“No, listen, okay?” He searches your eyes, waiting to see if you’ll cut him off again. “Your rules are kinda intense sometimes… but I get it. What you went through, what you lost, I- I can’t even begin to imagine what it has been like for you. The pain I know that you felt, the pain I know you still feel. Sweetheart, I know it sometimes looks like I’m not paying attention but I am and I see the look in your eyes, you know what I’m talking about, when you disappear inside your own head.”

You nod, nibbling on your bottom lip. “It’s usually about that night, the night that Billy died. I think about it more often than I’d like, going over what happened and all of the ‘what ifs’. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” he implores, “you loved him. I know that you did and I know that a part of you still does. There’s a part of you that always will and I never want to be the one to take that away from you. But I think that you’re scared—scared to let someone in, scared to love again, scared that you’ll end up losing it all again. And I- I really need you to know that I care about you so much, sweetheart, I mean, I- I’m so fucking in love with you and I think what scares you the most is the fact that you might love me too.”

You breathe a shaky sigh, a single tear falling from your eye which he brushes away instantly with a touch so gentle, it has you coming apart at the seams.

“I’m a mess, Eddie,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

And to your surprise, he laughs, a full laugh that takes over his entire body. He stretches his arms out wide before you. “And what do you think I am? Perfectly put together?”

In spite of yourself, you smile; the kind of smile that lights up your whole face and makes his body grow warm at the sight.

“There she is,” he whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Eds?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I do… love you, that is,” you whisper, trepidation flooding your body. “And I still get scared sometimes but I- I want to try to not be… with you, if you’re… okay with that?”

“More than.” He smiles. “Let’s be scared together, yeah?”

“And no more rules.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want that?”

“Yes,” you state resolutely, “I want to talk about anything and everything, I think it might help. And I want people to know about us, I don’t want to hide you away like some shameful secret cause I’m not ashamed. I want everyone to know that I’m yours and you’re mine and… and I want you to kiss me. All the time. Every chance you get.”

Eddie doesn’t waste a second. He immediately cups your face in his hands and brings his lips to yours and it’s everything you imagined it would be. He tastes like cigarettes and Mountain Dew and it’s gross but it’s him so you love it. You tease your tongue along his bottom lip and he eagerly opens his mouth for you to slip your tongue inside, kissing him deeper.

Your hands slip under the hem of his Hellfire shirt and you run your fingers along his bare torso, his abdomen tightening at your feather light touch. He chuckles lightly against your lips and lo and behold, Eddie’s ticklish and it makes you feel giddy that you’ve discovered something brand new about him.

You pull back suddenly, eyes blown wide and lips swollen. “I want you, all of you. The right way.”

His gaze darts around the room before landing back on you. “Here?”

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“No.”

“Then yeah, Eds, right here.”

He pulls himself back up to stand between your open legs and caresses his fingers up your thighs before making quick work of pulling your Hellfire shirt up and over your head. His eyes land on the front clasp of your bra and he eagerly unfastens it and pulls it from your body.

“Look at you,” you tease, pecking your lips against his jaw, “finding the clasp the first time around.”

“Hush.”

“Your turn,” you say and then you’re just as eagerly ripping his shirt up and over his head, exposing his ink splattered porcelain skin to you. “I just want to put my mouth everywhere.”

“What’s stopping you?”

You purse your lips in contemplation, tilting your head to look over towards his “throne”; the seat that is his and his alone, where he sits before you all like a king and commands the room. It sends a thrill straight to your core.

“Go have a seat,” you whisper, pushing him towards the chair. “But take your pants off first.”

He does, stripping himself of his Reeboks, jeans, and boxers and then he’s dropped himself down in this “throne”, manspreading for your pleasure. He looks like art come to life, bathed in the soft white glow of the overhead light, alabaster skin on complete display for your eyes and your eyes alone. You bite your lip and then slip off your Converse and shimmy your own jeans and panties down your legs. You cross over to him, hips swaying seductively, eagerly soaking up the look of absolute want that he sends you. Then you drop to your knees before him, eyes aligned with his hardened cock.

“Oh,” he breathes, “so this is what we’re doing.”

“No, this is what we’re starting with. Only fair after the two mind blowing orgasms you gave me earlier.”

“I aim to please, sweetheart.”

“And please you do,” you say sweetly, batting your eyes up at him, “now, let me take care of you.”

Before he has a chance to respond, you grasp his cock and lick a firm stripe from the base to the tip. He groans low in his throat, head dropping back against the chair and eyes screwing shut.

“Oh fuck me,” he whispers, “that’s good.”

You swirl your tongue around the head, lapping at the precum pooling and then you’re taking him fully into your mouth, sliding all the way down until your nose brushes against his pubic hair. You take a minute to adjust to the feeling of him in your throat and his thighs are tense underneath your fingertips. You hum once and his entire body spasms.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, “you’re so goddamn good to me.”

You hum again in appreciation and he groans. You glide slowly back up, tongue flat against the underside of his cock and then you flick your eyes up to meet his. Eddie’s staring back at you, mouth slightly agape, and eyes full of lust. No, not lust… this is love. Pure and true adoration. You grasp the base of his cock and begin bobbing your head at a steady pace, eyes remaining fixated on him. You may have admitted that you love him but it doesn’t mean you still can’t thoroughly enjoy just how quickly he falls apart for you.

There is spit dribbling from your lips and his fingers are tangled in your hair, keeping you somewhat in place as he shifts his hips to fuck your mouth. You hum around him again, letting the vibration course throughout his body and then he’s pulling you off his cock with a gasp.

“Okay, okay,” he grunts, breath shuddering, “I don’t want to cum yet so…”

“Got it.” You bite back a smile and then pull yourself up to straddle his lap. “Is this okay?”

“C-condom?”

“No, I want to feel you,” you blurt and then softer, eyes locking with his, “make me yours, Eds.”

“Shit,” he murmurs, pushing your hair back out of your face, “alright, sweetheart.”

You smile, melding your lips with his once more. Lining him up at your entrance, you bring yourself down, taking his cock fully in one fluid motion. You both moan into the kiss. One of his arms wraps around your waist while the other splays fingers across your upper back, pulling you flush against him. Your hands are resting atop his shoulders, using them as leverage to lift yourself up and drop back down, setting a steady pace.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he mumbles against your skin, lips trailing down your neck to your chest.

He tweaks your nipples between his fingers before he pulls one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened peak. Your nails dig harshly into his shoulders, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer. You throw your head back, a loud moan escaping your lips as you bounce fervently on his cock, bringing yourself closer and closer to your impending orgasm.

Eddie pulls off your nipple with a soft groan, hand coming up to brush against your cheek and tilt your head back down to meet his gaze. “I’m so close, sweetheart, tell me you are too.”

You nod, brushing his damp hair out of his face and resting your forehead against his. “Kiss me when you cum, Eds, please.”

“Fuck,” he groans, a choked sound that gets lodged in his throat. “Anything for you.”

You roll your hips faster, taking him deeper and you’re alternating between moaning like an absolute whore and chanting his name like it’s the only word you remember. His eyes remain locked on your face, letting you take control as you bring the two of you to release.

“Eddie, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper, “kiss me, please kiss me.”

He surges forward, capturing your lips with his own and you’re teetering on the precipice. With one last hard thrust of his hips, you’re freefalling straight into the waves of bliss and Eddie cums shortly after with a groan so broken and loud, his warmth spreading through you. You continue to roll your hips, working you both through your high and then you’re opening your eyes to find him already gazing at you longingly.

You remain like that for a moment, basking in each other’s presence and then you’re both erupting into a fit of giggles because this feels right. You don’t feel like you need to hide from him anymore, like you could stay here in this moment with him forever and everything would be okay.

“I love you, Eddie,” you say so matter-of-factly that it makes your heart soar.

He blinks, a trademark Eddie smile pulling at his lips. The kind of smile that lights up a room and makes your heart skip a beat and breath stutter in your chest.

“I love you too. God, I love you so much, sweetheart.”

He kisses you again… and again… and again. You’re not sure what tomorrow holds or the day after that or the day after that and you definitely don’t know when the world is going to implode on itself again but at this moment, you’re not particularly concerned. Because you have Eddie and he has you and you’re not afraid anymore.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #stranger things #writing by 's'

809 notes · View notes

eoieopda · 1 year

Text

the one with hoseok and the teapots

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader Type: Drabble, Hurt/Comfort Word Count: 1K CW: AFAB!Reader, established relationship AU, implied miscarriage/pregnancy loss (not described). A/N: I received a special request from someone (who wishes to remain anonymous,) going through something heartbreaking. They asked me to write something to help them “cry it out” but find comfort, too. I hope this drabble can give them a piece of that. This is not something I have personal experience with, so please take that for what it’s worth.

Standing in the doorway, Hoseok can’t think of a single thing worse than the image before him.

You spent months whirling around this room like a hell-bent hurricane, oscillating through paint swatches at the speed of light. You’d settle on one shade just to think better of it seconds later. As you moved through your indecision, his t-shirt fluttered over your busy body. Flecks of mint green were covered with a corrective white — then delicate yellow — then white again — then soft, blue-toned grey.

Once you’d finally gotten the walls the way you wanted them, you went on to second-guess the angle on every single item you placed between them. You’d gently shift him around, too, keeping his input in mind and his body out of the way. Your partner became your independent contractor, compensated with giddy kisses in exchange for his consultation.

It started with the chair in the corner, first too exposed to direct sunlight — what if it hurts their eyes? — then too shadowed — Vitamin D is important, isn’t it? — then just right.

Next was the humidifier, shaped like a thick tear drop, that glows like the Northern Lights when it sprays cool — not hot, though, because that can be drying and it defeats the whole purpose, I think — mist from the corner near the closet. Not too high up on the floating shelves that its moisture traps itself in the ceiling, but just enough to escape the threat of spills.

Then you moved on to the rug, which ended up tucked at the edge beneath the dresser; itself stabilized by dutifully-placed brackets. He held the hammer and you held the nails next in line, kissing his sore thumb when he got distracted by your smile and missed his target. A few little bruises were worth your sigh of relief; and the reduced risk of tripping in the dark when your feet were more awake than your brain.

In the present, you’re sitting on your knees on that rug. There’s no giggling, no singing to pass the time; just you, packing away sheets too small for any other bed, in a house too big for just the two of you.

Now, Hoseok realizes: he can’t think of any sadder scene because there isn’t one.

It’s all too heavy on his shoulders to keep standing there, but he hasn’t been able to step foot inside that nursery for fifteen days. It feels offensive, even the idea of entering. Like it takes audacity he can’t muster to bring his grief over that threshold and exist with it inside those walls.

Those walls were painted with broad-stroked joy, he thinks, but where is that joy now?

Hoseok doesn’t know, but love is at his feet, struggling to smooth out wrinkles in a folded, fitted sheet.

He lowers quietly into the space behind you. One leg on either side of your weary frame, he leans forward to wrap his arms around your waist. Gentle, irrationally fearful that if he blinks too hard, the physical misery you only recently shook off — that kept you curled up on the living room couch for days — will seep back into your bones.

You lean back against him, though, dropping elephant-print fabric into your lap so that your hands can cling to his forearms. It’s still quiet, but your fingers beg him to hold on tighter. He does.

He will.

Hoseok will stay like this forever if that’s what you need. Career be damned, he’ll sit on this floor, holding you, until that suffocating fog eventually clears. And it will, he knows, somehow. Enough time will pass and some day, this room won’t be empty. All of that untapped, unconditional adoration will compound interest in the meantime, until there’s a new tenant to spend it on.

You’ve both been at an uncharacteristic loss for words lately. So, Hoseok does what comes naturally: he presses his lips to your temple and keeps them there. For a second, a minute, an hour, he isn’t sure — until he hears your voice.

All cried out, your signature softness sounds like sandpaper.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You continue in a voice that’s a little bit louder, more than a little wobbly. “The logical part of my brain knows that this happens and that it’s not my fault. I do know that. I just — I feel so fucking sorry.”

There’s no apology needed where no blame exists. He’s glad you understand that, but wishes that there was any better way to describe this feeling. Anger doesn’t fit; there’s nowhere to direct it and no use for it, anyway. Disappointment is too small.

Hoseok isn’t sure what’s big enough, but he’s fucking sorry, too. He says as much, voice thick. He swallows hard and it hurts.

Sorry that he couldn’t be the one to go through it instead. Sorry for the guilt you still feel, even knowing that you hadn’t done a single thing wrong. Sorry that wanting something so badly couldn’t guarantee the outcome.

He kisses your temple again. Once, twice, three times.

There’s a crack when you say, “I wasn’t sold on the elephants, anyway.” Then a shaky, shallow breath as you tilt your head to look down at the sheets, “They look like teapots.”

Hoseok drops his chin onto your shoulder to see what you see: white blobs on rustic blue. There’s no way to know which end is the trunk and which is the tail — if the little points are either one of those things.

“Kind of,” he hums in agreement, “Ducks, if you squint.”

That little noise you make has nowhere near the power of your usual laugh, but it’s something.

More than something — it’s the prettiest song he’s heard in recent memory. One that sounds like a step in the right direction; like dust shaken off a back that’s been knocked hard to the ground. Rusty, sure, but not beyond repair.

Still good, still you.

It sounds like hope.

246 notes · View notes

heyidkyay · 8 months

Text

I guess I’ll take this pain, instead of your name |

Epilogue

A/n: The finale. Heyyy, hope you all enjoyed the last update, I’m beyond grateful for all the love it got alongside the rest of this series, it means more than you’d realise. But I just had to indulge myself and write the epilogue too, made sense tbh and I really do love the way it went, there’s lot going on here and I feel like it was necessary to post! It’s just nearing 20k though so hopefully it’s enjoyable, there are a few different cut scenes, where we time jump, and one point where George gives us a little insight to the ongoings in his life, but overall it just shows the years after the end of 28. I loved writing this a whole lot but I am most thankful to @procrastinatinglikeapro for letting me annoy her with the emotions this brought up as well as giving me a place to bounce ideas around, so thank you, you lovely human:) Hopefully I can put you out of your misery now, and that the rest of you enjoy this last part? Thank you sm for reading! X

Summary: In life, things changed. The boys you'd once grown up with were men now, and famous ones at that. The type that toured the world and had millions of adoring fans.

The five of you shared a shit ton of history. But you also shared a lot of mixed emotions for one of them in particular, a certain drummer.

Masterlist

Epilogue -

Dealing with a shit hand in life, had both its downsides as well as its ups.

With all the crap, the dirt, the anger and the grief, there also came perspective.

As in, the more you’d been shafted with, the easier it was to deal with the more mundane things life had to throw at you. Like when the washing machine broke mid-cycle and flooded the kitchen floor in early December. Or missing the tube into work and being nearly twenty minutes late for an important client’s meeting.

Even the times when all of your best mates, who were in a band, get suited and booted for a singular night, and then that said band goes on to win a Brit Award- only, you’ve gone and missed it all because you were stuck somewhere in a line to use the loo.

Yeah.

I swanned back over to our table in the mid-section just after, grateful that I’d had the foresight to check for loo-roll on the bottom of one of my heels as well as grab another champagne flute on my way over.

Wasn’t one for the stuff, in truth. Literally anything else would’ve been better, but alcohol was alcohol and my anxiety always got the best of me at these kind of events.

Even though I’d known the boys longer than the band had been formed, I hadn’t actually been to that many. This was my first one in quite a few years.

A small frown had etched itself onto my face by the time I made it over to our little section, the table was now half empty and not one of the boys were in sight- and I even ducked down slightly to see if they were pratting about beneath it too! But no such luck.

“Where’s everybody?” I asked Carly quietly, who’d been grinning like the cat that’d caught the cream before she turned to blink up at me. My forehead furrowed even further as I placed my glass down on the table top and took the seat beside her. “You alright? Is there something on my face or summat? You’re looking at me funny.”

She actually had the fucking nerve to laugh at me then, the cow.

“Oi, tell me!” I urged, swatting at her upper arm lightly after just having dragged my chair in.

“Only you, I swear.” Carly retorted, giggling freely now before she jutted her chin outwards, up towards the main stage. “You missed it, babe! They’re all up there!”

It was my turn to blink then, the alcohol slowing my ability to think functionally, before it finally hit me. My head snapped up towards the front of the room, where, low and behold, stood my four idiots.

Shit, I really needed to slow down.

But that was just a passing thought before I threw myself back up and out of my seat to whoop loudly for them, seemingly having lost all sense of decorum- or whatever it was that these toffpots loved to go on about- my anxiety having been well and truly chucked out the window.

The boys all appeared to glance over at me then, and I heard Carly snort behind an extravagant centrepiece just below me when the four of them laughed. Matty, the honest to God twat who was stood holding the award over by the mic, smirked though too, and it was so shit-eating that I could easily see it from across the floor. Instantly I knew what was coming.

“Oh and would you look at that, the wonderful Birdie has returned!” Matty shouted out, eyes squinting with the extremity of his grin as he leant in closer over the podium, “Where you been then, B? Missed it, sweetheart! Ross reckoned you popped to the loo’s- pretty snazzy, ain’t they?”

“Felt like a queen!” I quipped right back, apparently unable to bite my tongue.

The lot of them seemed to appreciate it though, as did some of the room.

“Our poor Georgie was a little lost on the way up, babe! But don’t worry, G, we’re all sorted now.” Matty teased, winking over at the drummer stood to his right. George rolled his eyes, but his mouth was curled to one side in a way that couldn’t be helped. “For everyone who doesn’t know the lovely Birdie! She has been with us sorry lot since the very start.”

“Before it.” Ross cut in from behind him, which sent Matty’s head nodding.

“Yeah! Before it even!” He corrected himself and then pointed the tip of their Brit award towards me, “Don’t think we could’ve made it this far without her, in truth. Probably would’ve had a big massive blow up and never have spoken to each other again, knowing us. But she’s the glue that binds us. Always.”

My heart swelled in my chest so much it almost hurt to breathe, and I couldn’t even bring myself to care for the hundreds of people sat in this room, never mind watching it all unfold on the tele, I’d just never felt so appreciated, especially upon seeing the rest of the boys all nod solemnly in agreement. I wiped haphazardly at my cheeks.

“But, as I was trying to say, long before we were all so rudely interrupted!” Matty went on, earning a round of chuckles throughout the arena. “We are beyond privileged to be here at all, and to have been nominated three times, too. Well, I ‘spose it just shows that we’re doing something right.”

I forced myself to sit back down at that and let the four of them carry on with their thanks. It was so beyond strange to sit through though, I don’t think it had ever really hit me just how much they’d grown and seeing them up there was all the proof I needed.

I thought back to the band practices, to the gigs in shitty dive bars and pubs, to touring and seeing them play for thousands of beaming faces. It reminded me of Carly and Adam’s wedding, and the birth of the band’s first baby. Made me think of Ross’s face when he’d come over to Matty’s after his first proper date, how buzzed he’d been, the look in his eyes. All of it had me wishing for the simpler times strung out by the pool and on the school’s playing fields.

The years had seemed to pass us by so quickly.

I saw it in the wrinkled smile Hann gave Carly, the greying stands in Matty’s hair, and how G’s knees groaned whenever he sat down- though he’d never willingly admit it.

My family. They’d given me so much, filled many a hole in my war torn heart, but I don’t think they had any actual idea how deeply their presence was felt in me. And so as I stood once more to give another lungful of cheers alongside the rest of the audience, I vowed to make sure that they each knew just how loved they were and how proud they made me.

—

“Yeah, yup. Of course! No, we do do peonies this time of year. Yes, no need to worry it’ll all be taken care of.” I pressed the phone against my shoulder and ear so that I could grab a nearby pen and paper to write a few details down, then hummed watching on as Delia came out the back of the shop. “Okay, and is that all? No, no, thank you! So it’ll be delivered on the Thursday, is that alright? Yeah. Okay, okay. You’re most welcome! Alright, have a good rest of your day.” Then I finished off the call with a classic British goodbye that always seemed to go on a little too long.

Delia was smiling at me now as she placed a couple of empty pots by the counter, hair plaited down the length of her back and with a pair of reading glasses tangled in its top. “Another order?”

I hummed again with a happy smile at her ask, finishing off the address I’d just taken. “Yup! Big one too.”

“Oo, how lucky we are.” Delia retorted with a small chuckle and a pleased little smile of her own. It’d been a good week, lots of orders, which was promising after the past month we’d had. She glanced over to the clock on the far wall, then back to me, “You still skiving off early tonight?”

Skiving was hardly the term I’d use, but with a fond roll of my eyes, I nodded at her. “I am. That still okay?” Already knowing it was.

She tutted, waving me off. “You know it is. Just letting you know that he’ll be here any minute now.”

My eyes widened and I was quick to spin around to cast a glance at the time. “Shit.” I murmured to myself, listening to the faint laughter Delia gave as I undid my apron and hurried to tidy up what was left of my last bouquet.

“Leave it, love. I’ll be here another hour or so.”

I frowned, then shook my head, always one to clean up my own messes, but I was interrupted then by the shop door’s jingle. Both Delia and I looked up at the same time to find a familiar figure stepping through its archway, he wore his usual cheeky smile and had eyes that looked more alive than I’d seen in a long while.

Well, I hadn’t really seen him in a long while, he’d been away on tour with the guys for months now and I’d only gotten small glimpses of him through texts and calls, as well as the odd sporadic visit between us both when we were really feeling the distance.

“George.” I breathed out, recognising the tension I’d been feeling for weeks now finally fall from off my shoulders. I couldn’t bring myself to move though, to race on over and throw myself into him like they did on the tele- mostly because that just wasn’t our style. But I did grin, couldn’t have stopped the beam of it in all honesty, and watched him walk the length of the flower shop only to pause about a foot away with his hands tucked neatly behind his back.

“Heya, Birdie. Fancy seeing you here, ey? And still not ready too. Ain’t already regretting having agreed to let me move in, are you?”

He was teasing. His favourite pastime had always been teasing me. But his words still resonated and as much as I wished to reassure him that that was most definitely not the case, I was still me and if he wanted to be a twat, then I could be an even bigger one.

“Might be.” I sighed deliberately and slowly moved around behind the counter to hang my apron up on its original hook, before glancing over to where Delia still stood, wearing an amused smirk of her own. Far too used to our antics by now. “Just keep thinking about my lovely little flat being invaded by all your man-ness.”

“My man-ness?” George quizzed, withholding an obvious chuckle whilst he raised a questioning brow over the till at me.

I hummed, tutting lightly before I glanced back at my boss. “You know what I mean, don’t you, Deils? The boxers and socks thrown about everywhere, wet towels left on the bathroom floor, having to clear up after not just yourself but them as well.”

“Like having a dog.” Delia immediately agreed with a dip of her head, “Eat whatever you feed them and don’t give you a minute alone.”

I snorted whilst George just shook his head at both of us.

“Well, most dogs don’t leave and come back baring gifts.”

“Eh, you’d be surprised.” Delia countered but by then I was already intrigued.

“Gifts, you say?” I questioned him, pressing my hip into the counter to rest my chin against my fist.

“Hm,” George hummed in low confirmation, those eyes of his dancing back and forth between my own, “But you know, could always just head on over to Ross’s, sure he’d be fine with housing me for a couple nights…”

I rolled my eyes at the very thought, “As if! He’s probably glad to see the back of you for a while. I’ve heard stories about tour, G. Remember that.”

It was his turn to snort then. “Most likely. Delia, you wouldn’t happen to have a spare bed going for a poor bloke who’s been fed empty promises and chucked out on his arse, would you?”

Delia sighed and shook her head, although she was still sporting a fond smile. “The pair of you. I swear.” She let go of a soft chuckle before checking my hip and shooing me off, “Get on out of here, would you? Driving me up the wall already.”

“You love us really.” I shot back easily, but was all too happy to oblige, rounding the till to grab my coat and bag before acknowledging that I was now standing a foot away from him once again. It’d been far too long. “Hey.” I said sheepishly.

George rolled his eyes at my awkwardness and made a grab for my hand, pulling me in close and pressing a kiss to my forehead before he slunk his arm around my waist. I let myself fall further into his embrace, taking in his familiar build, the aftershave he adored, the tightness of his hold.

“You ready to go?” He asked me gently and I dipped my head to hide the warmth of my smile, fingers finding a belt loop on his jeans.

“You sure you’re alright with me leaving early?” I said once more to Delia, hating having to leave her in the shop on her own.

“Yes! I’ve only told you about thirty times already, lovely. I’ll be more than fine.” The older woman immediately shot back, palms splayed on the countertop whilst she shook her head at me for umpteenth time today. “I think you forget I’ve been running this shop for well over a decade now, and I’ve been doing alright.”

My cheeks burned a tad at her words, but I just couldn’t seem to help it, once you were one of my people you were in for life. And I took care of the ones I held close. “Sorry, Deils. I know I’m being exhausting, I just-”

“Care.” Both her and George said simultaneously.

And I glared meekly at the pair then huffed, “Well.”

George chuckled beside me, the sound vibrating against the skin of my cheek, and could only seem to pull me impossibly closer, “Too much, sometimes.”

I threw my free hand up in the air with a light laugh, “Right. Sorry I’m overly considerate! But there are worst things you could be, you know. Like rude? Reckon the pair of you would know a thing or two about that.”

“Oh, gerroff it.” Delia laughed delightedly, tutting at me. George seemed content to just continue on grinning. “Go on, get out of here before I chuck you out.”

“You heard the lady, B. Don’t wanna overstay our welcome.” George added as he begun to usher us towards the door, but I saw the sweet smile he flashed the woman before the bell chimed once more. “Lovely seeing you again, Delia.”

“You too, be sure to pop back in before you head off on the road again.”

He laughed but assured her with a promising nod, “Will do.”

—

“That’ll be six fifty, sweetheart.”

I smiled and handed it over, pulling the cocktail I’d ordered across the bar whilst I scoped the place.

It had been just a typical Tuesday night for me, I’d been in joggers, bra long gone, and curled up in front of the tele, but then George had phoned, spouting this and that about the album, telling me to meet the lot of them at a club down in Canning Town.

I had no idea whether they’d started, finished, or just scrapped the whole thing, but it’d been doing everyone’s head in for months now, and for G to just call up and send a cab to fetch me out of the blue had me intrigued, so obviously I’d gone.

Only, they had yet to arrive. Fucking London. I swear as much as I loved it most days, you could hardly move an inch without it feeling like the entire city was shifting with you. Our flat was a lot further than the studio, but tonight the roads were crammed pack with traffic that had managed to work its way onto the A12, so I already knew that they’d be a little behind. I was merely thankful I’d had the foresight to skip the cab ride and just jump the tube.

A graze to my left arm then pulled me from my thoughts though and I glanced over to find a fella stood crowding the bar beside me, he was tall, blond, and although he appeared to be waiting on the bartender he was also a little too close for that to be his only intent. But me being me, I simply shuffled over a tad to give him some room and continued to sip at my drink, eyes still trained on the club’s entrance.

“Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to crowd you.” I heard the bloke say from beside me and his hand brushed my elbow as he took a polite step away.

“You’re alright.” I waved off, not really paying him much mind now that the bartender had worked his way back over to take this side’s order.

It was nearing almost eleven now and so I popped my phone out of my purse to see if G had sent me an update. He had, almost ten minutes ago in fact, but apparently I hadn’t heard it over the noise.

G: Stuck in traffic Won’t be long though x

I smiled and shot him a quick text back, saying I’d have a large talisker waiting for him.

It was only when I’d flicked it back off, not bothering with whatever else had popped up, that the guy caught my attention again. He’d already cheersed the bartender for his drink, coloured something ruddy, and then granted me a small smile when our sights crossed.

“I love the watch.” He said to me, dark eyes shooting downward to the antique that adorned my wrist.

Caught mostly by surprise, I found myself looking down at it too. It wasn’t much of a statement piece, dainty if anything and odd in its design due to the age, but it held a lot of sentimental value and was something I rarely ever parted with. Hardly anyone passed comment on it though.

“Oh, thanks.” I replied, drink already back on the bar before I allowed my thumb to graze across it’s glass face briefly. “It was a gift.”

The man hummed around a swirl of his drink, “Looks rather old, got to be at least sixty now?”

I grinned and my surprise stuck with me, he was almost on the mark there. “Around about, it was given as a present to my grandparents on their wedding day. One of their friends gave them one each.”

That answer warranted a little shock of its own, I supposed. If you knew what to look for you’d see that the watch was a Hans Wilsdorf design from the mid forties and the one my grandad had worn completed a matching set. To say that they’d both been given as a gift, especially way back then, was amazing, but even more so seeing that both my grandparents had been working class.

“Can I?” He questioned and dipped his head down at it, asking for a closer look.

He appeared to know a little about watches from what I’d grasped, or at least had a fondness for them, and seeing as it wasn’t the strangest thing to ever happen to me in a club, I held out my arm to let him.

“It’s beautiful, well looked after.” He complimented sincerely with careful eye, “May I?” I frowned at his question, unsure on what he’d meant, but nodded once and was only slightly surprised when he took a gentle hold of my wrist to turn it over and glance at the clasp. “Even the engravings have kept.”

I smiled when he allowed me my hand back, glancing down at the watch again, the dim lights over the bar glinted across the metal. “It’s even got a small inscription on the back too.” I felt inclined to add, the chiseled words having stuck with me ever since I’d first seen them.

The stranger smiled along with me, as though he understood the emotions my revelation held. “Do they have a story?” He wondered, before adding, “The friend behind the gift.”

It wasn’t a well kept secret, the background of my grandad, the friends he’d kept, the men he’d known. But it wasn’t one I’d heard very much of until the visits I’d taken to my Nana’s long after he had died and I’d left home.

“You could say that.” I chuckled and let my arm relax in my lap once more, “He was a… business man, of sorts. Had known my grandad since they were boys, grew up together.”

“A business man?” The man lifted an elegant brow, mouth following.

“Of sorts.” I reminded with a smirk.

“Oh, like that I see.” He smiled charmingly in retort, “Lots of business men mulling about in the fifties and sixties. Any big names I might know?”

I snorted softly, glad he’d caught on so quickly. “Probably. But I’m no snitch, so you’ll be hearing none.”

He narrowed a pair of dark eyes at me in a manner of teasing at that, and on any other girl they might’ve worked, might’ve even disarmed them. But, I was already happy, happier than I’d ever planned on being actually. “And here I was, thinking we were becoming fast friends.”

With a light laugh, I picked up my drink. “I have enough friends.”

“Oh, that hurts, darling.” The man instantly quipped back, raising a ring clad hand to cover his chest faintly. Yeah, he was definitely playing a game here, but just as I’d been about to affirm the fact that I wasn’t and also had a boyfriend, he spoke up again, “Go on, at least let me know the message engraved on the back.”

I peered over at him for a moment and he only quirked his brow in turn, I put my glass back down on the counter to unhook the first clasp on the watch, not enough for it to slip off (I wasn’t a fucking idiot) but so much so that I could flip the face on its front. And there, in a curved font, was written ‘Family has a way of being found amongst friends’.

“Wow.” The man murmured and I hummed softly in agreement, our heads bowed closely to read the inscription together in the dim lights. “Very wise words.”

I glanced up and smiled at him, ready to reply before a hand snaked its way around my waist. My head shot up at the touch and was greeted with the many faces of the band, but most importantly, George.

“You made it!” I beamed at them all, already shuffling over a bit to make room for the boys. Ross was already leaning against the bar though, ordering in a round, Hann seemed to follow his lead after gifting me an strained smile, which was confusing in itself, until I saw Matty’s shit-eating grin and felt George’s hand grow firmer on my hip.

“We did! Seems like you barely noticed though, love. Havin’ fun tonight, are we?” Matty baited, he was almost singing and his expression was nothing short of gleeful. He reached between me and the bloke I’d been speaking to to grab at my drink. “Cheers, B.” He added, raising the glass to his lips and downing what remained of it.

I rolled my eyes, albeit fondly. “You can buy me another now, Healy.”

Matty hissed theatrically through his teeth as though he was weighing on the thought, “Dunno about that one, sweetheart. Seems as though you’ve got bigger shit to worry about here.”

I pursed my lips in confusion just as the curly haired singer slid from view and then glanced up at George, who stood towering beside me. I poked at his side, “Not gonna even say hello? Been waiting ages for you lot.”

George glanced down at me at that and seemed to take a deep breath before he finally smiled, leaning in to press a kiss to my hair, “Hello, Birdie. Been behaving?”

My forehead pinched at his words, but when I looked up I saw the darkened haze his eyes held and felt my breath hitch. I wasn’t sure if it was down to the lighting in the club or something other, but whatever it was it had my emotions warring.

George turned away before I could mutter a single sound. “Sorry, mate. Don’t think I caught your name.”

It hit me then.

G was jealous. And oh, how lovely that thought was.

I was quick to dim the smirk that toyed with my lips upon the realisation and pulled a little bit away from his hold to offer the stranger I’d been sat with a truly apologetic smile, “Oh God, yeah, I didn’t either!”

The man’s stare darted between the pair of us before it landed back on me, he masked his confusion well and said, “Tom.” Then stuck a hand out to properly introduce himself, but before I could even think to take it, George beat me to it.

I blinked.

“George. Not to be rude though, mate. But she’s already taken, so if you don’t mind?”

Startled by his harsh comment and the jerk of George’s head, I blanched and was hasty to reassure the man sat at the bar, “Don’t mind him.” Then turned to my suddenly temperamental boyfriend, “G, we were just talking about my watch. What’s up with you?”

He raised a single brow in retort but didn’t let up on the continuous stare he had on the stranger. Tom, who looked extremely fucking uncomfortable, merely held up a hand. “Didn’t mean to overstep.” He declared before he set his sights back on me, “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable in any way. But it really was a pleasure meeting you, hope you enjoy the rest of your night.”

I fish-mouthed slightly but nodded, “Yeah, sorry. You too.”

The man granted the pair of us a tiny smile and then let himself get swept up in the club’s crowd. I immediately spun around to face George.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!”

He had the cheek to reel back from my hissed words, acting as though I was the one being outrageous here. “Me? I didn’t do anything!”

“You were so rude!” I countered and felt his hand slip a tad from its place on my hip, “We were just talking!”

“He was chatting you up!” He immediately argued, “Anyone could see that from a mile off!”

“He was interested in my watch! And even if he was trying to chat me up, don’t you trust me enough to know when to draw the line?” I sniped back, all the earlier amusement I’d felt drained from my body.

The skin between his brows pinched as he blinked and the palm placed on the small of my back splayed a little further, his voice softened, “Of course I fucking do, Birdie. Doesn’t mean I like watching people like him fawn all over you.”

“G,” I sighed, “We really were just talking.”

He dragged a roughened hand across his face before it dropped completely to his side and saw the imploring look he then wore, “Do you know how it felt, to walk in and spot you and him knocking heads, so lost in the moment that you didn’t even hear me call out your name?”

No, I didn’t.

Slowly I raised both my arms up to tug on the lapels of the blazer he’d thrown on, glancing up at him with a sincere smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. I can see what it might’ve looked like from an outside perspective. But I’d never do that to you, George.”

The tension in his shoulders seemed to loosen at my words, they were no longer hunched up by the lobes of his ears and instead settled where they were supposed to be.

“I know.” He whispered quietly, but even over all the club’s noise I heard him. The hand on my back pushed against me to bring me closer to his chest and I went, smiling at the gentle touch of the fingers that grasped my chin. “I know.”

I appreciated the reassurance.

“And I wasn’t lost in the moment with him, just so you know. More in the story behind the watch.” I added, releasing the hold on his jacket so that my hand could wrap around his wrist, feeling the beat of his pulse there. A familiar rhythm.

George glanced down at the watch Nana had gifted me all those years ago and then towards the matching face sat on his own arm. A pair reunited.

He knew. He knew the stories, all the tales. He knew the love and the loss. He knew how much I missed her. How much I longed to see her one more time. And in return, I knew he felt very much the same. Nana had taken George in as one of her own before any of us had even realised, called him up more than me some weeks, and in the lead up to her death she’d wanted to see him, to gift him her husband’s watch. He’d sobbed when she’d died and had given quite the speech at her funeral. I knew he understood.

“I love you.” I told him simply, kissing the thumb that had come to rest on my bottom lip, his eyes trained on mine.

“And I love you. I’m sorry for being a dick.” He comforted me. I hummed with a foolishly fond smile.

“Good, then you can bully Matty into getting me that drink.” And with that said, I let him go, watching as he rolled his eyes at the order before wandering a few feet away to where Matty was sprawling himself across the bar to get a better look at the champagne bottles they had to offer. I guess we were celebrating then.

Too lost in watching George corral his best mate from off the counter, I jumped a tad when Ross sidled up beside me, a fruity cocktail in hand.

“What is it with you and handsome strangers then?” He asked me casually and I snorted out an unexpected laugh.

“Dunno really. Why, you jealous?”

Ross wiggled his brows at me, “Wouldn’t that put a spin on the evening.”

The two of us shared a conspiratorial grin and he finally told me why the hell I’d been dragged out of my flat tonight.

—

“Vegas, ba-by!”

“Whoo!”

“VEGAS! VEGAS! VEGAS!”

“Alright, you lot.” George laughed from the backseat of the limousine Matty had rented out for the night- a bit over the top in my opinion, but when in Las Vegas, right? “Calm it down, will you? Only just got here.”

“Oh piss off, George!”

“Should I take my top off?”

“Yeah, fuck off, grandad!”

“I feel like I should take my top off.”

“Shit, is that Elvis?”

“I’m gonna take my top off!”

“Oi!” George’s arms wrapped around my middle and pulled me back down from the sunroof before I could, and I landed in his lap with an oof sound. “None of that, please.”

Hann snorted in the lounger across from us, a bottle of Smirnoff clutched in his right hand as he poured another shot, but was caught off guard by the shirt that came sailing at his face. It was then that Matty’s head popped back into view.

“No worries, B. Ross took his top off in your stead.”

George snorted, Hann sighed, and I jumped back up to join in on the fun.

“G, hold this, would you?” I said, top already balled up in my hand and cleavage to the wind whilst I grinned widely at all the lights that Sin City had to offer me.

…

We all ended up on the strip soon enough, limo long gone and the five of us marvelling at all it had to offer. We only had a night to pack full to the brim with stupid choices and a shit ton of money, because tomorrow we were set to head back on the road, headed off to a festival not too far for the band’s next show.

“Where to first then?” Hann asked everyone.

“Caesars Palace!” The boys all chorused, but me, I had my mind set on other things. “Magic Mike.”

Matty looked over at me for a short moment whilst the rest of the guys simply raised their brows. “Yeah, alright then.” He agreed all too easily enough and that was it. “Magic Mike here we come!” Matty declared loudly before setting off, “Ross, mate, don’t get hard and embarrass us, alright?”

Ross’s bewildered squark was lost in the crowd of people we got swept up in as well as our obnoxious laughter.

…

It seemed that Magic Mike had been an experience and a half, and not just for me either. Matty left the show with a Cheshire sized grin, both Hann and G looked pink in the cheeks, and Ross… Ross was flushed and sporting glassy eyes. I’d been pretty chuffed with their reactions all in all, especially when one of the dancers had tried to drag George of all people up onto the stage. He’d refused adamantly, mind, probably too fearful of the fan’s reactions, but the woman beside us- well into her sixties and sporting a cane- had been all too happy to offer herself up instead.

We’d wandered off to the casinos after that, but instead of heading straight towards the first table we saw or scoping out the machines, we all seemingly decided on shoving as much alcohol as we could possibly procure down our throats. To say that the aim of the night wasn’t getting sloshed beyond repair would be an utter lie. But this was Vegas and I would not stand to have it any other way.

Saying that though, with all the alcohol a lot of the night seemed to blur, sort of merge into one, the strip lights started to look like rainbows, the cars that passed appeared more Pac-Man like than anything else, and bad ideas seemed like the smartest thing we could do.

Which is how George and I managed to evade the rest of the band in one of the local bars and escape to where we were currently stood, outside of a tiny chapel a street away from an In-and-Out. Classy. But I’d take it.

“You sure about this?”

“Are you? It was your idea!”

“With you? Always.”

We both seemed to giggle at that.

“I could really go for a burger, you know.”

“B, aren’t you like a plant person?”

I snorted. “Vegetarian, you mean?”

“Hm, same thing, in’t it? Don’t think birds actually eat burgers though.”

Birds. “Well for one, I’m not an actual bird. And b, have you ever seen a seagull?”

“Shit, yeah. You’re right.” A thoughtful pause. “Think I want a burger too.”

“Alright, after this then?”

“Yeah, alright.” He grabbed my hand a little tighter at that and I looked over to find him grinning like a loon. “After this.”

…

I startled awake to loud incessant knocking and immediately groaned into my pillow at the pitiful pounding it kickstarted in my head. I’d never felt so worn and sluggish, and a hellish fury rose within me at the startle, but seeing as the knock-ee couldn’t see through walls, I supposed they still had no idea that they were currently the cause of World War III.

Somewhere to the right of me, George seemed to wake also, grunting at the onslaught of noise and huffing loudly, “Fuck off!”

I winced at the jarring sound of his voice, and it appeared he did too, but was grateful when the banging finally stopped. Only it wasn’t for long because as soon as it did, it started up again and was joined by Matty’s head-splittings shouts.

“Open! This! Fucking! Door!”

He was relentless and somewhere, in the very depths of my mind, I found it odd how he wasn’t in his or someone else’s hotel room nursing a violent hangover of his own.

“Now! Open this door right fucking now!”

It stopped again for a moment, catching me enough by surprise that I dug myself out from under a plethora of sheets. Then let my eyes slip close again in annoyance when a second voice sounded alongside Matty’s own.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to either calm down or leave.” Came the muffled order, “We’ve had multiple complaints in the last five minutes alone.”

“Calm down? Calm down! Mate, I don’t think you have any right to ask that of me right now! I’m freaking the fuck out here. I’m beyond fucking pissed! YOU HEAR ME?” He seemed to shout louder then, obviously aiming that last bit at us. George huffed beside me but thankfully made to move. “FUCKING FUMING! I MEAN, WHAT KIND OF PEOPLE- FRIENDS, EVEN! DO THAT TO A-”

The tyrant roaring cut off then and I peered across the room to watch as George ripped the hotel door open and tugged Matty into the suite by his elbow, all whilst wearing nothing but a thin sheet.

“Will you shut up, you mouthy twat?” He muttered, levelling Matty with a glare nothing short of hellish, though was only met with a childish scowl in turn, before he looked back at the bellhop, a well groomed man with sleek black hair and a thin lipped smile. I groaned internally. “Look sorry, mate. He’s had a rough night, we’ll make sure to keep the noise down from now on.”

“Rough night?” Matty snarled with an undisguised snort- whatever had him this riled up was sure to have been big. But George gave him another look of disdain, apparently not all that pleased to have been so rudely awoken and forced to deal with his bullshit, and he relented to a scowl. I kept myself hidden beneath the covers.

“It won’t happen again.” George quietly assured the hotel worker and sighed heavily once the man had given him a curt nod and the door had shut. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” He immediately asked, rounding on the curly haired idiot now stood in our room, before taking a deep breath and stalking his way back across the floor, dragging the sheet with him. I attempted to sit up.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you! I can’t fuckin’ believe you two!”

With a frown that was more of a pained grimace, I grabbed a random shirt from off the floor beside the bed and tugged it on- it was George’s, but thankfully it’d been the one he’d chucked off before we’d headed out last night.

Thinking back to last night though, I rubbed at my bleary eyes and tried to recollect the events that had happened after the fishbowls we’d devoured at a themed bar I could not for the life of me remember the name of. But they just wouldn’t come.

“What’s wrong, Matty?” I questioned, my voice all gravelly, and I faintly recalled then having screamed quite a bit- in all sorts of situations. My cheeks flushed at the vague memories that swam towards the forefront of my mind.

“What do you mean, what’s wrong? B, how fucking could you!” Matty quipped straight back, looking just as grim as I felt, his hair in disarray, still in last nights clothes, and stinking up a storm.

“Matt. I need you to slow down, my head’s fucked enough as it is and you’re not helping.” I told him, scrunching my face up as a sudden wave of nausea rocked through me.

“Exactly.” George grunted out and I looked over to see him forcing up a pair of boxers, beyond the point of caring if he had an audience or not.

Matty glared between the pair of us, but then George sighed and sat himself back down on the bed, and Matty’s narrowed eyes seemed to soften. “You honestly have no clue what I’m on about, do you?”

I rubbed at my temples, “No idea.”

“Hm.” George muttered in a huffed agreement and swiped a hand across his face before he stilled in his entirety.

“What?” I said, confused by the way he’d gone so stock-still, “If you’re gonna chuck up there’s a bin right there.” I added just in case, gesturing halfheartedly over towards the cluttered desk not too far from the bed.

George didn’t seem to hear me though, instead just turned very carefully and very slowly in his seat to look over at me.

“What?” I asked him again, this time a little more frenzied, throwing my hands down onto the duvet that covered my lower half in a huff. My patience had already been worn thin, and he really wasn’t making things much better.

George’s gaze seemed to follow my hands though, before his head instantly snapped back up in Matty’s direction like a rubber band that’d been cut.

“Oh shit.”

Matty rolled his eyes. “Yeah, oh shit.”

“What? What’s goin- Oh, shit.”

My eyes caught on the glinting stone stationed on my left hand and my breath caught, all thoughts fleeing as my lungs refused to function any further than that. Oh shit indeed.

“I- What does that even mean?” My gaze darted from Matty’s bewildered face to George’s shellshocked expression and then to the man’s matching hand. “Christ. What did we do?”

I was really freaking the fuck out now and wondered briefly if this was all just an alcohol induced dream, if I’d had one too many shots, or stumbled too hard and ended up face first in a fountain.

But then the door to our hotel room shot open and in swanned Ross looking like Camilla on Coronation day, as well as Adam who was scrolling frantically through his phone.

Ross seemed to have hardly been affected by any of last night’s antics, still looking as lovely as ever, and was unwelcomely singing a familiar Billy Idol tune as the two of them wandered in further. “Hey little sister, what have you done? Hey little sister, who's the only one?”

I chucked the nearest thing I had to me at his giant head, which ended up being a small red box, but he merely caught it in midair and grinned. “It's a nice day to start again. It's a nice day for a-” He carried on with his wind-up, peering down at the box passingly before his eyebrows shot up to a scary degree. He whistled lowly, cutting himself completely off, then let his wide eyes glance over to George and I. “White wedding.”

Those last two words had the entire room falling silent. The hotel even, hell, maybe the entire fucking planet! I could barely hear anything above the beating of my own heart that had started banging like a metal drum in my ears.

Belatedly, I forced myself to try and gauge George’s reaction to this whole thing but my boyfriend- oh God, my fiancé now? Husband?!- appeared to already be staring right back at me. His expression gave nothing away except for the apparent shock swimming in his eyes. I wondered if I mirrored it exactly.

Matty, who’d been silent ever since the revelation had hit the two of us, now seemed to jump start and cautiously he made his way over to my side of the bed, precariously taking perch in front of me before he then took my hand- the one without the life-altering reminder, thankfully. Small mercies.

“B? You okay?”

My mouth was dropped open in utter shock but slowly I turned my head to stare up at my best friend, the boy who’d been with me through everything. Everything but this it seemed.

“Hey, love. You’re alright. Just a big shock to the system, yeah? You’re alright.”

His quiet reassurances didn’t do much, but they helped ebb the fizzing thoughts my mind didn’t have the capability to process a bit. I forced myself to inhale, to take a breath, but it must’ve seemed rather abrupt to Matty who hastily drew himself closer to place a hand on the back of my neck.

“Just breathe. I’ve got you. Breathe. You’re alright.”

I started nodding, I think. Attempted to absorb the information whilst I breathed in and out, breathing like Matty told me to. Another set of hands found me soon enough. Mindlessly I acknowledged the dip in the bed beside me, as well as the careful fingers that threaded themselves through my hair, and then the loving thumb which trailed sweetly down the length of my forearm.

“You feeling any better?” Someone asked a little while later, and I nodded slowly, forcing my head back up and my eyes open once I no longer felt like the room was caving in on me.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, love. Nothing to be sorry for.” The voice assured me, it was George, I realised.

“Feel like a twat. For reacting like that I mean. I didn’t, I mean, it’s not like I wouldn’t want to-” I could barely bring myself to say it, but George seemed to understand me nevertheless.

We’d spoken about it before, of course. But not since we’d gotten back together and only ever when we’d been kids, way back before the band had taken off, before life had chewed us up and spat us back out.

I’d never been gone on the idea, marriage was a big deal, scary in a sense. Seeing what it had done to my parents, to my mum after losing my dad, I never wanted to end up like that. Too terrified to be alone and too desperate to fill that void with anything and anyone. My skin itched even now at the very thought.

But I was also old enough to realise that whether George and I were… married or not, I’d still be just as destroyed if I lost him.

George had vaguely agreed with me back then, though I do remember one night, at Nana’s the summer after our first visit there, where he’d said something different. We’d been curled up on the guest bed, wine drunk and happy, he’d held me close, half naked with our arms and legs entangled, he’d whispered and I’d barely even heard him, slipping tiredly into sleep. But he’d said it and I’d remembered, even after all these years.

“If I ever did get married, it’d have to be to you. I mean, you’re an anomaly, Birdie. You’d make sure it worked out, that everything would be okay. Reckon then, it’d all be fine.”

I recalled myself smiling sleepily at his words but unable to truly believe them.

George loved me and I loved him. And that was all that mattered, right?

Nothing could change that. It hadn’t then, and it wouldn’t now. I knew that.

“Wait, how did you lot even find out?” I forced myself to ask the rest of the room, chest still aching from the panic I’d put my body through, thoughts starting to numb the headache of my hangover. I glanced between the rest of the boys, but my sights settled on Matty seeing as though he’d been the first one to barge in. “Well?” I prompted.

Matty scratched at the back of his head and I watched his mouth quirk up into something that resembled a smile, only it was anxious and strained. Didn’t reach his cheeks, let alone his eyes.

“Twitter.” Hann answered for the three of them, already handing his phone over.

George wrapped an arm around my hips and shuffled closer to view the screen, whilst I had the pleasure of scrolling aimlessly through a feed of fan reactions and news outlets. The panic that was still there came back in full force but I wouldn’t let it overwhelm me like I had before, instead opting to swallow it all down and continue on.

“How did they even find out?” George questioned with a strange pitch to his voice upon seeing multiple pictures of the two of us loving it up outside the chapel we’d obviously chosen, as well as us eating by a window at a nearby In-and-Out Burger it seemed. Fucking hell, was all I could think.

Ross tossed the box I’d thrown at him earlier towards George and we both glanced down at it. It hadn’t just been an ordinary box and I could see that now, what with the sleek embossed logo for a Las Vegas jewellers sat proudly on the top.

“Couple of people saw you inside the shop, called the paps. Things started to add up when they caught sight of you at that chapel, I ‘spose.” The bearded giant told us and I felt the lump in my throat start to grow.

I’d been pictured with the band and George before, on tour mostly, but sometimes at events and such, but rarely ever papped in public. Not like this at least.

I let my head drop onto George’s shoulder and wielded my eyes tightly shut, I wanted to scream or cry, but I didn’t know whether it was in joy or utter fear.

Then I felt a soft pair of lips come to rest against my head and I moved slightly to wrap my arms around George’s middle, wincing when I realised I hadn’t even asked him how he was feeling.

“How are you taking all this? I didn’t even ask, I’m sorry.” I murmured into the curve of his arm, but he only seemed to press his face deeper into my hair.

“Look, we’d best give you some space, yeah?” I heard Adam start to say, voice echoing in the quiet room. “Let you get some clothes on and sort your heads out.”

“Yeah.” Matty breathed out in agreement and the bed shifted as he removed his weight from it, his hand squeezing my shoulder just the once.

“Maybe text us when you feel like talking, we can grab some food and bring it back up.” Ross suggested and I felt George nod above me, and together we sat there listening to footsteps pad their way out of the room. Leaving us alone again.

—

So after that whole scandal, England’s very own Ross and Rachel eventually had to make their way back home. And yes, Ross and Rachel because let’s be honest here, if George and I were anyone amongst the Friends cast then we’d of course be those two. And I don’t know, Matty could probably play at being a good Phoebe, then Ross and Hann would end up as Joey and Chandler- work it out between yourselves on who’s who there. And I suppose that would leave the lovely Carly as our very own Monica. Only, this is all happening before season four, of course, and Carly is already back home waiting for her husband to touchdown.

So maybe not. I don’t know! My mind was still in a right state after everything that had gone down in Vegas, and I’d hardly been able to process most of it due to tour and the festival, and the onslaught of fans and paps, as well as people back home. Denise had not been happy to find out the way she had, let’s just make that one thing known.

And then there’d been George’s parents.

Sighing quietly, I placed a hand over George’s own to still the nervous tapping that seemed constant nowadays and watched as he stilled for a moment, turning in his airplane seat to glance over at me.

I allowed my body to mimic his movements, only pulling my leg up to press against the arm of the chair and resting my head to the side. I smiled softly at him, more than a little glad that we’d made the decision to take separate flights from the rest of the boys in attempt to throw off the media.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, letting him take my hand in his and not saying a word when he toyed with the silver band that had yet to leave my ring finger.

George shrugged a shoulder, gaze caught on the pretty stone. “I haven’t a clue what I’ll say, is all.”

I licked my lip in thought, still watching him closely. The plane back home probably wasn’t the best place to talk about this, but we’d hardly had a minute alone since Vegas, what with the tour and the guys and everybody else. And besides, if there were any privileges to take full use of when dating a musician you’d drunkenly married then it would most definitely be First Class seats. Everyone else around us was either dead to the world or wearing headphones. We were safe enough here.

“Did you answer yet? Or, are even you going to?”

He drew in a large enough breath before he answered me, but that seemed to be answer enough.

“I haven’t yet and I don’t know. I- They’ve called quite a bit, but mum left a voicemail the day after and later on dad sent a text.” He revealed and I tried to reign back my surprise, though it made sense now to how little he’d wanted his phone near him the past few days, even when he’d been casting it longing glances from across the length of the tour bus.

I swallowed. “Have you listened to it?”

He dipped his head in a nod but didn’t meet my eye, attention still so focused on the hand he held.

“Right… and have you read your dad’s message?” Another nod. This was so hard, I’d honest to God been dreading their reactions so I had no idea just how George was taking it all. I desperately wanted to just tug him in and never let him go again, hope that if he stayed wrapped up in a hug that the world would just leave him be. “Did,” I took a small breath to gather myself, “Did they react like you expected?” Badly, it could only mean badly.

I heard him let out a small and tired chuckle, “Mum did. Dad…”

Okay, so there was hope. There was still hope.

“I listened to the voicemail first, it was,” George inhaled sharply and I took note of the deep furrow between his brows, the way his touch softened on my hand, circling the ring. “It was a lot. I expected it though. The shame she felt I brought, getting married like that, looking the way we did, drunk and stupid. Her words, not mine. Said she wouldn’t be surprised if I was high out of my mind too, or if it was all just fake in an attempt to spurn her some more and get attention.”

Talk about being full of yourself. But I kept that thought to myself, I was angry yes, fuming even, but it was George’s call on how we handled this, because we would, together.

He sighed again, but finally looked back up at me. “She said a lot of other shit I can’t be arsed to think about anymore. But just know that I know that none of it’s true. Hurtful, yeah. Of course. But true?” He shook his head, “Nah.” He exhaled, “And I know we haven’t really,”

“Spoken about it?” I finished for him and he smiled, this tiny but fond thing that sent my heart stuttering.

“Yeah. But no matter what happens, this,” He tugged my palm up to his chest and held it between his hand and his heart, “This is the greatest thing I’ll ever accomplish.”

My eyes instantly prickled at that, just as my breath was knocked from deep within me. I had to fight to swallow and felt my hand clutch the cloth of his shirt.

“Me too.”

George grinned, a complete 180 to the tender smile he’d been wearing, but still so gut-wrenching. Only, in the very best way.

“Good.” He whispered to me, tens of thousands of feet up in the air, and lifted our joined hands to press a kiss to my skin. “Good.”

“So this is it? It’s sticking?” I asked him, hope already so high that I was sure it would shatter if he wasn’t there already holding his arms out towards me.

He chuckled at my words and leant in close, fingers toying with my ring. “It’s sticking.”

My breath hitched and I found that I was grinning too, almost madly. Eyes trained on his whiskey brown, the very same I’d been staring into for well over a decade now. And still, they mesmerised me like no other.

“Good.” I whispered and finally closed the gap between us.

—

Life after getting hitched was, almost boring in a way? Things continued on as they always did, G in the studio and me at the flower shop. Our friends had gotten over the fact that we’d eloped on a whim- namely Matty, although he was still a little bitchy about it at times. And Denise had thrown us the loveliest party when we’d gotten back to the UK (not that anything could’ve stopped her, not even an apocalypse it would seem).

The party had been a small affair with just the people we held nearest and dearest, and although it’d been to celebrate the two of us and our commitment to one another, it had also been a great excuse to see everyone we hadn’t seen in ages again, even if we did end up apologising to them every five minutes. George’s dad even ventured down to join in on the festivities, which was the biggest but best surprise yet. The two of them were now working hard on rekindling their relationship with the absence of his mother.

It was just the media that had yet to die down in truth, so we were forced to get used to seeing our ugly mugs plastered everywhere, online and on magazine shelves. Fans of the band were a little intrigued by the idea of George having someone permanent too, even if I had already been around for ages. But Matty had mentioned to me previously when I’d brought it up one evening, that only the older lot really knew of me, from gigs and old photos, hardly anyone knew that G and I had been together since we were kids, let alone having been in a relationship for a little over two years now. It was strange but I left it be.

It was summer again, finally, and everyone was currently taking up residence in Hann’s back garden. See, Carly had wanted to throw a bit of a get-together, have a barbecue now that the sun was back out and everyone was in London again, or at the very least England (cough, cough, Matty).

Hann had been unable to say no, typical for the two of them, and had started sending out invites via text as soon as.

I was surprised I’d actually made it, in all honesty. Not that I’d had other plans or simply didn’t want to be there- there was no place on Earth I’d rather be than with this useless lot- but all week I’d been feeling like shit. But I’d been a bit under the weather for a short while now, on and off really, though I’d yet to go and see anyone about it. Ever since the crash and all that crap a couple years back, I’d really struggled with hospitals and doctors, hated the thought of them, even phoning up for G had me feeling queasy.

This morning I’d felt beyond nauseous and more than a little crap when I’d woken up, but George had made breakfast after having popped out to the shops and had come back with a bouquet, as well as a hello from Delia, which had put me in much better spirits. So I’d gotten ready and forced myself into the car and had been quite thankful for doing so up until now.

We were all gathered out in the garden, the sun was shining bright, the grill was alight, drinks were being passed round, and me, I was absolutely fucking miserable. I was far too hot, even in my pretty sundress, feeling flustered beyond belief at the onslaught of emotions that kept on hitting me, and then to top it all off my stomach had been acting up since I’d sat down and caught a whiff of the onions on the grill.

I pressed a palm to the base of my neck as I struggled to keep my cool, breathing steadily whilst hardly paying attention to the chatter of the girls sat around me. It was the usual group of us, some of which I hadn’t seen for a good couple months, but I could not bring my body to simply just focus or stop irritating me in its entirety.

It was just as Matty swanned over, an arm flung round Waughy’s waist as the two of them talked, that I couldn’t stay sat there anymore. I was quick to flash the pair of them a welcoming grin but excused myself to make my way back inside.

“You okay?”

I glanced up at the voice, beyond grateful to have escaped the sun, and caught sight of Carly messing with some extra picky bits on the counter, salad and whatnot.

I forced another smile and nodded, “Yeah, just wanted to nip to the loo.”

Carly copied the sentiment, though gifted me a bottle of water that she had on hand before I could dash off, “Take that, you’re looking a little flushed, babe. Might help with the heat.”

My smile was more genuine this time around as I took her up on the offer, enjoying the crisp chill that lined the outside of the bottle. “Thanks. And yeah, reckon I’ll just sit in the shade for a bit.”

Carly went to say something else then but was thankfully pulled away by the toddler that came shuffling through the backdoor. I took the opportunity to hurry out of the kitchen and towards the downstairs bathroom, sliding in and shutting the door with a sigh.

I went straight on over to the sink and turned on the water just to wet my hands before taking up perch on the closed toilet lid, listening to the water trickle and flow, hoping it would calm me slightly. Then I took the chance to down half the bottle Carly had gifted me, a bit grim sure, but with the loo being my only escape I hardly had a choice here. The water was practically heaven sent and allowed me a second to take relief in the coolness the room had to offer, its chilly tiles and blinded window kept any and all sunbeams at bay.

But now that I had managed to evade the heat, I realised I’d been left with a rather prominent headache I hadn’t noticed earlier in my agitation. Knowing Hann though, he was always well prepared and probably kept a couple paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet.

I grinned when I got up and pulled open a door to find that I’d been right. I went to grab at the packet only to pause when I caught sight of something else sat on the shelf below it.

A box of pregnancy tests.

No, I thought. It wouldn’t make any sense. But it really seemed to hit me in that moment that maybe, just maybe everything I’d been feeling as of late could boil down to one single thing.

“No.” I repeated, this time out loud and accompanied by a disbelieving laugh. But still I found my hand reaching towards them.

I only reckoned that they were in there in the first place because Adam and Carly had given away the fact that they had wanted to start trying again a couple months prior. Around Easter time I think it had been.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, but they all seemed drawn to this singular idea, and although I already knew that it was stupid, almost incredibly so, to even think that I could be, well… I still allowed myself to grab at them and it was almost on autopilot that I pulled out a stick and shakily made my way back to the toilet.

I made quick work of it, all that water I’d been drinking seemed to help, and found myself leaning over the sink waiting for a stick to determine what I already knew would be false. It had to be. There was no other way.

But then. I guess there was.

My eyes widened and I reckoned I forgot how to breath let alone how to think when I caught sight of the exact opposite of what I’d been expecting.

Oh and wasn’t that the worst word to use right then. Expecting.

A jolted knock at the door knocked me right back into reality and my wide eyes flew over towards it. I didn’t answer though, I didn’t have in me, but then the knock came again, followed by a, “B, you in there?”

Fuck, Matty. Of course it’d be Matty!

“Yeah?” I called back, voice as shaky as my legs seemed to be.

“You alright? Only, you looked a bit peaky out there, then Carls mentioned it too. Figured I’d come check.”

With trembling hands I pushed myself off of the sink and across the tiled bathroom floor, steeling myself before fiddling with the lock. “Fuck.” I muttered, shaking so severely now that I was surprised I was still standing.

“B?” Matty asked again, but I somehow managed to open the door a crack to find him stood on the other side, a pair of dark sunnies tucked into his effortless curls and his usual grin in place, although looking a tad bit wobbly. “You alright in there?”

I swallowed and before I could think better of it I said, “Get Ross.”

Matty’s expression crinkled in confusion and to be fair to him, it was a strange ask, I must’ve looked a right state, but I wasn’t asking for him or for George, I was asking after Ross.

“What? B, just let me in, will you. What’s goin’ on?”

I shook my head and held tightly onto the doorframe as though it was the only thing keeping me upright, it likely was. “I need Ross.”

The quizzical frown Matty wore only deepened but he backed up a bit, “Come on, stop being a prat. You’re acting weird, freaking me out a bit, in truth.” He chuckled faintly, obviously still conflicted, “Just let me in and we can talk, yeah?”

“Just fuck off, Matty! Call Ross, now.” I all but ordered and the surprise that fluttered through his features would’ve been surprising but I was too far gone to be paying attention to all of his many emotions when I could barely hold onto my own. “Please.”

His resolve seemed to crack at that and he looked at me for a long second before nodding swiftly, “Yeah, alright. Yeah, I’ll go get him.”

I swallowed down the choking sensation I suddenly felt crawling up my throat and nodded in reply, shutting the door before he even had the chance to run off.

“Fuck.” I hissed through my teeth, pressing my face against the bathroom door in an odd attempt to keep myself from sobbing outright.

Had I been too harsh? Matty had only wanted to help. I understood that. I did. But it was Matty, and as much as I fucking loved the daft idiot, this was not a scenario he was built for. Not at all. If I’d’ve let him in and he’d seen that test sat on the sink he’d have freaked out even worse than me. The whole house, no, the entire street would’ve known something was amiss the second he started having a mental breakdown. It was better this way.

And besides, I felt like I really needed my big brother for this one. This was real life shit, and as much as Ross and I bickered and fought, we had a relationship like no other. He was someone I’d always looked up to, someone who knew how to talk me down, to keep me grounded and centred. He had all the answers, and when he didn’t then he knew exactly what to say to sound as though he did. He’d know what to do, he’d sort it all out.

I jumped at the knock that came in that next moment, feeling the vibration buzz through my skull and only accentuating the headache I’d given myself, but still I moved towards the lock once more and was beyond grateful to just see Ross stood there, hunched a little to peek in through the gap at me with a smile.

“You called, your highness?” He remarked playfully and before I could even get the door open any further, the tears started flowing helplessly and I had to watch the way Ross entire expression went from playful to utter horror in a split second. “B, what happened?” He immediately asked, crowding against the door to shuffle in and I allowed him, watching him lock the door once more before I fell into his arms completely.

“Shit. You’re alright, love. It’s okay.” He reassured me softly before carefully wrapping his arms around me, sheltering me from the rest of the world.

The two of us stayed like that for a while, I wasn’t sure how long in truth, enough to let the dull rock he’d started up calm me whilst listening to the faint murmuring of his voice. It was familiar and so very needed right then that I clung on tighter to the back of his shirt as I tried to muddle through my messy mind.

We pulled away soon after, though he still kept me at arms length whilst guiding us both over to the side of the small bath. Ross took a seat on its edge and I followed, thankful that he had the foresight to keep an arm wrapped around my shoulders to keep me close, otherwise I figured I might’ve slipped right into the tub.

“You wanna share with the class or am I gonna have to play a round of charades here?”

I chuckled wetly at his crap joke but it appeared to settle him a bit, being back on familiar ground.

I sniffed and smiled when a wad of tissue was shoved my way. “Ta. Sorry for um, all this. Just, I didn’t want to talk to anyone else.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, glad I could be some help.” Ross laughed, squeezing me a little tighter and assuring me that he meant it, “So, you gonna fill me in on what has you sobbing in Hann’s loo? There are burgers out there, mate, and hotdogs, fucking kebab skewers even! What’s there to moan about?”

I elbowed his side lightly, finding humour in his words just like he’d wanted. “I’m a fucking veggie, Ross.”

“Shit, yeah. Forgot about that detail.”

I rolled my eyes and then rubbed at my nose lightly, “Only known me since you were about ten, MacDonald.”

“And aren’t you grateful for it.” Ross quipped right back with a smirk, “Come on now, spill.”

I huffed and was forced to remember the terrifying detail I’d been trying to come to terms with, not that I really could. But before I could even utter a word I felt Ross go so utterly still beside me and instantly glanced back up to follow the direction of his gaze. He’d spotted it.

The world seemed to fall out from under me then, whether it was down to the realisation that he now knew too, or the fact that Ross had let go of me to grab at the stick on the sink, I didn’t know, but it was spinning and I only felt myself settle once more when Ross’s eyes finally locked on mine again.

“Ross?” I tried, attempting to gauge his reaction through a watery gaze.

He opened his mouth to speak but then quickly shut it again, glancing back down at the pregnancy test he held. Never had I ever in my life seen Ross speechless. But of course, I’d been the one to manage it.

“Ross, come on.” I gulped down a stutter, shifting on the edge of the bath as my entire body buzzed with nerves. “Say something. I need you to at least say something.”

He inhaled a large breath, big enough that it echoed off the tiles around us, before he finally looked back at me and said, “I’m not touching any of your piss right?”

I snorted in disbelief, because of course that’d be the first thing he’d say. “No, you twat, I put the lid back on.”

Ross sighed as though it was a huge relief- and I guess it was, I wouldn’t want to be touching his piss either- but I was relieved when he claimed his seat back beside me. “So, a baby huh?”

I blew out a breath and now that there was not much left to laugh about I felt a more sombre mood fall over us. “Maybe. Could be. I dunno.”

“Those are all the same answer, mate.”

Shooting him a look, Ross held up his hands and laughed lightly.

“I’m just saying, I mean, isn’t that how it works? You take a test and bish bash bosh, baby.”

With a snort I knocked into him lightly and rolled my eyes, “Sure, exactly like that.”

“You know what I mean.” He retorted, mimicking the movement before he glanced back down at the test he had yet to let go of. “Or you could take another? Just to be sure?”

I tongued at the inside of my cheek, thinking it over. I almost didn’t want to, one pregnancy test could be a fluke, but two? Even three? I’d have a fucking world class breakdown, move over Matty cause I’d definitely be taking the place as the groups most unhinged, or maybe I already was. Probably. We’d have to have a debate the next time I remembered. We liked those.

“Come on, Carls won’t mind and look,” Ross pushed, standing up and turning away from me, “I’ll even turn around so I don’t see.”

With a chuckle, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. Doing this once on my own had been hard enough, if I had to try again I don’t know what I’d do. “Alright.” I whispered and took another test from the box.

“You need me to hum or something?” Ross asked after a moment of shuffling from me. I turned the tap back on to try and cover up the sound, because I’d always been an awkward sort of pee-er. Was that even a word? But still struggled.

“Maybe. Or try the shower.”

“What like turning it on?” I could hear the frown in his voice.

“No, get in it, dickhead. Yes, I meant turn it on!”

“Fucking hell.” He muttered under his breath as he moved to do so, “Hope the baby doesn’t get your patience.”

I tossed the empty box at his back, “Don’t say that!”

The fucking prick laughed.

“Alright, alright! Go on. I can’t hear anything now.”

Thankfully, that big bottle Carly had given me as well as the one I’d been nursing in the car and then outside came into clutch then and I managed to go again.

I flushed and washed my hands, drying them off on the hand towel before telling Ross he could turn back around.

“How long do we wait then?” He questioned from over my shoulder, making me jump.

Stilling my racing heart, I let out a breath. “Two minutes or so.”

Ross hummed from behind me then moved to the side to wrap me up in his arms again, it was nice having someone there this time around, like finding shelter in a rainstorm.

And so we waited. The seconds felt eternal and the minutes passed excruciatingly slow, but eventually, eventually, we had to look.

I bit my lip. “I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Why the fuck not, he asks! I’m fucking terrified, Ross. I can’t be a mum! I hardly even a person, let alone an actual adult!” I stressed, breathing heavier now that even I noticed it, but Ross only pulled me closer and looked down at me.

“You’re incredible. You hear me? You’ve looked after us lot for years, so I know you’ll fucking ace this shit without even having to try. You’re brilliant, B. Everyone who’s ever met you can tell you as much. If you’re pregnant, then you’ll deal with it like you do everything. But you won’t be doing it alone. You’ve got us. You’ve got a family. And most of all, you’ve got G. He’d do anything for you. A baby will only solidify that. Do you really think he’d leave you high and dry?” He must’ve seen the look that crossed my face when he said that because he blinked, “You do, don’t you?”

“It’s not- I’m-” I stuttered, unable to really defend myself against that statement because a small part of me was scared of exactly that. “I love him, Ross. I do. I just-”

“You’re scared it’ll be like before.” He finished for me and all I could do was nod and he squeezed me a little tighter, “Well, I know that he won’t. Wouldn’t fucking survive it, the idiot. Last time was a fluke. And as much as he hurt you, you know it was his fault for not dealing with his shit, not yours. Never yours. Yeah?”

I nodded again against his chest.

“G won’t leave though, that I can promise you. But, and this is a BIG but, if he did, you’d have me, and you’d have Matty, and Hann and Carly. Denise and Delia and everyone else. You wouldn’t be alone. Never, ever will you be alone, B.”

My eyes were stinging again, “But what if I’m not good enough either? What if I leave? What if I’m exactly like her?”

Her.

And immediately Ross knew just who I was talking about.

“You’re nothing like your mum, love. No where near. Of that I can fucking assure you. You love with everything you’ve got. Like a light house in a stormy sea, you. Lure just about everyone in with your warmth and charm.” He pressed his chin to the top of my head, rocking us again. “What I would give to let you see yourself through my eyes. I swear. And that baby, or any future baby you have, will be the luckiest kid around to be able to call you their mum. Alright?”

Fucking Ross MacDonald.

“Do you enjoy making me cry?” I asked him through a wet chuckle, squinting up at him now with tear stained cheeks. I gave a sigh when he reached up to wipe them away.

“Only happy tears, yeah? Fucking seeing you cry because of anything else makes me feel like I’ve just been hit by a bus.”

Scoffing out a laugh I couldn’t help, I shook my head at him. “Love you. I know we don’t say that much but I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

He grinned down at me, “Probably sob in the bath, or maybe make an escape out through the window?”

“Maybe.” I smiled.

“You ready yet?”

I chewed on my lip for a hesitant moment then dipped my head, Ross released me and instead took my hand. We both seemed to simultaneously take a deep breath, glancing at one another and then the sink.

“Together?”

“Together.”

He reached for it and I had to keep myself from squeezing my eyes tightly shut, stomach tightening with the butterflies that crowded my insides.

We looked down at the same time before glancing back towards each other.

Ross broke the silence, “Dibs on being godfather.”

— GEORGE’S POV—

September brought the cold. It was more prominent this year though it seemed, barely out of August and already he was in a hat and coat. Still, he’d left knowing he’d be out for quite a while and didn’t want to catch something from freezing his arse off, especially with Birdie being in and out of hospital. She was more susceptible to infection at the minute, since having had her spleen removed after the accident it had been something she’d often struggled with. They’d had a meningitis scare not too long back, big enough to warrant a couple weeks off work but not life threatening. To her at least, George on the other hand had had his balls pulled out through his arse, or that’s what it’d felt like being so constantly on edge. Everything turned out okay in the end though, more than even. Because it was then that he’d learnt about the tiny Baby Daniel she’d been housing.

And what a fucking thought that was. A baby. An entire other person. Both his and hers to keep. Though he only hoped that they got more of her than him.

It had been quite the revelation, watching on as a swarm of nurses wheeled his wife off on a gurney after having just told him the baby was doing fine. Even now it had a way of rendering him utterly speechless.

It was all he’d been able to think about ever since. Will the baby like the colour blue? Will they be a boy, or a girl? Will they have his eyes or hers, her smile or his? He prayed to whatever God that was out there that they only got her nose. Birdie thought his suited him, but he’d keep on wishing any way.

There’d also been the questions that shone a bright sodding stage-light on all of his insecurities. Illuminated them like the Blackpool Tower for every fucker else to see. Matty’d been the first to clock on though, or the first to come and speak to him about it, it’d done him a world of wonder to get it off his chest and have that reassurance, but even now it continued to make him nervous, had him wondering whether or not he’d ever be good enough, if he deserved to have something so precious of his own. But then he’d always struggled with that, hadn’t he, and he was still learning. Adapting, in a sense. These things took time.

He continued to think about it though, about everything which surrounded the baby, as he wandered through a field of dew covered grass, being respectful enough of the aging stone graves that dotted the cemetery as he went. The one he was looking for was further in the back, settled in a plot next to a few others with the same surname.

George took the time to think and settle his nervous thoughts as he made his way on over, revising the map on his phone every few minutes. It was a rather large cemetery, with oversized oak trees and moss that clung to ancient tombs and mausoleums, so it took him a while to finally find it but when he did the nerves he’d been feeling and the anxiety he’d expected failed to hinder him. In fact, he hardly felt anything at all and moved towards the three graves without much thought.

They each bared the same headstone, only difference was that one was much newer than the remaining two. They all had their own inscriptions but it had been a little while since he’d last visited and so he took the time to allow his eyes to wander over the cursive.

‘No Man Is Indispensable But Some Are Irreplaceable.’

‘Too well loved to ever be forgotten, here lies a loving Father, a Husband and a Son.'

And finally,

‘A woman made of strength and love lies here, today she dances with angels.’

“Heya, Nana.” George greeted in a low murmur, eyes already a little wet as he drew closer to the end plot, “It’s been a while but I’ve brought you your favourites, peonies from Birdie’s shop, blue just like your eyes. She wrapped them up real nice too, but when does she ever not?” George gave a light chuckle at that, placing down the backpack he held and moving around the grave to clear it of any fallen debris, replacing the old flowers with the new.

He rubbed at his nose and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets before taking a seat by her headstone, gaze lingering on the words Birdie had chosen alongside Dee all those years ago now. Dancing with angels, he grinned at the very thought, and dealing with the Devil, he added. Nana had always been one to try her luck, just as wonderfully wild as her granddaughter, and George reckoned she’d probably bested the hellish bastard by now, overthrown him and all.

“Lot’s changed, you know.” He told the woman, “Dee’s met some fella, handsome bloke mind, but they’ve taken her taxi and decided to travel across Europe in it. In Germany now, though I wouldn’t be surprised if they phoned us up tomorrow claiming to be in Egypt. But you know her, she’s a free spirit. Should be back by February though, that’s just before the baby’s due. Yeah, not hers though- could you imagine?”

George couldn’t help the cackle that escaped him at that and was immensely grateful for the fact that no-one else seemed to be wandering around anywhere close. “Sorry, sorry, but yeah. No it’s Birdie. She’s nearing fourteen weeks now. Can you picture it? Us two with a little one. My dad can’t wait, neither can the lads. Reckon you’d be dancing about too if you were still here, telling everyone to quit their fussing then make B a brew just how she likes.”

He let a quiet settle, smiling softly as the morning breeze flittered past.

“I know she misses you. Kills her to not have you here to see it all. But,” He took a moment, “I understand why, never met anyone quite like you, doubt I ever will. You took me in without a care for the consequences. Let me stay with you each summer, listened to me moan on about the band and music, came to our first few London gigs.” He cracked a smile at the reminder, “Can still picture those shirts you and Dee made, reckon B has them stashed away somewhere. Have to ask. But as much as I’d love to stay and chat all day, I promised myself I’d say hi to Charlie over there and stop by to talk to her Dad for a bit.”

George was careful as he stood back up, laying a hand over Nana’s name before wiping off the damp grass which clung to his jeans and stepping away.

He only had to walk a few short steps before he was grinning at the grave sat beside Nana’s, he made quick work of pulling out a bottle of Scotch from his bag as well as a shot glass, then placed them both down on the cold marble. Just as he did each time they visited, he poured the man a hearty glass and spoke to him about his favourite football team. “Hiya, Charlie. West Ham’s fourth on the league table at the minute, mate. Doing alright this year, but Cities still in first so, guess they’ll have to try just a bit harder.”

With a light laugh, George patted the man’s headstone before finally wandering over to the next, to where Birdie’s father lay, the man she idolised most.

He took a deep breath feeling a little fearful suddenly, but not of the situation, rather of disappointing the man. Of this whole thing going tits up. But this was something he’d wanted. Felt he needed to do. So he let go of the air inside his lungs and, just as he did by Nana, he took a seat by the man’s grave.

“We’ve never spoken much, you and I.” He begun, voice quieter now than it had just been, “But I know B visits when she can. I brought you a bird actually, little statue thing with these stones embedded in its eyes, B reckons they’ll bring peace, but I think you’ve already found that now. Still, it reminds me of her, a Song Thrush, they’re pretty and sing like a poet.”

Leaning in closer, George took time placing the statue where he thought it would last the longest and smiled softly before going back to his bag to pull out a colourful wind spinner, he stuck in the damp soil near his leg before he spoke again.

“Dee also likes to talk about you, says you had a thing for wind chimes and these things. Can see the appeal, they’re nice to watch, let you know which way the wind’ll blow. Said you also would’ve liked me too, and I can only hope she’s right.” He laughed quietly to himself, thumbing the ring on his left hand. “Be a bit messy if you didn’t though, ‘cause I love her more than anything. Do anything she asks, go anywhere she pleases. She’s like my own little wind spinner in a sense, can never tell which way I’m going with her but I know we’ll never stop spinning.

“I know I should’ve made this trip a long while ago. Maybe after we got back, maybe even before that. I have no excuse except for the fact that I’ve been a bit scared to ask this of you, because I know I’ll never really hear your honest answer. I can only pray that you’d be happy for her.”

It had been something he’s wanted to do since he was a teenager, ever since that first trip down to London, but after all these years of having clung to the man’s lighter he felt like he sort of knew him in a way. Knew that the dent in its side was from the way he used to knock his hip off of the radiator back in Nana’s house when climbing the stairs. Saw the way the striker wheel had been changed a long while back, different to the original but very very close. And how the hinge had been struck a few times to keep the lid from going floppy. He cared a great deal for the things he owned and it showed how much he loved the gifts he’d been given, seeing as though he had gotten it from his own father before Birdie had ever been born.

It was a strange concept, but it brought George a little peace.

“I don’t know if you heard, I know that Nana tends to gossip, but you’ll be a grandfather soon.” George told him with a wide smile as he pulled to his wallet to look down at the first Ultrasound picture they’d been given. “They’re a lot bigger now. This was when I first found out though. That daughter of yours had known for a week or two by that point. But I was over the moon and also terrified, so I can see how she kept it under wraps for so long. We’ve got a few names going in the raffle, our friends all want to have the honour of naming them, but B and I are waiting for the perfect one.”

George let his thumb brush over the picture before he sat it up and open on the grave, leaving it there until he had to go.

“I’ve known Birdie for so long now, she doesn’t know it but since the day I laid eyes on her she’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I would’ve taken anything she’d have given me. Whether that’d been a passing look or a chance at just being her mate. So when were younger and finally together, I thought I’d won the lottery. And I had. But then we got to speaking about marriage. What we wanted in the future, if kids would ever come into the picture, what house we’d buy. Just things you speak about with someone like that. Yeah, we’d been young but we’d both been through a lot. We knew more than most. Had experienced it.

“But anyway, when she’d said she never wanted any of that. Couldn’t see it for herself, and I understood. Broke my fucking heart a bit, but I’d’ve given her the stars if I could’ve. Even now. So it’s funny how it all changed. We’re married and there’s that baby on the way. Though, now that we’ve done it, now that we’ve acknowledged the fact that this thing we were both a little wary of is something we can have without the fear and terror, I want to do it properly, you know? So I thought it was only respectful to come and ask you first.”

And there was that nervousness finally, but it was out in the open now. Perhaps it was silly asking a man long since buried this question but it just felt right.

“I don’t think we’ll have big ceremony or anything even if she does say yes, we’re not the type. But at least then we can say we did it right, and as much as I now love that little elopement of ours, I really want her to know how much I love her. That I will forever be hers. In both heart and mind. And that I’m proud to bare this ring.”

George swallowed thickly at the onslaught of emotions this trip had pulled from him, then wiped under his nose. He picked up his wallet and folded it away then took his stand, running a hand through his hair as he tried to get ahold of himself, didn’t want to start sobbing his way back to the carpark now. Though it was a near thing.

“Right, I’d best be off anyway. Said I’d pick B up some strawberries from the market, she’ll only eat them at the minute, pairs them with this horrid jam as well. It’s proper grim but I’d never say a bad thing about it. Spent ages consoling her the one time Matty did. But he’s a nightmare that never learns.” He scratched at the nape of his neck after having shouldered his bag, feeling the effects of this outing already. “I’ll make sure to visit soon, with Birdie and then the baby too hopefully.”

He glanced down at the wind spinner then and was surprised to see it had stopped spinning, he frowned slightly at the sight and double checked to see if he could still feel the breeze, he did, it was hard not to in truth. So slowly he made his way back over and just as he begun to crouch down the thing started spinning once more.

George blinked down at it, once then twice, and then simply laughed. Hoping that maybe it’d been some sort of sign.

“I’ll look after her.” He promised, sparing one last glance to the final grave before he made his way back to the car.

—

The moving van reached the house long before I did, but I was just thankful that George had been able to take the time off to get there earlier than me. I parked up in a bay and waddled down the pavement to peer into the back of it, smiling when I found that almost half of it had already been moved inside. Which was good for me, seeing as though I’d hardly be of any help, pregnant or not.

“B!” I heard someone shout out and turned to find Matty stood on the top step of the familiar terraced house, he waved me closer but jogged down the steps to greet me once I’d made it over, “Figured you get here a little later, G and I are just setting up the living room.”

“Really?” I questioned in surprise, grateful when he took my arm to help me up the stairs and into the house. I grinned at the familiar feeling that washed over me upon walking in.

“Really.” Matty laughed, taking my coat and hanging it amongst the rest by the door. The little gentleman. If I’d only known that it’d just take me turning into a whale to get Matty to wait on me hand and foot I’d’ve done it sooner. Not even G was as bad as him. “Your Nana had good taste though, so I can see why you and George don’t wanna change much.”

I grinned, glad that he saw it too. We’d been gifted the house in Bethnal Green by Dee after the reading of Nana’s will, she wanted us to have a proper home for the little one and figured it would be the best place for us. And my God was it. It was everything I’d dreamed of and more. It filled me with so much happiness to know that my child would be growing up in the environment I loved most when I’d been little.

“Where is he, anyway?” I asked, leaning against the bannister to peer up the main stairs and at the landing, we’d had some builders in to change a few things since the house had been signed over and I hadn’t yet seen it all fully finished.

“Who, G?” Matty said and at my nod he went on, “Left him in the living room, we were trying to put together a cabinet, probably still in there.”

We both chuckled and wandered in through the side door to find George sat on the living room floor just behind the sofa looking very close to fuming. “Fuck sake, Matty! When you said a minute, I thought you were joking! Whole fucking thing collapsed on me the second you left, you prick!”

“Oi, no swearing around the baby, please.” Matty scolded, though he looked all too pleased with himself, and I watched on as George angled his head further backwards to see me stood in the doorway. I waved.

“Birdie! Thank fuck someone capable has arrived. Be a love and help me up, would you?”

I laughed and moved to do just that before Matty’s indignant squark stopped me in my tracks, “I don’t think so, mate. Get yourself up. I’ll take B into the kitchen, get you some tea, yeah? Were you at the shop long?”

I bit my lip to keep from cackling at the expression that overwhelmed G’s face then but was already being dragged away.

“I can still do shit you know.” I said to Matty before being steered onto a barstool, I let him get away with it though, observing how effortlessly he worked his way around the kitchen, switching on the kettle and pulling out the milk from the massive fridge George had insisted on buying.

“Language.” Matty reminded me and I could only roll my eyes, “And I know, you just shouldn’t have to.”

“That so?” I hummed around a smile.

Matty nodded, pulling the few glasses we’d brought over for visits during construction onto the counter, “Look, the way I see it, the baby’s not here yet so if you want, I don’t mind offing G and telling everyone the kid’s mine. I mean, you saw him in there,” He shook his head all serious like, “It ain’t on, B. Got to cut your loses while you still can.”

“Sorry, what was that?” I sorted at George’s sudden arrival, wondering how this would all go down and decided to stir the pot a bit.

“Matty reckons I’d be better off making a run for it while I still can, already got a car ready and waiting for when I say the word.”

George shook his head in veiled amusement and stepped further into the kitchen to swipe a tea towel against Matty’s backside. “Keep talking like that and I’ll see to it that you never meet my baby, you dick.”

“Swearing!” Matty once again reminded the pair of us and I couldn’t help my incessant giggling now, eyes darting back and forth between the pair, “And I dare you to try, George Daniel. I have rights!”

“What rights!”

“Godfatherly rights!”

“Fuck off, Ross claimed that already.”

“Swearing! And I don’t care you can have more than one godfather!”

“No, we’ve discussed this already.”

“No we have not.”

“Yes, we have.”

“No, we have not.”

“Matty.”

“George!”

George groaned dramatically and decidedly tossed the tea towel he still had in hand at Matty’s head, the curly haired singer grunted before throwing it right back at him, then turning to me.

“B, tell him.” He was all but whining now.

“George, Matty can be whatever he likes.”

Matty practically beamed upon hearing that whilst G just scowled, “Over my dead body.”

“That’s fine. I can make do.”

George rolled his eyes at the blatant threat, but threw himself into the chair beside me to press his forehead against the counter instead of replying. I ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s okay, babe. He’ll give up once he realises it’ll mostly just be shitty nappies and crying until they’re old enough to walk.” I reassured but Matty didn’t think much of it.

“I fucking won’t.”

George shot straight back up at that with a grin as big as Matty’s ego on his face and I already knew what he was going to say.

“Language, Matthew! And in front of your godchild too, shame.”

Although Matty looked shocked to have let the curse accident slip, his whole demeanour changed when he truly internalised George’s words. “Wait, actually?”

George laughed, glancing at me before slinging an arm around my waist, “We decided on it a while ago, mate. Baby Daniel will have the typical four godparents, only thing is you, Hann and Ross will have to decide between yourselves on who’s the second godmother.”

I rolled my eyes at that, but still found myself unable to stop grinning. The baby was set to have three godfathers at this point and then Carly, who we’d already asked, as a godmother. It was a lucky little thing and had yet to even be born.

“I don’t even care. I’ll throw on a pair of tits and a wig if it gets me an in.”

George barked a loud laugh at his best mate’s reply and I could only chuckle alongside him as Matty handed me over my tea, grateful to have them both, as well as the rest of my family. It wasn’t long now either before the baby would soon come along too, another thing I’d forever be grateful for.

And to think, I barely resembled the girl I’d once been, it was strange to see all that I’d been given.

I wouldn’t waste it.

88 notes · View notes

keravnous · 1 year

Text

it's a man's world ; jim moriarty/reader (smut, 18+)

part i | playlist:you're moriarty's favourite toy

Jim likes to show off his possessions. Especially, when all the the small flies in his web are present.

word count: 10,1k

warnings: kinda non-con, power play, gun kink, public, degradation, oral (male receiving), facial, grinding on the tip of his shoes/getting yourself off, corruption kink if you blink, name calling ; sebastian moran has a cameo bc I am still mad we didn't get to see hiddleston in that role, irene is also there (besties alert), death, blood, light misogyny if you blink/power imbalance, jim has his whole army of super-criminals around for an annual gathering so beware of the stereotypes , i googled bri-ish roadman slang for this so please forgive me

inspired by that one "hello james" spectre scene

v said moriarty strikes them as the "expressive type", sooo I'll blame this on you bestie

You look down on the thin fabric in your hands. This surely isn't all, there has to be more.

You carefully drop the dress onto your bed and scram through the box and its expensive wrapping paper once more to find it - empty. Nothing, except a matching pair of longsleeved gloves and a thong in the same soft nude colour.

The material is just as sheer as the dress is, a soft rose tone, interwoven by hundreds of small crystals. They sparkle in the dim light of your bedroom.

This is a joke. He's gotta be joking.

You pick up the dress - if one can even call it that - again and give it a closer look. You are very sure that this isn't supposed to be worn on a night out, this is a bedroom-exclusive. It's long and sleeveless, with a deep neckline and a halter-neck, closed with a string of what looks suspiciously like multiple diamonds dangling from it.

You walk over to the closed door, leaning against it. You can hear Mister Moran and his colleague chatting quietly on the other side. Should you ask?

The fabric is light and soft in your hand and you tilt it in the dimly lit room. It sparkles and you can see through nearly completely, your painted nails shining through. You definitely should ask.

"A-are you, uhm, Mister Moran are you there?", you lean your forehead against the cold wooden door, taking one or two deep breaths. The low murmur ebbs, your cat meows and then there's footsteps, followed only a second later by a soft knock on the door. It rings in your ears.

"Are you ready, Miss?"

"Yeah, uh, no. I have a question, I reckon."

Silence. "Alright, Miss."

You swallow.

"A-are you sure, that this is all? All h-he bought, I mean."

There's a slight chuckle. "I was reassured by Mister Moriarty that the package is complete, Miss. So yes, this might as well be it."

"Jesus", you huff.

"Please, do hurry up."

"I am not leaving the house like this", your mouth is quicker than your brain and you can hear Moran freezing behind the door.

"I fear, that will be non-negotiable."

"I will not-"

"Don't keep him waiting."

You burst out a dry laugh, one, that catches in your throat. "I am nearly naked in this."

The other side falls silent. Where there was shuffling and rustling before and someone talking to your cat, is now dead silence.

Moran clears his throat. "I have my orders, Miss. We are already running late."

You shake your head. "Call him, then. I am not-"

"You do not wanna do this", the tone of his voice now has you falling dead silent in a heartbeat, a sudden cold creeping up your spine, "We may offer you a coat. Now, please, do get ready."

You swallow. "Are you certain?", your voice is a lot more silent now, giving away your blooming surrender and anxiety.

"Yes, Miss. I am afraid I am."

You nod and let go of a shaky breath, hand slowly lowering on the door. Its wooden surface is cold beneath your touch.

You know a warning when you hear one.

Even though Mister Moran and his colleague (the one talking to your cat), just as the driver, had been very respectful and discreetly kept their gazes away from you, you can still feel your nervosity rising. Jim hadn't told you where you would be meeting him - actually, until roughly an hour ago you didn't know at all that you'd be leaving the house tonight.

You had come home from work and ordered some food from your favourite Indian restaurant, readying yourself for a cosy night in - as the doorbell rang. It hadn't been the delivery service, but three men in black suits, with concealed weapons and a beige, large gift box.

You take a look out of the window as the rainy city passes by. London is pretty when it's dark out, warm lights and people rushing by, as used to the rain as they are to breathing. The driver hammers down on the gas and the engine roars, as the lights switches from red to green.

"Where are we going?", you ask as you pass Hyde Park. Moran sits next to you, the middle seat between the two of you is empty except for your ridiculously small purse. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, visible between the two front seats. The rain patters on the roof and runs down the thick window panes, while some female singer's sultry voice, most likely from the 50s, fills the warm air. You fumble with the expensive rings on your fingers. Moran had discreetly handed them over to you while you were doing your make-up. They are made of crisp and bright, huge rose diamonds and - you recognize one of them. Monique told you, months ago, that it was sold at Sotheby's for an eight-figure sum, showed you pictures and you joked about who could possibly be rich enough to own such a piece. Now it sits between multiple other diamond rings on your ring finger, gleams in the light.

"Brompton, Miss. We will arrive shortly."

You know the district more from the colourful front pages of the tabloids - spotting their lurid guise when hurrying by newspaper stands on your way to the tub - than seeing it in person. The area is significantly above your pay grade anyways.

"Brompton?", you echo only to then - desperately scrambling for any conversation to not fall into uncomfortable silence once more - add, "Must be difficult to get a table anywhere there, I reckon. How did he managed to get a reservation?"

"Reservation?", he turns his head around and looks at you, eyebrows raised in confusion. O-kay.

"Yes?", you blink at him, once twice, "I- I thought I'd meet him for dinner?"

"No", comes the curt answer.

Oh, that's - well, odd. Jim usually takes you out for dinner and fucks you senseless on the backseat of his Aston Martin. It has become kind of a routine the two of you have fallen into, fucking once or twice a week, making you feel less lonely and taking care of the ache between your legs.

You catch yourself still looking at Mister Moran, not knowing what to say next. So much for keeping up small talk.

"May I remind you, that today is the 15th, Miss", he suddenly says, looking straight ahead, expression pretty much unreadable.

You fall silent for a moment, your eyebrows drawn together in confusion - you have no clue what that's supposed to mean. "Yeah, and -", you startle, "Oh shit. It's not his birthday, or is it?"

Now it's his turn to be silent, visibly confused. You are certain that a minute passes by, before his gaze quickly drops to the passenger seat, where the other man in a black suit sits. His eyes meet Moran's in the rear-view mirror.

"She doesn't know", the man murmurs. It's the first time you hear him speak all night, except the muted words that passed through your closed bedroom door when he was talking to your cat.

"That she doesn't, indeed."

"Where are we going?", you can hear yourself ask again, sounding far away in your own ears, rising anxiety hardening your voice.

Mister Moran looks back at you. For a split second - you won't actually be certain later that you did not in fact imagine it - a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Mister Moriarty is hosting a very special party tonight, Miss. It is not his birthday, may I add. It's more like a - well, a gala of sorts."

Oh.

You already open your mouth to ask A gala, why? What for? as the car comes to a halt in front of a massive bronze gate. A hundred years ago or so it would've gleamed golden in the warm hue of the street lights but it has turned into a dirty green-ish since then. The driver rolls down the window and exchanges some hushed words with the porter, who quickly opens the gate. It rolls open lazily, giving way to a long gravelly path. The engine roars and the car rolls forward, as you take in the scenery passing by your window.

Behind the massive stone walls, a neatly trimmed park awaits, with large trees and lush, green grass. The leaves bend under the heavy rainfall and the grass shimmers in the old lamplights lining the path. The park is divided by grey gravel that crunches under the wheels of the armoured vehicle, as it makes its way through the avenue of linden trees and warm lights.

The house - mansion, more like - that comes up on a plaza after a few minutes looks like it may have been built in the 19th century, with its adorned sandstone walls and large balconies. You didn't know such places existed, resting carefully hidden away smack in the city.

"Is this his property?", you breathe out, all anxiety swallowed by awe, as the car takes a turn around the fountain in front of the entrance portal, the engine slowly dying down. Moran hums deeply in his throat and nods. You blink.

You remember the first time you met Jim at the museum. He had something about him, apart from the way he treated you, that screamed power with every movement, every word, every gaze. He looked like money, breathed money. It's still a mystery to you, what his profession is - just as it is a mystery to you, which profession could possibly make someone that wealthy. It's got to be old money but then again, Moriarty wasn't and still isn't a name that rings any bells in that regard.

You come to realize again that you still don't know much about him - you don't know what his job is (something important by the looks of it - government, finances?), you don't know what his favourite food is, you don't know what music he likes to listen to - jesus, you don't even know where he lives.

You take another look out of the window. Now might be your chance. You're grasping at straws but maybe Moran will be of help.

"Does he live here?"

"No, Miss."

You want to know more, Where then - Does he life alone - Am I just an affair - Is he here often, but someone opens the car's door on your side. Cool air sweeps into the vehicle and you are greeted by the friendly face of an elderly man. He wears a livrée and white gloves, reaches out with one hand to help you out of the car. There's another man in a livrée, a little younger, holding a large black umbrella.

"Good evening, Miss - Mister Moran, good to see you, as always", he has a strong Irish accent, "Mister Moriarty is awaiting your presence in the Grande Hall. May I show you the way, Miss?"

You nod, taken aback by the sight that opens up to you as soon as both your feet stand on the gravel. There are at least thirty men - armed men - alongside the massive stair case. They look like they are guarding the place - straightened back, guns at the ready. You don't know much about firearms but you do watch the news so it's not that difficult to spot an assault rifle when you see one.

"Oh, don't be bothered by them", the elderly man smiles and seemingly means it, "They are here for everyone's safety. No need to be nervous, Miss."

Your hands close in around your purse until your knuckles turn white, arms wrapping tightly around your own figure. You don't necessarily feel safer with a few dozen of heavily armed men sporting semi-automatic weapons.

A thought creeps up on you, a little voice whispering in the back of your head, growing louder with every second that you look at the armed security guards. This is not what a private gathering of an investment banker or finance mogul looks like - there's only really one possibility left and you'd really rather not think about it.

"Shall we?", the elderly man turns towards the entrance and you don't really feel like having much of a choice left. Thus, you nod and make your way over the gravel and up the stair case. The gravel crunches wetly underneath the heels of your shoes and Moran follows right behind you, carrying his own umbrella. The armed men lining the staircase don't look at you, fingers resting on the trigger of their guns, suits wetted by the rain. Your head swims a little and you feel your fight or flight kicking in. But there's nowhere to run, with thirty automatic guns surrounding you and Moran right behind you.

"Oh, but where are my manners!", the elderly man suddenly stops and rips you out of your thoughts, his smile tearing the dark clouds apart. He looks genuinely friendly and it calms your nerves the slightest. "My name is Charles, Miss. I am Mister Moriarty's butler - since Dublin, may I add", he sounds proud and you wonder why, since you have no clue what happened in Dublin - but Charles seems to think, that you're familiar with whatever happened back then. Luckily, Mister Moran also seems to be a psychic.

"He has served as Mister Moriarty's butler since he's been a little boy."

"Exactly", Charles nods and beams, "I was once responsible for the whole family. The master was still a child when his parents had this horrible accident."

Something tells you, that it maybe wasn't much of an accident.

"I was responsible for his brother as well, but he moved out early", he starts to climb the stairs again and you hurry to follow, trying not to be hit by the steady downpour of rain.

"It was right after that boy from his swimming class drowned, such a tragedy", the elderly man suppresses an exhausted groan as he reaches the top of the stairs and Moran is quick to pass by and hold open the door. You can't help but notice that they all - the driver, Moran, the colleague, the butler, the small militia - seem to work like a well-oiled machine. They could be blindfolded and still find their place on this large, strange chess board. You enter behind Charles and are greeted by a warmly lit entrance hall. The walls are high and covered by old tapestry, adorned by solid golden panelling. There are low hanging, gigantic chandeliers with sparkling stones and seating groups of Mies van der Rohe's design classics. The low glass tables are full of empty champagne glasses and opened bottles, a few cigars still gleaming.

There's no one here.

"The meeting is already in progress", Charles says - more to Moran than to you, "He will not be pleased that she's late. Not to mention your absence, Sebastian."

"Well, he didn't really give us much time to prepare accordingly, now did he?", Moran smiles and it looks charming but is so so cold that it runs a shiver down your spine. There's something very predatory about him, something you noticed earlier, too. It's in his movement, his voice, his stern gaze - he's like a bloodthirsty animal on a leash. It hits you like a train: the sudden realization that he's one thing and one thing only - dangerous.

"Well, of course", the elderly man bows a little and nods, turn around to you, "May I take your coat, Miss?"

Your hands are shaking, as Charles offers you a hand. You really rather wouldn't. The thick, dark wool was like a shield and you don't feel comfortable taking it away. Your gaze is caught by Moran.

"You're late", he simply says and you actually fear him and thus, you comply.

You take a deep breath, anxiety crawling up your spine as you slowly take the fabric off. Charles is very respectful, keeps his eyes on the ground and so does Moran.

You are certain, that they aren't only doing it for you, for your comfort. They are doing it for themselves as well, frightful and knowing of what would happen if you were to tell Jim, that his men can't keep their gazes to themselves.

"Thank you", you can hear yourself say through the thundering of your heart, power surging through your veins at the thought that somehow, only just a little, they are at your mercy, too. It makes your head spin, the strangeness of the thought mingling with the surge of adrenaline that comes with it.

"You're welcome, Miss", Charles takes your purse, too and you want to protest - Don't take it away, I need to hold onto something - but you don't, inner resistance already beaten to death, spitting blood and crawling on the floor of your brain, "Sebastian, why don't you bring her inside?"

Moran nods - "Over here, please" - and offers you his arm. You carefully place one hand in the crook of his elbow as he walks you over to the massive wooden doors that nearly reach the ceiling. There's this feeling again, that you felt at the museum all those months ago, as your colleagues straightened their backs, checked their clothes. Like it's a familiar automatism you do it now, too - shoulders rolling back, your free hand straightening the dress. The diamonds lightly bounce against your naked back, reminding you of how little of a garment you're actually wearing.

"Don't disappoint him", Moran says before he opens one wing of the massive doors. There's warm, dim light streaming out of the room and you can hear someone speaking. As you enter the room, Moran carefully lets go of your arm.

There are a few dozen people sitting around a huge oval mahogany table, its polished surface shining in the dim lights of the huge, low hanging chandeliers. It's mostly men, just two of them are women. A young man, wrapped in street clothes that probably cost more than your yearly rent, is currently leaning forward on the massive wooden table, box braids falling into his face at the sudden movement. He's the one you heard speaking, thick south-side accent swirling around his sentences.

"-wasteman, y'know like, from my ends, innit? I'll hook'em up wiv you, guv -"

The door behind you falls shut as Moran closes it. Their heads snap up at the sudden sound and around to you.

"Whew, shit", the man next to one who had been speaking - wrapped in expensive street wear as well and in even more expensive jewellery, shimmering in the light - leans forward, "Fuckin' peng ting."

There's someone clearing their throat, the sound echoing from the walls. You know the sound, by heart. The man's head snaps around.

"Shit, sorry Big G, she wiv you?", there's no further reaction coming from Jim and the man raises his hands in a defensive manner, voice breaking a little, "Aight, man, aight. Cool, imma back off, don't be vexed."

You don't know what to do, hands folded uselessly in front of you.

The room is larger than you would've ever imagined and your first guess is, that it had been a ball room once, a couple of hundred years ago. Now, there's only the large, oval table standing right in the middle of the room. The walls are high, with dark wooden panelling that only breaks to give to way to a long gallery, which has balconies reaching into the room. There are, what you guess are at least a few hundred people, standing up there, vanishing in the dark of the gallery. Their gazes burn on your skin.

You look back straight ahead. The table in front of you is a few dozen feet long and at the end, hidden partially by shadows, sits Moriarty. You don't have to see his face to recognize him, feel his gaze on your body.

"That won't be necessary", his voice cuts through the silence and you blink as you realize, that he isn't talking to you, "You" - he lazily points to another man sitting at the far end of the table, right infront of you and you can only see the back of his head - "Wasn't that supposed to be taken care of by your people?"

He's scrambling for words, obviously coming up with an excuse, but you don't bother to listen, gaze flickering over the people sitting at the table. One of the women is still looking at you and you catch her gaze.

She has a stern, cold look in her eyes - the one of a matriarch, with her dark hair pulled back neatly in an impressive updo, lips painted dark red. You can't help being transfixed by her as she slowly tilts her head and - smiles.

You blink. Is she -? She is, expression thawing a little as she looks at you with a mixture of pride and approval. Her gaze and its implication pools around your brain, seeps into it and sets a fresh wave of adrenaline free, that runs straiiight into your legs. She's encouraging you.

Your body takes over your brain as you start to move. The sound of your heels meeting the polished wooden floor echoes from the wall as you make your way over to Moriarty. Step by step you can feel yourself growing more and more confident, arms gracefully resting at your sides as you strut through the room. You can feel a couple of eyes following you and, as you pass the lady with the red lips, she nods.

It has pure, raw power pumping through your veins, erupting in your stomach and spreading between your shoulder blades, has your chin rising up a little. You come to realize, that he's brought you here for a reason and you're ready to meet - no, to exceed - his expectations.

As you come closer you can see what's on the table in front of him. A notepad and an expensive fountain pen, a glass with what looks like hard liquor and -

a gun.

There's a gun on the table, in an arm's reach.

If you'd be a little more familiar with firearms, you'd be able to classify it as a Glock. It is loaded, clip snugly pressed to the base. It's his gun. It's got to be.

You swallow. He has a gun. The next thought makes you go dizzy, knees going a little weak: he most likely knows how to use it, too.

Moriarty doesn't look at you as you approach him, eyes still fixed on the man at the end of the table. The man, who had been stumbling over words and rushed excuses, falls silent as you make your last few steps over to Moriarty.

"Go on", Jim says to him, hand gesturing lazily and he already sounds bored.

You know that a bored Jim, is a dangerous Jim. They all look at him, frightened, tense. There's only one person not transfixed by Moriarty.

It's the lady with the red lipstick. She's still smiling, eyes roaming over your face. And then her lips move, mouthing something, passing on Jim's words to you - go on.

There's this feeling surging through your veins like electricity again - power. And like a puppet on her strings, you straighten your back, leaning down towards Moriarty, one hand resting on his shoulder, arm flat on his back. He's warm beneath your touch, breathing slowly. The gloves on your hands and their little crystals shimmer in the dim light, like a nebula against his dark blue suit, the diamond rings its little planets.

"Honey", you rasp, tongue taking over brain, "I'm here." Your lips dance over his cheek as you speak and his slight stubble prickles on your lips. You press them down, the sound of a soft, short kiss filling the quiet room. His scent wraps you around like a thick cloud and you close your eyes, take it in. It's your favourite cologne of his- warm and rich, vanilla, musk and herbs. It makes your stomach tingle and has raw, utter want pooling in your lower body.

There's a warm hand sneaking up your hips and waist, that rubs along your curves and then forcefully grabbing your figure and pushing you back. A small surprised noise escapes your throat and then he's looking at you - finally.

Moriarty's eyes roam over your body, thumb caressing your ribs, right below your breast. He hums deep in his throat and then presses his thumb against your left tit, lets it bounce a little. The material of the dress rubs over your slightly hardened nipples and the sensation pulls at your strings, sends shivers down down down your spine to your loins. Jim hums once more and your blood sings with it: sings with the unspoken praise, with his unspoken approval.

You hold his gaze, cheeks growing a little warm with his attention, as he suddenly speaks up.

"You, I said go on", Jim snaps the fingers of his free hand in the direction of the man on the other side of the table. His other hand is roaming over your tit, coming to a rest on your shoulder and then presses down.

"Kneel", his voice is deep and you blink, transfixed by his gaze. He looks cold, colder than usual, his face hardened and unmoving, gaze distanced and demanding. You swallow, ears ringing.

"Kneel", he says again, a lot more forceful this time and you obey, slowly but surely - like your body isn't yours anymore - sinking down on your knees right beside him, facing his side. The diamonds dangling at your back clink as they are being thrown against each other by the sudden movement.

Jim's eyes hold your gaze on the whole way down and for a short moment, they gleam. Boredom torn at the edges with excitement.

His hand crawls up your cheek, warm but it makes goosebumps spread across your body like his touch is freezing cold, patting you a little. And then he smiles, before looking away and at the stranger, again.

Your heart is racing as you follow his gaze and notice that they all stare at you. Not just them, the people on the gallery as well. The lady with the red lips still smiles, lowering her head a little in approval.

"I told you to go on, didn't I?", Jim sounds cold and one of your hands, obediently resting in your lap, darts out, stretches itself out on his left thigh.

His gaze momentarily drops down and to your hand, adorned by crystals and diamonds and then towards you. The look in Moriarty's eyes and the fact that he doesn't swat your hand away makes your stomach flutter. He looks away again and you take the chance, let your eyes roam over the sharp profile of his face, across his cheeks as they take in his slight stubble, dark lashes and the one loose strand of hair that falls into his face.

"I-", the man clears his throat, "We are certain that within the next month - that there will be a solution to the issue, w-within in the next month."

Jim leans back in his chair, spreading his legs a little. He's silent for a long moment.

"The next month?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And d'you think, that will do?"

Silence. And then: "N-no, Sir."

"Good. Then why exactly aren't you doing something about it?"

"There's nothing I could-"

Moriarty's expression shuts him up. He falls silent and so does the room.

"This keeps happening", Jim sighs dramatically and then lets his gaze roam over the gallery, where a hundred or so men and women stand, looking down at him in obedience, "Look at them. They would kill to sit where you are. And yet, you disappoint me."

Moriarty tilts his head and looks at the man on the other side of the table.

"I think, I'll do them a favour", he sing-songs and then suddenly, with a speed you didn't expect, grabs his gun. It clicks and then the gunshot rips through the silence, bullet tearing through the man's forehead with military precision.

You jump at the sound and can barely contain a sharp scream escaping your lips, starring down the hall at the now dead body.

The man slumps in his chair and then sacks forward, his upper body falling onto the table with a loud thud.

No one flinches at the sound. You're the only one.

He killed a man.

Shot him.

In cold blood.

Didn't even think about it.

You want to scream, to run, to -

There's a little noise on the gallery. "Come down", Jim sighs, "And do better. I hate wasting bullets." There's a slight rustle upstairs, like they're fighting, but you can't really hear anything else over your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

You want to throw up. Your hands start to shake, palms growing wet with cold sweat.

"Oh poppet, are you afraid?", he sing-songs, pouts at you playfully, "Don't be" - there's someone screaming upstairs, right after what sounded like a knife being drawn - "Daddy would never hurt you", Jim's hand darts out, fingers spreading over your scalp and slowly caressing your hair and the skin beneath, rubbing his hand in a soothing, circular motion. It messes up your hair but it feels - good.

"Are you quite done up there?", he raises his voice - bored bored bored -, "I've got better things to do."

His hand drops to you neck, rubs over it, thumb carefully pressing against the nape of it. It does calm you down, surprisingly so.

You turn into puddy under his soft touch, head spinning and breath slowing down, the thundering of your heart turning into a slow rumble.

"Good girl", he whispers, "I'd never hurt you."

And with the way his voice rings in your head, like it's slooowly starting to creep its way into the curves and alleyways of your brain, you start to believe him.

You hum - safe with him safe with him safe with him - and lean into his touch. The sound of a pair of sharp footsteps echoes from the tall walls and as you look up, a man hoists the slumped body up - blood drips down the dead man's forehead and it squeaks as he lifts him from the red puddle on the dark mahogany - like he weighs nothing, throws him out of the chair and onto the ground. The body falls to the floor like a heavy pillow. This time you don't flinch.

"Here I am, Sir", he has a French accent.

"I can see that", Jim sighs and the gun clicks again as a bullet snaps into the barrel. The gun dangles from his hand as he gestures with it.

He doesn't need to say more, the French man understanding immediately what is asked of him. "I can assure you, that we have the most secure routes from Mexico to Marseille. That means roughly - uh, how do you say - cent-soixante tonnes de poids a month."

"160 tons a month, Sir", the other woman says and you can hear papers rustling, "We had 70 tons coming in over Felixstowe last month."

"Any contesters to that?", Moriarty sing-songs and looks around the room, slowly lets his gaze wander over the balconies. There's only silence.

He seems content. "Sit", he gestures with his gun and you hear the screeching of a chair on the other end of the room, "Looks like we won't need this anymore." You watch the stranger sitting down, a servant rushing over to clean the table. The cloth quickly soaks up the blood, white linen replaced by red red red. "Merci", the man says and the servant bows, before hastily returning to the shadows of the room.

Moriarty's head turns towards you, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Would you mind to open up f'me, sweetheart?"

You look at him, blinking - once, twice. Your eyes dart over to the gun he's still holding. You know what he wants. His gaze bores into you.

Your head's a little dizzy, like your brain is wrapped in hot cotton candy that slowly but steadily seeps into every single remaining pore of your body. Your stomach flutters a little at the thought, the implied danger has your breath hitching in your throat.

You know what he wants. And - as you come to realize - you start to want it, too.

And thus, you nod - "As you wish, Sir" - and part your lips, tongue darting out willingly, as he smiles and pushes the barrel of the gun into your mouth - safety still off, his finger on the trigger. The metal is still warm by the fired shot and heavy on your tongue, the taste of it spreading in your mouth.

Moriarty presses it in deep, the movement forcing you to lay your head back, until you can feel it hit your palate and you suck in a sharp breath through your nose. It gets you hot all over and you know, you should be afraid since he just bloody shot someone but you can't bring yourself to care. Your blood sings with being at his mercy, with the way he looks down and at you - all glory and gore, a king with no crown.

They all stare at you, but you only have eyes for Jim - looking up at him through your lashes, gun resting between your lips.

He hums deep in his throat, clicks his tongue. "Mhm", he rasps, "Atta girl."

You beam. "Keep it warm f'me, yes?", Jim tilts his head a little and you nod as best as you can.

His left arm rests calmly on the arm of the chair, slightly bend with the gun resting in your mouth, trigger pressed against your chin. Your heart races in your chest, gaze set on him, who orders the next henchman to report on his business.

There's something about him, how leisurely he lounges in his chair, how casually he handled that gun, how he shoved it into your mouth that makes your loins grow hot. Jesus, you're fucked.

"Edith."

"Yes, Sir", it's the woman again, "Next on the agenda is the usage of the Aquarius Software since we took over the NEA company last march. Since then, we've gained access to at least ten different governments, their respective leaders and a handful of influential politicians - just in the past two months. But maybe we should hear Mister Sharev about this, if you wouldn't mind, Sir?"

"No, no. Go ahead", Moriarty's hand tilts the gun and shoves it even deeper in your mouth and you gag around the barrel, saliva gathering around it and dripping down your chin. Your eyelids flutter and you relax your chin, taking a few deep breaths through your nose. Your hand, still covered by the thin glove, slightly presses into his thigh, desperate for leverage.

It's like someone put a spell on you, with the way you look at him, watching how he tilts his head as the CEO starts to announce his company's goals and aims to furthermore undermine the world's leading governments. His thigh is still warm beneath your touch and you can feel his muscles clench a little beneath the thick, expensive fabric of his slacks. Odd. Your gaze drops down to your hand and - he's hard. His dick is hard, pressing against the dark blue of his pants.

You wish you could move your head, just to look at it . The palm of your hand starts to tingle, as a familiar pulling sensation pools in your lower stomach and travels further down, right between your legs.

Long forgotten is the dead man lying on the floor and bleeding out, shot with the gun you got between your lips - all you can think about is feeling him. Jim's leg is unbearably hot beneath your fingers and you experimentally let them wander up his thigh a little.

Jim doesn't react and thus, you feel tempted to try further, fingers dancing over his thigh where the flesh grows warmer, on its way up to his crotch. Your fingers dart out and you find what they seek, digits dancing over his hard dick, pressing firmly against the dark blue fabric and straining it. You wish you could really look at it.

Your eyes flash up to Moriarty's face and you can see him grin and it sets a wave free, hot shivers running from your scalp down down down over your back to your loins until they're ignited in your crotch and erupt in wetness between your legs.

Your fingers close around the bulge, his cock hot and thick and long, pulsating underneath your hand and your eyelids flutter. You can feel saliva gathering on your tongue as you come to realize that you miss its taste. The gun still presses against your tongue and your brain surrenders itself to the wetness pooling between your legs and the steadily growing want crawling in your stomach, clawing at your skin. It's better than nothing and your brain willingly conjurs up the illusion.

Your tongue rubs alongside the rough surface of the gun's barrel, metallic taste slowly being replaced by your brain with Jim's usual musky and salty taste. You whine, thighs clenching a little, as you suck the barrel deeper into your mouth. Your tongue finds the muzzle and rubs over it, imagines it to be smaller and warmer, giving away first drops of cum, not thin air.

The man is still talking but you can't be bothered to listen to him. The thought of Jim's dick makes you wet, aching for him to just touch you, fingers running over his clothed dick, thumb rubbing over its bottom. You can feel it twitch beneath the expensive fabric.

Your head starts to move, back and forth on the gun barrel like it's Moriarty cock and you feel him up as you do, hand closing in again, massaging him through his pants until -

"Shut up for a second", and Sharev does, clasps his hands in front of him, "Someone's down here has been a bad bad girl." He turn his head around and pouts at you playfully and leaning in closer.

"You want the real thing, don'tcha?", he murmurs and slooowly pulls the gun out of your mouth. There's a string of saliva connecting it to your lower lip that eventually riiips and dribbles down your chin. His dick is hot and pulses against your palm, underneath your thin gloves. Your jaw already hurts a little, a bit sore with keeping your mouth open but you nod, a small whine escaping your throat. There's nothing else left on your mind but his dick, feeling him, tasting him, making him feel good and being rewarded with bitter-sweet praise.

"Look at you, little dumb whore - can't even listen to the grown-ups talking for half an hour."

His thumb strokes over your swollen lip, corner of his mouth tilting up a little, while it wanders up up up, over your cheek and into your hair where he grabs a fistful of it and pulls. It stings, as he roughly manoeuvres you in front of him and you scramble on your knees, hands darting over his legs and the chair for any sort of leverage.

"Off you go then, sweetheart", he hums as you're finally kneeling in front of him.

It feels like someone pulled the plug to your brain as you dash forward - ready to please please please. There are a few hundred pairs of eyes set on you - on your body, visible and exposed in the sparkling dress, eyes hungry and hair a mess - but you don't care, can't bring yourself to. What are they going to do? Tell someone? He'll have them executed. The certainty of the thought makes your blood sing, your thoughts swim and you look up at him.

Moriarty's expression is unreadable, masked by his usual coldness, corners of his mouth tilted like he's bored.

Don't be boring don't be boring don't be boring his sing-song echoes in your skull and as your hands make haste with the fly of his slacks you come to realize: you turned into his private version of a pavlovian dog. Drooling, panting, desperate for attention and praise.

You don't even flinch as the damp barrel of the gun suddenly presses down - riiight onto the middle of your forehead. He could blast your lights out right now, execute you on the spot. It should terrify you, grab you by the throat and pull you out of that fucking trance he's lured you into but it just - doesn't.

Instead, you moan.

The sound echoes off of the walls and Jim chuckles, low and deep in his throat.

"Oh, ain't you just pretty", he grins and it gets you going, spurs you on and makes your cheeks turn red as your blood sings with the only thought your mind's able to conjure up - worship him worship him worship him.

One of your hands, still wrapped in the expensive gloves, darts out and takes his hard dick out of his pants, his boxers. It's hot and heavy in your palm, tip glistening with precum.

A thought creeps up on you. He let's you do this, he let's you suck his cock in public, puts on you in the spotlight. He could've picked someone else; you're convinced he could've - but he didn't.

He chose you.

Your eyelids flutter as you become aware once more of all the eyes boring into your back and it turns you on, knowing that he's showing you off, publicly marking you as his.

Moriarty hisses as the soft material of your gloves starts to stroke him, lips curling up in a smile, all teeth and gleaming eyes. He's looking down at you, brown eyes so so dark and you feel like falling into the void, barrel of the gun pressing down harder on your forehead.

Oddly enough, you trust him.

"Atta girl, suck Daddy's cock real good", he sing-songs, mischievous grin tugging at his lips and you obey to him, saliva pooling around your tongue as you lean in, licking a fat stripe from the base of his dick to the top.

"Sooo", he nearly sighs as he watches you taking the tip of his dick into your mouth, before he looks back up at Mister Sharev, "My secretary was so nice to inform me about the status of the current project. All still in order?"

"Yes, Sir. We are currently-", you can't bring yourself to listen, with the taste of his dick fogging up your mind in rapid speed. You swirl your tongue around its tip, lips wrapping around the warm flesh before they wander lower, peppering his dick with wet, open-mouthed kisses, tongue darting out and licking along the thick vein on the bottom.

The gun at your head shifts, leaves your forehead and presses against the side of your skull instead, has you groaning against Jim's cock. The present danger has your blood singing and the desire to please - be good, be good, be good - blooming in your chest, as pleasure shoots riiight between your legs.

Your lips move further down, hand darting out and pulling his boxers lower which has him chuckling deep in his chest, a low rumble that barely reaches you through the haze. The barrel of the gun presses down more firmly, has dull pain shooting through your skull and Moriarty spreads his legs a little further, giving you more space. He's enjoying this and it makes your head swim, heart missing a beat or two, spurring you on. Your tongue follows the newly revealed trail, dancing over his balls, before you wrap your lips around them, sucking on them. His neatly trimmed pubic hair prickles on your cheek and you moan quietly, as his scent wraps around you, a musky, salty taste filling your mouth pulling you down down down into his lair.

One of your hands holds Moriarty's dick, thumb gently rubbing slow circles over its tip, precum wetting the soft, sheer material of the glove. You suck one of his balls into your mouth, heavy and warm on your tongue, hand stroking his cock. He's still talking, voice steady and cold like you aren't kneeling between his legs, sucking him off and it makes you hot all over. You lick a fat stripe over his balls, growing wetter at the sudden twitch of his dick, the way the thick vein pulses against your palm. Your lips wander back up, tongue spreading your saliva on his hard dick as you realize that you need more.

The thought has you whining, gloved hand giving Jim's dick one last stroke before you dive in, tongue resting on your lower lip, welcoming his cock home. You take him in deep, lips wrapping around him, saliva pooling on your tongue. You move your head around him, moaning against his cock as you suck him off, feeling his vein pulsing and dick twitching on your tongue. Suddenly, like you're momentarily snapping out of it, his voice reaches your ears.

"And 221B?"

"We're at it, Sir. The doctor's security system is rather underwhelming, even for government standards." You have no bloody clue of where or what 221B is, even though it rings a tiny little bell waaay back in your mind, but gets Jim fucking going.

"Good", his voice is deep and coarse and his dick hits the back of your throat as he rolls his hips once, twice, has you sputtering around his cock.

"Hold still or I'll shoot you", Moriarty says plainly, barrel of the gun painfully pressing against the side of your skull, as his slim fingers press onto your neck, holding you in place. Your nose is buried deep in his trimmed pubic hair and his musky scent wraps around you, as you try to breathe through your nose. His cock hits the back of your throat once more and you gag, tears filling your eyes at the sudden lack of oxygen.

You try your best to relax your jaw but he doesn't give you a break, rolls his hips, ruthlessly fucks into your mouth. You can feel saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, obscene and wet squelching sounds filling the air as he pushes himself deeper faster and faster. Your hands press into Jim's thigh in a desperate attempt to hold onto anything, fingers digging deep into the muscular flesh beneath the dark blue, until their knuckles turn white. It has his hips bucking and a growl rumbling in his chest, his throat. It momentarily takes your breath away and one of your feet kicks a little, as your slowly but surely are running more and more out of breath - dress rustling and diamonds on your back clinking. The rising anxiety of hypoxia, mixing together with his scent and the feeling of his dick fucking your mouth raw, using you has you spiralling deeper and deeper into cloudy subspace, hazy lust taking over your brain. It has your body going a little limp, your throat relaxing and wet pussy clenching around nothing.

Be good be good be good - and you are, fingers relaxing and instead of clawing into them, now moving along Moriarty's thighs and up up up, over his lower abdomen. You know you're making a mess of his shirt but you also know that he likes it, likes your hands roaming over his body whenever you suck his dick or ride him. He likes it when you worship him. And thus, you feel him up, feeling his muscular stomach contracting with each thrust into your throat.

The hand on your neck fists into your hair, pulling you away from him.

You're panting, chin wet with your spit dripping down your chin, lipstick smeared as you look up at him with teary eyes, mascara blotchy around the edges. His cheeks have the faintest of a flush of redness and there's a little sweat on his forehead as he presses the gun against your temple.

Moriarty gives himself one, two firm strokes and your eyelids flutter as thick, hot ropes of white hit your face, a few drops going into your eye. He groans as he comes on your face, intense gaze boring into your eyes, tip of his dick resting a few inches away from your eye. Small tears run down your right cheek as you blink the cum away. They mingle with it and run down your soft skin, dripping down on the dress.

"Ain't you m'pretty little slut?", he asks, gives your clean cheek a little slap and you nod, while he takes his flattening dick in the other hand and rubs it along your cheek, smears his cum across your face and lips. "What d'you say, hm?"

"Thank you, Sir", you croon, hands roaming over his knees and thighs, looking up at Jim, beaming with his praise. You're still wet, pussy aching and pulsing between your legs.

"Be a good girl and put it away", your hands move to his pants, carefully pulling his boxers up, straightening his shirt and closing the fly of his pants, while he shoves one foot between your knees instead, gun still pressing against your skull, "C'mon, take what y'need."

The tip of his shoe is pressing against your wet thong, material coolly pressing against your hot skin, right beneath your clit. You don't have to think twice, brain lost to the hazy fog of pleasure and you roll your hips back a little. The hard, polished leather rubs over your clit and you gasp, hips stuttering a little. One of your hands darts out, grabbing his knee. The pain of the hard surface, mixed together with your absolute need for stimulation has your abdomen clenching.

You bite your lip as you experimentally roll your hips forward, clit brushing over the leather and you can fell your pleasure crawling up up up, spreading in your chest, making your skin tingle with want. It's not enough, the lack of touch and the way you just need more and thus, your free hand wanders up your thigh, cold rings tingling your skin through the thin fabric as you run them up your leg and higher higher higher, over your stomach up to your tits. You grab one of them and feel yourself up, kneading it while you grind down on Moriarty's shoe. You eyelids flutter and you pant with the way it feels, hard and cold and degrading, but also so so good, has fresh wetness pooling between your thighs. Your pussy's swollen and hot and aching, sensitive the the smallest touch and the sudden stimulation has you moaning, breath speeding up.

Jim tilts his head a little, looking down at you. He seems amused, one hand lazily dangling from his armrest, as he watches you getting yourself off on his expensive leather shoes.

"Such a pretty show for our guests, hm?", he chuckles at the sight and you blush, redness and warmth spreading on your cheeks and your chest at the thought that they all still watch you but you can't bring yourself to care. You just don't, with pleasure spiking high and Jim - his words, his demeanour, the gun - fogging up your brain.

It's an intoxicating combination that has your pick up a faster rhythm, grinding down faster on the leather. At first, it stings a little but has pleasure rolling over your body nonetheless and you gasp, as lust floods your system once more.

You throw your head back in pleasure, missing the table by mere inches, a high pitched and needy whine escaping your lips as you rut down onto his dressing shoe.

The gun vanishes from your skull, only to press against the bottom of your chin a second later, keeping your head laid back. Your eyes roll up up up and your hands dart out, fingers spread wide on the polished floorboards behind you, as their tips hold your bodyweight. Your back's delightfully stretched and your upper body is on full display to him, chest heaving with every breath you suck in as you roll your hips on his shoes, hard nipples pressing against the sheer gown.

His other foot rises up and presses down onto your chest with quite some weight, has you deepen the stretch and a high pitched whine erupting from your throat, born out of lust and pleasure and the slight pain that ignites your back. It's delicious and shoots down down down right between your legs, has fresh wetness pooling in your thong, dripping down onto the black leather of his shoe. You know exactly what you look like: draped in an expensive dress and millions worth of diamonds like a billionaire's wife, but rutting against him like a cheap whore, a bitch in heat instead. You know it gets him going as much as it has you squirming, squirting on his shoes. The gun's still pointing at you and if he were to shoot you now - bored, bored, bored - he'd paint the floorboards and the table red.

Your hips stutter as you wet the expensive material at the thought - at the utter power Moriarty has over you - has fresh wetness running down the leather and your thighs as well, and you gasp, eyes falling shut. You keep grinding on his shoe, high pitched moans falling from your lips every time your clit brushes over its surface. He adds more pressure to the foot resting on your chest and you gasp, pain and slight asphyxiation making you dizzy, speeding up the rhythm of your hips. It's not enough, you need to feel him inside of you but it's also way too much, with the endings of your nerves on fire and

You can feel your thighs and abdomen contracting and your hole clenching around nothing and-

"P-please", you whimper.

Moriarty's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Oh, did I teach you that well, poppet?", his accent swirls around his tongue and it has you nearly going wild, "Of course you may come."

And you do, body reacting to him like he just has to press a single button, release washing over you as your orgasm rips another loud moan out of you, followed by heavy gasping as your pussy releases more fluid, which drips down his shoe and onto the wooden floor. Your hips buck and you moan, chest heaving with the sudden breaths you're sucking in, pressing against the shoe that's still resting on your chest.

"'S good, very good", Moriarty sounds satisfied and you can feel his foot lifting from your chest, giving your ribcage free. Your legs shake from your orgasm as you desperately suck in a few deep breaths, sacking forward. You feel the need to rest with the ache of your muscles but there's also something else. It's like your blood sings with it, like it lays on your body thick and heavily and sinks down on your brain like a blanket: you need him.

You crawl towards Jim and sink between his spread legs, left cheek falling lazily onto one thigh, right hand spreading out on the other. Your other arm softly wraps itself around his lower leg as you press yourself against him. You can feel his cum on your face, your own juices between your thighs. Your eyelids flutter, chest still heaving from ragged breaths and post orgasmic bliss, as you feel his warmth radiating beneath your skin once more.

"Obedient, little whore", he hums and you can hear his gun clicking quietly, as he takes it away, leaves it dangling lazily in his hand over the armrest. You're exhausted, your whole body hurts while your limbs are growing heavy and thus, you sink against him like ragdoll.

The silence in the room is deafening now that you're coming down from your high but it won't stop your blood from singing with Jim's praise and the utter power that seeps through every single pore of your body. Only you can make him come, only you can please him like that - only you only you.

It is much later, after they all left, when Jim bends down to you, tilts your head up and presses his lips onto yours - soft and warm and for a long, lingering moment - his hand gently stroking your cheek and his fingers brushing through his own, sticky cum, spreading it across your cheek. It's the first time he kisses you, in all the weeks you've known him. You know that you've earned it. His eyes are dark dark dark, swirls of green barely visible as he looks at you, visible affection flickering through his gaze.

"You are mine", he rasps against your lips and you nod nod nod, his stubble gently poking your soft skin, "I own you."

And, much to your own disbelief about your lack of mental resistance, you realize: he does.

"So, how was your weekend?", Monique and you are rushing through the city, hot take-away cups warming your hands. It stopped pissing Sunday evening and London decided it was time to start with the freezing temperatures. It's your lunch break and the two of you went out for coffee, now hurrying back to the museum's office floors.

You open your mouth, but the words get stuck in your throat. You have no idea how to answer that without landing at Scotland Yard for questioning within half an hour.

She looks at you. "You saw him again, didn't you?", she looks so enthusiastic. You'd hate to break the news to her - Yeah uhm, about that, well, he's criminal and he's using the museum to launder some money, charming, innit? - that's absolutely off the table.

Oh, and don't forget the classic: Yeah, and he shot someone, mind you.

But there's also no hiding from her and thus -

"I did", you can't fight your lips tilting up, remembering the way he manhandled you, shoved his dick into your mouth and showed you off.

Monique, of course, has (for 48 hours at this point) lived in a different world than you. Of course, her trees are still as green as yours and she reads the same newspapers as you do, but she hasn't witnessed a secret organisation discussing organized crime, nor has someone been killed in front of her eyes, wasting away in a puddle of his own blood - and thus, she squeaks with joy. Some snobby banker rushing by turns around in surprise at the sudden sound and curls his lip. You throw him a look. You might be seeing things differently than you did just last Friday night but you still know a wanker when you see one. You can't fight the thought of I know someone who can shut you up for good, boy creeping up on you. You must wear the thought on your face, because he hurries to get going. You take another sip from your coffee. You feel oddly good.

"How was it? Did he take you out?"

You sputter, pressing a hand onto your mouth, trying not to spill any of the hot coffee. "Oh jesus, oh Monique", you cough, half laughing-half fighting for air. It shouldn't be funny, it really shouldn't. You're a little tempted to hit her back with an: Oh, not me.

But you don't, because you're - again - not really keen on paying Scotland Yard a visit. So, you just put on your most innocent smile, trying real hard to imagine a peaceful, normal dinner to successfully sell her the story.

"He did, it was very", you can feel your cheeks reddening suddenly as his voice starts to echo in your skull -

I own you I own you I own you

- ,"Romantic."

#jim moriarty #james moriarty #james moriarty x reader #jim moriarty x reader #smut #jim moriarty smut #james moriarty smut #bbc sherlock #sherlock #bbc sherlock smut #my writing

360 notes · View notes